DISCLAIMER: Gee, let me think.
TIMELINE: Future.
SPOILERS: General everything.
FEEDBACK: Is almost better than chocolate.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Lyrics are from the Atomic Kittens' 'Whole Again'.
RATING: Light R. I think.

~
If you see me walking down the street
Staring at the sky and dragging my two feet
You just pass me by
It still makes me cry
But you could make me whole again
~

Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel the vampire have experienced something of a role reversal.

He used to follow her, lurk in the shadows, avoid direct contact with the living warmth that burned him deliciously; now she stands outside his office, barely noticing the discomfort of the high heels she wears, not noticing at all the stares.

Some of the people think she's homeless, dressed in the last decent clothes she has left. Some assume she's just crazy.

Maybe she is. She doesn't really care. All she cares about is the man working, playing, living - in the literal sense of the word - twenty yards and countless miles away from her. She doesn't make a habit of this... well, actually, she does, but it's an annual habit. One day when she allows herself to remember because she should have forgotten.

Don't believe me? Years have gone by.

Watch.

* * * * *

Buffy lingers opposite His office doors, her gaze riveted to the clean glass bearing the discreet logo Angel Investigations has used since its early days. It provides nervous potential clients with something to talk about; about five years ago Cordelia gracefully conceded that okay, perhaps it didn't *exactly* resemble an angel, and they've begun a list of the incorrect guesses. All the guesses, that is.

Whenever the door opens (often: Angel has built a good reputation in LA, and Gunn and Cordelia have recently begun to supplement it in the new Chicago branch), Buffy tenses, ready to slip behind a handy tree. She knows it won't hide her, but the small pretence would be better than a repeat of the first year she did this, when she stood awkwardly and silently watched Angel's eyes rake over her. It wasn't an altogether unfamiliar feeling; she always revelled in his hungry, tender glances, the quick half-concerned half-carnal once-over that could have, would have felt uncomfortable coming from almost anyone else.

The part where the gaze was emotionless and resulted in not the passionate kisses of old but the cold numbness of rejection was new.

Since then, she has performed the fake hiding. The past couple of years it hasn't been necessary; by the time he's come out, always alone, the trademark long duster and sombre clothes slowly replaced by no less sombre suits (designer, Buffy can tell a decent suit at a hundred paces; to her unspoken relief, she's always also been able to perceive the intervention of Cordy) - by the time he finishes, it's dark. Easier for her to hide from him.

Easier for her to hide the tears she perpetually promises herself she will not shed. She equates weeping with this prison she has built herself, and long ago convinced herself that this time she would not cry, and then she would be free, and would spend the next Thanksgiving period with her family like every other American. (So far she has excused herself by claiming she still can't bear to celebrate her mother's favourite holiday without her mother there.) And yet she always cries, and so she is not free. She suspects, but has convinced herself she doesn't, that the termination of her sobs will coincide with the first time she sees Angel is no longer alone.

She has been careful not to stay around long enough to see anything of his life but the outside of his office, and the back of his coat. She gets one swift, blessed look at his face. She enjoys tracking the changes there. She sees him so little that each year shows on him for her; an image emblazoned on her mind instantly and treasured for the next year until she can replace it.

Well, that went on a bit, didn't it? She didn't have to leap behind her pathetic sapling anyway (and perhaps you've noticed her leap - smooth, the movements of a fit, physical woman who knows her body and how to use it, but lacking the fluidity, the unconscious elasticity of her Slayer movements). It wasn't him.

~
And if you see me with another man
Laughing and joking, making the best of this I can
I'm trying to put you down
Baby I still want you around
Cause you can make me whole again
~

Not to imply Buffy is depressed. She dates. She isn't celibate. She politely puts off suggestions or requests for something serious. She knows her colleagues are curious about her. A woman her age (thirty-three) in her city (New York) who is single and unattached is not unusual, but usually they are trying very hard to become attached. Buffy doesn't think it's fair to herself or any of her potentials to be with one man and dreaming of another. She freely admits she's waiting for Angel, though only to herself.

She is still in contact with Willow, Xander, and Giles, though they are no longer a part of each other's daily lives. They are her family, and she cherishes them accordingly. She is a conscientious and devoted godmother-cum-aunty to Xander's two sons, and jokingly rebuffs Willow's enquiries into when she plans to make Will into a godmother-cum-aunty herself.

Secretly, Buffy longs for children, but when she imagines their faces, their eyes, their features, she sees a mix of herself and Angel. She thinks they'd make beautiful children together. She finds the thought of carrying another man's baby, caring for another man's child, distasteful.

Buffy is prepared to entertain the thought that she is obsessed with Angel.

You are probably prepared to attest to the fact in a court of law; and if not, why not? It's a state she's experienced frequently since she was sixteen years old. And I'm telling you she is. I want to get onto the juicy stuff, not waste all my time on background.

* * * * *

~
Looking back on when we first met
I cannot escape and I cannot forget
Baby you're the one
You still turn me on
You can make me whole again
~

There's nothing especially different about this year. Perhaps the date could be significant, if it occurred to her, but it hasn't.

It certainly hasn't occurred to Angel, who is currently escorting a statuesque brunette into an exclusive, expensive restaurant. He feels a tingle somewhere deep inside him strengthen, but then it's been there all day. He hopes it's for the woman next to him. His first two dates with her have proved her to be intelligent, warm and witty. He is beginning to think that this date, and all consequential dates, will only serve to further the fact that this woman is Perfect For Him.

Of course, women who are perfect for him, or right for him, or good for him, are not those to who he is generally attracted, at least on a mental or emotional level; he knows it's self-destructive, but that's how it is. He is certainly physically attracted to his companion for the evening - Diane is her name - their second date and first night cemented that, and her mutual attraction. Like Buffy, Angel has not been celibate, and like Buffy, the other party has always instigated it.

He is well-known in the restaurant and is immediately led to his usual table, a secluded corner table where Angel can sit against the wall and survey the entire room, his fellow diner seated comfortably next to or opposite him. The razor-keen senses of the predator may have left Angel, but the accompanying instincts that kept him alive far more than the demon did have not faded.

Diane sits next to him, not close enough to touch but close enough so they can share body heat. She is confident in the relationship, despite its early stage. She knows that they have time.

"Is there anything you would recommend?" she says, smiling at Angel. She likes this restaurant and enjoys that Angel is familiar with and to it.

"The steak is excellent," he replies. He is fully human now - it suddenly dimly registers with him that there's something about the date - but has found, somewhat to his disturbance, that he still appreciates rare steak.

"I'll have the steak, medium, please," she instructs the waiter who has appeared and is hovering discreetly in front of the table.

"Same. Rare, please," Angel says. He does not need to ask for a wine list. "And a bottle of house white." He glances briefly at Diane to check this, and she nods composedly.

The waiter murmurs something and leaves with a slight incline at the waist, an almost-bow. Angel barely notices.

"How's work?" he asks her. Diane co-owns a small gallery in Santa Monica, where she and Angel first met. He was attracted to the power of her taste in art before he was attracted to her; she likes older, traditional pieces, rather than the more modern abstracts and installations that bewilder him.

"It's fine, thank you," she says, delighted; a man who not only asks, but appears to actually listen to the answer. She is young, but has old cynicism.

She launches into a story about one of their tempestuous young artists, a sculptor who produces lovely busts in thin metals. Angel does not have to feign interest: if Diane wasn't a skilled conversationalist, well able to fill or fall into the silences that are still frequent with him, he wouldn't be with her.

Not that he is, as far as he is concerned, with her: he would say that they are good friends. Angel is basically a gentleman, so while he is being 'good friends' with Diane he will not be being 'good and friendly' with any other women. He doesn't see any reason why good friendship shouldn't work for a while, and he will end the relationship gently before it gets too heavy; he always does.

Think it sounds cruel? After so long a life Angel is a good judge of character, and he takes care to choose women who will not be unduly upset or annoyed by this. Often they end the relationship before he does, explaining gently that they don't want to be tied down. He gives in gracefully, and everyone goes home alone and happy.

Many of Angel's lovers are younger than him. Actually, all of Angel's lovers are younger than him; many are younger than his physical appearance, which is now that of a man in his mid-thirties. A touch of grey colours his hair at the temples, making him look distinguished rather than old. Though Angel no longer does much actual fighting, he retains a lot of the physical condition of when he did. His body is strong, muscled, and lightly tanned. Vices beckoned during the first years of his humanity, but he successfully ignored them.

After losing his literal inner demon, Angel took pains to search out and conquer (as far as he was able) his metaphysical ones. He was almost totally victorious; only one remains.

She is sitting at a table not so very far from his right now. However, her hair has long grown out the blonde dye she used to use, and he hasn't yet realised he might be leaving tonight with a petite brunette.

* * * * *

~
Time is laying heavy on my heart
Seems I've got too much of it since we've been apart
My friends make me smile if only for a short while
But you can make me whole again
~

She has noticed him, and his date. First her mind babbled a furious scream of denial, both of his companion and his presence. The clear part of her then issued a firm rebuttal; *he's here. He's with a woman. What shall we do?* The clear part and babbling part had got together - Buffy thought independently of her - and unanimously decided that to leave might draw his attention to her (counter-argument: is this definitely a bad thing?), and besides would leave her wandering the streets quite late without having eaten.

She sits almost paralysed, unable to look away from every casual touch the woman makes and Angel reciprocates. She feels she has her Slayer strength back, that she could storm over and pull the bitch away from him, irrationally demand her right to the man she loves irrationally. It doesn't feel like a situation where rational is called for.

Buffy dearly wants to call Willow and ask her advice, but that would entail a lengthy explanation of what exactly she was doing in the first place, and she really doesn't want to give that. The restaurant doesn't allow the use of cell phones anyway.

Buffy sits and hopes, half that he will see her and come over, and half that he won't see her and won't come over.

She knows it's far more likely he will see her and not come over.

* * * * *

Angel hasn't in fact seen her, but Diane has. She doesn't recognise Buffy - why should she? - and isn't sitting close enough to discern that whoever this woman is, when she looks over (that's what Diane has noticed), she looks with adoration, with hope, with love.

It'd be palpable to Angel, if he saw. Answered for the merest second before he locked his feelings for her away again. Angel hasn't been able to stop loving Buffy, despite provocation; he has learned to live around it and through it.

So Angel no longer relies on Buffy to be the centre of his world, his reason for doing whatever he does. He fights in his own name. And Buffy acted on a long ago conviction of not needing a man in her life; we've stepped in at her one time of pure vulnerability. The other 364 days of the year she is completely her own woman, holding her love for Angel close while ignoring it.

Angel and Buffy could finally be good together. Clap your hands if you believe in karma.

~
Looking back on when we first met
I cannot escape and I cannot forget
Baby you're the one
You still turn me on
You can make me whole again
~

* * * * *

After her dinner, Diane is relaxed, replete and has seen an old acquaintance enter the restaurant. She wants to visit her table, but is aware that leaving Angel alone while she chats would be rude.

"Angel," she says, "an old friend just came in. Would you mind if I...?"

"Not at all," he says, glad at the prospect of a little quiet. He doesn't know whether he is interested in spending the night with her this night, but is fairly sure she is.

"Is that a friend of yours?" Diane asks, gesturing discreetly at Buffy. "She's been looking over here for a while."

He looks over and his breath catches instinctively. Buffy is playing distractedly with her water glass, staring through it, ring flashing against it, pink-manicured nails tapping restlessly on the glass. He is distracted from thoughts of her hands by a sudden hair flip.

She doesn't know that now, he's looking; it's a natural, functional movement, a quick flick to remove the long, rich brown (he vaguely notices and approves of the change) fringe from her eyes, and it's the most erotic thing he's seen for a long time.

He's up before he realises, certainly before he thinks about it. This is why Angel seldom drinks.

"Old friend," he says to Diane with a quick smile. That rare smile melts her and she watches him go over for a second before getting up herself and crossing to her friend's table.

* * * * *

At first she thinks she's thought he was coming over so much she's hallucinating.

She's pretty sure she couldn't be hallucinating him sitting across from her, large and stern. It'd be intimidating, if it wasn't still Angel and she couldn't be afraid of him.

Afraid of what he might do to her or say to her; but afraid of him, no. She knew, with a quiet surety she somehow didn't question, that if a masked gunman suddenly entered shooting, or a bomb exploded into the fragile quiet between them, he would unhesitatingly give his life to protect hers.

If she hadn't already given hers for his.

"Hi," she says, surprised. She immediately worries she's said something wrong, then curses herself for her idiocy. It's difficult to wrongly interpret a rapid, monosyllabic greeting.

"Hello," he says. He knows he shouldn't, doesn't even really want to, but he is smiling; not the half-smile he has given for so long but a real, full, grin.

She can't look at him anyway.

"Uh... how are you?" she says softly.

"I'm fine," he says.

"Everyone else?" she says, "Cordelia and Wesley?"

"Good," he tells her, part of him laughing at the ridiculous niceties they're dutifully exchanging. "Wesley's a professor at the university now. Cordy and Gunn have started up a new branch of the business in Chicago," he gives a rueful laugh, "it's doing better than we are, relatively speaking, as Cordy never tires of reminding me."

"I'm glad," she says, and at his quizzical look qualifies, "that you're doing well. I mean... if you're expanding..."

He relaxes. It took him a long time to get into being a typical - as well as demon expert - PI, but he's proud of his business and likes talking about it.

"It took up a lot of capital, but it's already recouping that," he says with a modest shrug. He can hear the subtext, which is coming against his will; he hears under that comment his alpha-male 'I can take care of you' and hushes it. He reminds himself he doesn't want to take care of her.

"How are you?" he says politely.

She thinks about it for a moment, wondering whether to answer completely fully.

'I lead a great, full life, with you like a constant shadow behind me. Through me.'

"I'm pretty good," she says.

"And Tom?" Angel says, trying and failing to keep the ugly, jealous thickening from his voice.

She brightens immediately, and he feels a strong, unwanted hatred for the man she married instead of him, whose mere mention pleases her.

"He's good too," she tells him, and he almost yells at her that he doesn't want to hear it. He bites it back and smiles falsely, showing his teeth.

"He and his wife are expecting their first baby in a couple of months," she carries on placidly.

Angel doesn't want to analyse the thrill, the savage pleasure, and most of all the huge sweep of relief that goes through him at her statement.

"I'm sorry," he says. He's not.

She waves a hand dismissively, "Don't be. It was all amicable. We just didn't... fit."

She turns candid, limpid eyes on him, reminding both of them of exactly how they fit, in life, in thought. In body.

"You're with somebody else?" he says carefully.

"No," she says with furrowed brow. "Why?"

"You're wearing a ring," he points out, and then gives himself a mental blow on the head for it. He doesn't want her to know that in the smallest look he can still register everything about her.

It hasn't occurred to her. She casts a panicked look downwards, at the hands she has reflexively snatched into her lap, hidden under the table. The day she removed Tom's rings, she put on her old claddagh, and it has rarely come off since. She doesn't want him to know that. Not when his ring could be on the finger of that woman over there.

"21st present from Giles," she lies. "How about you?" She looks up at him from beneath her eyelashes, and he could swear she was no older than the first time he'd seen her, if it wasn't for the sadness hidden behind her clear hazel gaze, sadness it should have taken her a lifetime to collect.

"I'm not married," he says shortly. He doesn't want to give her an inch. The conversation about rings has brought back bad memories, reminded him why he wouldn't have come over, why he wouldn't have spoken to her again. His soul protests. It's singing at being close to her again.

Buffy hates herself for asking, but she has to. Carefully controlling the desperation, the driving compulsion, in her voice, she asks, "Who's your... friend?"

"A friend," he says.

She wants more, needs more, but she won't ask again and he won't tell. She thinks he's telling the truth; suspects that his definition of 'friend' might be a little different from hers, which never involves nakedness, but is assured nothing deeper is going on. She almost wishes there was; then she'd be secure in the knowledge that when he leaves her in a few minutes more, he didn't have the choice of staying.

"How's everyone else at your end?" he says, genuinely interested. He hasn't seen or heard from any of the old Scoobies for over ten years.

"They're great," Buffy says, a beautiful, open smile spreading across her face. Angel is drawn to her mouth, unable to tear his gaze from the full, red lips. He wants to kiss them, lick experimentally and see if her tongue would still flicker out to meet his. He quashes the desire.

"Willow's something big in computers, living with her long-term girlfriend, Xander's living a blissful life as a house-husband to Anya, Giles moved back to England three years ago and is about to pop the question to the childhood sweetheart he fell in love with again," she rattles off, ending uncomfortably. As sensitive as she is to Angel and the situation, anything that could be awkward feels magnified by a hundred; childhood sweethearts who've found each other again is such a subject.

"Good," he says lamely.

They've run out of things to say, and yet neither can bear to leave. The silence isn't as uncomfortable as would be expected.

It's only broken by Diane's appearance at the table. She gives Buffy a friendly, polite smile, which Buffy painfully returns, and then bends to speak softly to Angel. He nods, and gets up. Diane goes to the exit, is met by the maitre'd, who helps her on with her long coat.

Angel lingers by Buffy's table a moment longer.

"It was... nice to see you," he says awkwardly. It was more than nice to see her.

She smiles, concentrates her gaze just past his right ear, holds back the film of tears. "You too. Goodbye."

"Bye," he says quietly, and moves off.

He doesn't look back, so misses her bowing her head, tears already beginning to run a long path down her cheek.

She thought to speak to him one last time would make it over; that to say goodbye to his face would mean to say goodbye to his essence inside her. She's seen him, and no ghosts have been exorcised at all. Her soul aches and her belly clenches.

Ten minutes later she has composed herself and is ready to leave. Tomorrow morning she will catch a plane, go home, call her friends and resume her life.

As always, she tells herself she won't come back next year.

* * * * *

Buffy pulls her coat snugly around her diminutive body; it's later than she thought. She briefly wonders how she'll get a cab.

It doesn't matter, because Angel is waiting. He piled Diane unceremoniously into a cab, she too surprised to protest, and took up an anxious position just outside the restaurant. He knows he could go back in, offer Buffy a ride, but that seems too much, too bold. He'd rather stay until she came out, and maybe it would seem more like a coincidence.

He sees her, and his internal monologue stops. He's lived in LA a long time now, and he has seen women, met women, dated women, who are better looking than Buffy - and still, he has never seen anyone so beautiful.

"Buffy," he says, stepping out of the shadows. She whirls on him and he sees the vestiges of the Slayer power that was taken from her after the End of Days, the power she had only kept after her death in order that she should win that fight in Sunnydale, then returned to the true, existing line.

She relaxes when she sees who it is.

"Angel."

They always say each other's names that way. It builds the fire that she celebrates and he is refusing to acknowledge.

Then her face creases is confusion. "Aren't you...?"

She gestures aimlessly around her to signify 'gone with that other woman'.

"She left," he says simply. "Would you like a ride?"

He doesn't specify where to, and when she has accepted graciously and gratefully and has been installed in his black convertible (not the same black convertible, a smaller, sportier, newer version) and he is driving, not looking at her but acutely aware of the lines of her body leaning elegantly against the window, he realises he is taking her to his apartment.

He tries to tell himself it's just where he instinctively heads, but knows that he would have instinctively headed Diane home. Her home.

She has realised as well - or has assumed, as he didn't ask her for a destination - and a slow burn of nearly nauseous excitement is intensifying deep inside her.

"Would you like a nightcap?" he says, scant minutes from his apartment.

"Yes," she says, her voice sliding across to him like luxurious, adored velvet. "I would."

* * * * *

He scrabbles for the key in his coat pocket. All of his attention is fixed on the woman fixed to him. He and Buffy kiss voraciously, desperate for the feel and taste of each other. His arm is firm and crushing around her waist, helping to keep her secure up against the door, and hers are twined chokingly around his neck, keeping his mouth meshed to hers, tongues exploring familiar ground without surcease.

He gets the door open and carries her through it. She extends one leg gracefully from around his hips, where she is rubbing against him, and kicks the door closed. He drops the keys when he trips on the stair he had forgotten about. They both go crashing to the floor, and it's all he can do to twist so the blow is shared instead of hurting her.

It does hurt her. She doesn't care; hardly notices. He tries to get up, take her to his bed where he can make love to her properly after so long. She's not interested in that, too deep in desire to know anything but that his skin is not next to hers, his weight not on her, his centre not meeting hers.

He accedes readily, raising up slightly only to rip off his coat and shirt and rapidly remove hers. Her nimble fingers work the buttons on his fly, tearing his trousers in their impatience. He matches it, shoving her skirt up so it bunches around her waist and is no barrier to their completion.

Their lovemaking is wild, but it isn't simply the sex they have both shared with others; it is an expression of their love, fierce, raw, and sweeping them away with the power of it. They kiss throughout, tongues tangling wetly, bodies slippery with sweat sliding against and with each other.

Their ecstasy builds, until one touch from him and she explodes, clawing into his shoulders, breaking the kiss to scream his name and hear it blend with his throaty yell of hers. Coming down he rests against her, her legs still wrapped around his hips, resting softly inside her. His face is in her throat, her lips at the scar. There is no compulsion to drink.

Sometime during the seemingly endless night of their seemingly endless passion, they move to the bed, and it is among messy, stained sheets that Angel awakes to a dressed, serene Buffy applying make-up in his new mirror. He gets up and crosses to her, unashamed of his nudity, and clasps his arms around her waist, covering her neck with playful, amorous kisses.

She stares into the mirror. It's the first time she's seen their reflections together. She tries not to find the delight in it that she does.

"Good morning, sunshine," he murmurs into her ear. She doesn't react outwardly, though inside she shivers deliciously.

"Not really," she says, imperturbable and distant. She raises her hands to her ears to put on small gold earrings.

He senses that something's wrong and backs away, unsure. "Buffy?"

"We shouldn't have done this," she says, totally controlled.

He doesn't understand. It was the best night of his life, better than even his shanshu, which he received during a coma and woke up to a week later.

It suddenly dimly registers with him that there's something about the date.

"Why?" he says.

She turns around and raises her hands, palms toward her breasts, and he sees what was not there when she came to him the night before. A diamond ring glitters on the third finger of her left hand. It's a big one.

"Why?" he says again, with a completely different meaning. His tone is quiet and doesn't show the horror and anguish and disbelief clouding his mind.

"His name is Tom," she says. Her tone is smug, but her gaze cannot meet his because she knows it would betray her regret. It's too late for that. She makes herself give a light, uncaring shrug. She tries a laugh, but it dies in her throat. She wants to throw herself into his arms and ask him to run away with her, like a couple of kids; she loves Tom, but Angel she needs. She's never experienced sex with anyone else the way she did last night - never had someone touch her with such lust and look at her with such love. But she won't say anything. She has her pride. "It was a closure thing."

"A closure thing..." he repeats faintly. He shakes his head. "You don't mean that." He crosses over to her in two strides. She has to keep her eyes focused on his face; she's glad he doesn't have a vampiric sense of smell anymore. He puts a hand on her chin, tilts her face up to his gently. "You can't tell me that was a closure thing."

"It was," she says, and now it is, rather than the revenge thing she felt it when she showed up on his doorstep, twelve hours and a whole other Buffy ago. It must be closure, because how could he ever want anything to do with her after this?

He drops his hand from her as if scalded. Burnt by her icy coldness.

She waits for a moment. His gaze is fastened on her, but he isn't saying anything more. She turns to go, feels him follow her to the bedroom door and then stay there as she goes on out. She wonders crazily why he doesn't stop her.

She hopes her voice doesn't shake as she delivers her last, casually cruel, words to him.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Angel."

* * * * *

Angel climbs out of the car and goes around quickly to open Buffy's door. She exits gracefully and he tries not to notice the length of smooth brown leg she shows before demurely pulling her coat around herself.

She looks up at the building, happy to see she doesn't recognise it. It's modern, expansive and expensive-looking.

Angel leads her into the foyer, nodding at the doorman. He places a light arm on her elbow and brings her over to the concealed elevator. As they get in and he pushes the button for the eleventh floor, a sudden unbidden fantasy involving the elevator's reliability snaps fully-fledged into Buffy's head. She shifts restlessly from one high-heeled foot to the other. Angel notices in the mirrored walls.

They haven't spoken since he asked her back.

When the elevator stops he gets out and heads along the plushly carpeted hallway. Buffy looks at the understated cream walls, broken up by occasional attractive paintings, appreciatively. She expects his apartment to be similarly beautifully decorated, and she is not disappointed.

The apartment shows signs of interior design, but she is prepared to bet much of it is down to Angel. The walls of the large living room are a pale grey, with black furniture, and Buffy smiles with relief. This is something about him that hasn't changed. She can see partway into a bedroom painted navy blue, and so assumes it is his.

She's wrong, actually; the blue bedroom is for Angel's godson, Cordelia's seven year old who he babysat a lot before they moved. Angel found that to his surprise he was good with children. Jack likes his talent for and permanent willingness to provide piggybacks. Angel's own bedroom is painted a deep red.

"What would you like to drink?" Angel asks, breaking the silence.

"Brandy and Coke, if you have it," she says absently, examining the pictures on the walls. There are several paintings, and she thinks she recognises some as his work.

Angel wonders when she started drinking, pouring out her drink and his own plain Coke.

"Here," he says. Their fingers brush as he hands her the tall glass.

"Thanks."

He sits down, and after a moment's hesitation, she does as well, on a chair close to his couch. She begins to feel awkward. He doesn't even have a TV.

He is feeling awkward too. All they have to talk about is a past, they can't find new common ground until they talk about that, and neither wants to.

"So... what are you doing in LA?" he says perfunctorily.

She looks at him, thinking. She could tell him business trip perfectly plausibly; she could say she was visiting her father, Angel wouldn't know he lived in Europe now; she could say she'd fancied a holiday.

But she doesn't want to say any of that; doesn't want to lie to him when he's been nice to her with no reason except a long-past romance, and plenty of reason not to be. Only she's not sure if he has another reason because she's become adept at male body language and she's always read Angel fairly well. She's beginning to think that there is another way to exorcise the ghost of Angel from her life; to get the man into it.

So she tells him the truth, "I was watching you."

He's about to ask a strident, shocked 'why', but reconsiders. Even if he doesn't know Buffy well anymore (and he actually thinks he does) he knows people well. To give him that answer probably humiliated her. And he wants to know. His 'why' is soft and sounds only mildly curious.

She shrugs helplessly. "I always do."

She sees him start to form the word 'always?' and hurries on.

"Well, not always... around Thanksgiving, I come and, and I see how you're doing."

"You stand across the road," he said slowly, beginning to piece things together. "You did it a couple of years after..."

She looks at her glass and drags a finger around the rim. "Yeah." He means a couple of years after she left so abruptly; the first time, when he'd looked straight through her.

He remembers, now; remembers leaving the office quite early one day, the only one in because it was holidays, and thinking he saw her. He thought he saw her a lot back then. He'd learned to ignore them.

They sit for a while. It's not quite so awkward. Buffy leans back, kicks off her shoes absent-mindedly, pulls her knees up and curls her legs under her like a young girl.

"Why did you do it?" he says eventually, from nowhere. She knows immediately what he's talking about and it makes her flinch. She's looking forward to telling him, though; expose her sins, expose herself, and find some peace for herself, if not forgiveness from him. She doesn't dare expect that.

"Do you remember Dawn?" she says.

"No," he answers.

"About my sophomore year at university," she begins and goes on to tell him about the monks; about Glory, about her mother. He listens attentively, not exactly sure where it comes in but enjoying hearing about her life.

He listens until she says, "When I was twenty-three, she died in a car accident. And when she died," Buffy takes a deep breath; this is still painful, "the memories... rearranged themselves somehow. I didn't have most of the early days, just the ones when she was in human form. It was the same for everyone. Except for me... I also had some extras."

He raises an eyebrow. She looks up at him, and he is surprised to see that her eyes are brimming with tears. She gives a little laugh and wipes her eyes.

"I shouldn't have had them because... I didn't forget, it didn't happen, but..."

He understands what she is talking about.

"The day I was human," he just barely whispers, but she hears.

"Yeah," she says.

He begins to feel anger burning. "So what you did... was revenge for what I did? For your good?"

"For what you thought was my good," she corrects, and forestalls his protests with an upraised hand, "and no."

There's more. Part of him wants to kick her out now, and most of him desperately wants to hear something that will help justify her actions. He doesn't want to think it was just because of who she is.

"I was still recovering from her death... hell, I was still recovering from *Mom's* death... when the End of Days happened." She looks at him, and they share looks of fear, of sadness, of old warriors.

"I stopped it in Sunnydale, you stopped it here, at the centre, whoever it was stopped it wherever else it was... and then I lost my power."

He nods. He knew about that; Wesley informed him that the current Slayer had somehow received a bolt of power, and they had worked out that the Powers had seen fit to return things to 'one girl in all her generation'.

"It must have been a shock," he comments.

"It was. On the one hand, I was glad to be able to stop... but then I wasn't sure I could, you know?"

He nods again; he does know. It's difficult to know about what goes bump in the dark and, having once been the thing it feared, be unable to do anything.

She is continuing. "And then I got to feeling kind of bitter about it, that they just took so long from me and as soon as they were done, just poof, normal woman."

"Normal alive woman," Angel points out drolly.

"I know," she says a little impatiently, "but that wasn't how I was thinking right then, okay? I was thinking about being abandoned."

She doesn't say 'again', but he hears it. She knows he heard it. They don't mention it.

"And in the midst, Tom asked me to marry him, and I was kind of everywhere and... I did love him. So I said yes," she relates, remembering his proposal, not without fondness. It hadn't been romantic; Tom hadn't been the romantic type.

"Still doesn't explain how-" Angel starts.

She cuts him off again, "It will. We were getting married at the next Christmas. And then in the summer, Cordelia came to Xander's wedding, and mentioned all about your new heartbeat."

Now it is his turn to look down. "I didn't want to..."

"I'm sure you didn't," she says, weary but without rancour. "I'm sure you had nothing but good intentions." She moves and sits on the other end of the couch. "Didn't you know that I would have come to you without hesitation?"

"No," he whispers.

"Well, I would," she says. "I'd had a good few lessons on how short life is by then."

"So it was my fault, then?" he says, but he can't summon any angry energy behind it.

"Of course not," she says. "It was mine. I made the decision to do it, I knew it was cruel to you, and being unfaithful to a man who loved me, and I did it," her voice fades to a whisper. "I'm trying to explain so maybe you won't hate me so much for it."

She pauses, but he doesn't say anything, so she goes on. "I don't even really have any explanation for why I chose to do it except... I was still a little screwed up, I was stressed about the wedding..." she smiles wistfully. "A girl tends to notice the absence of her mom and sister more when she's organising a wedding. Anyway, then Cordy told me and... I just got mad. I felt like... you knew how good it could be between us, and this time the Powers had practically given their blessing and still you weren't prepared to go for it." She looks down again, and her voice wavers. He listens and watches hard for signs that she's putting it on, acting a role; there aren't any. She's for real. "I got mad that you wouldn't fight for me and mad with me for not going and trying to make you and mad with you again for making me feel..."

She trails off. "Well?" he demands, needing to know.

"Unwanted," she finishes on a sigh. "When you became Angelus," she shrugs, embarrassed. It was a long time ago, and she should be over it by now. "There were some things he said that... got to me, and then you left, and Riley left, and mom died and those insecurities just... never really went away. So I decided I was going to make you feel like that and Cordy said you got your humanity around Thanksgiving and that was near when... you know, and I... did it, and went home, and cried, and then when Tom and I got divorced I started the stalking tradition." Her face is wet with yet more tears, but she ignores them. She laughs and hiccups. "You'd think I would have worked out a better explanation by now."

He is silent. She waits for a minute. It becomes two.

"Okay," she says finally. She gets up, picks up her bag, searches inside for a tissue. She can't find one and gives up. She stands by his side. "Thanks for the drink and... hearing me out. I know it wasn't much justification, and I know it doesn't mean anything, but... I'm sorry."

She doesn't wait for a response, just moves away, straight to the door. Her hand is on the knob when his covers it. She stares at their hands, thinking even their hands look right together. She can't look up.

"Buffy," he says, "Buffy." He shakes her gently. She looks up. His eyes are looking suspiciously damp too.

"I'm sorry too," he says. "I'm sorry I remembered everything he said to you and never reassured you about it because it was too painful. I'm sorry I never told you how privileged I felt to have been the one who first gave yourself to, and that that night was the best, happiest of my life. I'm sorry I broke up with you in a sewer and let you think I left because it was something about you other than that you're so beautiful, and I love you so much that we were in permanent danger."

She has been crying, staring into his eyes though they are blurry since he began. Now she stops him, splaying her free hand against his chest.

"You love me? Still?"

He stares back at her, and lifts his hand to cover hers on his chest. "I tried so hard not to," he tells her, "for so long I didn't want to. But I couldn't stop."

"I love you," she sobs, and she frees her hand to tangle it in his dark hair and pull his head down. Their lips meet for the first time in nine years, and they gasp into each other's mouths at the blessed contact. He nibbles on her lower lip, coaxing her to open for him, and she does. Their tongues meet tentatively. They taste her tears together.

Angel lifts her up, and she wraps her legs around his waist, revelling in his human warmth and human frailty that has him still stronger than her. Like a normal man and woman; like a normal girl, falling to the bed under the arms of her normal boyfriend. He is practised and their clothes are gone quickly, and they are free to press their bodies together. She cries out at the skin-on-skin connection, and the cry is swallowed in his kiss, starting at her lips and working down her body until he can tongue the core of her.

She screams and shatters for his lips and fingers, as he does for hers. Finally they are united, and they whisper their love to each other as she rocks wildly on him and then he swings hard into her. They climb, reach and fall once more together, and when they eventually sleep, Buffy does not move out of the protective circle of his arms as she has with every other man.

* * * * *

They make love again in the hazy pre-dawn, soft and languid, butterfly kisses and slow caresses. She rests on his chest, loving the strong, regular heartbeat beneath her ear.

She could stay there for eternity. But she has a plane to catch.

"I have a plane ticket for this morning," she tells him simply.

He goes still under her. She could swear she hears his heart miss a beat.

"I see," he says measuredly. "And will you be catching it?"

"Yes," she says. "I have a job in New York, Angel. I've left my cat with my neighbour. I have to catch it. The question is, will I be coming back?"

He is quiet, smoothing back her hair, combing his fingers through the dark strands slowly. He kisses her deliberately on the forehead, then the lips. She knows what he is going to say.

"No."

She is quiet, smoothing her fingers across the broad plane of his chest. She kisses him deliberately above the heart.

"It's not that..." he starts, and she shushes him, sweetly.

"I know. There's..."

"A lot of stuff," he finishes.

"I'll wait forever," she says.

"You don't have to," he tells her helplessly. He wants to know she will. He will be.

"You won't be able to come forever," she says, and he understands. I always love you: but I can love someone else as well.

"I love you," he says. It still doesn't come easily to him.

"I love you," she says. "Go back to sleep."

He does, and she pretends not to notice he's crying. When she's sure he's asleep, she cries herself, dressing, forgoing breakfast and leaving after one last, long look at him.

He pretends to be asleep.

* * * * *

~
For now I have to wait
But baby if you change your mind
Don't be too late, cause I just can't go on
It's already been too long
But you could make me whole again
~

It's been just under a year. Buffy has finally related the whole sorry story to Willow and to Xander; she told Giles, but neglected some things in the interests of not giving him a heart attack. Her friends in New York, who don't know about Angel but know when Buffy is sad, she told simply 'old boyfriend'. They understood.

She's happy. She's dating casually, and she hasn't been celibate, though she hasn't been able to stop comparing them to Angel, and even the guy with the best reputation failed to match up. She doesn't love any of them.

Buffy is still waiting for Angel. Sometimes she wonders will he even come for her, her knight in dented armour. She doesn't need perfection, because she can't claim it; she knows each of the dents. She loves each of them. She inflicted some of them. She understands why he turned down their chance; years of bewilderment, not trusting, maybe even hating, is a long time. She can give him a year or two back. She hopes they have them. She won't be making her pilgrimage to LA this year. The ghost is exorcised; she's waiting for the man.

She half-expects every call to be him.

When it is, it's a complete shock.

"Buffy?"

"Angel." An involuntary smile spreads across her face. She feels warm just to hear his deep velvet tones.

"How are you?"

"Good. You?"

"Good. Listen, are you doing anything for the holidays?"

"I'm not coming to LA, if that's what you mean."

"No, no... actually, I'm going to be out of town."

The warmth begins to turn into a slow burn. They're playing now... flirting.

"Really? Where will you be?"

"Well, Cordelia has decreed that no-one but me can possibly bring Angel Investigations to New York, so I'm going to be looking for suitable accommodation in the city."

"Oh? Suitable accommodation for...?"

"The business, of course. What else?"

"I was thinking of you. I have a spare room, if you need somewhere."

"Spare room?"

"Mmm. Spare room, spare side of the bed... whatever."

"I think I might just take you up on that."

She catches the tinge of relief. He couldn't have been sure she wasn't with somebody, and only until her last statement had his voice developed the gravely, promising tones that made her shift on her chair, breath coming faster.

"Sure. When will you be coming?"

"Next weekend. And I thought, after that..."

"Yeah?

"What are you doing for the rest of your life?"

~
Baby you're the one
You still turn me on
You can make me whole again
~

Postscript: I believe in karma. And in happy endings. Buffy and Angel had a happy wedding and a happier marriage as part of their happy lives; and a little bit later on, they made a couple more happy lives. Happy?

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