destructo-girl.com

"There But For The Grace..."

Author: Indie
Email: indiefic@hotmail.com
Notes: For my very beloved twin, tango's birthday. I don't normally post unfinished works in process, but I'm making an exception because there is no way I could get this story done in time for tango's birthday. Please note that this version is not beta'd, so I'm sure it had mistakes. Also, the final version of this story may vary significantly from this section. Many thanks to Gia for all her help and feedback on this fic.

The shrill buzzing pounded against her ears and Buffy groaned, burrowing deeper under her covers, smashing her pillow against her ears in an effort to silence the grating noise. She hated mornings. Of course, this wasn’t morning. Morning was when the sun was coming up, birds were chirping, all that happy sunshiney crap. This was the middle of the night. It wasn't natural to be up hours before the sun. And Buffy did not want to get out of bed.

But when had what she wanted ever mattered? With a growl of displeasure, she kicked back the covers and tossed off the pillow, glowering at all of her barracks mates. Her scowl went completely unnoticed as the two dozen other SITs in her class went about their morning rituals, pushing themselves out of their bunks, making beds, pulling on uniforms. Unhappily, Buffy fell in with the others, participating in the same morning ritual she’d known for the last three years.

Buffy hit the ground with jarring force, her head smacking against the mat hard enough that she saw stars.

"Get up," came the emotionless command.

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Buffy pushed herself to her feet. She turned, facing her commanding officer, eyes glued to the ground lest she glare at him and be written up for insubordination. She waited for the inescapable upbraiding. She didn’t have to wait long.

"Does anybody want to offer an opinion on what Ms. Summers did wrong?" Angel asked the class.

Buffy tried not to cringe. It was bad enough when he yelled at her in front of all the other SITs, but when he invited the lazy brats to criticize her – while she was the one working her ass off – it was almost more than she could take.

"She’s dropping her shoulder," Rona offered snidely. "You can see her coming from a mile away. She’s telegraphing."

"That’s a given," Angel said dryly. "Does anyone want to let me know what new form of incompetence Ms. Summers has added to her repertoire this morning?" Angel crossed his arms over his chest, his vision pinning each of the two dozen SITs in place. Few of them would meet his gaze and those who did quickly looked away. "No one knows?" he asked, in a cruel, mocking tone. He snorted in disgust. "Faith?" he called.

Dressed all in black like Angel, Faith came to stand behind her superior. "Summers is favoring her left leg," Faith said plainly.

Buffy glanced up at Faith. A former, albeit hobbled, Slayer, Faith was good, but nowhere near as good as Angel, who was a Monk. Buffy was shocked that Faith had picked up on the slight hindrance in her movements.

"Yes," Angel said with a tight smile, letting the other SITs know that they had seriously disappointed him by not picking up on something he found so obvious. "Ms. Summers is favoring her left leg." He glowered at the young women. "If you’re going to spend your time goofing off, watching me kick Summers’ ass rather than doing your own drills, you should at least pay attention." He clasped his hands behind his back. "Faith, please take them on a short run. I think out to the pier and back should be sufficient."

The lack of groans was due only to the fact that the SITs knew that if they did, he’d double the length of the run. As it was, ten miles was nothing to scoff at. As the others filed out of the room, Buffy went to follow.

"Not you, Summers," Angel snapped, clearly irritated.

Buffy stopped short, looking at the Monk. He rolled his eyes and dropped into a mocking bow, gesturing towards the small trainer’s room just off the gymnasium. With a huff, she turned, limping. There was no need now to try and hide her discomfort.

Buffy flicked on the trainer’s room lights, looking around the small cramped space. It smelled like muscle rub and athletic tape, which she found oddly comforting. It was far more palatable to her senses than the large infirmary in the middle of the Council complex. Buffy would do anything to avoid having to go there. Pushing herself onto the padded table, Buffy waited.

Methodically, Angel shrugged out of the short, black nylon jacket, leaving him in a form fitting black t-shirt, a pair of black fatigue pants and regulation issue combat boots. He removed his ubiquitous wrap around sunglasses, blinking rapidly in the harsh, fluorescent light. "What did you do?" he asked.

"I twisted my knee," she said dully.

Angel looked at her suspiciously before sitting down on the rolling stool and situating himself in front of her seated form. On the exam bunk, she was significantly higher off the ground than he. He braced one hand on her thigh, just above her kneecap and the other clasped her ankle. Slowly, he rotated her leg, testing the range of motion.

Buffy hissed in pain and he stopped immediately.

"How did you twist your knee?" he asked.

She looked away, shifting uncomfortably on the bunk.

"Summers?"

"I was practicing," she said, not meeting his gaze.

"Practicing what?"

She huffed in irritation. "The spinning kick you showed us yesterday," she admitted.

He was quiet for a long time and she knew that wasn’t a good sign. "The same spinning kick that I explicitly told you and the rest of the SITs to not try unless either Faith or I was present."

"That’d be the one," she replied cheekily.

"I could write you up for this, you know," he said darkly.

Buffy looked down at him, trying to force her expression to be cold. Angel most certainly could write her up for such a blatant violation. Of course, another write-up would mean be three strikes and Buffy’s out. Out on the streets. With no place to go. She was over eighteen now and the Council was no longer legally obligated to provide her with basic food and shelter.

Unlike the majority of the SITs, Buffy didn’t come from a Council family. Unlike Kennedy or Eve or Molly, Buffy couldn’t just drop out of Slayer Training and be welcomed home with open arms. She didn’t have a home to go to. Her father left when she was just a kid, her mother died several years previous. It was the Slayer life or nothing for Buffy. She wasn’t a SIT to pad her résumé or make things look pretty for some future time when she could make a bid for election to the Council’s governing board. She was a grunt, a lifer. A career as a Slayer was the only thing that stood between her and a life on the streets.

Of course, having been her CO for the last three years, Angel knew all of this. He was her guardian, just as he was guardian to all the other, albeit few, orphaned SITs. He knew exactly what it was he was holding over Buffy’s head.

"I’d prefer that you didn’t," Buffy said quietly.

Angel frowned at her, his expression shuttered and unreadable as always. He never gave any insight into his internal monologue. "You have a problem with authority, Summers," he said firmly.

"That’s not true," she countered defiantly. "Authority has a problem with me."

"Oh yes," he condescended, " how could I forget? You’re never wrong."

"I didn’t say that," she snapped defensively. "I just ... " Oh, she hated this. She wasn’t being self-pitying. He didn’t know what it was like to have to deal with all these pampered princesses day in and day out, daughters of powerful Council members, or other government officials. They didn’t have a clue what it was like to work, to really work. They couldn’t care less about being Slayers, yet day after day, they were praised while she was reminded she would never be good enough.

"You just ... "Angel prompted.

"You’re always on my case," she yelled. "You’re always pointing me out in front of everyone, telling everyone all the things I’m doing wrong. I’m sick of it. I just wanted to practice so I wouldn’t do it wrong again."

"So the fact that you ignored a direct order and ended up hurting yourself is really my fault?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Cry me a river," he said dryly. "Your knee is sprained. Stay off it for the next week. If I see you on it again, I swear I’ll break the opposite ankle. Do I make myself clear?"

Buffy met his gaze defiantly, holding it for a long moment. "Crystal," she bit out.

Giles was startled to find the library lights on when he returned from his lunch break. Surely he’d turned them off. "Hello?" he called from the doorway. "Is someone here?"

"It’s just me."

Giles smiled upon hearing the familiar voice and made his way up to the bookcases. He found Buffy sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall, surrounded by books and notepads. He noticed the very prominent brace on her knee. "Were you injured?"

She frowned. "Sort of," she admitted. "And as punishment for not being able to get my ass kicked in public, I’m forced to write a fifty page essay on Slayer lore and the importance of Council training."

Giles frowned, removing his glasses to polish them. Buffy was a notoriously bad student and he didn’t doubt that being forced to write an essay was a far steeper punishment than having to run laps for an entire afternoon. "Punished by whom exactly?" Giles asked.

Buffy snorted. "Who else? Angel."

Giles nodded. While Buffy might be able to fudge her way through an essay for one of the other Trainers, Angel would no doubt expect nothing short of her absolute best. "Well, I have a few books that might be of assistance," he offered.

Buffy stared up at Giles. "You’re taking his side," she groused.

Shrugging, Giles said, "I’m not taking his side, I’m merely offering assistance."

"You could at least vilify him," Buffy pouted. "You know, make me feel better. While I spend the rest of my natural life writing this stupid essay."

"Making you feel better will not get this essay written," Giles informed her curtly.

"All you Watchers are the same," she huffed. "Always taking each other’s sides."

Frowning, Giles pointed out, "Angel is not a Watcher. He’s a Monk and I don’t think he’s quite the villain you make him out to be."

"Shows how much you know," she muttered.

He watched as she pushed herself off the floor, satisfied she could maneuver herself to the table without breaking anything. Turning, he headed for his private stash of books in his office. They would contain more than enough information to allow Buffy to write her essay, regardless of how much she would bitch through the process.

Giles smiled tightly. Buffy had a chip on her shoulder, but underneath the rough, brash exterior was a truly remarkable young woman. Her mind was astoundingly nimble, though she often pretended to be no more cerebral than your average jock.

He met Buffy her first year as a SIT, three years earlier. At sixteen, Buffy had been even more prickly than she was now. Her mother’s death was still recent and the culture shock from being forced into close quarters with so many young women from privileged families only exacerbated her already pronounced social problems. She had initially shunned all of his attempts to help her, being rude and hostile. But for some reason, Giles had pressed on. And little by little, Buffy had finally warmed to him. When she let her guard down, she could be a delightfully charming young woman. But he knew there were very few people who had ever seen that side of her.

Buffy chose to view the world as a conflict. You were either on Buffy’s side, or you were against her. There wasn’t much room for shades of gray. Sadly, beyond himself, Giles had no idea whom Buffy might consider to be on her side. He knew the number had to be pitifully few. And Angel was most certainly not counted among them. If anything, Buffy viewed him as the bane of her existence with the conviction and singularity of purpose known only to the very young. And in some respects, Buffy Summers, hardened Slayer in Training, was so very, very young.

Buffy stared down at the paper. More appropriately, she stared down at the giant red "D" on it. And then took note of the fact that the "D" had been hastily scribbled out and replaced with a "B". Buffy had no trouble following the action. Angel had given her a D on the essay and Ms. Calendar, the English teacher, had upped it to a B. Angel might reign supreme in the combat tactics part of the SITs’ curriculum, but he wasn’t omnipotent. He could assign an essay, but Ms. Calendar, being the English teacher, was the one ultimately responsible for the grade.

"Asshole," Buffy muttered under her breath as she shoved the paper in her backpack and headed for the locker room. Twenty minutes later she was in the standard issue white t-shirt and gray sweats.

She weaved her way through the other girls, heading out to the large gymnasium. As she entered, she narrowly missed running into Angel.

"Watch it," he snapped.

Buffy glowered at him and then smirked darkly. "Thanks for the grade," she said with faux bubbly charm. "My GPA could definitely use the boost."

His brow furrowed and he repeated, "Boost?"

Oh, this was lovely. He didn't even know he'd been overruled. She smiled broadly. "The B on my essay," she said, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. "Apparently Miss Calendar's expert view of my abilities is a little more objective than yours."

Angel watched her for several long moments, his expression betraying nothing. Buffy was eventually so unnerved she had to look away.

Lifting two fingers to his lips, Angel whistled sharply, the sound echoing loudly in the large space. "Circle!" he bellowed.

Buffy watched as he walked over to an elevated area of the gym that was used for one on one sparring. As part of their training, the SITs sparred every Friday afternoon in front of the group. But this wasn't Friday. It was Tuesday. A shiver of fear tickled up Buffy's spine. Why hadn't she just kept her mouth shut?

The circular platform was about fifteen feet across, elevated only a foot and half off the floor. He stood on it, looking at the assembled SITs ringing the edge. "Summers," he said with a dark smile. "Join me."

It was an order. Non-negotiable. Swallowing thickly, Buffy took the step up onto the mat, cursing the fact that her brace had been removed the previous day and she was fully mobile.

"Today we have a special lesson," Angel informed the class, "on the power of the ego."

He looked Buffy up and down, taking in her appearance and nearly snarling in contempt. She forced herself to stand up straight and meet his gaze.

"Last week Ms. Summers disobeyed a direct order," Angel informed the class. "As punishment, I assigned her a writing project." He smiled sadistically at Buffy and then looked around the ring of SITs shrugging. "I think we all know that such cerebral pursuits aren't exactly her strong suit."

There were snickers from the other SITs and Buffy felt her face flame crimson. How could he be doing this? The sadistic bastard! He really got off on making her look like a complete fool in front of everyone.

"Now I read the paper," Angel continued. He smiled, rolling his eyes. The snickers turned into all out laughter. "Let's just say that her breeding obviously shows."

Buffy flinched like she'd been smacked in the face. How could he be doing this? How could someone that she was supposed to trust implicitly embarrass her so publicly? A single tear streamed down her face, but she forced herself to hold her ground.

"You can't make a sow's ear into a silk purse," he snarled, looking at her with utter contempt.

Buffy saw red. Yes, she was from a nothing, dirt-poor family with no Council connections at all. And yes, she knew that Angel was one of the Council darlings, a member of an extremely old and powerful Council family. He had all of the connections, all of the breeding and wealth that would forever elude her. And here he was mocking her publicly in front of her peers, inviting them to laugh at her.

With a howl of rage, she threw herself at Angel. He barely had time to prepare, twisting away at the last possible moment to prevent his head being knocked from his shoulders from the force of her blow. He grabbed her, using the her own momentum to send her sprawling. But it was a stall tactic at best. He was still trying to regain his own footing when she twisted around and advanced on him again.

She held nothing back as she rained down blows on him and Angel had to use everything he had just to keep her from killing him. One of her punches hit him square in the face, breaking his nose. He covered his head and she used the opportunity, punching him viciously in the side until she heard at least two of his ribs crack.

Angel managed to get away, but she followed him like some mindless beast hell-bent on blood. She pulled back to deliver another vicious, possibly lethal, punch and his superior training finally prevailed. He shifted, dropping down into a crouch in front of her. He punched upward with power and speed, catching her under the chin with the heel of his palm.

The force of the blow knocked her backwards off her feet, leaving her thoroughly dazed. For several long moments, she couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel anything other than the sharp pain radiating through her skull. She rolled over, blindly trying to push herself back to her feet and he pinned her, planting a knee in the small of her back as one of his hands grabbed the nape of her neck. He was breathing harshly and Buffy could feel the blood from his broken nose dripping sickeningly against her back.

Buffy slumped against the mat, all of her fight gone. It was too much to take. Three years of constant criticism finally won him the war of attrition. Who was she kidding? She could never fit in here. Better to just leave, to go back to the world she came from, a world where no one expected her to be anything more than the trash she knew she was.

"Ego," Angel barked at the SITs, glowering at all of them, his face covered with blood. "Ego makes every last one of you think that you're better than Buffy Summers. And you're all wrong. Buffy is smarter, stronger, faster than every one of you spoiled little rich bitches. She knows it. I know it. You all know it. And yet, you delude yourselves, pretending that you're better. You're not."

He pushed himself to his feet, releasing Buffy. She didn't move.

"Ego made Buffy strong. If she had managed to get a hold of me a few minutes ago, I would be dead. But ego leads to bad decisions, mistakes. Buffy is an infinitely talented natural fighter. I'm no match for her. But if I can get under her skin, make her angry, set her off her game, I can take the upper hand. As you just saw, sometimes there's a risk involved with that. Provoke the wrong person to violence and you might not live to tell the tale. So be careful, with your own ego and with others."

He looked over his shoulder at Faith. "Take them out for a run."

"Where?"

"I don't care where," he said with disgust. "But I don't want to see them again before sundown. And if any of them even think about slacking, let them know they'll do nothing but run for the rest of their time with me."

Buffy listened to the footfalls growing more distant. Looking up, she saw Angel's hand. With more than a little trepidation, she allowed him to help her to her feet. She was still woozy and she swayed, clasping his arm for balance.

He led her back to the trainer’s room, helping her up on the table. Pulling a cold pack out of one of the drawers, he snapped the plastic, causing the chemicals to mix. When it was sufficiently cold, he wrapped it in a towel and handed it to her. Buffy pressed the cold pack under her chin, watching mutely as he walked over to the large, tub-like sink and washed the blood from his face.

He returned to where she sat, wiping his face with a towel. Taking a seat on the rolling stool, he tossed the towel into the laundry basket. His nose had stopped bleeding and the swelling was already starting to abate. He leaned over, fishing around in one of the cabinets for a penlight. Finding it, he checked the battery. It was dead. Angel didn’t seem to be particularly surprised by this. Buffy watched as he methodically changed out the battery and then clicked on the little light. Satisfied it was working, Angel rose to his feet, standing directly in front of Buffy.

His movements were slow and deliberate and done in perfect silence. He placed his hand on either side of her head, gently feeling along her jaw with the tips of his fingers. She made a small sound of discomfort and almost absently he shushed her, his voice warm and comforting. She relaxed a little more, but winced in pain when he pushed against her chin with his thumbs. Satisfied that he hadn’t accidentally broken her jaw, his hands moved to her neck. He ran his thumbs firmly along the lines of her muscles, looking for any irregularity. Finding none, he then gently grasped her jaw in one hand while holding her neck with the other and slowly swiveled her head, testing her range of motion.

Buffy could hear his unnecessary breath. There was this sickly crackling noise with every rise and fall of his chest. No doubt she’d accidentally punctured a lung when she cracked his ribs. For the first time, she felt bad about that. But her head was still very fuzzy and her thoughts couldn’t really seem to wrap themselves into anything coherent enough for true regret. She looked at him dopily, really noticing him for the first time. Yes, of course, she’d looked at him before. She looked at him for hours every day. But she’d never really taken the opportunity to look at him. He was beautiful. She giggled at the thought. His sharp look caused her to sober quickly. But he was beautiful. In a completely masculine way, of course. His dark hair, those huge brown eyes. She’d always wondered how brown eyes could be so cold. But his always were, cold verging on icy. She wondered for a moment what those eyes would look like warmed with passion. Yeah, he was a Monk, but he was also a man – or male at least. He was also too pale, but that came with the territory, him being a vampire and all. And that mouth ...

"Follow the light with your eyes," he directed. Buffy jumped slightly, blushing as she turned her attention to the little penlight he held. She tried to follow it with her eyes as he moved it in a large circle. When that was finished, he shined the light in both of her eyes, causing her to wince in pain.

"You have a concussion," he said flatly. "You need to go to the infirmary."

"No," Buffy said, her demeanor becoming instantly serious.

"It’s not negotiable," he informed her.

"I’m not going," she said more firmly.

"Summers."

Buffy looked up at him, her bottom lip quivering as she tried not to cry. She hated hospitals. She hated them more than almost anything. The mere thought of them was enough to make her break out in hives.

He sighed tightly and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He stepped into the hall for a few moments. He was speaking so quietly, Buffy couldn’t eavesdrop on his conversation. Upon returning, he leaned forward, scooping her up into his arms. Buffy made a small squeak of protest, her arms automatically going around his neck. "Your ribs," she said.

"My ribs are fine," he told her, walking out of the training room and heading for the tunnels that led to the infirmary.

Buffy’s terror was very real, but she simply didn’t have the energy to fight him. She felt bruised and battered, emotionally as well as physically. And she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been touched by another being outside of the sparring ring. There was nothing sexual about being held in Angel’s arms, but it was comforting. He felt sure and solid and his grip on her was tight. She melted against him, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

Buffy was shocked to find Giles waiting at the infirmary when they arrived. An attendant directed Angel to one of the exam rooms where he gently set Buffy down on the bed. He gave Giles a curt nod and then promptly disappeared.

Giles was very good natured about the whole affair, taking Buffy’s irritable mood in stride. He simply sat in a chair next to the hospital bed and chattered along about rather inane topics. Buffy’s temper would have been much more waspish if she hadn’t been so relieved for his presence.

She was a horrible patient, scowling at the doctors and nurses that came in to evaluate her. They all agreed there was nothing major wrong with her, but they wanted to keep her several hours for observation. Buffy sighed, laying back on the bed.

"You can’t go to sleep," Giles informed her curtly.

She frowned at him. "Fine," she countered, "then entertain me."

He smiled indulgently, knowing that she was being such a handful only because she was terrified. "What would you like me to entertain you with?" he asked.

She looked at him speculatively, biting down on her bottom lip. "What’s the deal with Monks?" she asked.

"The deal," he repeated, frowning. He’d been shocked earlier to see Angel holding Buffy, especially knowing Buffy’s loathing for the Monk. But he also noticed that something had most certainly changed between them. Perhaps Buffy was becoming more familiar with shades of gray. "I assume you mean their origins."

He took a deep breath, searching his memory for what he knew about Angel and his brethren. "Traditionally, being a Monk was punishment for particularly heinous vampires. When possible, the Council would capture them and using a potent mix of magic, would restore their souls and forcibly bind them to the Council’s will."

"A punishment?" Buffy asked, her brow furrowed.

Giles nodded. "With one exception, every Monk I’ve ever heard of has been created in such a way, forced to serve the very people they conspired against as soulless demons."

"What was the exception?"

A small smile played on Giles’ lips. "Angel," he said, "but I’m assuming you already knew that."

"Why was he the exception?"

"I know you believe me to be older than dirt," Giles said wryly, "but I assure you all this information is very second hand. Angel was part of the Council more than a century before I was even born." He took a deep breath, removing his glasses to polish them. "He’s quite secretive," Giles noted. "So I can’t be certain how much of this is true and how much is mere conjecture that has arisen over the years."

"You’re stalling," she said plaintively.

Giles smiled, replacing his glasses. "Angel is part of a very powerful Council family, that much you already know. Unlike the rest of the Monks, he isn’t indentured to the Council’s will. He stays for his own reasons and as a member of a Council family, he retains his rank and status. He has full Council privileged, though to my knowledge, he has never exercised them."

"So why does he stay?"

Shrugging, Giles said, "I doubt anyone other than Angel could answer that question."

"You know something," Buffy pressed.

Giles looked at her soberly. "Rumor has it that he was a young man in love. The girl of his fancy was Called as a Slayer. This was far before our time, when being called as a Slayer inevitably led to death on the battlefield. It wasn’t like now where daughters of influential Council members can do some cursory tour of duty and return home to their lives and families and careers decorated soldiers. Being Chosen was an inevitable death sentence." He took a deep breath. "The only way that Angel could be near her was to take a Monk’s vow, forfeit his humanity, his mortality."

Buffy pushed herself up on one elbow. "He gave up his life to be with her?"

"He gave up his life to be near her," Giles answered. "For a very short period of time. Only as long as she was in training. As an active Monk, Angel is bound by a vow of celibacy and service to the Council."

"So he gave up his life just to be near her and train her and then watch her die?"

"So the story goes," Giles said softly. "But, like I said, only Angel knows the truth and as far as I understand, he isn’t telling anyone."

It took him several minutes to answer her knock, which wasn’t odd given the extremely late hour. Or early hour depending on how you looked at it. She groaned, thinking how she’d have to be up in a few hours. Damn the hospital for keeping her for so long.

As he pulled open the door, Buffy swallowed harshly. He stood there wearing nothing but his black fatigue pants, the top button undone. Oh lord. She’d known he had a good body, she’d sparred with him countless times. She’d been pressed against him only hours earlier. But to be faced with said body, looking all hard and chiseled and ... She forced her attention back to his face. He was looking at her expectantly. "Can I, uh, come in?" she stammered.

He shrugged, stepping away from the door. Buffy followed him into the apartment. The Monks’ quarters were almost as austere as the SITs’ barracks. It was a studio apartment with bare concrete walls and floor. It could have been a very cold, lonely room, but she was shocked to see how he’d added personal touches to make it much more homey. There were beautiful works of art on the walls. Several small lamps offered a warm, diffuse light. The furniture was old, made of dark woods and rich fabrics.

She watched as he flopped down into an armchair and then gestured her toward the sofa. She sat down on the edge, growing more and more nervous by the second. She looked at his long form stretched out in the chair. She couldn’t help but notice his bare feet on the bare concrete. Apparently being a vampire had other perks. She would have been freezing in that position.

Oblivious to her perusal, Angel threw back the rest of the contents of his glass, grimacing as the alcohol burned its way down his throat.

"I thought Monks weren’t supposed to drink."

Angel looked at her with hooded eyes. "Monks aren’t supposed to fuck," he said shortly. "Drinking is merely frowned upon."

Buffy swallowed thickly, dropping her gaze to the ground. Angel wasn’t just drinking, he was drunk. Stinking drunk.

Angel shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "What are you doing here, Buffy?" he asked. "Did you sneak out of the infirmary?"

Her head snapped up at his usage of her first name. To her knowledge, he had never referred to her as anything but ‘Summers’. "No," she answered firmly, "I didn’t sneak out. They released me. Good as new."

Angel didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t seem inclined to argue. "That doesn’t answer why you’re here," he said dryly.

She looked down at her hands nervously. "I just ..." she trailed off, then cleared her throat. "I just wanted to talk to you about some of the things you said today."

He met her gaze and as usual, his was absolutely unreadable. Looking away, he sighed. "You pissed me off," he admitted grudgingly. "Don’t get me wrong, I had a point, but I shouldn’t have tried to get it across the way I did."

"Yeah, well, what was your point?" she asked.

He looked at her again and leaned forward in his chair, bracing his elbows against his knees. "That chip on your shoulder is threatening to crush you under its weight."

She frowned looking away.

He stood up, pacing around the room until he could look her in the eye. "You came here," he said. "You wanted to know. I’m telling you."

Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

"You’re good, Buffy," he admitted with more than a little awe in his voice. "You’re without a doubt the best Slayer I’ve ever trained, but there is so much anger in you, so much rage. If you don’t get a handle on that and find some way to channel it, trust me someone else will find a way to use it against you just like I did today. And that would truly be a shame."

"Why would it be a shame?" she asked quietly.

Angel looked at her for a long moment before turning away. He ran his hands over his face, sighing heavily. He turned his back to her, staring at an ornate mirror on the wall that reflected everything but himself. "You know what happens to Slayers, Buffy?"

"What?" she asked in a mere whisper.

"They die," he said flatly. Turning around, he faced her again. "I stay here year after year, century after century. I train the SITs, prepare them as best I can. At the end of three years, I pat them on the head and send them out to fight the Council’s wars ... And they all die."

She swallowed harshly. "So why bother?"

"For the chance to make a difference to just one of them," he answered seriously. He walked over to where she sat stiffly and crouched down in front of her, balancing on the balls of his feet. He reached out, his hand hovering just short of caressing her cheek, but he didn’t allow himself to make contact. "You have a chance, Buffy," he said softly. "A chance to beat the odds, to be the one Slayer that doesn’t fall in battle, the one Slayer that lives to die of old age, who isn’t hobbled like Faith or whose mind isn’t broken like Dru. You have the strongest heart I’ve ever seen."

He pulled his hand back, balling it in a fist as he screwed his eyes closed. He shook his head sharply and abruptly stood. "But if you can’t get past whatever it is that’s eating you, all of that heart, all of that potential and power and training isn’t going to get you anything but dead."

He turned around, pacing the room without looking at her. "Do you know what the other Monks call me?" he asked.

Buffy hadn’t really thought about the Monks interacting much at all. There weren’t many of them, a handful here and there. Buffy had met one named Spike, who, like most of the others, worked out in the field, fighting side by side with the active Slayers. "No," she answered.

"The Keeper of the Dead," he said flatly. "They call me that because when one of the career Slayers dies, I’m the one who has to claim her body, to bring her back here and see that she gets a proper burial. I get the lost souls, the ones with no family to want them, even in death."

"Slayers like me," she whispered.

He turned, fixing her with his intent gaze. "I’ll get you," he said thickly. "One of these days I’ll get a call and they’ll hand me your body neatly wrapped up in a black plastic bag." Tears welled in his eyes and she could see the muscles flexing in his jaw. "And that might just kill me."

"Angel," she said softly.

He looked away, shaking his head. "Go back to the barracks, Buffy," he said wearily.

"Angel, please – "

"Now," he snapped. "Leave."

Mutely, she rose to her feet and headed for the door, unable to stop the tears running down her own cheeks.

Faith eyed Angel up and down. He looked like Hell. No, actually she’d seen Hell before, Angel looked worse. She could smell the sour scent of alcohol seeping out of his pores. "Rough night?"

"Mind your own damn business," he snapped.

Faith raised her eyebrows, but kept her mouth shut. Angel could be a total pain in the ass, but he was usually at least civil to her. She’d known he was twitchy about Summers for years, but apparently yesterday had shaken him up even more than she anticipated.

Faith led the SITs through their drills while Angel lurked in the shadows, nursing his hangover. She dismissed the SITs for lunch and walked over to where he was leaning against the wall. "Travers wanted me to remind you that the convo paperwork is due today."

"Fuck," Angel snapped in disgust. "Why can’t they just let that sad, antiquated ritual die?"

Shrugging, Faith said, "Yeah, well, considering the ritual used to be that they’d lock a defenseless Slayer in with a vamp while they fought to the death, I’m not really sure that convocation is actually all that evil."

He looked at her with disgust. Or with what she imagined to be disgust. Hiding behind those damn sunglasses, sometimes she couldn’t tell.

"You’re telling me that you, the ardent feminist, isn’t bothered by this?" he demanded. "You didn’t feel demeaned when they did it to you?"

She sighed. "Not really. I mean, it’s not much of a shock is it? Arranged marriages are still common place. The girls chosen at convo have probably known for years that they’re going to be married off to those old geezers."

Angel snorted in disgust. He hated the convocation ceremony. He got to spend three years training a class of Slayers only to then parade them in front of the aging, power-hungry Council members like a bunch of damn brood mares. They were soldiers for fuck’s sake, but before they were sent to the front, the Council members were given the opportunity to pluck them out of the herd and take them home as trophy wives. The entire ritual was absurd. But of course, Faith was right. Most of the girls knew from the time they were children if they were going to be married off. Unions between powerful Council families were nothing new and certainly not done on a whim. There were negotiations, dowries, an entire host of demands to be met before such a union could take place. Even the most power hungry of Council members weren’t going to agree to marry off their little girls without having an agreement written in stone.

"Yeah," Angel said dryly, pushing off from the wall. "I better get on that."

Travers looked up as Angel tossed the list of graduating SITs down on his desk. Settling his glasses on the end of his nose, he studied it. "Very well," he said. "That’ll be all."

"That’s not all," Angel countered.

Travers leveled his gaze at the Monk. "You have something to say?"

Angel crossed his arms defiantly over his chest. "I want to dispense with all the damn pomp and circumstance," Angel said dryly. "You already know which girls are going to be bartered at the convocation. I don’t want to send all of them. There’s no point in the other twenty girls having to sit through that damn ritual."

Frowning, Travers said, "I think you forget your place."

"No," Angel replied in a near growl, "you forget your place. I may be a Monk, but I’m not without connections."

Sighing, Travers leaned back in his chair. Angel wasn’t bluffing. He was a Monk, which would usually mean he was at the Council’s mercy, but as always, he was a special circumstance. His family connections were deep and powerful. A nephew several generations removed, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, was currently the head of the Council and Travers knew he often looked to Angel for advice. "Fine," Travers said. "Only the five need attend."

"Four."

"Five," Travers countered darkly.

"Vi, Amanda, Eve and Kathy," Angel said darkly, enumerating the SITs whom he already knew to be betrothed.

"Yes," Travers drawled. He picked up the list Angel handed him earlier, studying it. "And ... Buffy Summers."

Angel stopped cold. "Pardon?"

"Buffy Summers," Travers repeated. "Oh, I know it’s late notice, but it’s not like she has any family to negotiate with."

"Who put in a bid for her?" Angel asked through clenched teeth.

Travers chuckled. "I forget how protective you are over your little lost sheep," he said condescendingly. "Ethan Rayne did and the Council sees no reason to deny his bid."

Without a word, Angel turned and left the office.

"Rupert!" Angel bellowed, storming into the library.

Giles looked up as did the several younger SITs milling about the library. Giles smiled tightly at the young women. "Please excuse us," he said. "I’ll be more than happy to assist you later."

The girls quickly filed out, shooting scared, furtive glances at Angel. When they were gone, Giles pointed Angel into his office. "Tea?" he asked, holding up the little ceramic pot.

Angel merely snarled in reply.

Shrugging, Giles poured himself a cup, unperturbed. Angel wouldn’t actually do him any harm, regardless of how agitated her was at the moment. Taking a seat at his desk, Giles watched Angel pace around the room like a caged tiger. "Care to tell me what’s wrong?" he asked blandly.

Angel stopped and swiveled around to face Giles. "Do you know anything about Buffy being bartered at this year’s convocation?"

Giles coughed on his tea, setting his cup down abruptly. "Excuse me?"

Angel smiled tightly. "My response exactly." He dragged a hand through his hair, sending his already spiky locks into further disarray. "I just talked to Travers and according to the little troll, Ethan Rayne has put in a bid for Buffy’s hand. The Council apparently sees no reason to oppose the union."

"Ethan Rayne," Giles bellowed rising to his feet. "I was in school with him. He’s old enough to be her father!"

Angel snorted, walking over to the small sofa. He seemed to collapse onto it, rubbing his eyes wearily. He laughed mirthlessly. "Maybe this is for the best," he said in a defeated tone.

"The best?" Giles asked tautly. "Marrying Buffy off like some piece of chattel to a man twice her age ... How could that be for the best?"

"Marrying her to Rayne would keep her from having to live her life as a Slayer," he said seriously. "It would mean she wouldn’t be forced out onto the front lines, to live life like some trained beast, to eventually die for the Council. She’d be safe. As Rayne’s wife, she’d have money, status, all the things she’s never had."

"She would be miserable and you know it," Giles said harshly. "Ethan Rayne is a sadist and a lecher. He’d break her spirit in ways infinitely worse than battle would break her body."

Angel groaned, not wanting to believe the situation was as dire as it appeared.

"You have to do something," Giles informed him shortly.

Angel looked at Giles. "Do something?" he parroted incredulously. "What do you want me to do Giles? What do you think I can do?"

"You’re her guardian, dammit," Giles snapped. "You can oppose this union even if the Council won’t."

Angel snorted in disgust. "Oppose it to what ends? So she can be free to die on some stinking battlefield in a war that has nothing to do with her? How is that any better than this?"

"Well, think of something!" Giles demanded. "I will not see her married off to Ethan Rayne."

"Then why don’t you marry her?" Angel countered seriously.

Giles sputtered, looking at him incredulously. "You can’t be serious."

"Yes I can," Angel said stubbornly. "You’re a Council member. You can marry her."

"I am a lesser Council member," Giles said dryly. "I’m not on par with Ethan Rayne. He far outranks me."

"Yes, but if I oppose the marriage as her guardian and suggest you instead, the Council will have to listen."

"This is absurd," Giles snapped. "I think of Buffy as a daughter, I most certainly am not going to take her into my bed."

"I didn’t say you had to sleep with her!" Angel roared. He glared at Giles, breathing hard.

Giles looked at Angel, his gaze narrowing. "You seem to be quite sensitive on the subject of me having sexual relations with Buffy," he said quietly.

Angel snorted. "I am not sensitive on the subject," he denied. "I’m merely pointing out that if you truly think of her as your daughter, that there is the option of marrying her and not consummating the relationship."

Giles crossed his arms over his chest, watching Angel intently. "What about you?" he asked.

"I’m a Monk," Angel said, rolling his eyes.

"You’re a Monk because you choose to be one," Giles pointed out, "not because you have to be. You’re a Council member of far higher rank than Ethan Rayne. If you chose to court Buffy, you wouldn’t even need to formally oppose Ethan’s troth."

"Buffy could still choose Rayne," Angel pointed out.

"But she wouldn’t," Giles countered.

"Why wouldn’t she?" Angel demanded. "She hates me."

Giles watched Angel for several long moments. "She doesn’t hate you," he said quietly. "She is confused by your apparent cruelty to her, but she doesn’t hate you."

"I’m not cruel," Angel snapped.

"Your behavior towards her has been absolutely deplorable at times," Giles stated flatly.

Angel shrugged, staring blindly at the wall. "I just ... I just wanted her to be strong, to be the best," he said quietly.

Giles looked at the ensouled vampire staring morosely at nothing. He and Buffy were a matched set, both so wounded and skittish that they couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Perhaps together they could help each other heal. Of course, that depended on them being together in the first place. He sighed heavily. "You have two options," Giles said. "You can oppose the marriage as Buffy’s guardian and allow her to continue as a Slayer for the Council, or you can offer your own troth and let Buffy choose."

There were a series of whooping cheers. Buffy looked up from the book she was reading for Ms. Calendar’s class to see the postman enter the barracks. Mail was always such a big deal, but never receiving any, Buffy never got too excited. But as she looked up, she noticed two more postmen. Why on earth would they be getting enough mail to warrant three postmen?

She watched as the standard mail was delivered, of course, none to her. But then other two postmen’s army bags were empties, revealing a series of large, ornately wrapped boxes. Most of the other girls giggled and laughed as Vi, Amanda, Eve and Kathy were handed brightly wrapped presents. However, as the last postman walked over to her bunk and set two packages on Buffy’s bed, the room fell silent. Buffy looked around nervously.

Buffy startled as Kennedy threw herself down on Buffy’s bed laughing. "Damn, girl," she said, beaming. "Two troths. That never happens these days."

She looked at Kennedy and then glared at the other SITs until they finally turned away, crowding around the four other girls. "What are these?" Buffy whispered.

"Troths," Kennedy said, as if that were sufficient explanation.

"Whats?"

Kennedy rolled her eyes. "I keep forgetting you’re not from a Council family," she said. "They’re ... presents," she said brightly.

"Presents," Buffy repeated. "Someone sent me presents?"

"Two someone’s actually," Kennedy continued. She shrugged. "They’re ... marriage proposals."

Buffy had been reaching out to touch one of the packages and abruptly drew her hand back. "Marriage proposals?" she demanded, scandalized.

Kennedy nodded. "Don’t look at me," she said. "I don’t know what’s going on. The other girls have always known these were coming. Marriages are arranged for years. But you ... you’ve apparently got a little competition going on."

Buffy blinked, trying vainly to wrap her mind around the concept. She was a Slayer, a soldier. What the hell was going on? "I don’t get it," she said wearily.

Sighing, Kennedy took pity on her. "It’s an old tradition," she said. "If you accept one of these troths, you’ll get married and you won’t be a Slayer anymore. Or at least, you won’t have to go fight. Usually it’s just a formality. Like I said, Vi, Kathy, the other girls, they’ve known for years that this was coming. The weddings are arranged between families."

"But I don’t have a family."

Kennedy shrugged. "Then I guess the Council or someone does it on your behalf."

"So I have to pick one?" Buffy asked, her nose crunching up in disgust. "I can’t just say no?"

"I don’t know," Kennedy admitted. "Like I said, most of the time these things are arranged between families. I don’t know if you can say no."

Buffy frowned, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared at the packages warily.

"At least open them," Kennedy goaded. "You don’t even know who they’re from."

When Buffy didn’t move, Kennedy finally grabbed the first package, a brightly wrapped and ribboned affair. She pulled the lid off and looked through the contents, pulling them out and depositing them in Buffy’s lap. It was an odd, feminine assortment, a bottle of perfume, a gold bracelet, a dried rose and a little stuffed unicorn. Buffy stared at the toy, frowning. "Does he think I’m five?"

Kennedy laughed but kept digging. She stopped abruptly. Taking out a card, she looked at it with disgust. "Ethan Rayne," she said, scowling.

"Not prince charming, I take it."

"Lecherous old goat is more like it," she spat. "He’s icky. You don’t want him. Let’s look at the other one."

Buffy placed the items back in the box and snatched the second present off Kennedy’s lap before she could open it. "Do you mind?" she asked.

Holding her hands up in surrender, Kennedy motioned for Buffy to continue. Buffy looked at the package. It was wrapped in a simple, shiny black wrapping paper with no decoration or adornment. Her brow furrowed as she opened the lid and looked inside. It was lined with a rich, red velvet. She pulled out a small, black box and opened it, finding a simple, silver cross. Digging more, she found a beautiful but deadly knife. She hefted it for weight. It fit her hand perfectly. More and more curious, she continued looking and found a small ring box containing a simple silver band ornamented with a heart, a cross and a pair of hands.

"It’s a Claddagh." Buffy snapped her attention to Kennedy. "It’s a wedding band," Kennedy continued.

Mutely, Buffy pulled out the final item, a small book of sonnets by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. There was a small card tucked inside and Buffy opened the book. The card was tucked in on the page with the poem "How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways". She pulled out the card and opened it. In a perfect scrawling script were the words:

I hope you will do me the honor of considering my proposal.
-A

Buffy’s mouth went dry. She’d known, somehow, from the moment she opened the present who it was from, but until she saw the card in his own distinctive script, she hadn’t allowed herself to truly consider the possibility.

"Lemme see."

Buffy snatched the card back out of Kennedy’s reach, clasping it to her chest.

"Oh-kay," Kennedy said. "Jumpy much?"

"I, uh, have to sort some things out first," Buffy said, pushing herself off the bed.

Angel opened the door, stoic as always. "You should be in bed, Buffy," he said. "You have early call tomorrow."

"I got your present," she said boldly.

Angel watched her for several long moments before stepping aside so she could enter. As soon as she did, he closed the door. "It’s referred to as a troth," he said. "It’s a formal proposal of marriage."

She nodded, unable to meet his gaze. "Yeah, I got that much," she said.

"Please, have a seat," he offered.

She once again perched on the edge of his sofa, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "So, uh, "She stammered. "I guess I’m mostly wondering ... why."

Angel looked at her seriously, seeming to contemplate something. He took a deep breath. "Do you mind if I’m frank?" he asked.

"Please," she replied sardonically. What did he think? That she had walked clear across the Council grounds past curfew so he could ply her with riddles?

He took a deep breath, pacing the room. "Ethan Rayne offered for you and the Council was not going to oppose."

Buffy absorbed the information. She nodded, smiling tightly. "So you offered as well, to ‘save’ me from him?"

Angel nodded. Crossing the room, he took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa from Buffy. "Ethan Rayne would be terrible to you, Buffy," he said seriously. "But I don’t want you to feel that you have to choose me. I’m your guardian for as long as you’re a SIT and I can oppose the marriage on those grounds."

"And I do what?" she asked thickly. "Go back to being a Slayer, to dying for a Council that doesn’t give a shit about me?"

Angel was shocked by the obvious hurt in her voice and turned to face her. Buffy inched farther away. "No, it’s fine," she said, not looking at him. "Please go ahead and petition the Council. I’ll go back to being a Slayer."

"Is that what you want?" he asked, his voice deadly serious.

Buffy looked up at him, tears shimmering in her eyes. "I don’t want you to whore yourself out to save me," she said curtly.

Angel stared at her like she was speaking a foreign language. He shook his head sharply to clear it. "Is that what you think I'm doing?" he asked. "Sacrificing myself to save you from some miserable fate?"

"Isn't it?" Buffy countered thickly.

Angel stared to move and then stopped. Then started and once again stopped, obviously completely discombobulated. Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, he pushed himself off the couch and moved to kneel in front of Buffy.

She watched him, afraid to move. His gaze was shuttered, his eyes unreadable. But, she noticed, they were no longer filled with icy cold. There was something there, something soft and warm reflected in his gaze. Slowly, he lifted his hand, his fingertips barely resting against her cheekbone, his thumb gently stroking her chin. "I have my own reasons for doing this," he said in a near whisper, "and trust me, none of them are particularly honorable."

Buffy swallowed thickly, her tongue coming out to wet her dry lips. She parted her lips to speak and had no idea what to say. Angel leaned in closer, hesitantly, his motions cautious. Ever so slowly, he pressed his lips to hers. Buffy couldn't help but make a startled little squeak, but she didn't pull away. It was strange. No, more than strange. This moment was beyond comprehension. Angel was her guardian, her instructor, the Monk who had been a pain in her ass every second of the day for the last three years. He reveled in making her life hell, in humiliating her. She hated him.

But if she hated him, why exactly was she kissing him back? Buffy decided such a paltry issue as their hatred for one another could wait until later to be examined. With a soft sigh, she leaned into him, allowing him to deepen the kiss. His tongue snaked past her lips, finding her own. Buffy made a soft sound. Her hands found his shoulders, but rather than pushing him away, her short fingernails bit into the corded flesh. Taking this as tacit agreement, Angel used the hand that wasn't cupping her cheek to wind around her waist, pulling her closer to the edge of the sofa and more in contact with his body.

Her soft breasts crushed against his chest and her arms left his shoulders to twine around his neck. Angel growled approvingly deep in his throat, slanting his head and kissing her more passionately. How many times had he dreamed of doing this? How long had he ached to know her taste, her scent? He'd spent far more drunken nights fantasizing about Buffy Summers than he would ever admit. And every single one of those fantasies paled in comparison to the reality of her in his arms. The absolute softness of her lips, the inviting taste of her mouth, the divine eroticism of a being so powerful supplicating to him, yielding … the sensations threatened to crush Angel.

Buffy knew this couldn't be real. For the last three years, she had known exactly who Angel was. She'd known how much he reveled in humiliating her, how much he despised her very existence. She knew him inside and out. Right up until about five minutes ago.

The moment his lips touched hers, she realized she didn't know anything about this man. Hell, she'd never even really thought of him in terms of being a male. He was simply this … thing, a means to an end, something she had to endure in order to make her way through Council training. But being held so carefully in his arms, being touched so reverently, she was quickly re-evaluating her stance on Angel. Obviously, she had been completely clueless. Buffy wasn't overly knowledgeable about sex, but she did know that a man didn't touch you like this unless he had quite a bit invested. This wasn't mindless, animal attraction, this was something far more serious and far scarier.

Panting harshly, she broke off the kiss, resting her forehead against his shoulder as her fingers continued to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck of their own accord. Funny how something so undeniably intimate should seem completely natural.

He turned his head, his lips brushing against her ear. "Is that a yes?" he asked, his voice low and soft.

Taking a deep breath, Buffy lifted her head, staring into the molten heat of his eyes. "I don't know," she quipped. "I don't really know the rules. Do I have to give Ethan Rayne the same chance to plead his case?"

She could hear his teeth grind together and his hands bit into her hips, pulling her more snugly against his body. "As your guardian, I would seriously advise against it," he said tightly.

Buffy couldn't help it, she smiled at his obvious jealousy. "As my guardian," she repeated with a cheeky grin.

"Yes," he replied dryly.

Buffy was tired of talking and of thinking. She wanted more kisses. She leaned into him. Angel took the liberal hint and once again captured her lips with his own. She surrendered even more quickly this time, opening her mouth for him immediately. Oh yes, Buffy Summers was a quick study. He groaned, biting gently on her bottom lip before quickly laving the area with his tongue. She mewled, returning the favor eagerly as she scooted even closer against him. Her stomach muscles clenched at the feel of him kneeling between her legs, at the unmistakable sensation of his erection pressing into her thigh.

Carefully, Angel toppled her backwards and to the side, laying her full out on the sofa before quickly joining her. He rested on his side, crouched over her as one hand threaded through her hair and the other carefully explored her curves. They stayed like that for countless moments, touching, kissing, exploring. But eventually, it wasn’t enough. Buffy whined, looking up at him with a decidedly pouty expression. "You know," she said, "the bed would probably be a lot more comfortable."

Ducking his head, Angel peppered kisses along her jawbone. "I’m sure it would," he conceded. "But we can’t."

Buffy pulled back far enough to look into his eyes. Her expression was predatory, the same one he saw daily on the sparring mats. "Why not?"

He smiled wryly at her, taking a deep breath. "Because I’m still a Monk," he replied, "and trust me when I tell you that if we move to the bed, keeping my vow of celibacy will become a very big issue."

Buffy’s body clenched tightly at his bold words. As unthinkable as this situation would have seemed only a few short hours ago, she couldn’t help but feel irritation at his words. She wanted him, dammit. The realization should have given her pause, but it didn’t. Buffy had always followed her instincts and right now her instincts were telling her that this was right. She frowned, huffing her indignation. "Well, I’m not marrying a Monk," she told him petulantly.

Angel tried not to smile, he really did. But he failed. She was so damn adorable, an intoxicating mix of innocent and wanton. Just as she was opening her mouth to deliver what undoubtedly would have been some scathing reply, he kissed her again, with far more carnality than he had previously shown. He pressed her back into the cushions, blanketing her body with his own as he insinuated himself between her thighs. He pressed against her intimately, grinding his pelvis against hers, letting her know in no uncertain terms just how much he wanted her. She broke off the kiss, panting harshly even as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He captured her earlobe between his teeth, worrying it for several seconds before informing her flatly, "Rescinding my vow as Monk is a technicality," he said. "One that I will take care of as soon as possible."

"Good," Buffy said. She was trying to sound worldly and unaffected but her performance was seriously undermined by the fact that her words came out as a breathless gasp.

Angel stared down at her, her body effectively pinned to the sofa by his. She didn’t seem upset about this at all. "So, is this a yes?" he asked again.

Biting down on her bottom lip, Buffy narrowed her eyes at him. She took a deep breath. "Yes," she said quietly.

"Good," he said, dipping his head to kiss her again.

Just as things threatened to spiral out of control, Angel pulled away. With a groan, he pushed himself into a sitting position, running his hand through his spiky hair. Awkwardly, Buffy did the same. She fought to right her clothes, attempting to smooth down her hair with a move that was utterly futile. Her hair was a mess, sticking up everywhere, her clothes were hopelessly askew, her lips were swollen and a blush tinted every visible inch of skin. She looked like she’d spent the last hour being mauled, which considering recent events, really wasn’t too far off the mark.

"So, uh," she stuttered, "I guess we have a deal."

Angel cocked his head looking at her with an expression that was completely unreadable. With slow, deliberate reactions, he shifted on the sofa to face her and quickly re-buttoned her shirt. The same shirt she hadn’t even realized had come unbuttoned. Her blush deepened to crimson. Perhaps he was right to cut things off so abruptly. "Thanks," she muttered under her breath.

Angel let out a deep breath. "No problem," he replied tightly.

"Pardon me, but may I help you?" Giles asked in a near bellow as he flipped on the light to his office. Some hooligans thought they could go ransacking his office in the middle of the night, well they had another thing coming. A librarian suffering from insomnia was no one’s friend.

Or at least not until Giles realized it was Buffy. And she wasn’t ransacking his office. She was sitting at his desk looking through some brightly wrapped packages that most certainly belonged to her. Her gaze met his and quickly flitted away as she blushed. "Sorry," she said meekly, "I, uh, just stashed these here so my klepto barracks mates couldn’t go through them while I was gone."

"Go through what?" Giles asked, peering at the presents.

"Uh ... troths," Buffy admitted.

"Troths," Giles repeated, his brow furrowed. Understanding seemed to blossom. "Oh," he said brightly. "Two of them. That’s marvelous."

"Uh ... yeah," Buffy said noncommittally.

"And you placed them here so your overly curious fellow SITs wouldn’t riffle through them?"

"You got it," Buffy said.

Giles nodded and looked at her expectantly. "Where were you?"

Buffy bit down on her bottom lip. "Discussing things with Angel," she admitted quietly.

"I see," Giles said, his gaze raking over her form speculatively. "Given your disheveled appearance, I’m assuming you two came to an agreement." His voice was thick with a healthy dose of disapproval and a side of parental concern.

Unable to meet his gaze, Buffy nodded. "I said yes," she mumbled.

"Good," Giles chirped. "Then you had best get some sleep."

To be continued...