Rating: Eh... PG/PG13.
Classification: B/A. Totally.
Spoilers: Definitely IRWY, and... whatever the Angel season finale was.
Disclaimer: Oh, the characters are totally mine. We go skiing together every weekend.
Feedback: Um... please? I will beg.
Notes: Okay, so this is the prequel to a fic I'm working on called "Angel Watching By My Bed." I need to know if this is any good or no. (Some of you have already read PART of this before it was titled and finished.)

I remember everything about her perfectly - the bittersweet smell of her skin as she leaned in closer to me; the way the dim light of darkened rooms bounced off her golden hair; the way her smiles would slowly appear, her lips curling back to reveal a perfect set of teeth; and how it felt to be with her. Even thinking about her could block out everything in the world, till it had all disappeared in the far corners of m mind. And then the recollections would fade, becoming nothing more than the hallow echoes of memories that cried out to be heard.

But of course, they were nothing compared to the real thing.

Imagine, that no matter how many times I had dreamed up what kind of life she was living or how many times I contemplated calling her, I never expected to see her. Ever. Again. Our last words to each other had been uttered out of friendship, but the finality that hung behind the kind words made the mask transparent. She said she would call for me if she ever needed help. Who were we kidding? She would never need my help, for the assistance of her friends was enough to see her through her battles - both of the demonic persuasion and the normal ones fought every day.

I was too far away. And not just physically. Emotionally, I could not be there. We agreed to remain no more than distant bystanders in each other's lives. It was easier. Involvement was risky, difficult at the very least. And no matter how casual a visit it was, it left serious repercussions on both parties. So gradually, we lost touch. She became less concerned about my life, and as much as I hated to admit it, I had, for the most part, drawn myself away from any concern for her. But I never forgot her.

I thought she had surely forgotten me.

But I was wrong.

It was on the day I least expected her to show up that she appeared in my doorway. I was busy reading prophecies and lore by the poor excuse for light shed by my tiny desk lamp and did not notice her. Not at first. The confusing feeling of pleasure and pain tickled my chest, for the feeling, abandoned over the years, had long since died out. I dismissed it at first, for the book currently on my lap was of Slayer lore. And it doesn't take very long to figure out who was tugging at my thoughts that very moment.

And there she was, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of her chest, a touched look finding its way into her features. I know this not because I saw it, but more because I pictured it in my mind as her sarcastic, crisp voice cut through the heavy silence of the room. "You could say, 'Hello.'"

Within fractions of a second, the voice registered in my mind, connecting not only with the memories in my head, but with my heart. I whirled around in my fancy, high-back, leather, burgundy swivel chair (we had upgraded in accordance to Cordelia's repetitive requests), and I expected to see the same teenage girl on the verge of becoming an adult. I expected to find the same Buffy I had last seen.

I would like to say that she looked miserable and worn, if not for no more than my own comfort. But to my selflessness and protectiveness, I was delighted to find that she looked even better than she had when I left her. It shouldn't have bothered me so. I should have been elated that she had molded herself a better life without my hands there to help her sculpt. But a part of me died right there, in those few seconds (hours, it felt like) of collective shock and silence. She had moved on. The better part of her life did not include me, not even the distant ringing of the music only we two heard.

She had grown in wisdom and knowledge, and it showed. She carried herself like the wise sages and tribe elders, yet she did not exude the sense that she was wiser than anyone else. Her golden blonde hair looked almost as if it had been created out of fine threads of California gold, save for the lighter strands framing her face. Her hair was like that of angels, coming to rest ever so gently on her shoulders. Her eyes were greener, burned brighter, and glittered ever more dazzling than when I last saw her. She had grown an inch or two in height, and her body was toned and shaped to perfection, at least in my mind. Even her tan seemed radiant amongst the dust and pollution in the air she ingested. She looked like a goddess.

I wanted to fall to my knees and worship her.

But I remained seated upright in my office chair, my hands gripping the ends of the armrests till my knuckles turned white and cried out for release.

Neither of us made a move.

I could tell she was studying me closely behind those intelligent, green eyes of hers. I couldn't tell if I disappointed or pleased her, or if my being there had any effect on her whatsoever. If she expected to see a distinct change in me, she would be met with dissatisfaction. But I was not exactly the same as the last time we had crossed paths, either. Saving souls had its effects. They were fainter, but nonetheless, still had not come and gone without a lasting impression.

"You. look good." Her words seemed to catch in her throat, and I thought at the very end of her sentence, her voice started to crack. But I wouldn't surrender to wishful thinking. How could she be so emotional after several years of blocking me out of her life?

Still, I returned with great unease, "You look. great. You really do." Had I really been the one to say those words? My voice was supposed to come out normal and calm, but I could detect the discomfort settling in it.

She shifted her weight, as if to break the tense stillness that dictated our words and forced us not to move. Soon, she was standing on her left foot, her right foot casually crossed in front of it as she leaned against the doorframe with her left arm. I took the opportunity to notice her freshly painted toenails and her new sandals. The Buffy I had known was too busy saving the world to think about such trivial things. But this Buffy Summers had the time. I stored the observation away.

She blushed slightly at my compliment, and it was enough to make her look herself over. "Thanks," she mumbled, head down. Strands of her honey-blonde hair fell in front of her face, and my instinct told me to brush them away.

But I remained unmoving.

She dared a look at me, tedious at first. Our eyes locked, and neither of us looked away. Uneasiness filled the room to the brim, yet we remained the object of each other's gaze. There was no breaking away.

"I'm not here to check up on you," she stated matter-of-factly, breaking the beautiful silence. Her words brought me out of my trance and back down to earth.

In those words, I found the strength to move. Standing up, I walked around the desk and sat on the corner facing her, arms crossed half-defensively in front of me. I gazed at her curiously. "They why are you here?" I couldn't hide the challenge behind the gentleness of my voice.

"There's this. demon," she started, stumbling over her words nervously. It was clear from the forming pout on her face that she was frustrated with herself. Preparation could not help the confrontation. Words were limits when we were together; emotions were pure. "I don't know how to kill it," she declared slowly, not looking at me, rather, focusing on some unknown object in the corner of the room.

"What about Giles?" I questioned. If anyone knew anything about demons or the evil creatures in general, it was Rupert Giles, not I. And if Giles didn't know, it didn't leave much hope for me.

"Giles is dead," she spoke, slightly bitter, in my opinion. She must have been tormenting herself about his death. Giles was one of the people she was meant to protect. Losing him hurt much worse than a random civilian. It made her question just how strong she was and why she still went out night after night, patrolling. Why she still risked the people she loved. "He's been dead for two years."

"Oh." I took this in, and while I hoped to find sympathy, all I found was anger. And without my permission, bitterness washed over my body, boiling my blood. I stood up, my manner still casual on the outside. "And I wasn't important enough to know this information because.?" Both of us caught the edge in my voice. There was no mistaking that.

She was silent for a minute, studying me critically behind her emerald eyes. "I didn't know you cared."

This only made me more irritated, and I promptly stormed over to her, unable to control the rage I had pent up inside me. "Buffy, I wasn't just a part of your life for three years. I was a part of your friends'; they were a part of mine. All of them! And if being in LA to help troubled souls find peace means I have to lose touch with everyone's lives in Sunnydale." My throat swelled with anger, so much I could not finish the sentence. But I had more to say. "Just because you've cut me out of your life doesn't mean you can cut me out of theirs. That's not fair."

She had been building this up, too, and her outburst took on her entire body. Her skinny frame quivered with pent-up wrath, and tears escaped from her emerald glare. "What about you?! You left!"

"Don't throw that at me now," I muttered angrily.

"No! You can't keep denying it!" She continued on where she had left off, "You were the one who left me! And I didn't cut you out of everyone's lives! You did! Angel, you haven't so much as called in four years! So who's cutting who out of your life?"

I shook my head violently, refusing to accept her statement. But she was right, in a way. Even I knew that. Still, I was not giving up just yet. I still had things to say to her. "You were the one who told me not to interfere unless YOU said to!"

"And YOU agreed!" she shot back.

"Because you wanted me to, not because I stopped loving you!" I leaked in a burst of emotion.

Silence followed.

I hadn't meant to let that slip out, but once the words had passed my lips, it was too late. And it was the truth. No matter how hard I tried to distance myself from her, I had never - not once - stopped loving her. She remained in unmoving shock.

I expected her to mumble an "oh" or a "sorry" or something along those lines. But her words caught me off-guard. I had not been expecting them.

"Thank you."

I wasn't sure I had heard her correctly. "What?"

"Thank you," she repeated, a little more loudly this time. Our eyes met. She had more to express. But she remained where she was, not whispering another word. I could see it all in her eyes.

My love still meant something to her.

I felt the corners of my mouth tug upwards in a brief grin. I couldn't stay angry at her for more than a few moments. More so, I couldn't GET angry with her; I could only grow more frustrated with the situations surrounding her, surrounding us. It just wasn't fair.

"You. uh. can I get you some tea?" I offered politely.

She smiled at the casualty of his offer and nodded. "Tea sounds good."

I nodded towards the elevator, and she started off in that direction, with me following her only inches behind. My hand flew to her lower back with such a natural flow, but I caught myself before my skin could come into contact with her. It wasn't appropriate anymore.

We rode down to the lower level without daring a single look at the other. She stood in front of me, studying the elevator to great detail. She was avoiding any thought of what the situation was, where she stood, whom she was with. Any thought that could overcome emotion was welcomed, but her control only went so far. Her hands were trembling ever so slightly.

The journey to the bottom floor lasted several lifetimes. The tension was suffocating, even for a vampire who did not breathe. I felt like I was drowning, and the closer we got to the basement floor, the higher the water rose.

Or perhaps, it was the opposite.

Perhaps the water that had clouded our vision was slowly lowering, and our view was growing clearer again. Perhaps being together was drying the dirty water of denial off us. Things were sharply clear now. Maybe too sharp.

The elevator came to a stop with a jolt. It always had, yet this was the first time I had really noticed it. She didn't make a move, waiting for me to open the elevator doors. She was, after all, a guest. I stepped forward and opened them, allowing her to pass into my apartment ahead of me. She then waited for me to step out of the elevator, and we walked together into the open kitchen.

It was almost comical that we were being so proper and polite, acting like the perfect host and guest. And we still hadn't spoken. Our eyes were enough of a communication, not that we glanced at each other longer than a few seconds. We were inwardly laughing at each other, at ourselves, realizing how ridiculously shallow we were acting, while fumbling around to be normal on the outside. We would never be normal. Never.

She sank into one of the few seats around the polished table, running her hand over the finish absentmindedly. I felt a burst of pleasure invade my body, shooting through my veins, electrifying me as I watched her. I wanted to cry out, but I bit my lip and turned towards the stove, ordering myself to concentrate on making tea.

But my mind stayed with Buffy. The way she lazily ran her fingers over the tabletop. And what we had once done on that very same tabletop.

Five years, almost to the date, and she had still not found out. I was actually amazed. Sure, the Oracles has said that I was the only one who would remember, but I thought (and hoped) deep down that at least some part of her had not forgotten. There had to be something inside that still remembered. Had to be.

When the Oracles were murdered, I was almost expecting a phone call or visit from her. I could almost imagine what she would have said.

"Angel, I'm having those prophetic dreams again. You're human, and we're together. We're happy. Any ideas?" And the story of the forgotten day would come pouring out. We would hold each other and cry, making our burdens lighter by sharing them with each other. And she would understand how much I still loved and cared for her.

But no calls from her busied my office, and no visit from Sunnydale was made. She had forgotten. She would never remember. And for the first time, I had accepted this as fact.

My thoughts were interrupted by the onset of pain from the palm of my left hand. I looked down at it to notice that during my thoughts, I had turned on the wrong burner, and thinking that this one was cool, I had rested my hand on it, transferring my weight to the stove. Onto the burner I had absentmindedly turned on.

White-hot pain seared from my hand and up my left arm as this registered in my brain. I immediately pulled away from the stove, letting out a growl of pain as I swung around.

Buffy was startled out of her own musings and looked up at me. She leapt out of her chair and rushed over to me. Turning off the burner, she gently (but hastily) led me to the sink, thrusting my hand under the cold, running water. I started to pull out because of the pain, but her grip on my wrist was firm, and she kept my hand under the water. "Geez, Angel. Big baby," she teased softly, a wry grin breaking out on her face.

I couldn't help but smile back at her. Suddenly, my pain was almost unnoticeable. I became aware of the contact of our flesh. How close we were to each other. And how secluded we were from the rest of the world.

She must have noticed, too, because the smile quickly disappeared from her face. Her gaze returned from my face to my hand, and she shut the water off abruptly. "Where's your first-aid kit?" she asked in her take-charge tong of voice.

I motioned towards the wall of weapons and the cabinet beside it. "In there." She bustled over and found the first-aid kit with not much trouble. She hurried back, setting the plastic kit on the table and opening it up. Her face was only inches from mine, but she kept her head down while she bandaged my hand. Her touch was gentle, light as feathers and as comforting as rabbit fur. By only feeling, I would have thought she had the healing touch. She certainly healed my loneliness.

When she was done taping the terry cloth, she replaced the safety kit and dared a look up at me. Her head almost hit me in the nose. Buffy had most definitely gained a couple inches, and neither of us was used to the new proportion with each other. "You're gonna be." Her words faded away as she lost herself in my eyes.

Once again, the locking of our eyes held us. The eyes were windows to our souls, and right then, our souls were able to connect. It sent a feeling of numbness and bliss down my spine.

"Demon," I blurted suddenly, out of nowhere. I hadn't even been thinking about that topic, but my mind was unconnected to my body at the moment, for the brain could not experience the emotion I was feeling. Only my heart.

"What?" She snapped free out of the trance and broke away from our tiny area of intense electricity. Putting about two feet between us, she stared at me quizzically.

"Demons," I repeated more quietly, trying to decipher the meaning myself. Ah. it dawned on me. "You came here because you needed help with a demon."

"R-r-right," Buffy said. She started pacing quickly. "It's, uh. it's about six foot five. Maybe taller. And. um. kinda slimy? Oh, and it has orange eyes."

"Doesn't sound familiar." I commented, walking over to the book cabinet for the appropriate book. Searching the titles, I realized just how many demon lore books I had. I finally chose one and tossed it to her. She caught it with ease and collapsed onto the couch, ready for another tedious research session.

And that was how the next few hours were spent - Buffy researching on the couch and me researching on one of the chairs across the room. Every now and then, one of us would look up at the other. I knew when her eyes were upon me, for I would get this buzzing, tingling feeling all over. And then I would smile.

After nearly four hours, I had taken up the sudden observation that the page-turning noises were my own. I hadn't heard a single noise from her in nearly twenty minutes. I looked up. Her head was down as she looked at the open pages of the book. I couldn't see her face, for her hair fell in the way.

Silently, I crept to her side and knelt there, studying her. There, from the corners of her eyes, running down to the edge of her chin, were streams of tears. Her eyes were closed, though. I reached for the book, figuring I would give her better comfort in her slumber. But as soon as I began to pull the book off her lap, her hands shot out and held it firmly in place. Her eyes flew open, and she quickly brushed the tears and hair from her eyes. She glanced at me and said defensively, "I was just closing my eyes. I wasn't done with this book yet."

I wanted to point out that tears did not flow because one closed their eyes, but I thought better of it and kept my mouth shut. I lowered my eyes from her intense gaze and noted what demon she had been reading about. The Mohra demon. I said nothing.

Buffy snapped the book shut and stood up. "Whatever happened to that tea you were going to make?"

I stood up quickly and reached out for her arm. My arm blocked her path. Her head turned and looked to me. I naturally slid in front of her, so that we were face-to-face with each other. "You didn't really come here about a demon, did you?"

She tried to keep her head up and her expression firm. But weakness washed over her, and she crumbled. Her shoulders slumped forward. "No," she admitted in a whisper.

I gently took hold of her arms and scooted her back to the couch she had been reading on. Encouraging her to sit down, I took a seat on the coffee table a knee-length away from her. I took her hands in mine and gave them a definitive squeeze to emphasize my compassion and support for her. "Why'd you come here, Buffy?"

She gave a sigh. "Because I need a reason to go on." Her eyes flashed as they filled with tears. "Because I'm no longer sure of who or what I'm fighting for or why I'm even fighting to begin with." The tears slowly started to drip, as if her eyes were leaky faucets, just one notch of being turned off. Her voice swelled with emotion. "Angel, I work in a bar every day. I come home to an empty house every night. I have nothing to show for all the work I've done, and there's no one around to share this with. I feel. I feel like I'm fighting for just another day of loneliness, no longer for the world or all the people in it." She had begun to cry now, her body trembling with each small sob.

I drew her in close to me, with my arms wrapped protectively around her. She made no resistance, and she tried to burrow deeper into my chest to get lost in the comfort of my arms. The sadness of the room was so tangible, so overwhelming, that I almost broke down with her. I wanted her to come to me for comfort and support, and how that she was here, all I could feel was guilt. Like I had been the one who had given her such helplessness through my wishes. I could never wish that upon her, though.

Never.

She didn't pull away for several minutes. For a minute, I thought maybe she had fallen asleep. And even though she hadn't, I knew she was exhausted. So I allowed her to lean back against the couch and fall asleep. It took her less than thirty seconds to pass between reality and the land of dreams.

I watched her sleep for a few minutes, smiling each time her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Her breathing was rhythmic, and I found myself being pulled into a trance by the peaceful noise. I decided to move her to my bed; she looked so uncomfortable on my couch.

Gently, I slid my hands underneath her back and knees, slowly lifting her off the couch. Her body bent in accordance. She was not heavier, despite her added inches of height. Ever so carefully, I laid her upon the bed, taking great care in how she slept. As soon as she was rested on the bed, she curled up among the satin, maroon sheets and blanket, pulling them close to her chin. She looked so calm and peaceful and. happy.

I took this time to remove my shirt. It was getting rather late, vampire-wise. The sun was already half-risen over the horizon, and to say the least, I was getting tired. Seeing Buffy, feeling Buffy, was enough to drain me of all energy and emotion.

Taking on last, longing glance at the sleeping beauty on my bed, I made my way to the couch and settled in. Then, I awaited the endless tossing and turning that came during the day. Instead, I found peace.

***

Skin against skin, body against body, contact was full. There was friction. Heat. Passion. I loved the feel of her skin, damp with sweat, pressed against mine. The way her body fit with mine. It was as if we were created for each other. I felt her lips on mine, felt her heart beating in her chest. And heard it.

This was heaven. This was perfect happiness. I wanted to stay this way. Forever.

But as I thought it, her head raised up. Her eyes were wide, her mouth gaping. "Angel?" she breathed.

And then she crumbled, turned to dust, right on top of me. I couldn't reach out, couldn't stop it. It was a sudden "poof," and my love became nothing more than dust falling to the earth. And it fell on me, coating me in all that remained of my lover.

Her jewelry fell, too, landing on my chest. Two rings and a necklace. The rings. I recognized one - a silver Claddagh ring. The other was older - gold with a garnet. They were both covered in paint of different colors. The necklace - the very necklace I had given her the first time I had met her - was covered in blood.

As I took the mysteries into my hands, they disappeared. I wept.

All that remained of my lover was gone.

***

I awoke with tears in my eyes, looking around curiously. This place looked unfamiliar. It took a minute to recognize my surroundings. Right. I had slept on the couch. I let out a breath of relief.

And drew in what could only be considered a breath. The smell of bacon and toast lingered in the air, and I noticed the sizzling from the kitchen for the first time. I sat up and peered into the area.

There was Buffy, dressed in nothing more than one of my large shirts and a pair of socks. She was hovering over a pan of frying bacon and scrambled eggs, while keeping her eyes on the nearby toaster oven. Her blonde hair was uncombed, and for a split second, I didn't recognize her. She really had changed.

I shuffled into the kitchen lazily, and she turned to smile at me. She gestured towards the food. "I was hungry, and upon raiding your fridge, I discovered you're very well-supplied for a vampire."

"I don't live off just blood," I told her, which reading into it, was the truth. I didn't live off much blood. No, stomaching the pain and isolation was enough to make anyone lose their appetite. The food Buffy had found, I had stored for one reason and one reason only - company. Cordelia and Wesley dropped by for meals on occasion, saying that we needed to just sit around and catch up with each other's lives. That it was necessary to maintain our close, casual, working relationship. What they didn't say was that they were actually there to check up on my living habits, to make sure I was still getting nourishment and sleep. They were too good of friends to let me waste away.

"Obviously," Buffy agreed with a roll of her eyes. She nodded towards the couch and chairs. "Now, you go out there and sit down. I'll bring you breakfast."

I grinned, making the teasing comment, "Such service." She returned my grin, and my unbeating heart flew in circles around my chest. I followed her directions, sitting back down on the impression I had left from this morning's rest.

My eyes flew to the round clock on the wall. Ten-thirty AM. There was work to be done. But Buffy would always be more important.

I heard her turn the burners off, and it was closely followed by the sound of plastic scraping iron as she emptied the contents of the pan onto two plates. Removing the toasted pieces of bread from the toaster, she placed them on the plates,. Seeming rather pleased with herself, she made her way over.

What happened next took place in slow motion. She was standing almost right in front of me when she accidentally knocked against the coffee table. She fought to restore her Slayer balance, and I reached out to catch her. And ever so slowly (funny how the seconds seemed like hours), she fell towards me, coming in for a soft landing on my lap. It was amazing how the plates remained perfectly level in her grip, and no food was lost.

Our eyes met, and suddenly, we both became aware of how little clothing the other was wearing. She was still clad in just one of my shirts, and I was wearing only my black pants. Our gazes held each other's, and in that moment, anything could've happened. It felt as though everything had been building to this moment.

She thrust a plate at me and jumped up. Buffy opted for an arm chair a few feet away. Avoiding any more locked gazes, she focused on gobbling up her food. We feasted in silence. When we had finished eating, she collected the dishes, snatching mine before I had finished tasting all of her succulent food.

She seemed angry with me, and I did not know the reason why. Was I responsible for her tripping? For her landing on my lap? Or was there something more to that fixed jaw and icy glare? Perhaps she was frustrated with herself, with the life she had chosen. Being here only helped her to see and to feel the consequences of her choices. Once again, I felt a burden to her.

When she was done washing dishes, she told me through as few words as possible that she was going to take a shower. There was no "please" or "may I," just a simple statement that to me proved her sour mood. Once I heard the water running, I felt safe to check out her reading materials from the past evening. Maybe in the text there would lie a clue as to what triggered her harshness.

I picked up the book and began flipping through it to the pages on which her hands had rested the previous night. The Mohra demon. Ah, yes. I knew that demon all too well. I hated it. That one, puny demon had shown me everything I had ever wanted, only to give me enough evidence to take it away. Life would have been easier without that demon jumping through my windows that one November day. I never would have known what happiness I was missing. Never would have felt Buffy the way I did, experienced life and human happiness the way I did. Never would have lived.

Skimming the brief paragraphs of demon lore, the whole day replayed itself before my eyes. The emotions of love and life and happiness. and loss. "I'll never forget." She had made me that promise. Ever so gently, I felt a tear trace its way down my cheek, falling off the edge of my jaw. She had promised me. caught up in the moment. in the defeat. nothing was fair. We just wanted to hold on. Just a minute longer. "It's not enough time! Oh, God!" After all these years, the moments were becoming so fantastically clear. She had promised. and she forgot.

She forgot.

I tried my best to rattle my thoughts, shake them up so as not to be concentrated on. Instead, I focused on reading the ancient script on my lap. The description was so detailed for one of these demon lore books. Usually the things were pretty vague, almost like a riddle. But not this one. This one outlined the purpose of the Mohra demon. how it tried to take warriors from their cause. how to defeat it. how accurate it was at predicting the future.

That last topic jarred my mind to an acute state I had not reached in years. I had been told the Slayer would die, that the Mohra demon had been right when it spoke that. And I had given up human happiness for it. I couldn't live without Buffy. But. I couldn't get over the feeling that perhaps I had given up everything for nothing. Perhaps the Slayer's prophesized death was never physical, but emotional. Perhaps the death it spoke of was nothing more than a tricky way of saying she would be in a state of mind where she's better off dead. She feels dead.

She did say that she needed a reason for living. Wasn't that close enough to death?

My thoughts were interrupted when she returned from the bathrobe, wrapped in a towel. Her wet hair dangled against her cheeks in a tangled mess, dripping gently on the floor. She was staring at me strangely. How long had I been sitting there? It felt like minutes.

As soon as I returned her odd look, though, she snapped out of it, saying, "Shower's free."

"Thanks."

Neither one of us made any sort of movement, both of us waiting for the other to make the first move. So this was how things would be between us from now on? I had to wonder that. Would we always be hesitant, waiting to see how to act around the other person? This was what our love had dwindled down to?

I stood up, and without saying a word, proceeded towards the shower, leaving her to watch me with curiosity. We had both grown so different over the past few years, and yet neither one of us had changed. There was still that timeless love between us. I know there was. I felt it. But it was harder to reach. Both of us had kept it hidden away for so long that it was hard to dig it up again.

Not that we would want to, or anything.

The warm water jet-streaming against my body was just what I needed. It woke me up, warmed me, soothed me. Prepared me for the inevitably long day that lay ahead. I took as long as I could in the shower, being sure to steam the small bathroom mirror I had set up in there for guest use.

When I stepped out of the bathroom a good half hour later, she wasn't in the living room, where I had last seen her. Instead, she was sitting on my bed, dressed in one of my nicer tops and a pair of boxer shorts, her wet hair piled on top of her head and lazily pinned down. She was staring intently at a wooden object in her hands. Quickly, before she noticed I was out of the bathroom, I slipped into some clothes. Then I approached her.

The steps to the side of the bed were some of the heaviest steps I had ever taken, but I knew I had to be there. As I approached, the object in her hands became clear to me. The clock. Oh, God, the desk clock! I had kept it as it was, broken, the glass shattered, the time stopped to the very second. I kept it, cherished it, treasured it, using the clock to keep the memory alive. I was the only person in the world who would ever remember that day. There was no way I could forget it. The memory of it kept me going till the day when I would be granted mortality by the Higher Power.

"Buffy," I started gently, reaching out for the clock.

She drew back, sheltering the clock with her arms and returning me an icy stare that could turn the Sahara Desert to Antarctica. "Damn you, Angel!"

"What?" I was genuinely confused by her choice of wording, and a little taken back.

"How could you?!" she cried, her voice still calm as she set the clock down on the bed and stood up. "How could you do this to me?!"

"Buffy, WHAT did I do?" I couldn't help but feel like I was the one who had forgotten a certain day. Like I was the one who had subjected her to the mental torture that came from carrying a memory alone, afraid to share it with anyone, afraid to lose a single detail. And wanting to lose it all. Wishing the day had never taken place, so the pain would end.

"You-you remember this incredible day where we were together. Where you were human! And you didn't even bother to tell me?" Buffy tried to stare me down, but her chin was quivering. She sounded so tiny. Hurt. And as I reached out to comfort her, she drew away.

"How'd you remember?" I asked, trying to search for an answer myself. "The Oracles said. they said only I'd remember. and why am I the enemy? You obviously remember." I couldn't help pointing it out. She had known all this time, and she had let me carry this burden alone, not letting me know that this was something we could share?

She shook her head disbelievingly. "Don't you DARE do this, Angel. Don't you dare make it out to be my fault." She sniffled loudly, and I knew the tears would soon to be thoughtful. Luckily, I noted with a hint of sarcasm, she had neglected to apply eye makeup thus far. Her voice wavered as she went on, "You just let me walk away. All this. and you let me walk away."

"I-I didn't exactly know you remembered. If you had said something." I pointed out. I couldn't help but feel the slightest bit upset with her. It wasn't my fault that I didn't know she remembered. Why was she trying to push this all on me? Didn't she even know how much this tortured me? Just thinking about the day? "You could've said something different then the whole 'we should try and forget thing.' Do you have any idea how hard that was, Buffy? To have you in my arms one minute, promising me you'd never forget, and the next moment. you want to forget?"

She didn't look at me then, couldn't, probably. Instead, she chose to stare at the toes of my bare feet. Or perhaps the floor underneath them. She shook her head ever so slightly, as if trying to figure things out. She started to say something several times, only to have her words sail on her. Finally, she found her voice and was able to whisper, "I didn't remember then."

"Then.?"

Ah, there was the eye contact. Her eyes were huge, welled up with tears I didn't doubt she'd been storing up the past several years. "Spring of freshmen year, right before midterms. I woke up one morning with the memories, as if they'd always been there. It confused me, worried me, saddened me. I tried." She swallowed. "I tried calling you, but your phone was disconnected."

"That would be because my apartment had blown up," I muttered to myself.

It was too much to take in. After all these years, I had given up hope of her ever remembering. I had hoped the Oracles' death would have triggered her memory, since they had been the ones to tamper with it. All these years, and just as I gave up hope, I find out I was right. She did remember. All these years.

I couldn't say anything. Just look at her. What could I have said in such a situation?

"Oh," she mumbled, lowering her gaze slightly. She took a deep breath. "I-I thought I had forgotten. It's been so long. But being here again. with you. It makes everything clear again." A strand of her dampened golden blonde hair tumbled down, but she couldn't find the strength to move it. What she said next set off a chain of events I don't think either one of us could have controlled. Funny how it's the little things that dictate our lives.

"Angel, I still love you."

As if triggered by that phrase, we instantly found ourselves in each other's arms, our lips upon each other's lips. We bot h fought to dig deeper into each other. To reclaim everything we had craved, everything we had lost over the years. Contact was no longer enough. Had to go deeper. Deeper.

When she ripped my shirt from my body, neither one of us thought a thing of it. I suppose if we had taken one second to just stop and think, we would have realized what we were leading to, and what that meant. But when passion rules the moment, there is no pause button. There are no breaks for yesterday or tomorrow. It's all about today. This moment. Now.

And as the sun beat down outside my windows, we found solace in each other's arms.

As yet another beast was unleashed unto the world.

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