The familiar group in the library pretended to ignore the vicious weather while

they watched and waited for Giles to finish poring over his ancient tomes. Yet another curse on humanity had crawled through the Hellmouth, and they were gathered this afternoon to discuss strategies and battle plans.

Intelligent discussion, however, had yet to occur, Giles thought as he eyed the bunch that had gathered together. They had all reverted to their usual teenage behavior. Xander and Cordelia seemed content with exchanging veiled insults, while Willow typed furiously on the computer and ignored Giles' earlier request to search the stacks for a certain book. Oz lay on the couch gazing adoringly at Willow. And Buffy was...well, where was she? Giles scanned the room but found her suspiciously absent. Only moments ago she had been sitting next to Willow, chin propped on her hand while she dictated the Latin translation of whatever amateur spell Willow had wanted to try.

The Watcher frowned. At the very least, she could be practicing with that new weapon the Council had sent over. It was sort of a crossbow/rifle/stake kind of thing. Very interesting. But not to the Slayer, it seemed. Giles sighed. This working with adolescents grew tiresome, to say the least. Although to be fair, Buffy seemed to be the least adolescent of all of them. But it was times like now when Giles wished for something other than a teenager to watch over. Well, better find her.

He did not have to look far. Buffy stood on the top level of the library, staring out the tall windows at the rain. Giles wondered briefly if she was really seeing it. "Ah, there you are," he said unnecessarily.

She broke her gaze momentarily and turned. "Oh...sorry. Do you need me?"

"Not at the moment...but perhaps you need me," he said.

It was a rare perceptive moment for Giles, and Buffy realized it. He tended to overlook emotions, and always seemed surprised when others showed them.

She gave him a sad smile. "Thank you," she said softly, "but what I really need is more than you can give."

"Angel, then," he said, surprising her again. Maybe behind that stuffy British facade he really was paying attention.

She turned back to the window. Breathing gently on the glass, she used the tip of her finger to draw a tiny letter "A" in the condensation. This was a sensitive subject. The horrible six months that Angel had spent without a soul had affected Giles in a way that none of the others could understand. But he was her Watcher, and the terrible loss of Jenny Calendar coupled with the unmerciful torture Angel had inflicted was now scarred across his heart, and because of the bond between them, Buffy felt deep pain and regret for him that the others could not. For Giles's sake, she avoided the topic of Angel when she could, because she knew it was very difficult for Giles to come to terms with the fact that she continued to spend time with Angel. And as for the fact that she continued to love him, despite the things he had done to her, to her friends and family, well, that was another idea that Buffy knew escaped Giles's comprehension. For Giles to tactfully refer to Angel as the reason for her melancholy was a great leap for him indeed.

She shrugged. "I guess," she said, trying for his sake to downplay her dejection, although just the mention of Angel's name was enough to make her heart twist.

"You, know, Buffy," Giles said, coming to stand next to her to examine the rain, "there was a saying from Plato."

"You always have a saying," she replied. "You should think about making fortune cookies."

He ignored her gentle joke and continued. "When life's path is steep, keep your mind even."

She looked at him sideways. "Did Plato really say that?"

"Well...I don't recall," he admitted sheepishly. "But some other wise philosopher did."

She reached out and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. "I think you're a pretty wise philosopher yourself."

Embarrassed as always by any physical contact, Giles shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted from foot to foot. "Yes, well, don't sing my praises about that. And back to the original topic, I think I'd like you to leave for the evening."

"Leave? Like, go home?" Buffy looked hopeful for the first time that night.

"Well, home, or just...away from here," Giles hinted delicately.

"Ohhhhh...you mean go somewhere to help keep my mind even," Buffy said wonderingly. Would miracles never cease? Giles was actually implying that she seek out Angel. He'd come a long way in the sensitivity department.

"That's a tactful way of saying it," Giles said, still looking out the window. "There has been little demonic activity since the storm began. I'll inform the others that you had business to attend to at home."

"I just need a little time," Buffy started to explain, but he cut her off with a shake of his head.

"Buffy, a little time will not cure what's ailing you. I could give you all the years of my life, and your life's path will still be steep. Please, just take what I am offering, because it really is against my better judgment. I do not want to change my mind before you have even left." It was a long speech for him.

"All right," she said then, and headed toward the side exit of the library. Turning at the doorway, she looked at Giles still standing at the window. "Thank you." And then she was gone, the light scent of her perfume still lingering.

She ran all the way because of the driving rain, but when she arrived at the mansion she did not immediately knock. Standing in the downpour, breathing hard from the run, she closed her eyes and tried to sort her thoughts. This pretend relationship that she and Angel had was not the comforting thing it was supposed to be. A relationship was supposed to ease your troubles, you were supposed to feel safe and yet free at the same time. Buffy did not feel free. There was danger in every touch they gave each other, every kiss. Constraints were everywhere. The threat of the gypsy curse hung over them like the sword of Damocles. What kind of love had such risks attached to it? Buffy felt that she was in danger of losing her tenuous hold on sanity. This facade of a relationship would have to end, and she knew Angel would never do it. She had tried before, with the same results each time: after only a few weeks, they would find their way back to each other, and the whole cycle would repeat. Not again, she vowed, standing there in the pouring rain. Not after tonight.

She stepped up to the door, but as she went to knock, it opened. Angel stood in the doorway, dark eyes smiling at her. "I thought so," he said. "I could smell you. You have that daffodil perfume on."

Not looking at him, Buffy nodded and stepped past him into the house. "It's cold in here," she noticed.

"Is it? I can never tell," Angel apologized. "There's a fire in the other room, though. Why are you soaked? No umbrella?"

"Oh...I guess I left it in the library," she said, stepping away from his attempt to take her wet jacket.

He sensed her mood immediately and did not try to ignore it. "What's wrong?"

Just say it, she thought. The more you beat around the bush, the harder it will be. "I'm not going to come here anymore," she said abruptly.

He was silent, as she knew he would be, so in her haste to fill the emptiness, she rushed on. "We just can't keep doing this, Angel. I can't eat, or sleep, or concentrate in school. I want things from you that are way beyond your capability to give. I spend every day wanting you, and missing you, and the time I do spend with you isn't enough to compensate. I have to watch what I say, in case I might lead you on or something. I have to watch what I do, in case I touch you the wrong way and things get out of control. I can't do---"

"Wait," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "Touch me the wrong way?"

Buffy twisted the belt of her jacket around in her fingers, uncomfortable with the topic. "Right. You know, in case something happens."

Angel took a step toward her so they stood only inches apart. "Buffy," he said, in a smooth, low voice, "there is no wrong way to touch me."

She swallowed with difficulty. His nearness was sending her senses reeling. He smelled, as always, like the outdoors. Leaves and grass and water. He had on a white cotton shirt and soft black jeans, and his feet were bare. She felt her resolve slipping, and steeled herself. "Yes," she said firmly, stepping back. "We proved to everyone that there definitely is a wrong way. A VERY wrong way. There couldn't be a wronger way."

He followed her retreat, until once again they stood almost touching. "You can touch me any way you want," he said patiently, as if to a small child.

"No, Angel. Why are you saying that? You, of all people, know best of all that we can't do that. That's why I'm here. I want this to be over. Do you understand the torment? The sleeplessness? I'm going out of my mind, do you understand how that feels?" Her voice rose steadily during her tirade, until the last was said in a shout.

He caught her gaze, and held it. "Yes, Buffy, I understand how it feels."

Guilt washed over her. Of course he understood torment. His life was torment. He had been in a state of suffering for years before she knew of him, and would continue to be for an eternity after she was gone. She had sent him into Hell to experience the worst type of agony. And yet she stood here and threw her own insignificant troubles in his face, daring him to deny it. How could she do that? She lifted a hand to cover her mouth and murmured, "Oh, Angel. Oh, I'm so sorry."

"It's all right," he said immediately, sending her shame even higher. He was too forgiving of her. She lowered her head, troubled and sad, but he lifted her chin with a finger. "Touching is not a bad thing."

"But the other thing is a bad thing," she protested, wanting what he said to be true but not letting it be.

"Making love, you mean? Actually, that's a very good thing," he grinned. "But not for us."

"Therein lies the problem," Buffy sighed. "Don't tell me you don't want that."

Angel paused. Did he want that? Jesus Christ, he lay awake for hours, thinking of Buffy's golden skin meshed with his, remembering soft murmurs and hot breath against his neck, remembering firm young breasts bared for his pleasure. There was not a detail he couldn't recall of that night together, remembering sliding into her and feeling utterly, completely whole again for the first time in centuries. He remembered how tight and new she was around him, so good that he almost came as soon as he entered but holding back, he remembered how she had arched against him and whispered his name. Yes, for God's sake, he wanted that.

"Yes, Buffy. I want that." It was in his eyes, the truth of it. "But there are other things we can do."

"It isn't the same," she argued, knowing that she sounded like a petulant child but unable to stop herself.

Angel arched an eyebrow, and took her hands in his own, feeling her skin start to warm his. "It can be almost the same," he offered.

The storm outside picked that moment to send down a fierce crack of thunder, and Buffy started. "I don't like the rain."

"Mmmm, I do," Angel said.

"Too cold," Buffy said, with a wrinkle of her nose.

"Some rain is," Angel agreed. "But I wandered around the West Indies at one point in the past, and the tropical storms there were anything but cold. I used to just stand out in the rain and pretend I was in the shower, that's how warm it was."

"Sounds nice," Buffy said, loving the dreamy look he had on his face, loving that he was still holding her hands and smoothing his thumbs over the tops of them.

"Yeah, like a shower," he said again thoughtfully, looking back over his shoulder toward the other rooms of the house. Slowly he began to walk backward, tugging on Buffy's hands so she had no choice but to follow. "Rain can be nice," he persuaded, still walking backwards with her.

They ended up in the bathroom, and Angel lifted her so she was sitting on the marble counter top. Questions and protests wanted to tumble out, but she held her tongue. Decisions that had seemed so clear earlier were cloudy now, and the rationale she had convinced herself of seemed shaky now that she was here with him, now that he was looking at her with those eyes.

He leaned into the shower and turned it on, letting the spray warm up for a moment, and then reached over and scooped Buffy off of the counter. Still holding her, he stepped under the water.

"Hey," she protested. "My clothes! Your clothes!"

As the water rained down around them, soaking them both, Angel looked down at their clothing. "Oh," he said as an afterthought. "Right. Off they go." He slid her to a standing position and lifted his shirt over his head, standing bare-chested before her.

Buffy caught onto the game. Shedding her jacket, she stood under the spray, letting her thin pink shirt soak through, until all that was underneath was visible to Angel. Her breasts spilled over the top of a lacy white bra, and she felt her nipples harden just from his eyes on them. Angel cleared his throat. "Shirt too," he said, so she complied easily, taking it off and discarding it on the bathroom floor.

As soon as that was done, he reached both arms behind her for the clasp on her bra and unhooked it expertly. Buffy did not ask how many times he had done it before, instead just let it slip down her arms and off. At the sight of her firm breasts with their soft pink nipples peeking at him, Angel brought up both hands and caressed them with reverence. She had been waiting for it, she realized, as her head fell back of its own accord and her hand came up to brace herself against the wall. Angel bent his wet head to drink the water that dripped there, teasing her nipples into even more prominent buds that stood and begged for his attention. From one to the other in turn he kissed and worshipped with his mouth, and Buffy clutched at his slick hair with her other hand. He knelt before her on the shower floor and looked up, and she wiped the water from his spiky wet lashes and smiled at him. He reached to the waistband of her pants and peeled them slowly down, the water making them cling to her supple skin, and she kicked off her soggy tennis shoes and stepped out of her pants. He did the same to his own, and Buffy felt a mild pang of regret that she hadn't done it for him, but then she forgot it as he stood naked before her.

He was beautifully made. His arms were muscled and his chest was hard. His stomach was flat, with the faintest outline of roped muscle underneath. Her eyes strayed to his shaft, which stood tall and proud and long, and then her eyes traveled down his legs that were lean and lengthy. He was perfect.

"Let me look too," he laughed, and she blushed at having been caught, but he only knelt back down on the floor and pressed a soft kiss to her belly. The feel of his lips down so low caused the warmth she had been feeling to heat up, to start to spiral down into her core. He continued to nuzzle her stomach, dipping his tongue into her belly button, running his hands over her behind and squeezing gently. She began to take deeper breaths as he started to kiss the patch of soft brown hair, and she moved her legs a step apart in silent request. He knew what she was asking for, and he lifted her leg to drape it over his shoulder. "That ok?" he asked, and she nodded.

The position placed his head in exactly the right spot, and he started by darting his tongue out lightly to touch the quivering lips. He heard her suck in her breath as he traced a light path around and down, following his tongue with his finger, down and back up again. Gently, he dipped his tongue into her, and the taste reminded him of brown sugar and apples. She arched her back and braced her head on the wall behind her, gripping his shoulders tightly, opening herself up even more for him. He could see the little bud in the center, and he took it into his mouth and sucked it smoothly, starting a rhythm of sucking and licking that soon had Buffy gasping his name and shuddering. He kept it up for a long time, knowing just when to back off and let the tension ease, and then starting again and keeping her at the brink of pleasure. Finally she gasped out loud, "Angel, please," and he took pity on her. Planting his mouth firmly, he allowed her to grasp the back of his head while he sucked at her roughly, not stopping until he felt her center throb, and then she was groaning loud enough for it to echo off the tiled wall and he tasted a rush of wetness that had nothing to do with the water around them.

She sank down to the floor with him and rested her forehead on his chest. Eyeing his still-stiff shaft between them, she touched a tentative finger to it and giggled when he jumped. "That must be uncomfortable," she said.

"Used to it," he replied, giving away the fact that he had spent many nights that way.

"But you don't have to be used to it tonight," she pointed out.

He just looked at her, through her, with those eyes, and she saw the emotion brimming in them. Reaching above them for the white bar of soap, she brought it down between them and rubbed it between her hands. When the lather foamed over and covered her fingers, she dropped the bar and reached for Angel. Taking him delicately between her palms, she caressed the length of him with slippery hands. At the first touch, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting his tongue slip out to wet his lips. Buffy covered him with soap until he was sleek and smooth and slid easily between her hands. She used one finger to circle the tip of him, so round and soft, being careful not to let soap sneak into the tiny slit at the top. With one hand she cupped the soft sac underneath, feeling the delicate packages inside, and with the other she set up a slow movement, gripping him tightly and moving her hand back and forth. Angel braced both hands on the floor of the shower, and after only a few moments began lifting his hips off the ground toward her. "Both hands," he grated between clenched teeth, and Buffy obliged by taking hold of him firmly with both small hands. Holding him between her clasped fingers, she began to move more rapidly, watching his face. He took his bottom lip between his teeth and the veins in his neck stood out as he strained toward her, the water streaming down his body and over her hands. He let out a hoarse cry and she felt him shudder, then watched as a stream of milky liquid shot from him and dropped to the floor. She continued to stroke until the pulsing under her hands was finished and his body relaxed.

The water continued to rain down, as did the storm outside, and they both sat on the floor of the shower. "Rain is nice," Buffy remarked dreamily, and Angel gave her a lazy half smile.

"I know," he said.

"I'm a prune," was her next comment, and she held up her fingers for him to see.

"Rain's done, then," he decided, and stood, pulling her up with him. He shut the water off and reached out for the white towels on the rack, enveloping her in one and securing the other around his waist. He took her by the hand and they walked together to the fire.

Settled again on the floor, letting her hair dry by the flames, Buffy pillowed her head on Angel's flat stomach. They lay silently, listening to the storm.

"Touching is not a bad thing," Angel said into the quietness.

Buffy did not reply. Too many issues, too many problems still lay in wait. They had shared a beautiful intimacy tonight, but Buffy was still only sure of one thing.

It was not enough.

The End

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