Hate. I hate him.

It's always been there; there hasn't been a single moment in the last few months when I haven't been aware of the fact that I hate the man I ((love)) sleep with just as much as I lust after him.

Right now, I hate him more than usual. Right now, I hate him as much as I hate myself.

"What are you doing here?" I bite out, ice in my voice. It's not like I care whether he knows it or not.

He shrugs. "Maybe I couldn't stay away."

Yeah. Like I believe that. "Fuck you. What, Drusilla has a headache tonight?"

"Why else would I turn to you?"

Asshole. "Not like I'm clambering to ride the Angel-mobile," I snap. "Get out of here."

Mostly, I'm pissed because he's been doing his usual beck-and-call thing, as if I have to answer to him. Plus, the fact that he only wants me if no-one else is available.

"You're pissed at me."

"You're evil," I say nonchalantly, "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Played a different tune a few nights ago."

"Yeah, well, I'm a moody bitch."

He sits down on my bed, and takes off his shoes. Someone is confident.

Next thing I know, I'm being caught around the waist, and he's pulling me over him, his big hands holding my hips - gently, but firmly, as if he's walking a fine line between control and ... not control.

I'm so very eloquent.

"Angel," I whine, and kiss him anyway, alternately clutching him close and pushing him away. "You can't just..."

I trail off as he covers my lips again, and I slip my hands under his shirt, feeling the skin move like sleek satin steel below my fingertips.

"You can't just come here and-" I gasp "-kiss me, you know. I'm not just a bloody quick fuck."

"Are you *still* whining about that?" he growls, and stretches back on the bed.

"It's a little disconcerting when you pick a *nutcase* over me, that's all."

"I didn't fucking pick Drusilla over you."

"You practically threw me out so you could go off and crawl into her bed!"

"It's-"

"And don't tell me that it's the way of fucking vampires!" I yelled, "I don't care!"

Still lying on top of him, I beat his chest with my fist.

"If you can't fucking love me, then the least you can do is want me like I WANT YOU!"

He's staring at me, "This isn't about me not wanting you, because you *know* I do," he says, pressing his pelvis close against mine. "It's about me not loving you."

I shove him away, rolling on my side so that I wouldn't have to look at him - ever.

"Leave me alone."

He doesn't, and that's okay, because I don't think I really want him to. --

The problem isn't that he doesn't love me, exactly; it's that I think I love him. I think maybe I'm not who I thought I was.

Then again, who is?

I sit in the library, avoiding the eyes of my friends for the moment, unable to stand another second of lying to them without words -((take another pill, tell another lie, lie amongst your lies, like tuna in the brine))- sick of pretending, with each passing second, that I'm not going to go and crawl into his bed just as I do almost every other night.

Giles is talking, his lips forming words that echo nonsense to my ears, unable to penetrate the fog I'm living - - dying - - in.

I feel like a comical representation of a dog - only recognizing my own name, y'know? Like, "Blah, blah, blah, bliddy, bliddy, blah, Buffy! Blah, blah, blah, blah... Buffy, blah, blah, bliddy. Blah."

I wonder if something is wrong with me.

The answer comes, later, and I heave over the toilet, emptying myself of all that acid-trash, the roiling inside my gut that's been approaching for days.

I can't help it; I start to cry, and parts of me long for someone to be there, just so that I'm not that pathetic chick bent over the toilet, knees bruising against pristine white tile.

The hands that touch my shoulders frighten me, for a moment, because mom is out of town - ((never here when I need you)) - and I wasn't expecting anyone else, anyone except -

"What the fuck is wrong with you, lover?"

"Nothing," I mutter, turning my cheek so my mouth doesn't touch the toilet seat. "I'm sunshine and roses, can't you tell?"

"Have you been drinking?" he asks, and I snort.

"Do you *hear* the song 'Macho Man' issuing from my lips? No."

My stomach lurches, and I'm a little embarrassed as I empty my mid-morning mocha into the toilet bowl. I mean, to be doing this in front of *Angelus*, who likes to see me naked, but is very unlikely to offer any sort of -

Comfort.

His big hand threads into my hair, holding it back from my face, and the other hand starts rubbing my back through my big t-shirt. For a moment, I can pretend that it's Angel, and he loves me, and it's all going to be okay - -

Only it's not, because I can't stop throwing up, and I don't know why he's being nice to me, and I don't want to love him, damnit, I don't want to - -

"You're sick," he says softly, and I hear a little irritation in his voice, as if this is fucking up the plans he had to - well, you know, fuck me.

I don't know whether or not to give him credit for not trying to screw me tonight.

"You think?" I snap. "And here I thought I was just venturing into the exciting new world of Bulimia."

He sighs irritably. "If I take you into your room, are you going to wretch all over the sheets?"

I grunt, and then he's got me in his arms, and for a moment I'm floored by how much I miss him when he's not around. He settles me on the bed, tucking me under the covers, nudging Mr. Gordo in my direction. He disappears out the door, and returns a few minutes later with a bucket, a glass of water, some tablets, and a hot water bottle.

I stare at him with wide eyes. "You're aware that this is the most surreal moment of my life, right?"

"Just take the fucking tablets," he says, the hot water bottle disappearing beneath my blanket.

"And such a lovely bedside manner," I observe dryly, downing the tablets, though my stomach fiercely rebels at the thought of any type of liquid. "Did you just give me cyanide?"

"Pain-killers," he clarifies, then sits beside me on the bed. "How long have you been sick?"

"I don't know. I've been ignoring it."

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"As if you care."

That stops him, for a moment, his beloved lips pressed in a grim, angry line. "You're mine," he says after a minute. "Mine to fuck. Mine to kill. I don't want you sick."

"Maybe I don't want to be yours," I mutter, already falling asleep.

I feel the bed shift as he lies down beside me, pressing me into his arms. His lips press against the side of my neck, and his voice is a gruff rumble. "Tough."

I sleep, and dream of Angel - the real Angel, my Angel, the one who lives and loves with soulful eyes and a heart of guilt - sitting with me, talking to me, holding my hand.

"You feeling better?" he asks, pressing our twined fingers to his lips.

"I don't know," I say, "Nothing counts here."

He smiles sadly, and pulls me into his arms, his face buried in my neck. "I know."

"You're gone," I tell him.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry," I say shakily, "about--"

He grunts, and kisses me, hard. "Don't." His fingers dig into my flesh. "It doesn't matter."

"He doesn't love me," I say softly, resting my head on Angel's shoulder.

"Yes," Angel whispers, "he does."

I snort. "It's all ugly words and brutal fucks with him."

"He loves you like an animal loves it's mate," Angel warns me, "And it's hard, and sometimes it's ugly, but it's there." I look into his eyes, longing for this dream to be real. "It'll protect you."

"I love you," I tell Angel.

"I am him. He is me."

"No..."

"Yes."

My lips tremble, and Angel stills them with his own. "It's going to be okay, Buffy."

He makes love to me, quietly, softly, stirring moans and cries and bittersweet tears, and I clutch at him. "Don't go."

"I'm here," he says, his hand sliding over my breast to feel the thumping of my heart. "I won't let go." I sniffle, and press my lips to his. When I pull away, he looks at me with grim determination. "He'll protect you, even if it doesn't seem like it." His fingers hook under my chin. "He'll protect you from everything but himself."

I wake, pressed against Angelus' cold body, and feel a mournful cry loosing itself from safe harbour within my chest.

Sleeping, Angelus reaches out his arms and draws me backwards protectively, hunched a little over me to hide me from the world.

Maybe Angel's right. Maybe he'll protect me after all.

I just wish he could protect me from the flu.

The End