DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, blah blah.
SUMMARY: Buffy has a car accident in LA and conviently Angel happens to be there to witness it... and her memory loss.
SPOILERS: Er, somewhere around Season 4 Buffy, after IWRY and Sanctuary.
NOTES: Okay, i haven't written anything for ages, so it's probably terrible! But you know how an idea gets stuck in your head until it becomes almost real? And then you're scared to write it down in case you loose the magic on paper? God, i'm hopeless! If you like it, i'll polish up the ending and post it tommorrow.
RATING: Erm... if you can watch the show, you can read this *grin*. (AND I'M REALLY, REALLY SORRY IF THIS GETS SENT MORE THEN ONCE- MY EMAIL IS PLAYING UP AND I'VE HAD TO SEND IT FROM MY OLD EMAIL ADDRESS AS IT WON'T LET ME FROM MY NORMAL ONE! GRRRR)

“Do you know who you are?” he asks calmly, as if this were an every day situation. Perhaps for him it is.

I nod, searching through hazy thoughts before finding the one I was looking for. "B-Buffy," I answer finally, repeating it again to get used to it, because it sounds so foreign. God, even my name sounds unfamiliar, I realise with a slightly hysterical laugh.

"Okay, Buffy," he murmurs gently, and suddenly, strangely, my name on his lips, spoken by *him* sounds much more familiar. I squint my eyes to peer more closely at him, my vision still foggy.

"Do I know you?" I ask, feeling very foolish.

I feel him tense slightly and an almost imperceptible pause passes before he shakes his head. "No," he tells me firmly.

Funny, how familiar he seemed. But then, I suppose I must have noticed him before the accident… at least I assume there was an accident…

"What happened?" I ask shakily, suddenly scared of what his answer might be.

"You were hit by a car," he informs me gently, his voice deep and soothing.

"Why- why can’t I remember anything?" I demand in a tone that’s pretty close to sounding panicky even to my own ears.

"You hit your head," he tells me, again his tone gentle but not patronising. Then suddenly he glances up and his entire expression changes from one of tenderness to… something unreadable, his eyes darkening, his jaw tightening. Like that he looks almost… dangerous, and very, very powerful.

"Who are you?" I find myself asking suddenly.

"A friend," he tells me, his tone controlled but not relaxed like before. "We’ve got to get you out of here," he announces suddenly, and I blink.

"W-why? I don’t think I can walk yet," I confess, still bewildered.

For the first time he smiles slightly. "Even if you could, believe me, I would not allow you to."

And with that said he’s gently lifting me, cradling me against his broad chest before I can protest.

"Am I hurting you?" he demands, but when I shake my head – no- he glances across the road again before setting off at a brisk pace down the smoky street. I don’t even ask where he’s taking me, because for some reason he makes me feel safe. Perhaps because when I regained consciousness and first looked at him his eyes had been pleading with mine to trust him, forgive him. Forgive him? For what? That part must have been my imagination.

I aware that his pace is gradually slowing, relaxing, and he pulls me tighter against him, carrying me as if I were merely a feather.

I realise then that he never answered my question, so I repeat it, my voice muffled slightly from his silk shirt, so I’m forced to raise my head and look at him. "Who are you?"

His pace doesn’t falter, although I can feel a new tension surge through him. "Angel," he finally tells me reluctantly.

"Angel," I echo softly, finding myself unable to stop a small smile from forming on my lips. "That’s a nice name." I pause, before adding off-handedly, quite without thought, "It suits you."

I can see his eyes twinkle slightly with amusement before darkening, almost as if a veil of pain had swept across them, blocking out the spark.

"You can’t tell from a first meeting what a person’s like," he says rather abruptly.

"I know," I agree softly. And yet…

My thoughts and musings come to an end when he stops in front of what looks like an office building and takes a key from his front pocket, pressing me even closer in order to prevent me from falling. He hands me the key and I unlock the door with unsteady hands, for the first time noticing the cuts and scraps on my knuckles and fingers. Funny, really, how they don’t hurt yet. I feel… guilty, like the accident should’ve caused me more harm. Goodness knows how I got off so lightly.

Apparently Angel noticed my cuts too, because once we’re inside he takes me down an elevator into what I assume is his apartment and gently sets me down on the couch, taking my hands to study them for serious injury. His eyes rake over the rest of me and he mutters something under his breath before leaving to collect some TCP and cotton wool. I should feel embarrassed, or something, but I get the strangest feeling… almost as if it’s okay for him to look at me, coz I’ve allowed him to before. Which of course I haven’t, and yet the feel of his eyes on my body was almost familiar… warm. Okay, that bump on the head’s got some serious stuff to answer for.

I can’t help but stare at him as he returns, his duster now shed, revealing a black silk shirt, half-unbuttoned, and dark trousers moulding snugly over toned thighs. His lips quirk slightly when he realises I’ve been staring and I blush and avert my gaze over to the wall, pretending to take in his possessions and choice of atmosphere… which I gotta say are kind of… dark.

"This might be painful," he warns as he moves to kneel onto the floor beside me. "But you need those cuts seen to, or they’ll become infected, Slayer or not."

I blink in confusion, and it seems that in the same second he realises what he’s said as well, because his head jerks up and his eyes watch me warily.

"Slayer?" I echo, my brow creasing in confusion. "What’s a Slayer?"

"Wrong choice of words," he tells me smoothly before quickly returning to his task, taking my hands and gently bathing them.

I don’t push him any further coz really it’s none of my business, and he doesn’t seem the type to over-share. Extracting his name was a task and a half!

An hour must have past in total with him gently tending any wounds he found, asking me if I hurt anywhere else, me replying by telling him I don’t really hurt at all.

"You will do by morning," he tells me grimly.

"I’m lucky to get off so lightly," I begin cautiously, but before I can get any further he’s scooping me up with infinite gentleness and placing me on a wide, inviting bed. His, I think.

"Sleep," he urges tenderly, and I’m too bewildered to think to question where he’s going to sleep.

The last thing I’m aware of before I lose consciousness is a dark haired, extremely beautifully young woman marching into the room shortly after I hear the front door bang open, a look of utter disbelief on her face as she exclaims "What the hell is *she* doing here?" but I can’t answer her. Sleep’s claim is too strong and I surrender, closing me eyes and falling into a deep slumber.

*

The first realisation that hits me when I wake is that I ache. Badly. Trying not to cry out from the pain I shift, slowly manoeuvring onto my back, blinking back unbidden tears when I realise this position hurts even more. As sleeps veil gradually lifts my senses awake to the presence the dark figure sat hunched in the corner, half hidden by the shadows, like of an alert panther waiting to spring into action. He moves towards me and all it takes is one look at his concerned face for the memories of last night to come flooding back. Well, I guess that explains the pain. But not my lack of memory. Oh god.

"I can’t remember," I tell him wildly, but to my surprise he doesn’t even blink. Instead he places a cool hand on my forehead and strokes my cheek gently with the pad of his thumb.

"How do you feel?" He enquires, and I find myself answering him mechanically, the sharp edge of my panic dowsed by the comforting familiarity he’s providing and the calming competence he carries on his shoulders almost as a second skin. "You hit your head," he reminds me calmly after holding my gaze for uncountable seconds. "It’s given you temporary amnesia."

"Temporary?" I echo, biting my lip, oddly loath to show any weakness, as if a small part of me’s determined to be this man’s equal.

"Mmm," he confirms gently. "You’ll recover your memory, although how soon I don’t know," he frowns slightly and I’m at a loss as to what thoughts are running through his mind to cause it. "I’m no doctor."

Which makes me wonder exactly what he does for a living. Something that has a physical side to it, undoubtedly. Muscles and a physique like his don’t just form after a few trips to the gym, I’m sure. And yet those eyes; wary, assessing, sharp… they don’t belong to a man who makes a living from hard labour.

"Do you want anything for the pain?" he asks me, and I push my speculative thoughts aside in order to concentrate, surprised to realise that for the briefest moments, when his hand had stroked my forehead, and his voice had soothed my panic, that the pain had been reduced into just a small ache.

I nod in answer to his question, desperate for the returned thumping in my head to stop, and my muscles from screaming out at me. He returns moments later with two tablets in hand and a glass of water. After handing them to me he settles beside me on the edge of the bed I smile gratefully and swallow, aware of his eyes watching me through the process.

"Try to get some more sleep," he tells me finally after I’ve pushed the glass aside. "It’ll do you more good then the tablets."

I nod, knowing his advice is sensible, but as soon as I lie back down my brain decides to hit active mode.

"Angel?" I take a deep breath, waiting for the ache in my side to pass before continuing. "I… I should call someone. I mean, my family." I pause, wanting to laugh at how ridiculous the whole situation sounded. "Maybe I had a bag with me?" I suggest hopefully. "That might give me my address. I just… feel bad about making anyone who I might mean something to worry."

I watch as his face darkens momentarily before he nods and takes my smaller hand in his large one, stroking it absentmindedly.

"I imagine that there are plenty of people of whom you mean something to," he tells me softly, almost as if speaking more to himself then me, and I realise that the thought of meaning something to someone I don’t even remember disturbs me. What if I’m involved with someone? Love takes time to grow, and the thought of having to face someone I supposedly love but currently feel nothing for is not something I want to experience.

"I don’t want to see them," I say suddenly, impulsively. Realising that I haven’t really explained myself, and that I must sound pretty odd- or worse- selfish, I add hurriedly, "I don’t want to… to see my family and feel nothing more for them then I would do a stranger. I don’t want-"

"Hush," he admonishes with tender severity. "I’ll take care of it. Get some rest, okay? I’ll come check on you soon. Unfortunately I’ve got a couple of things I need to take care of."

I nod and manage a smile as he moves to leave; refusing to analyse the strange ache- which I know has nothing to do with my injuries- that suddenly fills me.

"Angel?" I can’t help it. There’s something that I have to check.

He pauses at the door before turning back to face me, his face showing no impatience or annoyance, only a patience I can’t believe anyone can have without being pretty special.

"Last night," I pause, trying to remember correctly. "There was a woman… she came in just before I fell asleep. She didn’t sound very happy…" I trail off, uncertain.

I watch as Angel blinks in confusion before understanding dawns. "Oh, Cordy. No, she was just surprised. I explained to her that you’d been in an accident and she calmed down. She can be a little dramatic at times, but… that’s Cordy." A half smile creeps around the corners of his mouth before transforming into a full grin that makes his eyes sparkle and his features soften so dramatically that I’m momentarily disconcerted. "Don’t worry about her, Buffy."

I’m silent for a while, trying to absorb everything he’s told me, feeling oddly as though Angel were talking as if we *both* knew Cordy, which I know is ridiculous. Just like the ridiculous way I can’t help but wonder exactly what she means to him. His wife? He is wearing a ring… I noticed it before, a kind of heart with hands and a crown, but some instinct tells me it’s not a wedding ring, or at least certainly not one given to him by ‘Cordy’ anyway.

Great, why don’t I just set up my own fortune-telling store for the ‘Stupid and Ridiculous Insights you’ll never need’.

Sighing, angry at both my pathetic thoughts and myself, I allow my lids to flutter shut, welcoming sleep and the temporary escape from reality it offers.

*

I awake slowly again, stretching tentatively; relieved to find I don’t ache nearly as much as I did earlier. I guess the painkillers haven’t worn off yet. Glancing at the alarm clock I realise I’ve slept for at least a couple of hours since Angel left.

Angel…

Something strikes me then; a knowledge deep inside me resurfacing, refusing to stay buried. It’s a knowledge stemming not for memories but from something engraved in every part of me, like a signature signed all over me.

I know Angel.

I knew him before the accident. How, I don’t remember, but I know that we were more then strangers and I’m going to remember him. Or, failing that deceptively tricky plan, I’m going to demand a few answers. No, more then a few.

Getting up and moving around isn’t quite the easy task I always took for granted it was, but eventually I make my way to the elevator… he must have carried me down last night, but it’s still pretty hazy.

I pause at the entrance to his office to collect myself, and I’m surprised to find him hunched over his desk, head in hands in a gesture of weariness, engulfed in shadows and darkness. Perhaps now isn’t the best of times. His entire being seems to scream out defeat, or weariness, both emotions I never thought to associate with Angel, even though I’ve only known him a day and a half. Correction, I only *remember* knowing him a day and a half. Mustn’t forget that small point. He lied to me… he told me I didn’t know him.

Why?

"Buffy," he speaks, sighing resignedly as if he knows I’m here to demand answers. And how on earth did he know I was here? I never made a sound. "Is there something you need?" He offers me a lead into the conversation, still not turning to face me.

"Do I know you?" I ask calmly, my voice unwavering and much firmer then I had expected. "Before the accident, I mean?"

He turns slightly and regards me speculatively for moments, the tilt of his chin and the narrowing of his eyes betraying the emotional turmoil he’s apparently battling with to reach a decision. I raise my chin determinedly, meeting a dark gaze so intense it feels like tiny pinpricks of fire are stabbing at my skin.

"Yes," he admits finally, swivelling his chair to face me fully, his eyes reflecting no guilt and offering no apology for lying. And for some reason I don’t feel like demanding one.

"Were we friends?" When he doesn’t answer I persist with, "more then friends?"

"You could say that," he concedes with more then a trace of reluctance.

I expel a breath I honestly wasn’t aware I’d been holding and nod my head slowly. Yes, I acknowledge silently. To have this man enter your life and stay as nothing more then a brief acquaintance is not, in all reality, a likely possibility. I find myself wondering idly just how many women in the past have fallen victim to those devastating good looks and haunting eyes?

I open my mouth to ask more about our so called ‘more then friends’, but he cuts me off by standing abruptly and pacing towards the door, glancing towards me as if expecting me to follow him.

"We can’t talk down here," he tosses over his shoulder, as if by way of explanation, and patiently waits for me to catch him up. Bewildered I follow, having not realised until now just how large his strides are compared to mine. But you want to know something weird? I get the strangest feeling that if I wanted to I could match this man. I mean *really* match him, although at what I have no idea. Maybe the concussion hasn’t quite worn off yet.

He guides me into his sitting room- the place he took me last night to bathe my cuts- and motions for me to sit whilst he sets about across the floor agitatedly, reminding me almost of a dangerous animal caged in confines much to small for it.

"Do you remember anything, Buffy?" He asks me with all the outward facade of calm and control, but a part of me is so in tune with him that I notice the evidence of his agitation in the tell-tale way his hands are thrust deeply into his pockets, and the beating pulse of his temple, almost as a second nature.

"No," I admit, allowing a sigh of frustration to escape my lips. "That’s what’s so… odd," I begin feebly, for want of a better way to express what I’m trying to say. "I don’t remember a dam thing, yet I wake up one morning and just *know* somehow that I knew you!"

I catch a ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips but before I have a chance to blink it’s gone, and I think that perhaps I imagined it. I also realise, somewhat wistfully, that this is only the second time I’ve seen him smile.

"Do you carry so many ghosts, Angel?" The question flies from my lips before I have a chance to check myself, and I’m as surprised as he is.

He looks at me almost as if he’s not sure if what he’s seeing is real, before asking cautiously, "Do you remember someone called Riley?"

I frown, searching through the few odd, jumbled memories I’m able to access and give up, shrugging. "Nope. Am I supposed to?"

"What about Willow?" He persists. "Or Xander?"

Now that rings a bell…

"Angel… I can’t remember. I really can’t. Can’t you just tell me the stuff I’m meant to know?" I ask hopefully. Perhaps he’ll discuss ‘us’. "Maybe it’ll help trigger my memory," I add hurriedly.

Angel frowns and shakes his head, although he does stop pacing. I guess that’s something.

"No," he says decisively, "Giles doesn’t think it’s a good idea, and neither do I. Your memories have to come back naturally, Buffy. Do you know what damage someone could do when you give them the power to relay your life? What *I* could do, giving you my version of your history?"

He looks kinda angry… no, strike that, he looks very angry, and I guess the suggestion was pretty stupid, and he does have a point… But doesn’t the fact that he’s just refused make a point in itself about him?

"I trust you." I tell him simply. That’s not a crime, right?

"You shouldn’t," he hisses before catching himself, and I can almost *see* that mask of iron control take its place over his features again, those dark eyes that had just moments ago been flashing now meet mine with nothing more then heavily veiled emotions and impassivity.

"Did we just have an argument?" I ask wondrously. Well, I guess I’ve just disproved the general theory that you can’t have a heated and meaningful argument with a stranger. Not that Angel’s really a stranger, but still…

He breaks into a boyish grin, all traces of grave frustration erased as he sinks down beside me. "I guess we did," he agrees with traces of laughter in his voice.

"Is this the past where we kiss and make up?" I joke, wanting to kick myself as soon as those words have been spoken aloud.

He doesn’t laugh; he just stays very, very still for eternal moments. Flames lick in the depths of his pupils, his gaze suddenly smoulderingly intense as he bends his head to mine, all traces of humour gone. His lips hover just inches above mine, so close I can feel the small, hot puffs of his breath against my lower lip. He moves closer still, until just millimetres of air separate his lips from mine, were they stay frustratingly out of reach. My eyes flutter shut and I scoot closer to him, erasing the distance between us and joining our lips in a tentative exploration and discovery.

Does this feel as refreshingly new and at the same time as achingly familiar to him as it does to me?

From the way his lips move with growing confidence and persistency over mine, I’d say the answer would be a positive yes, and working on instinct I allow my mouth to fall open under his, silently obeying to the gentle pressure he applies to my chin with his thumb. He shudders against me- or perhaps I’m the one to shudder, my senses too jumbled to tell anymore- and he snakes a powerful arm around me to crush me against the hard wall of his chest. I hear myself moan in response, and it’s only after our lips have separated that I realise that somehow I’ve ended up straddling his lap. Oops…?

By tactical agreement neither of us speaks for endless moments, welcoming the silence and the opportunity it gives to concentrate instead on trying to sort out our scrambled emotions. Or at least that’s what *I* struggle to do, only to have any progress wiped away when his large hands cup my chin to cradle my face, his expression almost as bewildered as I’m sure mine must be.

"Well… for a make-up kiss I’d say on a scale of one to ten, that’d be about 12," I say lightly, feeling oddly breathless still. "Not that, you know, I remember many kisses or anything," I add as a feeble attempt at a joke.

His eyes darken and narrow as the chiselled outline of his jaw hardens. "Many?" he echoes.

"Well, none," I correct hastily, frowning when I realise that isn’t quite true. Whether that kiss served as a trigger, or simply acted as a prompt for my brain to hit ‘resurface’ mode I don’t know, but I’m suddenly aware not of *memories* exactly, but the emotions that belonged to them. Just general things really. Like, I remember liking Angel’s kisses *alot*. More then a lot. And I remember experiencing a frightening, all-consuming frustration over not being able to kiss and touch him. Perhaps during a period we broke up?

"Buffy?" He presses unrelentingly and I shrug slightly, glancing around before raising troubled eyes to him.

"I don’t really remember anything, I just… remember feeling stuff. You know, like…"

"You don’t have to tell me," he interrupts, and I’m not certain, but I can almost see *fear* in those chocolate orbs. "Your feelings are private. It’s getting you to remember them that’s important," he says dryly, and I have to laugh. He has a sense of humour, I’ve realise. More of a dry wit, really, but it makes me laugh.

I stiffen in surprise when I hear the front door bang open nosily, cruelly destroying the feeling of solitude that had formed around us. Angel’s mouth takes on a grim line, as if reality’s suddenly intrusion has awoken some deep obstacle within him, and he states with a false calmness, "That’ll be Cordelia."

"I see." My voice sounds flat to my own ears and I scramble to a stand immediately. Why hadn’t I remembered the ring he wears? Even if he’s not married, it’s pretty clear he’s involved-

"Buffy, I know what you’re thinking," he tells me urgently, getting to his feet with a swiftness that makes me do a double take. "It’s not what you think," he insists urgently, and I regard him with doubtful eyes.

"What is it then?" I demand, aware that I must sound pretty childish, but not really caring.

He rakes a hand through tousled midnight hair- a gesture I’ve realised he does unconsciously, kinda like Giles with his glasses- I stop my trail of thought abruptly.

"Giles," I blurt out, temporarily forgetting Cordy, "He wears glasses, right?"

Angel halts his movements, a spark flickering across his features. "Right,’ he confirms. "Do you-"

"No," I cut off crossly, angry with myself rather then him, "I have no idea who the hell he is. I just know he wears glasses."

If it hadn’t been such a serious issue I would’ve laughed at myself and the ridiculous situation. Instead I flop back onto his couch, disparaged and frustrated. And then, to top it all off, Cordelia enters, looking as glamorously immaculate as I remembered her to be before I fell asleep last night.

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise when I realise just how many shopping bags she has. Did she buy out an entire shop?! It seems Angel’s trail of thought follows mine because he laughs softly and gestures pointedly towards her baggage.

"I only got one outfit for myself," she states defensively, before pausing to admit sheepishly, "and a really great top, but it was in the sale! And that poor credit card of yours just wouldn’t see the light of day if it wasn’t for me."

Is that meant to be a *bad* thing? I can’t help but wonder silently.

"It must be a large outfit."

It isn’t until they both turn to look at me that I realise I’ve spoken my thoughts aloud. My hand flies to my mouth and I grimace at the daggers Cordy sends my way with her glare. Oops…

"I just meant you have a lot of bags," I hasten to explain.

"Buffy." She frowns and stares at me consideringly before sighing exaggeratedly and handing her purchases to Angel in a flourished motion and sitting down opposite me. "I hope they fit," she adds off-handedly, and when I return her critical stare blankly she adds with exasperation "Duh! The clothes!"

"They’re for me?" I exclaim. "But I can’t- I haven’t brought any money to pay-"

"Don’t worry, I’m sure the guilt will evaporate just as quickly as it has done in the past. This is hardly a crime compared to your track record," she mutters darkly, only to be silenced with a sharp word from Angel.

Crime? What crimes? Does Cordy know me? Am I supposed to know her? I sincerely hope not… I turn a quizzical face to Angel, but its Cordy who speaks first, her tone the false, honey coated one it had been upon her entrance;

"Oh, of course! You still don’t remember, do you? Well, personally, I’d count myself lucky if I were you. I wouldn’t really want your memories either." She wrinkles her nose and shoots me a sympathetic look of which I have to seriously doubt it’s sincerity. "Repression’s perfectly natural, my counselor says, and-"

"I’m not repressing!" I object.

"And Riley," she continues unhearingly, "is just ewww… I guess I can forgive you- you’ve paid your penance with that idiot… And for the record, when you do recover your memory? Just remember stakes *aren’t* permitted as fair play in any shape, way or form even though they can’t really kill him now, and also, just so you know, neither is doing anything that involves the kitchen table. Understand?"

I stare at her in disbelief, convinced she’s completely lost her mind, only to spin around when I hear Angel attempt to muffle a chock.

"Cordy, I think Doyle wanted to speak with you," he says pointedly, trying to hold back laughter.

She huffs and moves towards the door, pausing to call out over her shoulder, "If this about that check I supposedly lost then I want you to know that I didn’t! That client with the fake fur has weird powers to make things disappear! Why won’t you people believe me?"

"Is she… okay?" I ask uncertainly after I’m satisfied she’s out of hearing range.

"Cordy?" Angel breaks into a fond grin. "She’s just trying to deal with some stuff. Talking it through helps to get things out of her system."

I’m not convinced, and I guess my expression betrays the fact, but he only chuckles and settles down beside me again- this time with a safer distance between our bodies.

"Your life is not exactly… average, Buffy." He tells me suddenly, the mirth vanishing from his face and eyes. "That’s why I can’t tell you about it… you have to remember for yourself, you wouldn’t accept it any other way."

I stare at the empty fireplace, allowing his words to roll over me, but not really sink in, coz to be honest they don’t make the least bit of sense. Surely it can’t be *that* bad or weird? Although on the other hand, if Cordy’s anything to go by…

"Okay," I say slowly, refusing to give up my questions completely. Time for a new track. "Then talk about us, Angel." I watch him tense guardedly, but before he can refuse I intercept hurriedly with "It’s that or my lifestyle, Angel. Your choice."

I grin triumphantly when he sighs in defeat and asks "What do you want to know?

"Were we happy? When we were a couple, I mean?"

"Ye-es," he answers slowly, uncertainly. "We were happier together then we were apart, but…"

"We broke up," I supply with unbidden and unexplainable resentment. "Why?"

He takes a deep breath and turns his face away from me. "I can’t go into that, Buffy. There were just too many obstacles… unmoveable ones."

"Do they still exist now?" I demand, shocking even myself with my boldness.

He smiles slightly, a self-mocking smile. "No. Now there are new ones."

"And are they unmoveable too?"

His mirthless, bitter laugh gives me the answer.

"Were we in love?" I hold my breath.

"We were happy," he says softly, his tone transforming from bitter to warm as he turns to stare at me. "We were happy. That’s the only answer you’re going to get."

I stir restlessly, oddly disappointed, although I know I’m not going to be able to press him any further. I think he’s even more stubborn then I am. The thought makes me smile slightly, a secretive smile that causes his eyes to narrow warily.

"Don’t smile like that, for some reason it leaves me with the strangest urge to go find myself a protective shield. Either that or flee the country," he tells me gravely.

I laugh in response.

"To bed," he orders sternly. "Cordy’s brought you enough supplies to last you a couple of days, by which time-" he stops abruptly, sobering. "Good night."

I blink, astonished at how anyone can change their mood so suddenly, but I obey anyway, saying a tentative, almost shy ‘goodnight’ and finding my way into his bedroom, deliberately turning the light off in order to resist the temptation to study everything too closely. The last thing I need is memories of his bedroom engraved inside me. He’s going to be hard enough to forget, and suddenly it occurs to me that perhaps its better for me not to try to recover my memories of him. Perhaps I could block out him selectively….

*********

“So,” I begin lightly as we move onto the sidewalk and start walking side by side, “Do- did- I know LA well?”

He smiles slightly, more to himself then me. “Irony’s an amazing thing. You grew up here.”

“But I live somewhere else now?” I press curiously, averting my gaze from the bustling street and onto him when the sun threatens to blind me.

He nods slightly and steers me left off the main street and into an alleyway. “Your father still lives here. If you want his address… perhaps seeing him would help you remember…”

Perhaps…

“My parents are divorced, then?” I ask slowly, not really registering that we’re approaching the end of the alleyway and entering a large, spacious grassy area- kinda like mini parkland but without the trees or thousands of people.

Again he nods once, his head facing forwards grimly, his shoulders stiff with tension. “They split before I knew you. You moved with your mother to a town called Sunnydale.”

I wrinkle my nose slightly. “I don’t like the name.”

“No,” he agrees before adding dryly, “that’s irony at work again.”

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t really like my father?”

He doesn’t answer that question but he does laugh softly and slow his strides to a gentle amble, our hands finding each other casually, without words, without awkwardness, just in silent understanding, entwining tentatively, but oh so naturally.

“Buffy, believe me, I treasure my humanity. Appearing on your father’s hit-list is not on the top of my ‘to do’ list.”

“You? Have a ‘to do’ list?” I laugh. “No, you don’t. That’s not you.”

“No,” he agrees easily. “But I still don’t want to be assassinated. If your mother keeps your father up to date about your life, then trust me, I will not be his favourite person.”

We lapse into a companionable silence when I realise that trying to extract anything further from him would be impossible. His words echo in my head, making no sense. Didn’t Angel get on with my mother? Surely it couldn’t have been that bad? Unless that was one of the immovable *obstacles* he’d been talking about last night? But something inside me tells me that the man walking beside me would not be easily swayed or pushed by anyone or anything.

Our walk, or maybe just the fresh air, gives me a new energy once I push my musing aside, like a burning fire that seeping deep into my veins, leaving me with the strangest urge to *do* something really, really active. Angels laughs indulgently when I tell him and pulls me to a halt after glancing around at the occasional laughing family and happy couple littering the park.

“Not here,” he tells me, so softly that I’m surprised I can hear him, and before I can blink or ask questions he’s guiding me back in the direction we came- towards the office.

Once we get inside I have to blink rapidly to re-adjust to the light- or lack of. I hadn’t noticed it before.

“It’s so dark! Where are the windows?” I exclaim laughing.

“Old habits die hard,” he replies cryptically before starting to shift the furniture around as it were made of nothing but feathers.

“What are you doing?!”

“We’re going to have a work-out,” he informs me, amusement dancing in his eyes and twitching at the left corner of his mouth.

“Oh.” Well, I guess I said I wanted to do something active…

“Go get changed,” he instructs. “Cordy will have got something suitable for you to change into.”

After shifting through the heaps of clothes scattered on the bed I realise that he’s right. She has got me something. It’s just a very skimpy, barely-there something that takes me ten minutes to convince myself to try it on, and a further ten minutes to work up the courage to return to Angel and allow him to see me wearing it.

I have to blink at the transformation of the living room into a bare arena covered in thick blue gym mats and nothing much else. Suddenly the room looks bigger, and I realise it’s been deceptively small all along. I watch in fascination at the muscles in his back rippling and dancing as he continues to shift things, his back still to me, and I’m reluctant and unable to tear my eyes from his large frame. A tickle rises in my throat and I have to cough, immediately regretting it when he turns around and undoubtedly notices the crimson blush spreading over my cheeks.

I want to scream out ‘staring isn’t a crime, right?’ But perhaps it is… if that ring he wears means that he belongs to someone.

He gestures apologetically to the mats- or more specifically the layer of dust coating them.

I raise my brows. ‘I’m guessing you don’t normally use them?’

“No,” he admits before adding firmly “but we will today,” in a tone that lends no chance for argument.

My blush returns as his gaze sweeps over me appraisingly. “I see you found something to wear.”

“There wasn’t much choice,” I reply defensively.

He laughs softly at that and gestures for me to move onto the mats. “You can’t stay in the doorway all day,” he points out dryly.

I spring into action, determinedly pushing my thoughts aside. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do,” I tell him uncertainly.

“Go with your instincts,” he instructs. “We’re just going to do some light sparring.”

Sparring?! I chock slightly.

He pretends not to hear it and urges me gently towards the centre of the room. “If you fall the mats will cushion the blow, or I’ll break your fall, if I can.” He smiles cryptically then. “But perhaps I’ll be the one falling. Who knows?”

I’m not worried about *injury*. I’m worried about looking like a complete idiot!

“*Light* sparring? How light?”

He smiles enigmatically before moving suddenly, pouncing forward like a tiger. I don’t have time to *think*, I just act, bringing my left hand up to block his attack. He moves back, grinning at me, and I grin back, dazed. The speed we’d moved at would’ve been enough to make anyone blink, but what’s most thrilling was the feeling that went with it. Kinda like a huge dose of adrenaline oddly combined with a soothing calm.

“Again?” He asks, and I nod eagerly.

Unlike last time I’m prepared, but this time he doesn’t back off after I’ve fielded his blow. Just as soon as I’m lifting my left arm in defence I’m lifting my right, stepping back on feet that have taken on a life of their own, and we continue this rhythm for aeons- him releasing attacking blows, me defending.

Confident in my ability, where ever it may have stemmed from, I alter my movements, attempting to take on the attack rather then the defence, and for a while he complies, until suddenly his left leg curls out, knocking me off balance. I stumble but Angel’s hands are on me immediately, catching me, steadying me before I can fall.

Before he can blink I jump back, launching an attack that sends us both toppling, him beneath me. For a split second I’m worried he’s hurt, but then he breaks into a grin, shaking slightly with silent laughter.

“Congratulations, Miss Summers.”

I grin back, reluctant to move from my position across his chest. Absentmindedly I extend my index finger and make a jabbing motion against his chest. His eyes darken immediately and he stirs, gently pushing me off of him.

“What’s wrong?” I demand anxiously. “Did I do something? Hurt you?”

He rises and extends an arm to pull me up, ignoring my question.

“Another round?” He enquires once we’re standing, this time much more formally, and his eyes aren’t smiling anymore.

“Angel, please, what did I-“ I break off and wince at the pain that stabs through my hand as I reach out to touch his shoulder. I bring my other hand up to it instinctively, rubbing it.

“Is your hand hurt?”

I shrug. “A little,” I admit.

He frowns. “You should have told me.”

“It didn’t hurt before!” I defend. “I think it must have been hurt in the accident, and I guess it hadn’t fully healed yet.”

“Let me see.” He doesn’t wait for me to give any consent, not that I really expected him to. Instead he covers the distance between us in one easy stride and towers over me, cradling my wrist in his large palm, flexing it gently, inspecting it.

“I don’t think it’s sprained,” he declares finally. “But it needs rest. We shouldn’t have-“

His words are interrupted when the door opens nosily, causing our heads to raise as a dark-haired man enters, a cheeky grin on his face when his eyes fall upon us.

“Doyle.” Angel sounds as surprised as I am. I’ve really got to stop forgetting that other people still exist whenever I end up alone with Angel.

“Am I supposed to know you?” I can’t help but ask warily. Knowing whether or not you’re supposed to know a person is kinda important. And definitely useful.

“No, lass,” he tells me, and I’m surprised to find he has a distinctly Irish accent. “I’m just a distant admirer. Call me Doyle.”

I’m not sure what Angel does, since he’s stood behind me, but seconds later Doyle’s throwing his hands up in mock surrender and exclaiming “Okay, okay, I can take a hint. But Angel, man, I think I should warn you I might have been temporarily possessed.”

Angel releases a deep laugh. “Why?”

“I kinda allowed ‘Delia to talk me into renting a movie of her choice to watch.”

I try to suppress a giggle, unsure as to why he’s acting as if renting a movie’s such an awful thing. Although with Cordy… I guess I can see his point. I glance over my shoulder at Angel just in time to see his dark brows arch.

“She bent over you in a short skirt?” He asks dryly.

“Not just that!” Doyle exclaims defensively. “Oh?”

“She bent over for a really, really long time.”

“I see.” Angel replies deadpanned. “Perhaps you should buy a blindfold? Or blinkers?”

I can’t help but laugh at that, which is probably a mistake, because immediately Doyle breaks into a mischievous grin and announces casually,

“I forgot to mention it, but I also promised her that we’d use your place, with you guys here as well. In order to make sure I don’t embarrass her, I think.”

My heart makes an odd leap at the thought of spending the evening in watching movies with Angel. It kinda goes side by side with the word ‘date’. I turn to study his reaction apprehensively, but to my surprise he grins slightly and shrugs.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve watched a movie,” he says, “and it can’t be any worse then my last experience.”

“What happened?” I can’t help but ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. I don’t even notice that Doyle’s snuck away until I follow Angel’s gaze to the empty doorway.

“Lets just say the film we thought we were about to see ended up being something quite different.”

“We?” I echo, trying to suppress the small thrill that seeps through me.

“Mmmm.” He confirms.

“Did I like the film?” I ask, still not sure what he means by ‘quite different’.

“I believe your exact words were ‘I thought it was going to be about food’.

“And was it?”

“Lets just say that there was food in it,” he replies dryly, and I can’t help but laugh.

“What’re we watching tonight?”

Angel winces slightly. “I don’t know, but bearing in mind that it’s Cordy’s choice…”

“That bad?’ I grin.

“Last week she tried to talk me into watching ‘Night of the Living Dead’.”

Is that bad? I frown, realising I’m missing something here, but Angel only shakes his head and glances up at the clock.

“It’s a long story,” he explains me apologetically, “and if we’re going to watch this unknown film we need to get changed, or at least I do.”

I glance down at my attire and nod hurriedly. “So do I.”

There is absolutely NO way I’m going to sit and watch a movie feeling half-naked. Unless of course Angel were to be half naked as well… and we were alone… and a couple… Oh, I need help!

“I only have one shower,” he continues apologetically. “You-“

“You go first,” I urge quickly, “It’s your shower, and I’ll probably take forever. Not that, you know, I remember how long I take in the shower.”

He laughs softly and disappears into his bedroom, leaving me at a loss as to where to go or what to do. From the moment he carried me here his room’s been kinda… well, my sanctuary. The place I feel I can retreat to. But if *he’s* in there… am I supposed to wait here?

Taking a deep breath I call out his name and wait, my breath yet to be expelled.

“Come in,” comes a muffled reply, and I stepped inside uncertainly, only to be greeted by the site of a shirtless Angel, and I immediately force my eyes shut.

“You can open your eyes now,” his voice floats over to me seconds later, and I peer at him and find he’s now clad in a dark black bathrobe. My eyes meet laughing ones as he moves towards the adjoining bathroom. “I won’t be long,” he promises before disappearing, and I stand frozen until the sound of running water jerks me back to life.

Great, if anyone deserves an award for constantly finding themselves in embarrassing situations, it’s me. I glance around at the clothes strewn across the floor and I give in to the urge to touch them exploringly and pick them up. I just finish folding his tracksuit bottoms across his chair when something silver sitting on his draw catches my attention. Cautiously I pick it up and realise it’s the ring I’ve seen him wearing. The one with the crown and the heart. It seems so familiar, and out of curiosity I slip it onto my finger. It’s much too big for me, and all I’d have to do is relax my hand in order for it to fall off, but it just feels like… almost like it belongs here, on my finger.

I’m aware that the sound of water has finished- he really does shower fast- and I quickly place it back down, trying not to look guilty. The creaking of the door behind me tells me he’s entered the room, but I can’t bring myself to turn around. What if he can tell I’ve been poking around his belongings?

“Thanks,” are the first words to leave his mouth, and I turn to face him, bewildered.

“What?”

He indicates to his folded clothes with a warm smile.

“Oh.” I blush. “I hope you don’t mind- I just felt like doing something, and-‘

“It’s okay,” He assures me gently before striding towards his draw and picking up the ring, sliding it onto his finger automatically. It’s then that I realise he’s changed into black trousers and a half-buttoned midnight blue shirt. Great, isn’t it, how my brain takes so long to download these details. He could’ve walked into here stark naked and- no, erase that, I definitely *would’ve* noticed if he’d been naked.

“Nice ring,” I offer casually, careful not to meet his probing stare.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “Buffy, I-“

The door bangs open then, silencing whatever he might have been about to tell me, and I have to squash my urge to do something very, very violent to whoever it is for disturbing us.

I spin around reluctantly to find Doyle stood in the doorway. Groaning, he exclaims… “Opps. Sorry, just thought I’d find out if you were ready.” Pausing he adds hopefully, “Don’t mention to ‘Delia I interrupted you, okay?”

Before I can even open my mouth to form a reply he’s gone, and I turn back to Angel, hoping perhaps he’ll finish whatever it was he had begun to say, but my hope sinks when he says in a voice quite calm and controlled; “I’ll be down stairs, okay? Take as long as you need getting changed, there’s no rush.”

I nod and turn towards the bathroom, not wanting him to see my disappointment. And if I didn’t know better I’d have said he was using Doyle’s entrance as a means of defensive escape. Great. Just great.

**

“Buffy and I are gonna go get the popcorn,” Cordy announces, and before I can protest continues with, “I’ll leave you guys to fix the VCR.”

“Fix?” Angel chokes.

She shrugs flippantly before offering, “I think one of our clients broke it.”

“Er… Delia, what were they doing *using* it?” Doyle asks incredulously.

She rolls her eyes impatiently. “Duh. We were re-watching her boyfriends kidnapping. You remember, the women who’d caught it on camera? Except the guys were invisible, so it was completely pointless?”

I stand and force my mouth closed in an attempt to hide my bewilderment. I’ve walked into the mad house. I’m still concussed… Angel deals with kidnappings? Okay… not so strange, I guess… but *invisible*?!

The pressure of Cordy’s hand on my arm cuts off my bewildered thoughts as she marches me towards the kitchen, offering me no chance to protest or ask questions. I manage to glance over my shoulder briefly, only to find Doyle and Angel staring at each other with expressions reflecting much the same disbelief I’m feeling.

We enter the kitchen and I halt in front of the table, placing a tentative hand on it and frowning. What was it Cordy had said about that table? Something about avoiding it? I turn to her, but before I can ask anything she intercepts with a suspicious,

“You guys haven’t been using this, right?”

I blink in surprise. “No, Angel…” I almost confide that he’s brought me breakfast in bed so far, but for some reason it just feels like it’s something personal that should exist only between Angel and I. “No, I’ve never been in here before,” I opt to tell her instead.

Cordy sighs in relief. “ Good. Wouldn’t want it to break again.”

“Isn’t it very stable?” I ask, bewildered and not completely sure if Cordy’s sane. “It’d take a lot to break it, wouldn’t it?” I continue, puzzled, more to myself then the girl stood beside me.

“You would think,” she agrees cryptically, “but then that’s just icky, so… popcorn!’

I realise that beneath that bright, false smile of hers lies something much deeper. I can’t help wondering how well I knew her. Were we friends? At first I assumed we were enemies, or distant acquaintances at best, but that’d been before I realised that she treats pretty much everyone like that- kinda as a defence, I guess.

Forcing back my analysis, I pick up one of the two bowls of popcorn and follow Cordy back into the sitting room.

“Is it fixed?” She demands, and I have to hide a smile when I meet Angel’s amused gaze.

“I’m insulted that you have so little confidence in my… mending ability,” Doyle replies with mock indignation, before taking a gallant bow and informing, “but me lady will be pleased to know it’s now in working order.”

“I’m not sure if that’s such a good thing,” Angel mutters darkly. “What’re we watching?”

“We-ell, I picked two, so you can choose which one you wanted. I got Dracula-“

“Absolutely not,” he growls. “Next choice.”

“Scream,” Cordy announces triumphantly.

“Are there any supernatural creatures in that?” Angel asks suspiciously, and I have to laugh, even though I’m not sure what’s funny. It’s just… everything.

“Nope, just a manic killer,” Cordy replies cheerfully before placing the video into the VCR and hitting ‘play’.

Realising I’m still stood standing, I glance around and find the only empty spot on the sofa is on the end, next to Angel. *Really* not a problem. Slightly self-consciously I move and sit next to him, and it’s such a close fit that I’m pressed up against the full length of his thigh. I daren’t move in case it means distance is put between us, and to my relief neither does he. I sink back against the wall of the sofa tentatively and gratefully accept the bowl of popcorn Cordy hands to me. I motion for Angel to take some, but he simply stares at if as if it were alive.

“Don’t you like popcorn?” I ask in surprise.

“I’ve never tried it,” he admits, and without giving myself a chance to think about it I scoop up a small handful and raise it towards him, fully intending to place it in his palm. Except for one small, tiny problem I hadn’t counted on… my hand refusing to obey my brain. Instead I raise it to his lips and hardly dare breath as he stares at it for long moments before finally lowering his head to brush his lips my palm and gently take the popcorn from me. The sensation of his tongue gently flicking out and lapping at my skin sends my heart beat tripling, and I’m unable to move or draw my hand away.

I jerk back to life when darkness suddenly engulfs us and Cordy’s voice rings out with, “Lights out guys. The film’s about to start.”

Angel’s head rears back too, as if snapping out of a spell, and I’m infinitely grateful for the darkness to hide the evidence of my embarrassment. Perhaps I could claim Martians took over my brain temporarily or something…

I nearly faint when Angel whispers softly, “I liked the popcorn, by the way.”

“That’s good,” I manage to croak out in reply, but I feel a lot more at ease then seconds before. I think that’s why he said it… to assure me he’s not angry or anything.

I force my attention onto the film, only to have all my efforts put to waste when his hand moves to take a handful of popcorn from the bowl, which is still perched precariously on my lap. I think I must’ve trembled or something, because before I can stop it the bowl starts to slide sideways and we both move to grab it, my hands ending up enclosed under his larger ones. He reacts first, pulling his hands away, and I have to clamp my mouth shut in order to stop the protest rising in my throat.

“Perhaps you’d better have it,” I manage to get out finally, surprising myself at how calm I sound.

“Hey, could you guys keep it down- OW!!” Doyle yelps. “That hurt!”

“Serves you right,” I hear Cordy hiss before my attention is returned to Angel when I realise he’s lifting the bowl from my lap and onto his own. Which suddenly leaves me wondering how the hell I’m meant to see clearly enough in the darkness to make sure I touch the bowl and not him?

I reach over towards it tentatively, and as if reading my mind, he gently captures my wrist with his long fingers and guides my hand to the bowl. Clumsily I gather up a handful, with his hand still encircling my wrist, and whisper my thanks. He releases his hold abruptly, as if catching himself, and once again I can almost feel that wall of solidarity rise up. He doesn’t try to make contact with me for the remainder of the film, and I can’t help but acknowledge to myself that it’s disappointment that churns through me. I just can’t figure him out, and I have to wonder whether I ever could, even before my memory loss.

*****

The room momentarily plunges into complete darkness as Cordy flips the TV screen off, and I allow my eyelids to flutter shut briefly. I hadn’t realised how tired I’ve been getting until now, and I guess the accident’s decided to take its final toll. Not that sitting completely stiffly for well over an hour in order to prevent any contact with Angel can have helped much. Do I sound annoyed? I’m not. Not in the slightest. Really.

I force my eyes open when I hear the light switch being flipped, and I wince at just how bright it is.

“You’re tired,” Angel speaks up gently. “You need to get some sleep.”

“I know,” I agree irritably through clenched teeth, *really* not needing him to play the part of a big brother right now. I’m old enough to know when I’m tired, dam it.

“And you’re angry,” he murmurs, more to himself then me, and when I turn to frown at him I realise his eyes are dancing with laughter.

Reluctantly I allow myself to smile, just a little. Night time probably isn’t the best of times to have an argument, I reason silently, and definitely not in front of Cordy.

“Okay, we’re off,” Cordy announces cheerfully, not looking the least bit tired. Does she run on never ending batteries?

“You’ll be okay getting home?” Angel enquires, and for some reason when he asks Cordy it just doesn’t sound like he’s big-brothering her. Okay, I’ve really got to curb this… jealousy thing. Not that I’m really jealous at all. Oh, all right, maybe just a little bit.

“Doyle’s walking me back,” Cordy assures him, and I have to stifle a laugh at the comical look of surprise on Doyle’s face.

I set about collecting the video and putting it safely into it’s case whilst Angel walks to the door to see them out, and by the time he returns I feel much calmer. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him pick up the leather jacket draped loosely over the back of the sofa and shrug it on hastily.

“There can’t be much open at this time of night!” I exclaim, unable to stop myself in time before the words have left my mouth. I stand and furiously command my body not to blush. So what if he knows I was watching him? It’s a perfectly innocent… non-criminal thing to do.

He nods grimly. “Let’s hope that doesn’t change. The fewer people roaming the streets after nightfall, the better.”

“So what are *you* doing going out?” I ask bewildered, no longer bothered about playing it cool.

“I won’t be too long,” he tells me calmly, and I cross my arms over my stomach stubbornly.

“That’s not an answer.”

He flashes me a boyish, heart-melting grin. “Don’t look at me like that either,” I grumble, trying to sound exasperated rather then the puddle of mush I’ve really turned into.

His grin fades and he gasps my shoulder with his large hands, staring at me with unnerving graveness.

“Don’t, under any circumstances, invite anyone in.” He orders sternly.

I give him an odd look. Who does he think is gonna come knocking on his door at this time of night?! Or is it early morning? A glance at my watch confirms that it’s gone midnight.

“Fine,” I concede with a sigh when it becomes clear nothing less then my word is going to satisfy him.

He flashes me a self-mocking smile, the kind where his lips curl up just so, to reveal a quick flash of white teeth. “You’ll worry about me?”

I fidget uncomfortably, refusing to meet his gaze. “Well, duh. You’re taking off in the middle of the night. It’s natural to… well, anyone’d worry!”

Okay, perhaps that came out sounding just a little too defensive...

He releases my shoulders and cups my chin gently, forcing my head upwards to meet my gaze with such a soulful one of his own that I have to blink and avert my eyes back to his leather-clad shoulder.

“Not everyone,” he tells me softly, but my ready retort is halted be the wave of familiarity that rolls over me.

His jacket… I remember that jacket, or one very similar to it. I remember him wearing it… and I always used to borrow it… I frown deeply; trying to recall just when and where I used to borrow it, but all I draw is a blank nothing.

“Buffy?” Angel’s voice intercepts my reverie and I blink. “Buffy? What’s-“

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I’m fine, I was just thinking.” I offer him a pathetically unconvincing smile, but after studying me meticulously for several moments he nods abruptly and steps back away from me.

“Be careful.”

“That’s meant to be my line,” I retort with false brightness, and before I can gather my thoughts he’s gone. Only the sound of the door shutting and the tingling sensation of the quick, almost brutal pressure of his lips on mine as he bade me goodbye evidence that he’d been stood next to me moments earlier.

Scanning the room helplessly my eyes rest on the inviting sofa. Perhaps I *should* wait up for him, just for a little while… Just to check he gets back safely…

I sigh resignedly and settle down on the far corner of the sofa, knowing full well that I’m not going to be able to sleep in his bed whilst he’s out goodness knows where. I’m allowed to worry, right? So sue me for it.

Quietly, feeling almost sneaky, I collect the blankets from his bed and arrange them in what looks to be a pretty comfortable arrangement over me and switch the TV on absentmindedly, welcoming the bright colours it projects, even though my minds not really absorbing or making much sense of them. I’m determined not to think about what’s he’s doing. Or if he’s hurt. Somehow I doubt he’s gone out for a trip to the supermarket. If he has I’ll kill him.

I must have slipped into slumber, because the next thing I’m aware of is a shrill, impatient, and extremely loud ringing sound. The phone, I realise hazily, and mechanically I reach over and pick it up, infinitely grateful for the silence that follows.

“Hello?” I speak hastily into the phone, crossing my fingers in the hope that it’ll be Angel.

A soft, warm voice replies with an eager, “Hey.”

Well… the voice is male, but definitely not Angel.

“Who is this?” I ask cautiously after glancing at my watch. 3am. Who the hell would be calling at this time in the morning? When silence follows I offer impatiently, “If you’re after Angel I’m afraid he’s not in at the moment. Can I take a message?”

“I’m sorry.” The caller tells me, the warm tone suddenly curt. “Wrong number.”

My reply is halted by the sound of a dial tone.

“Great,” I murmur into the darkness. “A guy calls at 3 in the morning, only to hang up.”

Unless... unless the caller *was* for Angel, but he just didn’t want anyone else to know he was calling. I shake my head in frustration and force my attention onto the TV. I’m *not* going to think about Angel. I’m *not* going to speculate about the caller.

My mental list of things I’m not going to think about is interrupted by the sound of the front door creaking open, and hurriedly I switch the TV off and sit in silence, waiting. I watch with held breath as Angel enters the living room and flips the light switch.

And when light illuminates the room I’m not sure which one of us is more startled by the site of the other. Angel does a double take, staring at me as if he’s not sure if what he’s seeing is real, and I do much the same. He looks weary beneath his surprise, and his movements as he steps towards me are forced, sluggish. My eyes widen in horror when I realise his sleeves are slashed, and dried blood covers his cheek, hands and chest.

“You’re hurt!” I cry out, leaping from my position on the sofa. “What the hell happened to you?!”

He tries to push me away, but, with a strength that takes us both by surprise, I force him to sit.

“Take your shirt off,” I order, pushing aside the embarrassment I *know* will hit me later.

He stares at me in surprise, and before enough time can pass for me to really think about the wiseness in my actions, I kneel and start to shakily unbutton his shirt myself. To my surprise he doesn’t protest, instead he sighs softly and leans back in submission. Strangely his sudden co-operation doesn’t comfort me the way it should. Instead it alarms me, because for some reason I can’t shake off the feeling that he’s not really surrendering or relaxing, but allowing himself to take the nursing I’m offering only because he believes he won’t have it tomorrow, or any other night. Like a starving man grasping at a loaf of bread, believing he doesn’t deserve it, but taking it none the less because the knowledge that he won’t get another haunts him.

I throw off my thoughts with a shake of my head, and it’s then that I realise my hands have stilled at their task of unbuttoning his shirt and Angel’s have taken over.

Murmuring something sounding incomprehensible even to my own ears, I move to stand up.

“Where do you keep your TCP? And don’t tell me you don’t have any,” I continue, fully aware I’m babbling but not caring, ‘because you used some the night you brought me here.”

He smiles at me then, a lazy, amused smile that reaches both corners of his lips and takes my breath away. “Top cabinet in the bathroom.”

“Right.” I nod and hastily make my retreat into the bathroom, the only thing preventing me from locking myself in there forever being the picture playing in my mind of Angel’s wounds. That, and the observation that the bathroom doesn’t have a TV, or any food supplies.

Setting my mouth determinedly I collect his supplies and force my feet to march back into the living room, congratulating myself on my achievement of not blushing once. A mixture of relief and disappointment seeps through me when I come close enough to realise Angel’s fallen asleep. I stare, mesmerised, at the sight of his chest rising and falling gently, regularly, as if it’s a revelation, a sight I’ve never seen before. Which, of course, is ridiculous.

I set about cleaning and bandaging his wounds, tentatively at first, and then with more confidence when I’m certain he’s not going to wake up suddenly.

An hour or so passes until I’ve finished, and I’m suddenly not sure what to do next. I shut my eyes to block out the all too distracting image of him and force myself to think. Should I wake him? He can’t stay sleeping on the sofa with those injuries, but waking him means depriving him of sleep… and sleep is something he definitely needs… I’m in the midst of deciding when his voice interrupts my dilemma, and my eyes shoot open.

“What were you doing up?” He asks me casually, as if he were asking me what I thought of the weather, and I realise his eyes are still closed. Oh god, please, please let him have just woken up.

“You haven’t been asleep at all!” I accuse, and his left eye cracks open to meet my accusing stare with dancing laughter.

“I simply felt like closing my eyes. I never *said* I was asleep, you just assumed.”

“Of course I assumed! It’s hardly something you can get confirmation on! If you’re asleep you can’t very well tell anyone that your asleep, and when you shut your eyes and don’t respond to any questions people will generally assume that you are!”

He laughs outright at that, and as hard as I try to stay feeling angry I can’t help but laugh with him. His laugh’s infectious, and it leaves me with the strangest urge to keep him smiling and laughing forever, even if it’s at my expense. Oh hell, I seriously need help.

“So, what were you doing up?” He asks me again with every appearance of merely making conversation, but something inside me urges me not to be fooled, and anyway, there is NO way he is gonna know I waited up especially for him.

“Oh, well,” I begin, matching his casual, disinterested tone with one of my own, “The phone rang and woke me up, about 10 minutes before you got back, and I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I came in here to watch some TV.” Not a total lie… the phone *did* wake me up.

He frowns at my explanation and his eyes fly open. “Who was it?”

I blink. “What?”

“Who was it on the phone?”

“That’s the weird thing. It was a guy, I know that much, and I said hello, blah, blah, blah, and all he did was apologise, said he’d dialed the wrong number and hang up, and I had the weirdest feeling that I’d offended him or something.”

“He didn’t leave a name?” Angel persists, his eyes suddenly hooded and dark.

I shake my head. “No. Was it important? I thought perhaps the caller was for you… something private or-”

Glancing up at Angel I realise he’s not listening to me. His dark brows are draw together in concentration, and his mouth forms a grim line.

“You didn’t recognise his voice?”

I shoot him a look of exaggerated disbelief. “Angel, I wouldn’t even recognise my own mother’s voice if she were to call, so you know, I doubt I’d recognise anyone else’s.”

My attempt at a joke doesn’t seem to have any lightening effect on his mood. In fact, if anything, it darkens it even more.

“Okay, so I’ve answered your question. Now answer mine. Where were you? What happened?”

“That’s two questions,” he mumbles, his voice suddenly sounding suspiciously sleepily, and a quick glance at his face confirms that he’s closed his eyes again.

“Oh, no. I’m not falling for that again, mister.” I tell him firmly, and I catch the slightest twitch of his mouth. I raise my hands in mock exasperation. And perhaps very real annoyance. “Fine, fine. I won’t ask.”

His eyes open, then, to fix on mine, suddenly serious, and I guess he picked up the undercurrent in my tone. “I would tell you, Buffy, if I could.”

“Right.” I pull a face. “The memory thing, right?”

He nods gently and I force myself to grin. “Well, it worked, anyway.”

He frowns, perplexed. “What did?”

“I got you to open your eyes. Now get up,” I order. “You can’t sleep on the sofa in this state. It’ll do you more harm then good.”

He laughs softly. “But I don’t like the floor.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll take the sofa, you take the bed.”

“You’re not sleeping on the sofa.” Angel tells me, the stubborn set of his jaw awakening me to the fact that any attempt at arguing would be futile.

“Fine,” I retort breezily. “Then we’ll share the bed.”

If he’s shocked at my suggestion he doesn’t betray the fact. He doesn’t even blink. Instead he studies my carefully for several moments before asking cautiously, “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” I tell him with much more confidence and certainty then I’m really feeling.

Share a bed with Angel?! Okay, so the thought *might’ve* crossed my mind a few times before now, but to actually *suggest* it?! I plead temporary leave of my senses.

He moves to stand, and pushing my panic aside I help him, not at all fooled that he can manage by himself. With my arm around his waist and his arm draped across my shoulder we make our way into his bedroom, pausing only to switch off the lights.

The first words out of his mouth once he’s sat on his bed startles me. “You trust me?”

I pause cautiously before answering. Last time I told him I trusted him he chastened me for it.

“I trust you enough to share a bed with you,” I answer honestly, “because somehow I know you’ll behave like a perfect gentleman. Call it intuition, or whatever.”

I remember, then. I remember saying that before, to someone else, somewhere else, about Angel.

“And I was right last time,” I add cheerfully, before hurriedly exiting into the bathroom, not giving him the chance to say anything back.

I emerge ten minutes later in my night-clothes and stop in my tracks at the sight that greets me. Or, more precisely, the sight of Angel, in bed, leaning lazily against the headboard, with sheets arranged low enough to reveal broad shoulders and tantalising sharp contours sculpturing a very male torso. Unbidden, the question of what he normally chooses to wear in bed enters my mind. Or does he prefer to sleep naked? *Really* not the kinda question you can just casually ask someone about.

“I don’t bite,” He assures me, laughter in his voice and almost imperceptible smirk. ”I hope you don’t mind taking the right side,” he adds casually, and it’s all I can do to nod and try to hide the fact that my brain’s stopped working and other parts of me have taken on a life of their own.

Somehow I manage to make it over to the bed, and when Angel lifts the duvet for me to slip under I catch a brief blur of back boxers. Okay… that answers the ‘naked’ question, and I’m not disappointed, really. I’m relieved. Honest.

I lie down and stretch out tentatively, careful not to move beyond the invisible boundaries of my half of the bed. I feel the bed shift as Angel stretches to flip the light off, and I release a soft sigh of relief. At least now he can’t *see* me blush or anything. There’s perhaps an inch separating our bodies, if that much, and I shiver involuntarily as the heat of his body gently seeps towards me, cocooning me, mingling with the heat of my own body and the cold air only the duvet protects us from.

“Cold?”

“A little,” I mumble, snuggling further into the pillow. It smells of him, I realise amusedly, of rich night air and masculinity and faint traces of spice.

“Turn over,” he instructs, and I obey, rolling over with both caution and curiosity, until I’m facing him, the turn having unintentionally inched my body closer to his so that our bodies are almost touching. My face is so close to his I can pick out little flecks of black in those chocolate pools of his, and his arms slip gently around me, pulling me to him.

I snuggle deeper into the warmth of his body, reveling in the gentle protection his arms around me offer.

I murmur a sleepily “night” against his chest, my lips dangerously close to his skin, and he returns my whispers with a gentle “Goodnight, Buffy. Sleep well.”

And I know without a shadow of a doubt that I will tonight, with his body curled protectively against mine and his breath gently ticking my ear. Yes, I’ll sleep well. And with all probability, I’ll dream well too. I fall asleep with those thoughts, unable to wipe the silly smile of contentment from my face.

*****

The room is dim with the fading remnants of night when I wake, but not so dark that I’m unable to see the dark-haired man lying motionless beside me. His features are relaxed, any harsh lines softened, blended and smoothed by shadows, his mouth curved unguardedly into a tiny smile that I can’t help but smile back at. I shift cautiously from my place on his chest, careful not to wake him, and peer more closely, unable to resist such a wonderful opportunity to study him. If anyone needed any proof that he looks as good close up as he does from a distance, then this’d be it.

Tentatively, gently, I place my finger over his bottom lip, my touch no heavier then that of a feather, but when that familiar heat our contact always brings seeps through to my skin I immediately snap out of my trance, jerking my hand away, breaking contact with his lips speedily. I don’t have complete control over my body, though, and rebelliously my hands halt their retreat, hovering just inches above his lips, feeling the warm puffs of air he exhales and tracing an imaginary course through the air, following the shape of his lips.

Drawing in a deep breath I force my hands to withdraw fully, clasping them together to prevent them taking on a life of their own again. How many people have seen him so off guard and relaxed? I can’t help but wonder curiously, with just a tinge of possessive jealousy.

“Have I, before now?” This question I ask aloud to the night, frustrated when I don’t get an answer.

My attention’s drawn to the window, where heavy curtains block out the night and only a small shaft of light escapes through the crack, falling just inches out of reach from us. It’s light from the moon that offers the room a small source of light, but I remember another time… just like this one, only it hadn’t been the moonlight that’d intruded on us, it’d been the sunlight. The beginning of a new day, an important one, I remember slowly, although for the life of me I can’t remember what had been so important about it. But more importantly, I remember being in Angel’s bed, having awoken in Angel’s arms.

I frown in puzzlement as more of that morning comes back to me, both visual memories and the overwhelming emotions- a strange combination of sadness and hope- I’d experienced upon waking up and watching him, much like today. To my frustration I can’t get any further then that, I can’t remember anymore then waking next to Angel, and having him jump away from the sunlight after I’d opened the curtains. Why? Why had he jerked back, as if I’d burnt him? Why had my heart sunk endlessly at that moment? Why had it been then that any hope inside me had died like a fragile fire being doused in water?

The hope I had then, I suddenly realise, is worryingly similar to the emotion that’s been churning through me these last few days.

He stirs slightly, then, murmuring something under his breath before rolling over on his side, pulling me possessively to him. With anyone else I think I would’ve tensed up, or something, but instead my body relaxes and I allow him to mould me against him. Waking him would be wrong, right? And if I don’t co-operate then he’ll wake up. It’s not as if I actually *want* to sleep so close up against him. I’m just… making sure he doesn’t wake up.

Strangely, as soon as my head falls to rest against his chest my eyelids grow heavily and I feel sleeps hold on me gradually strengthening. A part of my brain still working rationally registers that I should be wide awake, trying to remember more, or at the very least analysing what I *have* remembered, but it just doesn’t seem so urgent anymore, with Angel so close to me, and so safe.

The next time I emerge from slumber it’s daylight, and I’m alone. I can tell that even with my lids firmly shut in defence of the bright day. The room’s silent and the space beside me’s empty; there’s no longer any breath gently tickling my ear, or tousled hair resting against my forehead.

But still I keep my eyes shut, because I’m suddenly experiencing, seeing, *remembering* things no view of sunny mornings could offer or teach me. It’s like finally having all the pieces of an old jigsaw and watching them being put into place. The picture it creates isn’t alarming, or foreign, but wonderfully familiar, because I’ve seen it, *lived* it before. I’ve made it, piece by piece, scary and crazy to most, but to me… it’s my life. And I realise then that this is the first time I’ve really allowed myself to see it, all of it, together. The first time I’ve allowed myself to compare who I was, and what I’d done in the past, to who I’ve become and what I’ve been doing lately, in these past few months.

Slowly I open my eyes, half-afraid my memories will disappear in the light of day, but I sigh softly with relief when I can still recall everything. The good and the bad. And strangely enough I *want* those bad memories, I *need* them, because without them I realise that the good ones would loose their value, become almost shadows, or imitations of what they really are. You can’t appreciate happiness without knowing pain, I remember my mother telling me once. And I don’t think I really understood that until now.

My gaze drifts around the room, *Angels* room, until my eyes rest on the phone beside the bed. Without thinking about it I sit up and lift the receiver, plugging in one of the most familiar numbers I know. I glance at my watch. 10 am. He should definitely be up by now, I decide with a fond smile.

The ringing sound’s cut off after two rings, and a curt English voice just bordering on terse answers with an impatient “Hello? Who’s speaking please?”

“Giles?” I manage to croak out hoarsely, waves of love, fondness and nostalgia hitting me all at once.

“Buffy?” He exclaims after a long silence, any impatience replaced with warmth, disbelief, excitement. “How are you? You’ve regained your memory?”

I nod and whisper a ghost of a “yes”.

“That’s wonderful!”

“Giles,” I pause, keeping my voice quiet so that Angel won’t hear me and realise I’m awake just yet, and take a deep breath. “I’m not- I’m not coming back just yet. I need- Angel and I have some things we need to sort out.”

“Yes, of course,” Giles agrees gently, “Perhaps you’d like me to pass on a message to everyone?” he suggests.

“Just tell them I miss them, okay?” Again I feel my breath catch for a moment. “Tell them I miss them, and that I’m me again-”

Or perhaps not.... I’m the *old* me again…

“Scrap that last bit,” I say impulsively, “And tell Riley…. Tell him I need to talk to him when I get back.”

“Will he like what you have to say to him?” He questions cautiously, and had the issue been less serious I would’ve smiled at his tact.

“No,” I say sadly, “I don’t think he will.”

“Ah.” One word. Not even a proper word, really, but I know he understands.

“I love Angel, Giles.” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Yes.” His tone is gentle, thoughtful, understanding, but not disapproving. “Take your time, Buffy. Sunnydale’s under control for the moment.”

“Thanks.”

With a soft goodbye I hang up and take a deep breath. What happens now? And where’s Angel? An exploration into the living room gives me the answer to *that* question at least, although I’m surprised to find him sat in front of the TV, staring at it unseeingly, that familiar far away look on his face. I tiptoe towards him, wanting to surprise him, which I succeed in doing by stepping in front of him, into his line of vision, and slipping down beside him, practically in his lap.

“Buffy!” His exclamation of surprise, shock, makes me want to laugh. I’d forgotten how cute he is when surprised. “What-“

“Sshh,” I order gently, placing my middle finger over his lips, much the same way I’d done last night, only this time much more firmly.

How can I explain it? Regaining my memories has left me with a new confidence, a certainty. A confidence because I’m really *me* again, the girl Angel fell in love with, not just someone who looks like her, but can’t *be* her because she doesn’t know who she is.

“Buffy-“ he tries again, but once again I silence him, this time with a stubborn shake of my head.

“I love you.” I tell him simply, and for a moment he falters, a look of disbelieving hope crossing his face, before being swiftly replaced with a blank, emotionless barricade.

“Buffy, you don’t even *know* m-“

“I remember, Angel. I woke up, and I…”

His harsh intake of breath and violent frown makes *me* frown. This isn’t how it’s meant to go. He’s meant to kiss me, dam it! He’s meant to tell me he loves me too, and then we’re meant to sort things out, and… oh yeah. How could I forget? He didn’t want to hear I loved him last time either. Well, tough. I’ll make him accept it. Except I’ve grown to realise that trying to convince someone who wants to believe you but *can’t* that you love them is a thousand times harder then convincing someone who just doesn’t *want* to believe you.

“How long?” I question softly, and when my question receives only a blank, if not somewhat confused stare I place my hand over his heart, strong and regular. Beating.

His carefully blank expression falls, then, to be replaced with astonishment, and I realise my question has finally knocked home to him that I really *do* remember.

“Three weeks.” He swallows loudly and waits, as if expecting me to demand why he hadn’t told me sooner. And perhaps the me of three weeks ago would have shouted, and demanded answers, but this me isn’t about to do anything as stupid. Instead I smile softly.

“I’m glad. For you, Angel, not for me. For you, and *us*, and-”

“Buffy?” He murmurs softly, incredulously, as if he can’t believe I’m sat on his lap, telling him I love him, that I’m glad of his humanity for *him*. I can scarcely believe it myself.

“Do you know why I was in LA before the accident?” I ask calmly, as if this were an everyday conversation to be having. As if we were two normal people. “I was coming to find you. I guess the accident was fates way of making sure you didn’t shut the door on me before I’d had the chance to convince you I love you.”

“I would never have shut the door on you,” he vows vehemently, and I’m not sure if he’s really aware of the full implications of his denial about shutting me out.

“But you’d have sent me away,” I point out swiftly, deciding not to call him on his feelings for me just yet.

“Yes,” he concedes, although he doesn’t look too certain.

“Because you love me.” I say bravely, although inside I’m quaking. Oh god, if he denies it, if he tells me he doesn’t…

“That doesn’t change anyth-“

I expel my breath and groan in exasperation, relief, happiness, and press my lips blindly against his, silencing his protest, and after the briefest moment of controlled restraint he surrenders with a sigh, crushing me against him urgently.

“Buffy.” My name escapes his lips in a groan as he pulls away just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and intense.

“Mmmm?” My lips curve into a secret smile when he glares at me and nuzzles his face into my hair.

“We -you- need time to think, sort things out, and-“

“We’ll sort them out together. After.” I tell him softly. “Right now we have major making up stuff to do.”

He raises his head, his eyes flashing dangerously, his mouth curved into a sensuous smirk. “Like what?”

“You want an itinerary mapped out?” I tease, feigning innocence. “It’d probably take me a couple of months to include everything.”

“A life time,” he corrects huskily, his eyes locking with mine, talking to me silently.

“A life time.” I agree with a whisper.

“What about Riley?” He asks bluntly, no beating about the bush, no tiptoeing, just simple, direct. And possibly the hardest and most complicated question he’s ever had to ask me. I can see the venerability in his eyes that that question’s opened up. And I love him for allowing me to see it.

“Riley was… was what I needed after you left me,” I tell him softly, my eyes still locked on his, refusing to let him look away. “He was comfort, and strength… but not love.”

“Strength.” Angel echoes cautiously.

“A type of strength I finally realised I don’t need. I’m the Slayer, Angel. And Riley… Riley wanted me to be, well, he wanted to protect me. He wanted to be stronger then I was, and I guess a small part of me liked that. I liked feeling like a normal girl. Crazy, huh?” I laugh slightly, self-mockingly. “He was strength by my weakness, but… with you… with you we’re both strong, we’re a team, Angel.”

I’m not sure if I’ve explained myself very well, until a gentle smile touches the corners of his lips.

“Now, do you *really* want me to write out that list, or should we just get started and do the whole improvising thing?”

“Improvising would be good,” He murmurs firmly. “I’m sure we can think of something.”

“I was hoping you’d say that, coz I really don’t feel like writing, and I’m much more of an action girl anyway.”

“Buffy? Sweetheart? Stop talking.”

He sets about seeing to it that I obey, and for a very long time after we make our way into his bedroom the only words that escape my lips are his name being cried out like a mantra as he makes love to me, slowly, languidly, with a passion and tenderness that’s guided by love and awe.

Later, I lie wrapped loosely in his arms, our limbs tangled together, hot and sweaty from our lovemaking activities. I stretch languidly, loving and making full use of that fact that I can touch him any way I like now, anywhere. Large hands move purposively over mine, capturing them and stopping the tiny patterns I’d been drawing around his dusky nipples.

“Sweetheart, you’ve worn me out,” He scolds me with a husky chuckle.

“*Me* worn *you* out?” I’m tempted to sit up and pretend indignation, but my body’s far too comfortably nestled against his for the temptation to become anything more then a passing thought. But just in case, as if reading my mind, his arms tighten around me, holding me securely in place.

“Mmmm.” He confirms sleepily, his breath tickling my neck as he snuggles closer to me, and I smile to myself. “You should call Giles and everyone later,” he adds absentmindedly. “To say they’ve been worried about you would be an understatement.”

I wince. How could I have forgotten that he’d called them the morning after the accident?

“What did they say?” I ask anxiously, deciding that mentioning I’ve already called Giles can wait until later.

Angel’s silent laughter shakes both his large frame and me. “Nothing bad,” He assures me. “Xander, surprisingly enough, told me I wasn’t to let you go until I’d cured you of your worrying disillusion that made you feel you loved Riley.”

“Never.” I reassure him softly before getting back on track with a smug smirk. “And you told him what?”

“I told him,” Angel begins with an intimate murmur, his middle finger resting gently across my lips to prevent any speech, “that I wasn’t about to let you go at all, cure or no cure.”

“Goody, I was hoping you’d say that.”

“And Willow requested that she be bridesmaid once we’d both come to our senses- oh, and there was something else…” Pretending to think back his mouth slowly breaks into a sly grin. “Ah yes… did you know our red-headed friend, with the aid of Tara, has been dabbling into the art of looking into the future? Because she also demanded, as her right as your best friend, that she be godmother to our son or daughter.”

I chock, barely daring to believe, not even sure if I’ve heard Angel correctly. We’re having a baby? Angel’s loving, our joining, created a baby? Gently a long finger moves to tip my jaw up, and it’s then that I realise I’m gapping open-mouthed doing a pretty good fish impression.

“I- we’re- having a baby?” I hold my breath.

“We are,” Angel confirms, his lips inches from mine before he pulls me tightly against him, claiming my lips and inducing all those wonderfully familiar sensations, making my head spin with the combination of his revelation and physical onslaught.

Finally I gather enough will power to push him away-only enough to detach our lips so that I can speak.

“You’re not meant to be telling *me* I’m pregnant!” I manage to get out finally. “It’s meant to be the other way around!”

“I agree.” He tells me promptly. “Next time we shall have to keep that in mind and ask Willow to let us discover you’re carrying my child by ourselves.”

“Next time?” I grin, still dazed over the news that we’re having *this* baby. I wrinkle my nose teasingly. “And what makes you think-“

“My love, don’t argue with the inevitable,” he scolds me sternly. “It’s fate.”

“Oh, well, in that case I can’t argue with it, can I?” I muse thoughtfully, before quipping up with “Hey, Angel? If I break your arm in the delivery room, can I claim that was fate as my defence as well?”

He growls softly and in one easy flip pins me beneath him. I could probably escape- it would definitely be fun to try- but right now I have other, much more fun things in mind.

“I thought you were tired?” I ask sweetly.

His eyes narrow, glinting with amusement and something very close to smoky hunger before his expression transforms in a flash to deep tenderness. “You need you sleep.”

It’s all I can do to stop myself pouting and crying out ‘I don’t want to sleep! I’m lying in bed naked with you! There’s a thousand other things I want to do that definitely don’t involve sleeping!’, but of course I also want to be able to look him in the eye without blushing for the rest of my life. So obediently I allow him to curl me against him, snug and warm.

“Angel?” I murmur quietly,

“Tell me about becoming human.”

Okay, abrupt ending? Maybe… but I didn’t want it to get dry, and there’s another fic I’m working on at the moment (I’ll probably post the first part of it later tonight). I’m tempted to write a kinda sequel, for Buffy and Angel to tie up some loose ends and split with Riley, but I’m not sure. Good idea or bad?

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