PAIRING: B/A
DISCLAIMER: No offense intended, no profit made. *grin*
TIMELINE: Um... now? Post Season 4
SPOILERS: MAYBE slight End of Season 1/Season 4 spoilers. Nothing specific, but it hints at what we learned.
SYNOPSIS: Angel asks Buffy to dinner to discuss what he's recently learned about himself. Sting songs ensue. ;)
DISTRIBUTION: Any and all who would like it... simply ask. :)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Inspired, in part, by Angel in a Hugo Boss suit in "Sanctuary". Also another heavily music-inspired piece. Here's a whole songlist, for anybody who cares: "It's Probably Me" - Sting (This is the song quoted in the third part); "Why?" - Annie Lennox; "The Apologist" - REM; "Then We Slide" - Marysia; "True Colors" - Cyndi Lauper; "What's Simple is True" - Jewel; "When You Say Nothing At All" - Allison Krauss; "When You Come Back" - Garth Brooks; "Why Should I Cry For You?" - Sting.
FEEDBACK: Please...
RATING: PG-13 for mild sexuality.
TISSUE WARNING. (Thanks, Gen... ;)

Restaurants were always noisy. From the lowliest Skid Row diner, all the way up to Sardi's and the Four Seasons, the air of a public eatery was always jammed full of sounds: tinkling glasses, low conversation, the rustling of napkins on faces and lips slurping or sipping beverages. Sometimes, someone would laugh just a little too loud, and others, he could hear the low hum of people arguing or exchanging soft words of love.

Maybe it was his too-sharp senses... he was built for a world where darkness and silence reigned, where survival meant every sensation had to be turned up a notch -- not for these bright lights, fine wines, and polite interactions.

But that was the life his Sire had reared him on... although her taste for these social niceties leaned far closer to the eating of the patrons, than a true desire to take part in their culture. Either way, Angelus had acquired a taste for the finer things in "life". And although the restoration of his soul, and his years of subsequent misery had dulled his appetite for everything sensual, once he had begun to come back to life (because of her...), however metaphorically, he had once again found his preferences tending toward the fine.

Thus, his choice of restaurant -- the very best he could possibly afford -- for this occasion. And the suit. Although Cordelia had originally picked the deep grey single breasted silk out for him, insisting that he wouldn't know Hugo Boss from Toughskins, he'd actually gotten to like it. Angel preferred velvet to silk, really, but time and experience in this modern world had taught him -- velvet simply screamed vampire. And unlike others of his kind, he preferred to keep a low profile. So... silk.

He smoothed his tie for the millionth time, and checked his pockets compulsively for wallet and other essential items, trying not to fidget, and failing miserably. He checked his watch -- 8:07. She was late. Maybe she wouldn't show up at all... not that he would blame her. Did he really expect her to just jump in the car and drive for two hours because he left a cryptic message on her answering machine? They had hardly even spoken in the past year... at least that she remembered... and she had an entirely new life now that had nothing whatever to do with him, at all. Why should she drop everything, like she might once have, and come just because he asked her to?

Angel sighed and shook his head. Of course she would come. If all else failed, he knew in his heart of hearts that if he needed her -- really needed her -- she wouldn't think twice. And he really needed her, now.

She was running on Buffy Time, that was all, just as she always had. She'd run into a vamp on her way into the restaurant, or she was compulsively checking her hair or her lipstick, or maybe struggling to parallel park without leaving one tire perched precariously on the curb. Or maybe she was sitting there, hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles were white, worrying herself into a frenzy about what he might want from her, or just what the Hell they could possibly have to talk about...

Just like he had been for the past half-hour. His mouth was painfully dry, and his neck cramped from tension as he practiced his speech over and over again in his mind. He played out every possible scenario to its every possible conclusion, and then re-examined it to see where it could be smoothed out or refined to avoid some snafu, faux pas, or panicked running away response from her.

But the fact was there was simply no way to tell how she might react to what he was going to say to her. He would just have to plunge in headfirst and hope for the best. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

He didn't want to think about that. And it turned out, thankfully, that he didn't have time to. She appeared like a ray of sunshine in the doorway of the dimly lit dining room... a spot of fire and violent elegance as she quietly spoke to the maitre de, no doubt saying his name... gods, how he longed to hear her say it again. The Frenchman motioned with a leather-bound menu in Angel's direction, indicating that Buffy should follow.

She did, and he couldn't take his eyes off of her. The way she moved... If such a thing were possible, she was even more breathtaking than when he had last seen her. She had gained back some of the weight she'd lost, and she looked healthy, soft and full, like a walking pillow of peaches and cream. Her black cocktail dress touched her curves just so, and he was forced to imagine their velvet fire under his hands... his lips...

Angel took a deep breath. 'Steady on, boy,' he admonished himself, 'Let's not explode before we even say hello.'

She smiled as she approached the table, and he watched her warily, like a coming storm. He rose to pay proper homage to her brilliant presence, and gave her a tiny bow as they sat. The maitre de tucked Buffy safely into the table, and babbled something in rapid, Parisian-accented French. Angel missed it... he hadn't been listening to anything but the quickening of her heartbeat.

He realized from her foggy expression that she didn't understand what the host was saying, and she was looking to Angel for help.

"Oh. Uh... he wants to know if you want anything from the bar."

A little sigh of relief, and a deep blush, from Buffy. "Oh. Sure. Um... white wine?"

"Vin blanc pour la dame, s'il vous plaît," he told the man.

"Très bon, monsieur. Appréciez votre soirée."

"Merci."

Then, his last defense against facing her was stripped from him, as the little man turned tuxedoed tail and walked away.

Buffy sat, watching him go for a long moment.

"So, do we go the whole small talk route, or do you just want to skip all that and tell me why you made me borrow my mother's only black dress made after 1975 to come have dinner with you?" she asked.

Blunt. Direct. No pretense or pussyfooting. Angel wanted to die and turn to dust, disappearing into the fine oriental carpet, only to be vacuumed away the next morning. She was just the same -- but completely different.

He struggled for a moment to remember even one of his carefully planned words, but found to his horror that not a single bit of it remained in his head.

"Which do you prefer?" He answered her question with a question, giving her a smile that he hoped was at least a little bit cooler than he felt.

She seemed to enjoy it. Buffy's smile broadened, and lit her green eyes. "Well... I mean... small talk is good for ice breaking... which is always a nice touch right before some really heavy news..."

Angel nodded. "Small talk, then."

She chuckled and closed her eyes for a moment. "I like your suit," she told him when she opened them again, "Did Cordy pick that out for you?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They spoke lightly through most of the meal -- about mundane things, plain, everyday things. She told him about school, about her complete loss in choosing a major. He suggested History and Phys Ed., both of which made her laugh. She talked about Slaying... about her great new crossbow and how the Hellmouth seemed more and more like the Grand Central of the Underworld everyday. She talked about Willow and Tara, about Xander and Anya, about Giles and Joyce, and even Spike.

She talked about everyone and everything except Riley Finn. Some part of Angel wanted to fall to his knees and thank the Powers that she hadn't once said the boy's name. But that part of him that had become a detective, instead of a hunter... and another, more ancient part that existed only to see to her happiness, wondered about the glaring omission... worried about it, even.

Angel told her about his life, his work... his new friends, his own day to day. She wondered aloud about how much he'd changed... about how many people he had close to him, when he used to be so alone. She commented on how fulfilled he seemed. He agreed, and explained his feelings about the life and purpose he'd found in LA... but avoided the sharper edges of the topic: how he'd only flown there because of the ironic poetry in the choice... a Lost Angel in the City of Lost Angels... How his new calling had come by pure accident, when all he'd really wanted to do was curl up in a hole and wait to die. He left out the part about their brief reunion, and all the many things he had learned since that cold November day. He left out the countless nights that he cried, or the millions of times he's practically had to tie his hands to keep from dialing her number. Or how many times he'd gone to the movies with Wesley or clubbing with Cordelia, just so he wouldn't jump in the car and speed back to Sunnydale to beg her to take him back...

And all the while, as he rambled aloud, he devoured her with his eyes... recalled the taste of her skin, and the feeling of her strong body wrapped around him.

By the time she finished her chicken, there was nothing pleasant and surface left to say. Only the reason he had asked her to meet him there. She looked at her empty plate for a long time before raising her eyes to his, and he knew that she was thinking the very same thing.

"Well..." she said, her smile nervous.

"Well," he agreed, setting his napkin on the table.

"No more chicken," she continued, then glanced at his empty plate, "No more Steak Tartar..."

How she had laughed when he ordered it, like it was the most amusing thing she'd ever seen. The tinkling music of her voice was contagious, and Angel had to chuckle right along with her. She seemed almost surprised to hear his mirth.

Of course, it wasn't something she had experienced often, back in the old days.

"No," he agreed, "No more."

Buffy cocked her pretty head to one side and considered him closely for a moment.

"News first, or dessert?"

Angel thought about it. But struggling through some rich French concoction would only be postponing the inevitable... he wouldn't be concentrating on the food when he was getting ready to tell her... He needed to do this now, while he still had the courage, and had himself convinced it was the right thing to do.

"I've, um... I've found out some things. And... I thought... I thought you had a right to know."

A dark shadow of nervous curiosity passed over her flawless features.

"Things. Things like...?"

He scrunched his brow and chewed the inside of his lip, fingering his linen napkin and wishing desperately that he had brought some notes on index cards.

"Well... we... I mean, Wesley and I... we... and Cordelia... NO. Um... I found this scroll when I was doing a job..."

He could have smacked himself for his inelegant babbling.

'Coupe juste à la chasse, idiot!'

Just cut to the chase, idiot.

"A scroll," Buffy repeated incredulously, "You brought me here to tell me about a scroll you found."

Angel nodded.

"Uh huh. And the scroll says..." she encouraged him.

He looked into her eyes. "I debated whether to even tell you. I mean, you seem satisfied with your life, and you don't need me to add to your burden. Maybe it wasn't fair to ask you to come, but... I couldn't let you find out some other way... or... maybe not at all. I felt like I should be honest with you. I owe you at least that."

Buffy leaned toward him, reached out across the table, and took his hand. The warm, simple gesture of her slim fingers sent a shock rocketing through his every ner

ve, and he fought not to gasp aloud as he closed his fingers around them in return.

"Just tell me, Angel."

There. There it was. The sound of her saying his name was like a chorus singing... like a warm breeze carrying birdsong through the forest.

He clenched his jaw, and looked down at their clasped hands.

"The scroll contains prophecies about the End Days. About Armageddon."

Buffy sat, quietly waiting for him to finish. He could hear her pulse beating against where their skin met.

"And it, um... it says some things about me, specifically. About my destiny... and my reward."

Not letting go of his hand, Buffy sat back.

"Reward?" she whispered. Angel never would have heard her, had he merely human ears.

He nodded and looked at her. "It says that... my soul is, um... mine. Bound. Whole. And... that when the wars are done, I'll become human again."

He felt sweat spring into her palm, clammy and moist, and her body went rigid, eyes wide, mouth open in pure shock.

"What."

He caressed the familiar planes of her face with his eyes, and imagined leaning across the table, right then and there, to kiss her.

"The rider on my curse is... it isn't, rather. And, when the world is safe again, I'll regain my mortality."

Silence hung like a storm cloud between them. Buffy stared into his face, deep into his eyes, and clutched his hand like a vice.

"How... I mean, why?"

Neither question made sense out of context, but Angel knew what she was trying to figure out.

"I consulted the Oracles... they're... messengers, of a sort, for the Powers That Be. They confirmed it. They say that the Powers need me to be strong and focused on what lies ahead. They said... they need my foundation intact, in order for me to be victorious... or even survive."

He hoped she got the unspoken part. He hadn't, at first, when They told him. The new Oracles were twice as obnoxious and not nearly as fond of him as the old, and they had laughed at his self-deprecating ignorance.

"Love, you fool!" the Female had mocked, "You need your love to be at full power!"

"Me?" Buffy squeaked, "You? Human? I..." she blinked furiously, "Your soul... I can't... I can't believe it..." When her eyes returned to his once again, they were filled with passion and wonder at what she was realizing, when all of the barriers that had stood between them for so long seemed to melt away, like ice in the sunshine. "I don't know what to say..."

Angel pulled her hand slowly to his face, and brushed her fine knuckles with his lips. He felt her body shiver in response, and she took a sharp breath, looking away once more as her blush deepened.

He reached out with his free hand and tilted her face up.

"Say you'll stay with me. Say we can start again, and pretend none of the past ever happened. Say you still love me, Buffy..."

He was practically begging -- that had not been on the agenda. He managed not to cry, but his soul wept, desperate for the answer he so badly wanted to hear.

"Est-ce que je puis offrir Madame et Monsieur une sélection à partir du chariot de dessert?" The waiter's voice seemed to crack the crystal bubble that had formed around them as they talked, and Buffy didn't bother to hide her angry glare. Then she looked back at Angel with an answer... *the* answer... in her eyes, and a happy smile.

"Nous sauterons le dessert et prendrons le contrôle, s'il vous plaît," he said, never taking his eyes from hers, "Aussitôt que possible."

We'll skip dessert and take the check, please. As soon as possible.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If the night turned cold and the stars looked down
And you hug yourself on the cold cold ground
You wake the morning in a stranger's coat
No one would you see

Neither spoke during the ride to his apartment. It seemed appropriate that he be bringing her there... everything between them was new, and should take place somewhere they'd never been before. She leaned against the window, looking out at the lights of the traffic passing by, and Angel watched her out of the corner of his eye.

You ask yourself, who'd watch for me
My only friend, who could it be
It's hard to say it
I hate to say it, but it's probably me

They hadn't exchanged a word after the waiter left, but there wasn't a moment when they weren't touching as Angel paid the bill, helped Buffy on with her wrap, and as they waited for the valet to bring the car around. They just stared at one another, his arm around her slim shoulders, and hers around his waist. The most natural way in the world to stand.

When your belly's empty, and the hunger's so real
And you're too proud to beg and too dumb to steal
You search the city for your only friend
No one would you see

They entered his new place, and he had to let her go. She walked slowly around, taking in every detail as he lit candles and turned on some soft music.

"More wine?"

You ask yourself, who could it be
A solitary voice to speak out and set you free
I hate to say it
I hate to say it, but it's probably me

Buffy shook her head. Angel took a deep breath as he approached her once more and stood finally, only inches away, looking down at her.

"You've never said anything, since the restaurant."

You're not the easiest person I ever got to know
And it's hard for us both to let our feelings show
Some would say I should let you go your way
You'll only make me cry

She gulped, her breath fast as she looked up into his face.

"Of course I still love you," she whispered, "I've always loved you. Only you. Forever."

If there's one guy, just one guy
Who'd lay down his life for you and die
It's hard to say it
It's hard to say it, but it's probably me.

Angel felt like bursting into tears to hear her say it. He reached up, cupping her face in his hand, brushing her smooth, soft cheek with the tip of his thumb.

When the world's gone crazy, and it makes no sense
There's only one voice that comes to your defense
The jury's out and your eyes search the room
And one friendly face is all you need to see

"What about Riley?" he asked. He didn't really want to know... but he had to know. He couldn't just step all over everything she had built for herself... built at his insistence, and because he left her to force her to it.Buffy began to lean up toward him, electricity crackling in the air between them as she brought their lips closer.

If there's one guy, just one guy
Who'd lay down his life for you and die
It's hard to say it
I hate to say it, but it's probably me.

"Who?" she asked, and kissed him.

He tried to protest. Tried to stop and insist that she tell him, but all thoughts of human men with itchy trigger fingers... indeed, thoughts of any coherent kind at all, were wiped utterly and completely from his consciousness as his reality shattered when their lips finally met. The touch was tender... tentative... each contact questioning and asking some permission of the other... feather touches that begged for invitation in a shivering whisper.

I hate to say it
I hate to say it, but it's probably me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When she could breathe again, and the dizziness passed, she kissed him gently on the head and stroked his hair.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

Angel didn't speak, but only nodded against her, and lapped tenderly at the wound he had re-opened, overcome by the many sensations of fulfillment and joy that washed through him with her life's essence... her love... her desire and acceptance.

Buffy pushed against his head so she could see his face. His beautiful human visage had returned, and no signs remained that he had, only moments ago, been drinking her blood.

She couldn't put words to the look on his face, or what burned in his eyes. He was almost flushed from the feeding, and he still seemed unable to speak as he gazed down at her with what she could only think was love...

She traced the line of his mouth with her fingertip. "I love you so much, my Angel... promise you won't ever leave me again."

A little smile lit his features. "Never," he vowed, and kissed her softly, "Never."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Angel opened his eyes, and could swear he still heard the word echoing in the air.

"Never..."

He hung up the phone. Why tell her? It wasn't important, anymore, that she know how he felt. She had another heart to occupy her attention. Someone better suited for her.

And he had more to live for now, too. The possibility of a life that was his... of his choosing, and a result of his efforts. He had another mortal lifetime to look forward to. A lot of good to do, in the mean time. And a family of sorts, motley and patchwork as they may be.

There was no need for him to re-open those old wounds. He wanted more than anything for her to be happy. She seemed to be. That was enough.

He crumpled up the scrap of paper, and began to toss it in the trash, but thought better of it, and smoothed it out flat on the table once more. Seven numbers in her loopy hand stared back at him.

Not now. But maybe... someday.

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