Distribution:Ask!
Rating: R
Synopsis: Set after the episode `Beauty and the Beasts'. Angel, in a fragile state, tries to put Buffy's fears to rest
Disclaimer: Not mine…
Feedback: goes without saying… *g*
AN: Okay, so crappy fic I've had for awhile, but recently edited and reprised. Thanks to all my betas and/or people that just wanted to read the fic over. This includes Jade, lucy, and Sarah.

Staring into the room, she didn't want to go inside. Fear birthed itself in the pit of her stomach and wriggled around, like a tadpole. *Or something equally slimy*, she thought with distaste. She knew that she shouldn't be afraid of her own damn room, but she was afraid to sleep. Afraid of the nightmares that would attack her, the nightmares that she had no one to share with but herself. She was always alone, always depressed, and she was slowly cracking under the pressure. Just because she was solid in physical strength didn't mean that she could always be so strong emotionally. * I wish*, she thought, cautiously stepping inside the room.

Her skin was prickling, like electricity. Her spine was rigid, nearly bowing backwards from the tension that coursed through her body. She couldn't help it; every night for the past few days, since He had spoken her name, she had been riddled with terrible nightmares. She knew that he hated her, even if He didn't know it yet. As soon as he became himself again, he would remember what she had done, her betrayal, and he would hate her. Just as much if not more than Angelus did. That would be the final blow, she decided, as she started stripping out of her clothes. That would be the one that made her crumple. It was bad enough that he had been sent to hell, and she had been the one to do it, but actually seeing him again, pushing it in her face…she knew it wouldn't be long. He wouldn't need her anymore, and he would push her away. She just stayed and waited for the time the beast in him subsided.

Tears slipped out, just one or two. It happened often, but not in large amounts. She couldn't allow any more than one or two tears. She felt drained since He had come back, and if she let out the thing that was choking her it might make her more of a beast than he was right now.

She knew she was being weak; he was the one who needed help right now. He was confused and surely more than angry with her, for what she'd done. She'd been a horrible lay in bed, made him lose his soul, sent him to hell…it was all unforgivable. Every time she looked into his gaze, which was rare, she wanted to cover her mouth and cry until she couldn't breathe, express her sorrow for him. Tell him that she never meant to. But like her mother said, saying it's an accident and you're sorry doesn't fix anything.

No one would understand, no one could *ever* understand her, or what she was going through. She had to bear this burden by herself. She had to feed him, soothe him occasionally, but mostly she just tried to stave off contact with him.

She wanted to comfort him, to tell him everything, but she felt that she didn't deserve to. Instead she felt like she was drying up inside, and she had committed worse deeds than he. She had broken something pure, someone who had endured more pain than she could ever hope to. And she had doubled, even tripled that pain, while he had only loved her. She'd been horrible in bed…She didn't even want to think about it. She just wanted to sit in her room, and stare into the fading twilight.

The shadows created a blue ambiance. It was eerie. As tired as she felt, all she could do was stare at the darkness, as it grew larger. She lay fully clothed on her bed, shoes and all, shivering despite the Indian summer heat. The stars glared at her through her blinds, and the pinking sky turned bright orange. Her eyes were glazed, unseeing, staring towards the stucco on the wall. One tear slipped out, slowing trekking down her temple into her hair. Its warmth felt sickly on her skin.

She slipped into a restless sleep, filled with nightmares of killing him, hurting him, him hurting her as his soulless self. The sleep only lasted a half an hour, but it filled her with rage, anger, sadness, irrationality. She woke up sticky, sweaty, exhausted, and puffy-eyed. The only way she could really cry was in her sleep, when she was truly alone. She wished she had more strength than this, more strength to love him uninhibited, and tell him how she felt. Instead she came at regular intervals, feeding him blood, watching from a distance, never touching longer than necessary. And she felt the chasm growing each time she went, watching him slowly come out of his animal ways, but not fast enough.

She flipped her legs over the bed, preparing to go to him again, feed him his blood, take out some vampires. She had fallen into a lethal routine revolving only around him, and she was slipping further and further into a depression. *Soon he won't need me though,* she thought to herself, walking slowly to the butcher's shop,* soon he'll be able to take care of himself, and he'll leave. It'll be better. * Who was she kidding? She would die without him, she would die with him. She just wished things could be…easier. It was too hard right now, looking into those sad eyes, feeling the judgment pressing in on her. Her eyes stung with tears again, and she walked faster. She'd been thinking about this too much lately, it was cutting into her frame of mind, making her want to scream and die all at the same time.

The brown bag felt heavy as she walked toward the mansion. She could see some late blooming lightning bugs fading into the night, residuals from the summer gone by. She didn't see lightning bugs in LA, all she saw were cheap fluorescent lights and smog-filtered sunlight. Here was at least a little cleaner. Having to face her past…it was worse than escaping it. Having just gotten over the pain of coming back to an unwelcome house, Buffy wasn't sure what would happen if Giles found out about Angel. Not to mention Xander. She couldn't let them know yet, not while Angel was recovering. She couldn't subject him to that kind of mass ridicule.

Brushing the hair out of her eyes, she nearly stumbled when she saw the mansion on the horizon. She steadied herself a little and shifted his blood. Every day it was the same, he'd gulp down the blood, not even looking at her, and she'd choke back the tears. Then she'd go home and promptly fall into a barely restful sleep in which she cried so hard she woke up sometimes, asphyxiated by her own tears.

Torn down by these thoughts, she got ready to enter, before she held back for a second, feeling a sudden wave of bile overtake her. She leaned against the wall, feeling faint. *I can't do this anymore, I can't do it. I should just leave, abandon my calling, never look back. Again.* The bag crinkled against her as she readjusted it and closed her eyes. Another few tears trickled out, like condensation, or sweat on her brow. She held in sobs and pressed her back hard against the stone wall behind her. She just needed to keep the tears in, that was all she had to do and everything would be all right. She couldn't be weak.

She heard a low growl a split second before she saw him come out from the front door of the mansion. She gasped a little in surprise, and he seemed surprised as well. She nearly dropped the bag. He'd caught her; he'd caught her crying. She couldn't hide it now; she couldn't tell him that she was strong. Not that she'd ever…

Her eyes felt overflowing as she tried to stutter a remark his way. He seemed to be frozen in place, an unnamable look on his face. She stuttered a little more, her voice thick, until she dropped the bag and fled in fear, back to her house. *Oh fuck it, he can drink the blood by himself. How could I have let him see me! How could I? God, I'm such an idiot.* She cried a little more, sprinting back to her house. Her mother had left for the night, having an art gallery to go to in San Fran. She said she'd back by five tomorrow night. It was okay; it only made it easier for Buffy. This way her mother would suspect even less of her behavior, and hey, maybe she could even weep to empty rooms and get her pain out.

She reached her house in mere minutes, panting and feeling her throat spasm convulsively. She slammed the door shut behind her, and a feeling like loneliness seeped into her bones. The oil-black and empty house that met her reminded her just how alone she was, how she was forced to keep everything inside, especially her emotions. Hell, even if she told Willow what was going on, they'd probably never trust her again. And after leaving during the summer, that was something she couldn't have. She wouldn't have it. She just needed a little more time to figure things out…*There *is* no more time! * Her mind screamed at her. *Face it, you're fucked! You don't know what to do, and Angel hates you now. He's seen you crying.* She didn't think she'd been so terrified in her life. Everything had just changed, been spun around. She'd bared her weakness to him, and only solidified it by running. *I'm such a coward.* She ascended the stairs, covered in shadow puppets.

She shirked her patrol and homework responsibilities, instead choosing to slip under her too-hot covers and try to feign sleep. At least she would be alone with her thoughts, maybe it would help something. *Yeah right.* She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her body clench with shudders. It was so precarious, burying her feelings underneath her skin. It stretched her to the breaking point. She felt as though she had been tanned and dried.

The phone shrieked, and she jumped a little underneath her covers. Warmth was burning its way through her body. She'd turned the air conditioner off and hadn't bothered to turn it back on. She'd rather suffer the heat. The phone rang incessantly, and she covered her ears and whimpered after awhile. She wanted to crush it, but unfortunately she still possessed some semblance of sanity.

She tossed a little throughout the night, heat consuming her body, tears burning. Her eyes felt like hot sand, her mouth like paste. She felt the sobs like bubbles in her throat, and they kept pushing into her mouth before she'd swallow them and open her eyes as wide as they could go.

Every few seconds she'd look out the window, weary of something or someone out there. All she saw was a pregnant and sallow moon, tearing its way into the sky amongst the chipped stars. The night was never ending, the only source of light into the heated room. She gulped before pulling off her top, leaving only a camisole underneath. She was so hot…too hot. All the lightning bugs outside of her window had faded into nothingness, they're lights long dried up by the night's heat. She wasn't sure if she'd patrol tonight.

She heard creeping amongst the leaf curls and chrysanthemums outside of her window, and immediately her body stiffened like dehydrated rubber. She couldn't move, she couldn't do anything. The tree swayed slightly outside of her window in a dry wind that did nothing to cool the night's temperature. What if something had followed her home? * It's okay*, she instantly reassured herself, *they can't get in here even if they try.*

She huddled under the covers, her skin burning like a fever pushing it's way through her body. Her breathing sounded in the room, loud and unnatural. *A predator shouldn't be like this*, she thought. *They should be silent, stalking their prey.* Instead, she was sitting under her covers like a frightened animal, her heart doing lunges in her chest. Her hair stuck to her face, a fine sheet of sweat starting to break out all over her skin. Which was from fear, and which from the heat, she couldn't tell.

Suddenly she heard the window pain rattle forcefully, as something lunged against it. Her breath wooshed out of her lungs and she let out a fearful yelp. *What is wrong with me?* She then realized that there was a feeling, starting at the base of her spine and worming its way through her body like flames licking at gasoline. *It can't be.* Again the tears claimed her, and slowly she pulled off her covers.

**

He could scent her tears. They were like the powerful smell of chlorine at a swimming pool. He could hear her silent sobs, and smell blood outside of his home. He could also feel her life pumping through her veins, smell her sweat, her fear, her sadness. All of these things confused him and depressed him, and that only made him more perplexed. He wanted to come out to take care of her, his Mate, when she instantly ran. He cocked his head to the side after watching her leave. His skin was itching; partly do to her obvious distress, the other part due the pink dusting of sun covering him.

He didn't understand. Why was she sad? Was he making her sad? Perhaps. He wanted to make her feel better, but honestly he was afraid of her too. He was afraid of her fear, her judgment. Maybe she wouldn't come anymore. Maybe she wouldn't take care of him. He didn't know what he'd do if that were to happen. He knew, beyond basic animal instincts, that he could take care of himself. But at this point, all he could say was her name, not much else. He needed her; he needed her love and warmth. He couldn't even string coherent sentences, and maybe he was being selfish, but he needed her in his life. He needed to clarify that she shouldn't be scared of him; she should never be scared of him. But he didn't know how to say it. All he knew was her, her name, her smell, her everything.

First, before following her, he sniffed out the bag and ripped it open, plunging his teeth into the plastic containers. Blood flooded his mouth. He growled and fell to the ground in a near orgasm, picturing her face beneath his lids, gulping down the blood greedily. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was an animal, but he was so hungry that he didn't care. So animalistic, so frustrated for Her, that he really didn't give a shit anymore. He dropped the container after awhile, wiping his mouth carelessly and shifting his face. His head dropped back on the stones leading up to his front door, and he stared up at the glowing moon. She smiled down at him, and he knew what he had to do.

He paced just inside the entrance to his home. She wasn't here. He could feel her pain acutely, and he knew that it was because of him. Because of her own insecurities which were ultimately because of him. All he could do to let out his frustration was snarl and growl; he couldn't think straight. And this only frustrated him further. He prowled, he wondered what to do. He wanted to go to her, but he wondered if he would only make it worse. The ache in his bones was linked to her, the carved out feeling in his limbs.

He paced a few more times before the twilight began to make his skin crawl. He could hear her inside of his head, wailing. A thousand times, her eyes, spilling over, bored into his head. The trembling lip, her arms full, her whole person shaking against that stone wall. He wanted to crush her, to never let her go, but her fear surprised and shocked him. Finally, after smashing a number of vases in his house, he decided to go, growls and all, toward her house. Find out what was wrong, try to communicate as best he could that he loved her.

Without much pause, he rubbed his sore wrists and bounded out of his house, like an animal. He licked his lips, already feeling his muscles tense and slide over one and other as he prepared himself to run to her house. Anything that tried to stop him would be ripped apart. Creeping through the leaves that surrounded the bottom part of her house was easy. The hard part was evading prying looks from the neighbors, possibly cop calls. He leapt up the tree that led to her window, scraping his feet in the process. Leaving the mansion, he hadn't thought much about donning on a shirt or shoes. He was so mindful of her, that he couldn't think about anything else. There just wasn't room in his thought process. Although, he did wonder how he could get inside.

After jumping on her roof, branches lightly scraping his shoulders, he peered into her darkened room. Moonlight splotches danced along her floor, to the tune of the wind in the trees, and his eyes immediately picked her out, huddled under the covers. It was a warm night, he wasn't sure why she'd want to be under there. He traced his fingers lightly over the windowpane, feeling her pain as if it were physically his own. Even through layers of brick, mortar, glass and insulation, he could smell her strongly. The most powerful emotion that he could smell was her discomfort, her sadness. His nails scraped against the glass, and he growled. He knew that he couldn't get in there without an invite, no matter how hard he tried. He felt desperation, anger, love. He pounded lightly on the window, and saw the covers fling back. He shrank back a little.

The look on her face was nothing short of incredulous, and for a moment he pondered just jumping off the roof and running, but then he was hit with the scent of her. He clung to the window as if it was her own body, and she was his. That would always be, no matter how many years he spent in hell. Her eyes were large and liquid pale under the giant moon. She looked ethereal, beautiful in her sadness. He wanted to be her source of comfort, but he was unsure. Unsure of her trust, her love. His fingers squeaked again as he traced her. Her lip jutted out and he wanted to kiss it. He said her name, over and over. It was the only word that he could form, the only coherence he could communicate to her.

She slowly stepped forward, dressed lightly in only a camisole and shorts, and lifted the window.

"Angel," she said quietly, and it was all he needed to hear. He slammed his hands against the invisible barrier, and she stepped back a foot, her eyes turning scared for a second. His look immediately softened and he whimpered.

"Buffy," he said, his voice rough. "Buffy, please, Buffy…" She had to know what he was saying, what he was pleading. Instead she stood there, something akin to love and confusion in her eyes, not sure if this was the right thing. Instead of telling her that it was okay, to invite him in, whimpering growls were forced out of his throat, a grimace on his face. He flattened himself against the barrier, making it clear what he wanted. She sat on the bed for a bit, and he could see her chest heaving. It was always a prelude to her sobs with her, and he instinctually sensed what was coming. She was about to unleash it, and he wanted to be there for her.

"Please," his whisper rasped over to her, through the shadows, sliding sluggishly. Her eyes flashed towards him, and he could see all sorts of different colors, emotions. They were glassy, opalescent.

Her sobs started in, and he rubbed his cheek against the window, looking down at the vines that climbed the trellis on the next house. Why wouldn't she let him in? Was she *that* afraid? He pounded a few more times, was prepared to yell for her if that was necessary. But she was frightened, he realized, at least as frightened as he was about this whole thing. She hadn't shown it though; she had been more careful, smarter. She had hidden under layers and layers of things that she had to do for him. He didn't want her taking care of him anymore, if it meant the cost of her happiness. He just wanted to *be* with her. He needed her more than blood. At this thought the animalistic side returned.

Her weeping dug claws into him, and it was all he could do to hold back roars of his own. Eventually, he crooned to her, indistinct and soothing sounds issuing from his throat. At his calling, she raised her head, and her tearstains shone in the moonlight. They were reflecting trails of mercury running down her cheeks, liquid pearls. A watery grimace and she was up, next to him. Only a thin barrier separated them. He crooned some more, rubbing his large hands over the window pane, making a pained expression as though he were being beaten. How could he say it? His mind wasn't ready for that yet, so how could he tell her that he loved her? She raised a shaking hand to the glass and he pressed his palm flat against hers. His dark eyes scanned her face, everywhere from the teary eyes to the beautiful nose, swollen from crying. His beautiful swollen nose.

He grunted a little, and saw the same desperation in her eyes that he held, but she wasn't willing to give into it yet. He kept whispering her name into the air, over and over, and it floated out into the night, mixing with the scent of the honeysuckle and the lilacs that grew by the side of the house. Slowly she raised the window, but the barrier was still there. He laid his cheek against her hand through the barrier, feeling the heat against his face. He made a small mewling sound. He would be content to just curl up here, if only to be near her, if she wasn't ready to invite him in. He could understand that, he could see how she wouldn't be. He had…defiled her, ruined her life. Ruined her friends' lives. He had hurt her. But damnit, he needed her!

"Please," he whispered, and he noticed that her hands were still shaking. One nail was chipped, but they were perfect. He wanted to touch them, feel her vibrancy, like a million colors of paint all splashed together. But instead of creating a gray hue, they created monumental color, stayed in separate facets of Buffy.

She went back to her bed, sitting down, as though thinking hard for a second, before she raised her eyes to his again. What color were they? A steely hazel against the moonlight. They were sad, and lonely. She only stared at him for a second more, before rolling her back to him and ignoring. He slammed the barrier, snarling immediately. He wasn't angry with her, at all. It was the fact that this damn house kept him from his mate. That she was too scared to let him in. Not for what he was, he knew, but for something deeper, something inside of herself. For two hours, he sat cradled against the imaginary line, until finally, it evaporated.

**

She hadn't opened her eyes yet; she was still pretending to be asleep. She didn't know how He had gotten through the barrier that was supposed to keep him at bay, but it had happened. And now she would be subject to all the anger and hatred that he had to unleash on her. That's why she was lying so still, so quiet. She wanted him to go away; she didn't want to be judged. She just wanted him to leave, to feed and get better. Instead she heard the almost silent padding of his feet, pacing on her carpet.

She tried not to jump when she felt his weight on the bed, but evened her breathing out and concentrated on her heartbeat. He probably already knew that she was awake, so it was futile to attempt this, but it kept her from facing him, from lashing out or unleashing the pain that she had inside.

She could hear the blankets as his hands sifted over them, creeping cautiously towards her form. The heat was swallowing her whole, and yet she didn't move a muscle underneath those blankets. Instead she waited, and felt his hands touch the ends of her hair, playing with it on the sheets, savoring the texture of it. All this she could feel though closed lids; her predator's senses telling her all she needed to know without sight.

That was when the growling started, really softly. She knew that it wasn't purring; it was too strong for purring, but it was still there. She wasn't afraid. He'd already proved that he wouldn't hurt her. What she really was afraid of were the emotions that he was pulling out in her, almost deliberately. The way that he was coaxing her towards tears, towards broken apologies that would fall short of doing any good. No, nothing she could ever say would make it right. *Why is he doing this to me? Does he want me to suffer?* Her heart started slamming against her chest, something knocking around inside of her. Irrationality was working its way through her system, like so much poison.

Her body shook a little, and she could feel the remnants of the tears from her terrifying dreams, dreams of being cast out, of Angel killing her, blaming her. She wouldn't blame him. But now here he was, moving cautiously around her as though he thought she was made of blown glass. Her eyelids fluttered as she tried to clamp them shut, but what was the use? He already knew she was awake. Maybe if she just kept them closed a little longer she could get through this.

She felt false breath cooling her cheek, and she could sense his skin mere inches from her own. At this point it took everything in her just to stay still. Being this close to him, much less with her eyes closed, was unnerving. She wanted to jump up and claw at her own too- hot skin. She felt the covers peel back slowly, and the heat was only alleviated a little.

She felt him nudge her with his nose gently, trying to rouse her, but she didn't want to move. The embarrassment of crying was more than she could take; she was baring to him that she was only a shell of her former self. His nose pressed more insistently at her cheek, and had she not been in this situation, she would have giggled at the animalistic response to her repose. As it was, she wasn't delighted at all. She was depressed, angry with herself for doing this to him.

She jumped a little; still trying to do the impossible task of ignoring him, when she felt a cool, gentle wetness run up her cheek. She realized it was his tongue and sucked in a breath. He was lapping up her tear trails. Her chest convulsed, she could feel It. It was pushing itself up, the cries, the anguish. Her breathing was shallow now.

When he slipped his arms around her waist, her body went rigid, and her eyes finally opened. She stared into his eyes, now black in the shadows. They mirrored her terror, her anguish, and she knew that it was because of her. She stared at him for long moments, unable to go forward or backward.

He didn't say anything, but his face fractured a little, and she laid her head down on his shoulder. He rubbed his cheek against hers. A faint hum sounded from his chest, growing stronger as it went along, and she realized this was his purr. *Is he truly content? No, he's not. He's angry with me! I know it! Why is he holding me?*

She didn't burst into violent sobs, as she thought she would. Instead, with the rhythm of his purr, she began to quietly cry. Her tears slid over his skin like gliding on ice. She kept looking up into his eyes, for reassurance, and he would only tighten his arms around her, cradling her, securing her.

Like a pendulum, her sobs grew in length and intensity. Soon she was wailing and rocking and spiraling out of control. In between pieces of sobs, she would wail "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't hate me." She was mindless, only aware of the night, the never-ending darkness, the way she had hurt him. The way she deserved to be hurt for betraying him.

**

He was growling, purring, nuzzling like beast, but he wasn't one, and would never be to her. He was always hers, and they would always be one. He couldn't tell her that it was okay, that she didn't hurt him, and she explained in broken tones that it was all her fault, everything was her fault. So instead, through physical touch, he tried to tell her the length of what he felt for her. Maybe it was primal comfort, and completely animalistic, but at that point he didn't care. All the he cared about was the fact that she was in pain, so he did his best to comfort her. Her tears felt like liquid diamonds spreading in pools over his chest, and he would lick them softly. He would growl and purr and push against her until their bodies were sealed, but she never seemed to understand. This frustrated him.

Finally, after hours of crying, it came to him. Only one word, but it was enough to say, to tell her. "Love," he scraped out, into her hair. "Oh, love." They rocked together, to the rhythm of her heart, her breathing, her tears, her sobs, her life, her strength. She was his universe. How could she ever understand that nothing was her fault? How could she see? She would always be burdened with this, and all he could do was try to help her through it, to love her, to treat her like she should be revered. But right now he was nothing more than an animal. She didn't care that his speech was limited, that he often snarled, or that he lacked manners. She just wanted him, and that's all he needed. It was time to take care of His Slayer, like she had done to him, because she was never taken care of. And she needed it more than anybody.

He watched for hours, and couldn't have been torn from her side if Hell tried to suck him down again. He tightened his hold on her, and she fell into sleep, the tears slowly drying on her face. When she turned and twisted restlessly, he licked her gently again and massaged her back, rubbed his face against hers. When she fell at peace, he only lay in wait, for the words to come back.

**

Later on, the words did come back, the pain came back and the honesty went away. They never discussed that night in the future, they just let things slowly fester until they were torn apart by the danger, the uncertainty, everything building up.

Sometimes, a little after he'd become humane, he would come to her while she was sleeping. He would tell her the truth: how much he loved her, how much it wasn't her fault. But in reality, he couldn't face her. He was a coward. He could tell her these truths in her sleep, face all the guilt for destroying her as Angelus, but when she was awake…he feared he would.

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