"Glimpse"

"I should hope so." His husky whisper in my ear never fails to pull me from sleep.

It has taken us years to get to this point. All the pain and the anger, the love and the hate, the sorrow and the joy . . . it all comes down to his lips against my ear, my hands in his hair, his fingers tickling up and down my sides.

Turing my head to the side, I come face to face with the love of my life and give a happy little sigh of contentment. I guess that's kind of overstating it -- a happy sigh of contentment -- but it's how I feel. Blissed out and totally at ease with who I am, and who I'm with. I'm completely comfortable in my own skin, and I'm not even twenty-five yet.

One of his hands remains on my rib cage, just below my breasts; his other he brings to my face to brush a lock of hair away from my forehead. There's happy-contentment in his eyes, too, and it makes my smile even wider. He's comfortable in his own skin now, too.

Of course, he is pushing three hundred, so his accomplishment is only slightly diminished by mine. That thought causes me to giggle, and he narrows his eyes and I think he's just read my mind again, because his chest is rumbling with what will eventually turn into either a growl or a purr, depending on which way I stroke him.

I decide that today I want a purr, and I bring a hand to his face, run the tips of my fingers over his forehead before sinking them into his thick dark hair. Using the very tips of my nails, I scratch his scalp, massage it, and I get my purr, his face turning down to nuzzle against my arm, the fleshy underside I'd be embarrassed to have anyone but him get so up-close-and-personal with.

He's not big on words, my Angel, so he never tells me how nice it is to wake up with me. He tells me he loves me, sure, but he doesn't use pretty words to express how he feels. Instead, he holds me so tightly, so securely, I'm sometimes in danger of being unable to breathe (not that I'm complaining, because I'm =not=). When he's restless and unable to sleep, he leaves a rose on the pillow he's left empty so that when I reach for him, I'll know he's all right.

When we're unable to live together, he writes me letters. He tells me all the little details of his life, what Wesley has conned him into reading; Cordelia's latest efforts to drag him, kicking and screaming, into the 21rst century; Gunn's heartfelt attempts to teach him to dance. Everything he writes for me, he signs 'Always,' with that little loopy-thing he does that makes my heart beat faster, and my eyes tear up.

Angel never goes out of his way to tell me what I mean to him. I asked him about that once, and he told me that what he feels is too big for words. That pulling me close, making love to me for hours, and kissing me for days didn't begin to scratch the surface on what he felt; what could a few flowery declarations hope to accomplish?

Confronted with this form of logic, I couldn't really argue with him outright. I mean, for a guy who says words don't cut it, those were some pretty darn impressive words. Most of the time, I swear, I don't even need to hear it. But every once in awhile, when we haven't seen each other for a few weeks, I get . . . okay, fine, I admit it: I get needy. I want to hear him tell me what I mean to him.

With this in mind, I tug at his hair until his gaze is level with mine. I touch my forehead to his and lightly paw at his cheek with my hand. I love his skin . . . but that's getting off track, and I have a mission. I'm a Slayer. I can make this vampire talk.

"I like waking up with you," I tell him. A long time ago, it would have been a shy declaration. I've seen too much of him, taken too much of him into my heart and my mind and my body to be 'shy' with him anymore.

"I don't even feel awake until I'm with you," he replies, and I feel the grin spread across my face. Mission control, the plan is going good . . .

"And I like being able to do this," I smooth my hand along his chest, down to his stomach, letting my nails tickle him softly along that sensitive line where belly becomes groin, "without worrying about . . . anything."

"You should worry," he warns, and I get a growl, too, and I think that he could probably cough and it would turn me on.

"Why? What're you gonna do to me?" The older I get, the saucier I get. Call it arrogance -- not many Slayers make it this long -- call it maturity. Whatever it is, he seems to like it. Or maybe he just likes the way my hand is stroking his cock erect. That could be it.

He's shut his eyes now, and whatever idle threat he'd been about to make seems to be lost as he arches against my hand. I love this. I love =him=, but I love this almost as much. Being able to touch him, give him pleasure -- nothing on earth makes me happier. He told me once that I lighten his load so that it's bearable. I do that. Me. Just me.

My lips are on his throat, and I swear, I don't even remember putting them there. I'm darting my tongue out, trying to taste as much of him as possible. Soon, I've covered every inch of his neck and I move on to new feasts. His breastbone is an ample banquet, and I could spend days sucking and biting at his nipples, particularly when he starts making that little whimper-growl in the back of his throat. Oh, yeah, that one, right there, the one that makes me so . . . well, I guess we all know what that does to me. It's painfully obvious, especially since I think I'm moaning kinda loud myself as my lips find his belly.

Angel likes it when I nibble around his hipbone. He's ticklish, and it's the only way I've ever been able to make him squirm. There's laughter coming from him now, and I'd cry if I didn't think it would spoil the mood. Little things like hearing him laugh without a thousand sorrows weighing down his voice makes me a big pool of Buffy Mush.

However, our moans and groans and growls and laughs are apparently a little too indecent for someone's tastes, because the sheet I was kneeling on is abruptly ripped from beneath my body, and I land hard on top of Angel. Only Slayer reflexes prevent me damaging a part of his body he might not be able to forgive me for.

"Damn it, Dennis," Angel yells. "Cordelia SAID we should enjoy the weekend without her."

"In all fairness to Casper, I don't think she meant we could have sex in her bed," I point out wryly as I rest my chin against his hip.

Someone had gotten bomb friendly at Angel's office again. Unlike before, the hotel was salvageable. Angel was homeless for a few weeks while repairs were made, and Cordelia graciously offered the use of her couch.

Of course, when she found out I'd be able to visit this weekend after all, she'd grabbed Wesley and declared they were going to a bed and breakfast, and that she'd call if there was a vision.

"You're the one who said the couch would cause pre-mature back problems," he teases gently.

"And I don't have enough to deal with, I should have to worry about spinal stuff?" I shoot back, inching my hand back toward its previous resting-place. I start stroking again, a little harder this time, and I swear to God, his eyes roll back into his head.

The bed rattles, and we both moan, though these are not happy moans.

"Dennis, she left so she wouldn't have to listen to us," I explain, annoyance creeping into my voice. "Remember how it traumatized her last time?"

"Mardi Gras," Angel murmured fondly.

If I had any shame, I would have blushed. I don't, and I hope Cordelia's ghostly friend takes the hint, because I slide over on the bed until I'm between Angel's knees. I keep my gaze on his, and I see his eyes briefly tint gold. With a smile, I curl my tongue around the tip of his penis; press my lips around the foreskin and every-so-lightly tug; lap at the pre-cum that weeps from the very center.

His hands are in my hair, and I sigh before engulfing as much of him in my mouth as I can. As long as I live, I will never be able to get enough of his taste. Every part of him tastes different, too. I know. I've checked. I'm very thorough.

I think I might be a slut. I'm not sure, because I've never wanted anyone the way I want Angel, but when I get him alone, I become a nymphomaniac. Take now for instance. I want to swallow him down. I wish I had two mouths so I could suck on his balls at the same time. I settle for fondling them with my hand, but it's =not= the same. I don't think there's anything I now than to taste him in the back of my throat, to hear him howl my name because I gave him somethin want more rightg that felt too good for him to stay silent.

Yet another score for vampire stamina -- I can suck him dry and he'll be hard again in five minutes. I double his pleasure, he doubles my fun. Did I just think that? Living on a hellmouth has eroded my brain. Oh well, if I'm not fit to be a Slayer, I'll just be Angel's personal sex slave. Faith can handle the other vampires. It'll be my job to keep Angel happy and in bed as much as possible. I'll wake him up like this every night, and we can make one night Fantasy Night, and another Bondage Night . . .

Maybe I am a slut.

Angel seems to like it, though, because his fingers are tightening in my hair and I know he isn't in control of them. I give him more pressure, run my tongue up and down his length as I slide the very tip of him in and out of my throat. As much fun as we had in bed -- and we did -- this act always felt like a chore with Riley, and I'm not ashamed to admit I got zero enjoyment out of it. With Angel, though, I'm almost coming with him.

I'm not, of course, and after I've swallowed every last drop of his cool seed, I rest my head against his hip again. There's an ever-present ache in my belly that only goes away when Angel's inside me. Some people might say this is just another symptom of my sluttiness, but it's so much more basic than that. He's a part of me, and the only time I'm satisfied is when he's between my legs, where he belongs, filling me up.

Rubbing my cheek against his skin like a cat, I watch in fascination as he stirs, lengthens slightly just from the press of my cheek. That makes me smile, and I wonder if it's the same for him. If he never feels right until he's buried inside of me.

He moves pretty fast, even when he's recovering from a mind-blowing orgasm, because I find myself on my back, with half his body lying over me before I've had a chance to blink. Angel's mouth is pressing soft, wet kisses against my throat, my face, my closed eyelids, and I love his mouth, it's my favorite part of his body.

I may be a slut -- I'm willing to concede that the body of evidence suggests this fact to be true -- but kissing Angel is like a religious experience. I don't know if it's because he's had so much practice -- though I like to think it's because I inspire him -- but I could kiss him for days and not notice the passage of time.

God, I miss him when we're in different cities. I miss his mouth, and his laugh, and his cock, and his arms, and the way he always knows exactly what I need from him. I miss the silence we share together, I miss the way he's the only one who can argue with me and really make me hear him, and I miss the way I never have to worry if someone's at my back when I'm hunting with him.

"We don't get to spend enough time together," I sigh as he covers my upper torso in wet, cool kisses. "You and your sacred duty that won't let you leave the hellmouth," he complains in good humor as he swirls his tongue around one of my nipples -- but he doesn't actually touch it. Bastard.

"You and =your= sacred duty with Cordelia and her visions that always happen within the Los Angeles city limits," I shoot back, grinning as he nips at the underside of my breast playfully.

He abandons my breasts entirely, and I suck in a sharp breath. The only time he ever gives them up that easily is when he's planning something for later. That tingly feeling runs up and down my spine and out my toes. I part my legs for him, and he inhales me. It's sexy when he does that for a number of reasons, but I think my number one is this: he doesn't have to breathe. There's no reason for him to be taking a deep breath of =anything= unless he really wants to.

That kicks my slut-meter up another notch, and he knows it, smug bastard, because he's pressing those long, slow, wet kisses over my hips and the insides of my thighs. He loves to play like this. When we have the time, he always makes sure we both use it to take joy in each other's bodies this way. Sometimes we focus on me, and sometimes we focus on him, but usually, it's like this. Equal time, equal devotion. Most people would call this my turn -- but it's not. I've already had my turn. This is all Angel.

Obviously, he senses I was about to scream in frustration, because he finally uses his thumbs to part me wide open and gives me the longest, slowest lick of my life. I do scream now, but it has =nothing= to do with frustration. My back is arched off the bed, and I didn't even realize I'd moved. I'm trying to get closer to his mouth, and oh, God, he's lapping at me now, good, right there, Angel, no, up a little, YES, right there, oh . . .

Damn it, he's moving away again, backing off. He thinks I like to be teased. And I suppose he's right, up to a point. My =body= likes to be teased. =I= detest it with a fiery passion. But I have to concede, in these moments my body's in control, and GOD he knows my body.

I feel his face shift against me as his mouth fastens over my clit, and then I really can't feel anything because he's suckling at me like he's feeding and the pleasure is so intense I can't quite form a coherent thought, yet at the same time, I'm frighteningly clear. It's like an out of body experience, it's so good, and I'm hovering around us, watching myself writhe and moan, listening to Angel make those =sounds= he makes while his head moves between my legs . . . and then I'm begging to get back into my body because I see how much fun it's having.

As I groggily regain focus, I feel his big hands on my hips, and he's between my legs, almost where he belongs. He's still in game face, and I reach up, run my fingers over his ridged forehead lovingly. He doesn't try to pull away from me anymore when he's like this. He doesn't try to hide it, and I think he's only a little bit ashamed of what he is now, especially when it keeps him from going outside during the day with me, or when we think about children.

Once I remind him that there's time for all that, and prophecies to be fulfilled, and demons to slay and miles to go, he gets this funny look on his face like I'm amazing him or something. Then he always kisses me. He's got that look now as I smooth my index finger over his nose, and sure enough, he leans down and kisses me, gently, mindful of his fangs.

Sometimes I think he could make me come a dozen times -- I actually think we neared that number that one night in New Orleans -- and I'd still be hungry for him.

His hands spread along my thighs and he pulls me up against him, and then he's inside me. It takes one good thrust, and I'm full, I'm complete, I have everything I've ever wanted wrapped up inside my arms and legs.

Neither of us moves for a moment. We're just suspended there, staring into each other's eyes. He makes a physical effort, and his ridges disappear. He's human again, in appearance, and I smile, though it doesn't matter to me. It does to him, though, so I lean up and kiss his smooth forehead.

I think Dennis covered us with the sheet, because it's at our waists. I don't know how long it's going to stay that way, but for now, while we're being still, it's nice. He's propping himself up by his arms, but I don't want that, I want his weight on me, and I jab at his arms until he falls. I grunt, but it's a good grunt. A satisfied grunt and he smirks at me. "All you had to do was ask," he notes wryly, pressing his mouth to the side of my neck.

"All I have to do is ask, huh," I mutter.

He catches my tone, though, like he always does, and pulls his head back to look at me. That's my Angel. We're in the middle of sex and he's willing to have a 'deep thoughts' conversation with me.

"Have I done something?" he asks, only half-serious.

"No," I deny immediately, moving my hands to his back. He likes it when I stroke his back. "I'm just curious about something."

Satisfied that I'm not mad at him, he goes back to my collarbone, licks and sucks at it until I almost forget what I'd been about to say.

"Do you think about being inside me as much as I think about having you inside me?" I blurt out and I feel him tense up.

I realize why when he starts vibrating with repressed laughter. I smack his shoulder lightly, then give a little moan, because this vibrating thing is working for me. His hips push against mine every time his chest shakes with laughter, and I wonder if he'd mind me tickling him during sex all the time.

Now he's giving me that =look= he has, where it's like he's asking me if I'm stupid, only he never thinks I'm stupid, so he's wondering how my brain cells managed to leak out of my head temporarily.

"Is this about your inner-slut musings?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the tip of my nose. "Because we've talked about that--"

"It's not. Not directly."

"You're hedging," he points out, giving his hips a little nudge against mine. God, he feels good. I could repeat that in my head over and over again. I could say it out loud.

"God, you feel good."

Again he's chuckling. "So do you," he whispers against my mouth. "You always do."

"Answer," I manage to croon, but I'm starting to wiggle my hips against his and we're both fast losing concentration.

"Perfect happiness, Buffy," he says by way of explanation. His eyes are so serious, so I really make an effort to understand.

"Still needing more," I insist impatiently, sliding the inside of my thigh back and forth against his hip. Friction is good. I don't know if I've ever mentioned that, but it is.

"Being with you like this--" his forehead is scrunching up, and he's about to lose control, have I mentioned how much I love this part? "--it's everything to me, Buffy. It's peace; it's happiness. It's my deepest desire, and most oft thought of musing. It's why I left."

I feel tears, and I force them back. It had taken me two years to forgive him for leaving me. It's taken me every second of time we've spent together since him losing his soul became a non-issue to believe he wasn't going to walk out again. He made a lot of arguments when we first decided to try again. It hadn't just been sex; he'd left because of all the other obstacles in our path.

"You're never going to walk away from me again." It's not a question. I won't ask him that question, because phrasing it as a question implies he has a choice in the matter, and believe me when I say he doesn't.

"Even if I thought there was a chance you'd let me get away," and he's smiling again, softly and sweetly down into my sweaty face, "I can't leave you again, Buffy. It took all the strength I had to do it the first time." He kisses me. Twice. "And I know I've said it before -- but never think you're a slut because you want me like you do, because you enjoy using your body as an instrument of pleasure. I've been around for close to three centuries and all the women I've been with combined haven't inspired in me the physical lust -- to say nothing of the emotion -- that you do."

Well, I got my words. And I really am gonna start crying now. This is why I don't argue with him on the flowery declaration thing. Pool of Buffy Mush, take two.

"I am too a slut," I insist, smiling at him with my eyes. He's propped up on his arms again. Using his body as an anchor, I lift myself by my arms and legs until my back no longer touches the bed. "Just not in a bad way."

"I'll go with that," he agrees around a groan as he gives in, settles us both back against the bed, and lets his full weight rest on top of me.

There's this part of me that never wants to get going, because the sooner we start a vigorous mating ritual, the sooner it'll end, and he won't be inside me anymore. This part usually gets control over my body for the first ten minutes. Then when time's up, this other, needier part of me wrestles for dominance. The needy part =always= wins.

I use every ounce of strength I have in my internal muscles to squeeze him the way he likes. His hips give an involuntary thrust, and I do it again, and again, until he's pounding me into the bed. His hands slip beneath my body, press against my shoulder blades to bring my chest closer to him. He slides into game face and bends his head to my breast again.

Oh God, please, please let him be doing what I think he is, please, please . . .

The high-pitched cry catches me completely off guard, and it takes me a minute to realize the sound came from me. His mouth is wrapped around my nipple, and he's sliced the skin surrounding it with one of his incisors. I move my hands to his hair, and hold his mouth to my breast, urging him on with the little cooing sounds coming from the back of my throat, with the way my hips are moving at an irregular rhythm against his.

He slips both his fangs around my breast, and begins suckling hungrily, feeding from me. Yet another thing it took ages to get him comfortable with. Yet another thing that makes me feel whole and complete and satisfied. =My= body is nourishing him. =My= blood makes him stronger. =My= blood gives him pleasure. Hell, my blood is giving =me= a lot of pleasure right now.

My hands are clenching and unclenching in his hair, and he's still drawing deep and hard, just the way I like it, and his thrusts are deep and hard, too, and this must be some kind of a pattern with me. It's like that night on the floor of the mansion, only he's never that out of control, he never takes too much, just enough, and there are no clothes between us, nothing to keep his flesh from my flesh and him =in= me the way it's supposed to be.

There's that high-pitched cry again, and it's still me, but this time he's snarling against my breast. His mouth releases me and he brings his mouth to mine. I kiss him and moan into his mouth and taste my blood on his tongue and I can't get enough of him, of this, and I'm coming, and he's coming, and God it can't be possible to love someone this much, it just can't be.

I'm all fuzzy for a minute, and the first clear sensation I feel is his tongue laving at my nipple, closing the tiny wounds he'd made. My arms are limp at my sides, and I force them up, wrap them around his back. One of my hands traces the area around his tattoo; the other sifts through his hair soothingly, the same way he's lapping at my breast.

"This is my favorite part," I murmur, and I can hear the sleepiness in my own voice.

"What?"

"The part where I get to fall asleep with you. The part where I wake up and you're still here, and you're still you."

"Oh," he says softly, pulling me closer, sliding up the bed until we're at eye level.

"I miss you. All the time, but especially at night when I'm trying to fall asleep and you aren't there to cuddle up to." I look at him seriously. "Never underestimate the blissage found in late night cuddling with the one you covet."

"I'm always with you," he vows quietly as he pulls me even tighter against his body. It could never be tight enough, as far as I'm concerned. "Even when you can't feel me, I'm right there, same as you are with me."

I close my eyes with a smile on my face

. . . . . . and opened them again to an empty bed.

The shock was sudden and painful, a physical ache blooming through her breast. He hadn't been with her for nearly two years now, and she was still surprised after these dreams to find him gone. It wasn't like they'd ever woken up together in the same bed, save that one time at the mansion because their post-slayage nap had gotten out of control. And look how well =that= had turned out.

This hadn't felt like the other dreams, though. There had been details to this dream, flavors and layers and colors she'd never experienced before. At least, not when she dreamt about Angel. Even her prophetic dreams weren't like that. Always, there was a layer of surrealism to them, symbolic things she had to decipher and figure out like a puzzle.

Feeling Angel all around her, moving inside her, pulling her to his body as they fell asleep . . . that had been the puzzle, assembled just like the picture on the box, and was this what her future picture was going to look like?

Seized by an uncontrollable urge to =know=, Buffy grabbed the phone and dialed a number she'd memorized the last time she'd seen Angel. When she'd realized Cordelia had become so close to him.

"'Lo?" a voice Buffy didn't recognize answered. A male voice. Go Cordy, Buffy thought absently.

"I need to speak to Cordelia. Now."

There was a shuffling sound, followed by a familiar bitchy, "This had better be good."

"Cordy, it's me."

"Buffy?" Cordelia sounded completely shocked.

"Yeah. Listen, Cor . . . do you have a roommate? A roommate named Dennis who's, uh . . . you know.."

"A ghost?" Cordelia offered around a yawn.

"Yes." Buffy held her breath. She actually physically held her breath.

"Yeah, he sort of came with my place. Why?"

Something akin to hysterical joy bubbled up inside Buffy. She hadn't known that, no one had told her that, it wasn't in her subconscious . . . Cordelia had a ghost for a roommate. His name was Dennis. And Angel was making love to her in Cordelia's bedroom while she was away with--

"Is Wesley there?"

"What?" Cordelia squeaked this time. "Why would Wesley be here?"

"What?" That same male voice asked from beside Cordelia. "What the hell, De?"

"Gunn, shut up," Cordelia muttered. "Buffy?"

"Never mind. I'm sorry I bothered you, Cordelia, but you have no idea how much you've helped me."

"I'm going to pretend this was all just a bad dream," Cordelia confided to her before unceremoniously hanging up the phone.

Buffy smiled as she hung up her own phone. So it wasn't time yet. Things hadn't fallen into place. But they would. There would be a day when she would get to live in Angel's world again. It didn't matter if the dream was a real glimpse into her future -- which she firmly believed it was -- or just a manifestation of all her deepest desires. It didn't matter because that dream gave Buffy back something she had been sorely lacking since her mother's death a short six weeks ago.

The strength to keep fighting.

The End

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