by
Margot Le Faye

    Buffy slept well into the next afternoon, her bruises all but vanished, her remarkable Slayer's constitution having ensured her return to top physical condition…so that she would be ready to face the next battle, the next threat. She woke without grogginess or disorientation, and sat slowly up. Angel was watching her from a chair across the room. He was in brooding-guy mode, as she would once have called it.

She opened her mouth to say, good morning but the coldness in his eyes deterred her.

"I'm going to get a shower and get going," she said instead.

"Towels are in the cabinet," he replied. She nodded, tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She was still wearing the torn and bloodied clothes from the night before. She grabbed the gym bag she had left in his living room and headed for the shower.

She had brought her own toiletries, and was infinitely grateful that she had decided to take them along, even though she had expected to stay with Cordy. Using Angel's soap, covering herself in things that smelled so intimately of the man she still loved would have been a little too much just then. She cleaned up quickly, blew her hair dry, and dressed. She didn't bother braiding her hair, just let it hang loose, a fabric-covered hair-band holding it away from her face and keeping it out of her eyes. She quickly packed up her things, then opened the bathroom door and headed out.

She noted that he had already changed the sheets on the bed. The ones she had used were probably going through the small washer she could hear running in his kitchen. As if he couldn't stand to leave any trace of her in his apartment. His back was to her as he went about the homely task of drying dishes and putting them away. She should do what she had done the last few times they had fought together: just leave without another word.

Until the next time, and the next…. She couldn't go on this way. Buffy set down her bag and hesitantly walked a few steps closer to him.

He could smell her before she said a word. That damn delicious scent of vanilla that could now spark his temper as easily as the mention of her name. He wondered how many times he'd have to wash his sheets before he could be sure that every trace of her was gone, how deeply he would have to scour his bathtub. He hoped to God she would have sense enough to leave without saying anything, as she had before. Because he was holding in the anger by a thread, by the skin of his teeth, by the thinnest margin of control and he just knew it would break if she said the wrong thing. And that anything she said would be all wrong.

He was right.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," she began, and he hated her calm, hated her dignity. "I know what I did was…unforgivable," she continued. Angel put down the dish he was holding, carefully, because the urge to turn and hurl it at her was growing. He didn't even trust himself to tell her to shut the hell up and get the hell out, so he stood trembling, arms braced to either side, clutching the rim of the kitchen sink like a life line.

"But I am," she forged on, her voice picking up just the tiniest quaver, and his control slipped the tiniest bit further to the edge, "and I will always be, so very truly…" her voice broke as she finished. "…sorry," she managed on a whisper.

Angel's control snapped.

"Sorry?" he growled, turning to face her at last. "You think that matters? That it solves things?" He stepped closer to her, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks somehow stoking his anger. "What did you think? That you would say a few contrite words and all would be forgiven, that I would roll over and be your pet vamp again until the next time you decided to rip out my heart?"

"Angel, no, I…"

"You aren't sorry for a damn thing," he shouted. "If you had ever truly loved me the way I loved you, you could never have said those things to me. But you did. And the only thing you're really sorry about is that you lost your fucktoy, Riley, and haven't been able to replace him."

Buffy gasped at the injustice of his accusations. And something twisted inside her. Years of bitter regret transmuted in a moment.

And suddenly her rage matched his. Anger gripped her, so intensely that her whole body trembled with unthinking fury. He had made the mistake of moving closer. Buffy hauled back and slapped him across the face, her full Slayer's strength behind the blow.

"You self-righteous bastard!" she hissed. His head snapped back from her blow…and he stared at her through yellow eyes. Calmly, Buffy took a step back and pulled the stake out of her waistband.

Perhaps Wesley or Cordy could have stopped them, but they had taken the day off to sort through the mess left of Wesley's apartment. And the building Angel had taken over had been long abandoned. There was no one to see the battle, no one to interfere. So, when Angel launched himself at her with a roar, there was no one to pull the two combatants apart until they calmed down.

They didn't calm down.

They had always been pretty evenly matched. She might have been one of the strongest Slayers in history, but he had been one of the strongest and most dangerous demons ever turned loose on a hapless world. But always before, except for the time when they had faced off before Acathla, one or the other had been holding back. And if Angel's soul hadn't been restored just as she beat him to his knees, he might yet have pulled things out of the hat and defeated her.

This time, neither held back.

The kitchen table went first, when Buffy tossed Angel onto it. Her stake missed his heart and he rolled aside, grabbed her while she was off balance, and threw her into the couch. She was off it before he could get to her and break her neck. Within five minutes, his end tables were splinters, his couch was kindling, and he didn't have a working lamp left.

And they were both still full of unthinking rage, with no other thought than to destroy the enemy before them.

Angel got her stake away from her, but a back handspring brought her to the wall of weapons and she ripped a quarter staff out of its moorings and attacked with it. He dodged the attack and got the quarterstaff's mate from the wall. She had improved with this weapon, he noted grimly as she battled him to one corner of the room. But he was still bigger and stronger. He forced her back.

Back and forth they fought across his apartment, in grim silence and growing rage. He no longer had leisure to think about her improved fighting skills, because she had picked up the pace, moving so quickly she was a blur of light as she ruthlessly went after him.

And yet, the old bond, the old synchronicity held. He didn't have to think about where her next blow would fall, because something inside him intuitively knew, allowing him to bring his own weapon up to meet hers. As she seemed to know his moves, could block his blows.

In the end it wasn't strategy that decided the battle, but brute strength. When Buffy brought up her quarterstaff to block Angel, he crashed his own weapon down on it with such rage that both staves shattered. Appalled, frightened at last, Buffy fell back a step. Demon still to the fore he followed her, reached for her….

Something that was twisted inside him twisted further.

The thin scrap of cotton she called a blouse tore in his hands, revealing her gorgeous breasts in a simple white cotton bra. Gasping in outrage, she returned the favor, shredding one of his expensive, hand sewn Italian silk shirts to expensive rags. Growling, he pulled her into his arms, his fanged mouth crushing down on her vulnerable lips. Her arms tightening around his neck, she kissed him back, savagely, then bit down on his mouth until she drew blood. He snarled and pulled away, lifting her up and tossing her across the room to land hard on his miraculously unscathed bed, then dove after her.

Their clothing did not survive this battle. Too angry for words, in the grip of an unreasoning fury that recognized no difference between this combat and the one they had engaged in moments before, they tore apart each other's garments, needing to get to the flesh beneath, needing to bite and lick and draw blood. Angel had the edge on that one, sinking fangs into her tender throat, pushing her back onto the soft bed. With a moan she let herself fall, taking the remembered weight of him as she settled beneath him, and spread her thighs to cradle his hips. The rich tang of her blood as it poured down his throat was driving him crazy, and then he found the warm and welcoming wetness his body craved from hers, and he thrust home.

She came as soon as he entered her, the unspeakable pleasure of having him in her blood and in her body so intense, she couldn't help but dissolve into orgasm. The delicious contractions of her flesh around him drove the last bit of his sanity away. Angel retracted his fangs from her, lifted his head and howled in pure masculine triumph. She was his, beneath him, helpless in the pleasure only he could bring her. Savagely, he set out to renew her pleasure and attain his own.

Hard and fast and furious, as angry as seven years of pent rage could make it. She was writhing beneath him, her lips assaulting his as he pounded inside her, her beautifully muscled legs wrapped tight around his waist. She met each of his punishing strokes, her nails raking down his back, drawing blood. Without breaking the kiss, he grabbed one of the pillows, lifting her hips enough to shove it beneath, angling her just a bit more conveniently. She screamed against his mouth as another violent orgasm shook her. She had muscles other women couldn't even dream of and she squeezed him until his own orgasm shattered out of him to join hers. Slipping his arms beneath her legs to hold her open even further, Angel got to his knees, driving more deeply inside her, as a third orgasm broke over her before she could recover from the second. Angel spilled inside her, riding out the quivering aftermath of her release until he was completely drained. Then, spent, he collapsed over her.

Miles away in Sunnydale, something stirred uneasily.

Buffy's eyes were closed, her legs lying limp over Angel's arms, her own arms still clinging about his neck. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid of what she might see in his. Angry, she had been so angry, as had he. God, he must hate her, and she didn't think she could bear seeing the hatred in his eyes again.

He didn't think he could stand the hatred that would have to be in her eyes. He had behaved like the bloodsucking fiend she had called him.

So did she, an insidious whisper inside his mind reminded him. He flinched away from that thought. Maybe he should say something, apologize….

She should apologize, she realized. She had struck the first blow, it was really her fault….

He was the one who ripped off your clothing, her internal whisper whined. She frowned at the thought. If she were honest with herself, she hadn't minded that part. If Angel could react that way to her, maybe there was still something left for them….

If she could meet even his most animal and vicious passions, Angel thought, maybe she would accept his apology.…

But she began it again, the whisper, sounding somehow almost desperate, came into his mind. And it should be up to her to finish it. Remember how badly she hurt you before. This could be just another trick. If she really wants to make things right, if she really wasn't just using you this time, she'll make the first move. Angel sighed, realizing this was probably true. Reluctantly, he pulled away from the soft warmth cushioning him and turned to his side, an arm flung across his eyes to shut out the sight of what he was certain would be Buffy's accusing glares, not sure he could stand any more of her self-righteousness. He was vulnerable to her once more, and he hated that.

Buffy wanted to weep when she felt him withdraw from her body, rolling away from her, leaving her bereft. Just like a man, the whisper reminded her. If he wasn't just using you, he'll make the first move.

Each waited endlessly long, infinitely painful minutes, for the other to make a move. Neither did. Finally, Buffy curled to her side, forced herself to get out of the bed, and gather up her ruined clothing. She fished her last set of fresh clothes out of the bag, got dressed in under a minute and headed to the elevator without looking back.

If she had, she would have seen Angel staring back at her with a look of naked longing, and he would have seen that her face was not cold with anger but wet with tears.

Neither did. And for both, a defensive anger soon chased away whatever pain lingered.

And the thing beneath Sunnydale settled back happily.

When Rupert Giles saw Buffy Summers walk back in to her apartment where he had gone to await the results of her trip to LA, he was convinced that things had changed for the better. There was a bounce to her step, her eyes were luminous again, and her color was somewhat improved. In fact she was practically humming.

"Everything went well, I take it?" he said.

"Everything went fine," Buffy said as she made her way over to the refrigerator. "Salad. Bread. Salad. God, don't I have any food in this place? Um, you didn't bring any scones with you, did you?"

"Ah, no. Sadly, the occasion of your ex-lover's kidnapping and imminent sacrifice didn’t seem a proper event for which to bake scones," Giles said dryly.

"You're right. Especially since they failed to sacrifice him." Buffy slammed the door of the empty refrigerator shut.

"What was that?" Giles asked.

"Giles, next time Cordy or anyone else calls to tell me Angel needs help, make sure to tell me immediately."

"Well, of course, I would do so, just as I would give you whatever help you needed--"

"Because I want to be sure to get there in time to watch him get pummeled within an inch of his life. Next time he's about to be sacrificed, I'm going to wield the knife."

"What?" Giles said, amazed.

"And next time I'm in deep demons, and it looks like I'm not going to make it to twenty-seven, let alone thirty, don't bother the good folks in LA, because I would rather be skinned, eviscerated, boiled in oil and burned at the stake than rescued by Angel. 'K?"

"I…Buffy!"

"Promise, Giles," she said her voice suddenly hard and businesslike, her green eyes glittering with something he couldn't name. He knew better than to push her.

"All right, then," Giles said. "I promise." He had the sinking feeling that it wouldn’t matter, anyway; that whatever had happened between Buffy and Angel this time, it had been the last straw. Buffy smiled brightly when she heard him give his word.

"Okay then, that's settled. Let's go get something to eat. I'm starved!"

In the ensuing weeks, Giles concluded that whatever had happened between Buffy and Angel she was better off than she had been. She called Willow and went shopping. Her hair had been trimmed, shaped and given what she called a "soft perm" so that it cascaded down her back in a stream of fetching ringlets. Her appetite was back, and she had filled out. She was still slender, but with an enticing, feminine roundness that turned male heads wherever she went.

Not that she noticed or cared about that part, Giles thought ruefully

Still, the prescription pills she did not know he knew about sat half-finished in their bottle, rapidly approaching their expiration date. She would go dancing with or without her friends, had begun to leaven her demonology readings with excerpts from some of the glamour mags, and all in all seemed more happy and vibrant than she had in at least five years. Giles thought it was good to hear her laugh again, good to see her enjoying life once more.

And he ignored the nagging sense that insisted that the laughter was a little too brittle, the enjoyment a little too forced.

In LA, Cordy was having similar problems with Angel. It was certainly odd that the earthquake had destroyed all the furniture but his bed, and left everything in the office untouched, but one look at his face and Cordy had decided not to question him about the matter. He had followed that with terse, explicit explanations about what would happen if she ever, no matter the circumstances, called Buffy to help him. Even if he survived, Cordy would be out of a job.

"Because I would rather be skinned, eviscerated, boiled in oil and burned at the stake than rescued by Buffy. Understood?"

"Okay! I understand. Gees! You guys must have really damaged each other last night," she grumbled.

"Cordy," Angel said in a voice so cold she fell backwards in real fear of him for the first time since he had been Angelus, all those years ago. "Don't ever go there."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she said shakily.

Nor did she, and for the rest of the day, Angel was fine. Until he got back to his apartment after a probably unnecessary but wholly cathartic fist fight with some demons who had made the mistake of trying to run an extortion racket in the city which was under his protection. Angel was bone weary, too weary to think, which had rather been the point of following up the leads that night instead of waiting for more information and going after them later. He stripped off his duster, shrugged out of his shirt and pulled off his shoes, then, still wearing his pants, headed for his bed without bothering to go through the usual rituals of washing his face or brushing his fangs.

And it wasn't until he had lain down amongst the disordered sheets and found himself drowning in the scents of vanilla and raw need that he remembered why he had wanted to exhaust himself before trying to sleep, in the first place.

But he couldn't bring himself to strip off the sheets and put on fresh ones, so he just closed his eyes and let slumber take him.

A few weeks passed. Buffy grew more brittle, Angel more sullen. Their mutual friends tiptoed around them, not sure what might set them off. And, both Giles and Wesley began to feel that the battle against evil was going a bit more slowly than it should. Not that Buffy and Angel didn't ultimately destroy whatever needed destroying, but it just seemed like they were getting a bit careless, as if their energies were focused elsewhere. Both former Watchers decided to keep close eyes on the situation, ready to step in if matters should get serious.

Matters got serious without their knowledge.

About a month after he had seen her, Angel finished up a case by early evening. Wesley and Cordy had wanted to have dinner to celebrate. He begged off, saying he just wanted to drive around, clear his head. He gave them his credit card and his blessing. Cordy accepted both with alacrity.

Angel had no clear idea where he was heading, just knew he needed to do something mindless, and taking to the California freeways late at night seemed as good an idea as any. He was halfway to Sunnydale before he even realized it…and he decided to keep going.

Maybe he and the bitch needed to have it out, again. Maybe he needed to tell her exactly what he thought of her after her last little stunt. Yeah, that was it. It occurred to him that he didn't know her address. She had gotten her own apartment, but that was after he had publicly told her he wanted nothing more to do with her, and he hadn't wanted or needed to know her address before. It didn't matter. He knew he would find her, anyway.

If I were blind, I would see you… He frowned, puzzled. Where had that thought come from? No where! a more rational internal voice told him. You just think you can find her. But you won't. This is stupid. You should just go back to LA and get some sleep. He realized that that was probably the right thing to do. He was tired and not thinking clearly. He really should stop the car, and either find a hotel for the night, or go back to LA.

But he continued to drive.

Buffy woke with a gasp, on the edge of orgasm. But then the dream of Angel, the memory of their last encounter, faded away, and she was left wanting. With a moan, she collapsed back against her pillows. One change that had come about after the disastrous visit to LA was that she had stopped reliving the time when Angel had told her he never wanted to see her again. Instead, she relived the battle that had ended with them fighting between the sheets. Hell, the nightmares had been better than this. Now, she would be frustrated for the rest of the night. With a sigh, she pushed the covers back, reaching for the embroidered silk kimono that served as her night-robe, and drawing it around her nakedness. Maybe a hot bath…a knock sounded at her front door. Buffy glanced at her bedside clock. It was midnight. She gave a sigh. Probably Giles with news of something dire. Which, given her present state, would be a good thing.

"Coming," she called softly, so that he wouldn’t keep knocking and wake her neighbors. She stifled a yawn as she reached for the doorknob… and came wide-awake as she saw who was waiting on the other side.

He can't come in! Don't invite him and he can't hurt you! The thoughts were fairly shouted into her mind. Logically, Buffy knew they were sensible thoughts. Something inside her didn't care.

"Angel," she said coldly. "Do come in." She turned her back on him as if dismissing whatever threat he held for her. Angel snarled softly, not missing the insult.

He also couldn’t miss the fact that she was naked underneath the thin silk of her robe.

And that she looked far, far more enticing than he had seen her look for a long, long time.

Her hair was falling down her back in a cascade of silky golden ringlets that made him want to run his fingers through them. The robe was a cerulean blue embroidered in shades of white and pale pink and lilac. The effect was to make her eyes look misty and luminous, and her skin lustrous. He wanted to lick every inch of that silky skin…no, that wasn't why he was here. They had to talk. He opened his mouth to say something. She turned to face him and took his breath away.

The robe was loosely belted, and the creamy skin of her firm, high breasts was visible above the closing. More, she stared at him with those luminous green eyes and he knew he was lost and damned and drowning, and that he should have turned around on the road from LA.

"What do you want?" She intended it to be cold, businesslike, but the words sounded throaty and seductive to her own ears. She could only imagine how they sounded to Angel. Then, she looked into his eyes, saw the way her words turned the cold rage in them to hot desire and knew she wouldn’t have to imagine for very long.

FEMFIC      PART 3        PART 5      FEEDBACK