The knocking turned into a pounding, and Buffy ventured a peek from under the sheet at Willow's bed.

Empty, the coverlet unwrinkled.

Biting back a colorful word --it was almost Christmas, after all-- she threw off the blanket and grumbled her way to the door. Yanking it open, she gave the intruder her best "it's very early in the morning the day before Christmas" glare.

The intruder, being who she was, didn't notice.

Cordelia stormed into Buffy's small room, giving the cracked walls and dark furniture a passing glance, before plopping down in a self-righteous heap on Buffy's narrow bed.

Buffy stood in the doorway, staring into the hall, vaguely registering that Cordelia had blown by her and was waiting impatiently for her attention.

When Buffy stood in the doorway, unmoving, Cordelia sighed loudly. "Hello? I'm over here."

"So I see," Buffy said slowly, turning to face Cordelia. "What brings...what are you..." She gestured vaguely with one hand at the room, her eyes still blurry with sleep.

"Eloquent as always," Cordelia sighed. "Just listen, so I can leave. Sunnydale gives me a rash."

Buffy mutely walked to Willow's empty bed and lay down on her stomach, pillowing her head on her arms and blinking sleepily at Cordelia. "Mind if I rest?"

"Whatever. Just as long as you're listening."

Twenty minutes later Buffy closed the door softly behind Cordelia Chase and leaned her hot forehead against the cool wood.

Why?

Why was this always asked of her?

Her heart was broken enough, thank you.

//go, just go to him...//

She wouldn't do it, not again.

He was a big boy. He could take care of himself.

He was two hundred and forty three years old.

//she said he needed you, she said so...//

She would stay here. Riley was here.

It was nice here.

Safe.

//crying, she said, he never cried, not ever...//

No.

She absolutely would not go.

Sighing, Buffy slid into her most comfortable tennis shoes and reached for her keys.

Cordelia looked up at the sound of the door opening and sighed in relief. "Thank God. He's downstairs."

When Buffy didn't move, Cordelia arched an eyebrow. "You came all this way. You might as well finish the trip." When there was still no sign of acknowledgment, Cordelia rose from her desk and came to stand next to Buffy. In a very rare moment of compassion, she spoke softly. "Buffy, he's in a lot of pain, and he won't talk about it, even with me."

Buffy gave her a suspicious look, as if wondering why Angel would confide in Cordelia, but Cordelia shook her head quickly.

"I only meant because I was there too. He doesn't care, though. He keeps it in, like he keeps everything in." Her lips thinned into a tight line and she spoke very quickly, as if speaking rapidly would make it easier to say. "We all miss Doyle," she said. "But for Angel, losing him was somehow more difficult."

"Why?" Buffy said, confused. What was she even doing here? She hadn't known Doyle, she didn't know what she would be able to do to help Angel.

"I don't know why. But I can't work with him like this. I'm not supposed to be the strong one. The guy is supposed to be the strong one," she said plaintively, quickly reminding Buffy that Cordelia's specialty was being self-centered. Even when she was being compassionate.

"Well, I'll...I'll talk to him," Buffy shrugged, trying to appear collected.

"Sure, talk to him, hold him, do the horizontal mambo. Whatever you want to call it. Just bring him out of his funk."

Buffy started for the stairs, saying over her shoulder, "I think our...umm...horizontal mambo days are over."

"That's not what Doyle said," Cordelia murmured, grinning.

Buffy paused at the bottom of the steps, cautiously surveying the apartment. It looked vaguely familiar, as if she had seen it before, but that was ridiculous. She had only been upstairs once before, in the office, and even that had been brief.

But it was so strange, the feeling of deja vu. Almost as if she knew where each room of the apartment was, where the furniture was placed, what was hanging on the walls.

Her blood was humming. It had started the moment she descended the stairs, the moment her body knew that Angel was in residence. A strange electricity that ran its current through her tingling limbs.

//Riley *never* makes my blood hum,// she thought, then cringed. She was not here to make comparisons to Riley.

Riley was nice.

And safe.

And nice.

And then as if on cue, Angel appeared silently in the doorway of the bedroom, searching the apartment with haunted eyes. His gaze fell upon Buffy, still standing uncertainly on the bottom step, and his expression never changed. He looked at her blankly, then disappeared as quietly as he had come back into the bedroom.

She followed, not knowing what else to do.

"Angel?" she questioned quietly, from the door.

He did not answer, having laid back down on his unmade bed with his back to her.

"Angel?" she said again, venturing into the bedroom, watching his still form.

"I smelled you," came the response, muffled by the pillow.

"What?"

"I smelled you as soon as you walked in here. That daffodil perfume. I thought, it couldn't be you, but the scent was so real that I had to check."

"It's...it's me," Buffy said, perching cautiously on the edge of the bed. "Are you ok?" //idiot, he's obviously not,// said her inner voice, and she mentally told it to shut up.

"Sure," he said. "Fine."

"Angel, could you at least look at me?"

After a minute, he turned to his other side, facing Buffy. She nearly sobbed at the grief in his ravaged eyes.

"What can I do?" she whispered. "How can I help you?"

"No one can help me, Buffy," he said dully. "Just go back to Sunnydale. I'm sure Spike is wreaking some sort of havoc you need to stop."

"I'm sorry about Doyle," she offered lamely. "I hear he was...special."

"Not until he died," Angel said bluntly. "Then he was special."

It was too much. She couldn't do it. It had been too much for Cordelia to ask, for her to come here and face Angel and his demons. Buffy could not remain here, in this room with him, without longing for things that were shattered and broken. She rose to go.

"I was going to die," he said, matter-of-factly. "I was all ready to do it. I would have been absolved. It would have been my salvation."

Buffy turned back to him, waiting.

Angel looked at her, through her, with emptiness. "He took my salvation away. He was better than I am. There's no absolution for me, Buffy. Not now, not ever."

"Oh, Angel," she whispered, going to him, kneeling down next to the bed and smoothing his hair with a trembling hand. "That's just not true."

"It's true," he said flatly. "I'll never make up for my sins. No matter how much I atone, I'll never be forgiven."

"You did, you did make up for them," she insisted, her heart breaking even more.

"I make new ones every day," he murmured, his eyes going to hers.

"What do you mean?"

"I've kept something from you. Something important."

Her hand came to rest on his cheek, feeling the cool skin beneath her palm. "You can tell me now," she offered. "You can tell me anything."

His voice was toneless, empty. "My soul is anchored."

"Anchored?"

"It was a gift. From Doyle. He went to the Oracles before he died." Remembering that Buffy would not be familiar with the Oracles, he shook his head. "Doesn't matter, anyway. Stupid fucking soul's been nothing but anguish."

"Oracles?"

"Forget it, Buffy." He rolled to his back, flinging an arm across his eyes. "Best if you go."

There was a long silence in the apartment. Angel felt the bed move slightly as Buffy rose, and his throat tightened as he realized she was leaving him. And then he opened his eyes in surprise as he felt her climb onto the bed and straddle him, putting one arm on either side of him and leaning down on her elbows.

She rested her forehead against his. "I forgive you."

"You forgive...why?"

She half-laughed, half-sobbed, and Angel saw with a pang that she had tears hovering on her lashes. "Oh, Angel. Is it that hard to think that you'd be forgiven?"

He couldn't help touching her hair, shimmering as it curtained her face. "In two hundred and forty three years, Buffy, I've never been forgiven."

"You've never forgiven yourself," she corrected, and one of the crystal tears dropped, scalding, onto his neck. "I will always forgive you."

A myriad of emotions crossed his face: anger, confusion, a glimmer of hope. He struggled to speak and couldn't. He settled finally for crushing her to him, letting her hair cover his face with silk as he rooted for the warm hollow of her neck, and he clutched desperately at her clothing.

Buffy held him that way for a long time, soothing him, hushing him, letting him gasp out his grief and sorrow and terror into her neck. And then when he finally quieted, she raised her head and kissed him because it was what she wanted to do, to offer something to him in his time of need.

He took it. He held her head firmly in his large hands, instantly pushing his tongue between her teeth into the warm recess of her mouth, feeling her open and pliant and welcoming. She tasted like cherries, succulent and ripe, and suddenly Angel wanted to taste the rest of her. It had been such a long time, and he was so needy....

Angel's lips trailed hungrily over her cheekbone, to her ear, down the curve of her neck as he felt her relax against him.

//forgiveness, absolution, salvation...//

He had to feel her heat melt around him, wanted her to curl around every inch of his throbbing body, and wanted to make her throb in return. It was one thing he could do, the one thing about himself he was sure of, the power to make her nerves tremble and her body sing. His tongue flicked out to taste the luscious pulse beneath her ear, the pulse that was thundering beneath the fragile skin.

Buffy felt him angle her thigh upward to press his hardness against the aching cradle between her legs, and she went limp against him. She was dissolving, he was absorbing her, and it had been from nothing more than a few kisses.

//Riley could never do this, it could never be like this...// and then she stopped thinking of Riley altogether when Angel rubbed up against her, causing her previously limp form to tense and tighten and press back. His hand was searching underneath her old faded sweatshirt, feeling her bare skin, sliding under the thin straps of her bra and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

And then he had flipped her to her back, and he was leaning over her with a questing hand still beneath her shirt. The rough satin of his fingertips found the hollow between her breasts, and he traced the little valley there, still pressing his arousal into her warmth. Buffy sighed as he took her mouth again, the slow grind of his hips telling her exactly what he needed.

Quickly, urgently, he brought her to a sitting position and divested her of her soft sweatshirt and bra. Angel lay her down again, his eyes on her breasts and his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. His fingers skimmed her nipples, so lightly that Buffy was not even sure she felt it, and then he was molding her breasts into his large hands and burying his head in the softness between them. The loving brush of his thumb over her aching nipples made her gasp and clutch his hair between her fingers.

Angel wanted more, needed more of her beneath his touch, and he easily shucked her pants from her legs. When she gave a pointed look at his still-clothed form, he gave a half-grin and divested himself of his own clothing as well.

"Better?" he murmured, climbing back into bed with her, molding his body to hers.

"Much," she agreed, feeling his cool skin heat from her touch.

He lowered his head to scrape his teeth against the peak of her breast, continuing the pleasure/pain until he was rewarded with a murmur and shuddering.

"More," she begged, drawing his hand lower. "Here."

"Here?" he asked, tangling a finger in her coarse curls.

"Yes, yes," she gasped, tossing her head as he filled her with a finger, easily sliding into her slickness. He stroked her with agonizing tenderness and infinite patience, touching her like she knew no one else would ever do. He paused at her little bud, teasing it with tiny touches, reveling in her small squeaks. Pleasure, thick and hot, coursed through her until her legs fell open of their own accord and Angel was not man enough to restrain himself any longer.

He brought himself fully up and over her until he could flatten his palms on the pillow on either side of her head. Buffy felt him pause and opened heavy eyes to find his features filled with uncertainty.

She lay a hand against his cheek. "Angel," she said warmly, "you're forgiven."

A muscle tightened in his jaw and he drove into her with one stroke, causing them both to gasp and arch their heads back.

"So...sweet..." he grated out, barely managing the words. "Sweet. Hot."

//forgiveness...//

Buffy reached back to entangle her fingers with his, clutching his hands as he stroked smoothly into her wetness, making her muscles tremble. "Angel, I waited so long for you..."

//...absolution...//

"Not nearly as long as I've waited for you. Two hundred years," he growled, sheathing himself in her. "Two hundred years."

Angel pressed upward until every inch of him was throbbing inside her tightness, until Buffy couldn't do anything but lie beneath him, spread for the slaking of his desire, limp with her own need. As his strokes quickened to rough thrusts, Angel had the presence of mind to reach a hand between them, finding Buffy's trembling center and using all his power to bring her with him as he came. They trembled together, darkness and light, and cried out for each other, and the tears that spilled from both of their eyes mingled.

//...salvation.//

"Now?"

"No."

"Now?"

"No."

"When?"

A soft chuckle. "I'll tell you when, Buffy. Just a minute."

She drummed her fingers on her knees as she sat cross-legged in bed. "Now?"

"All right, all right. You can look."

Buffy whirled around and rose to her knees, her eyes eager and searching. They lit upon something in the bedroom, and her face grew joyous. "A tree!"

"Kind of a sad tree," Angel said doubtfully. "Best I could do on Christmas morning."

"It's a perfect tree," she determined, reaching a hand to him and pulling him back onto the bed with her.

"You think?"

"I know. Thank you, Angel."

He grew serious. "Thank *you*."

"For...?"

"My salvation."

"Merry Christmas, Angel."

The End

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