Disclaimer: As ever, I don’t own the copyright to these characters; Joss Whedon, the WB and Mutant Enemy do. This is fanfic, with no copyright infringement remotely intended.

Warning: NC-17. With a sappy ending. Bet you didn't think I could manage that, huh?

Content: The only time Buffy and Angel ever danced, at the time I started writing this, was in her dream/nightmare during the third season ep, Faith, Hope and Trick. I felt the poor girl deserved at least one slow dance in the arms of the man she loves…even if a demon is wearing his face. This didn’t turn out exactly the way I planned, though. And Buffy did get her dance in The Prom… But it isn’t enough for me, and if you've read the fiction that precedes this, it probably isn't enough for you, either.

Rant: Sorry, have to do this. I just need to say how much I hate the break up of Angel and Buffy on the show. I’m looking forward to the spin-off, but I’m wondering if even having twice the Joss and twice the Buffyverse each week is really worth the pain of seeing these two characters torn apart. I am devoutly grateful for fanfic, particularly to beautifully romantic and sensual stories like the ones Harpy writes, and the steamy ones Laure Alexander writes, and that Lex has written, so that I can share their visions of a Buffyverse in which Angel and Buffy are together. I am happy that there are sites like Lynne and Jill’s Buffy and Angel’s Place and Crystal's Angel's Secrets where my wounded sensibilities, [flayed to pieces by lines like -- Buffy: "Angel, I want my life to be with you." (Pause) Angel: "I don’t."--when you know from the wedding dream that there is nothing he wants more] can be healed, a little. And I am more grateful than I can say to my webgoddess, Arcadia, for giving me this forum to share my own Buffyvisions, and to bec, my almost sister, for her constant support in creating them.

Dream Sequence II – Dance Solo
part one

*******************

[Time: Set during the ep Passion, the night following the events in Bitter Passion. Okay, so I stuck an extra day into the timeline. Creative license. Or licentiousness. *G*]

She couldn’t go home. Not yet. Not after last night. She could not walk calmly into her bedroom, could not lie down to sleep upon the bed where Angelus had forced from her ultimately compliant flesh every response she had longed to give Angel. Buffy Summers turned down the street that led to the Bronze, hands shoved into the pockets of her coat, head bent down, gaze fixed upon the pavement. She was still alert: it was amazing how much you could tell about your surroundings from shadows on the ground. But her mood was contemplative, not combative. The initial, overwhelming need to fight back had been worked out of her system during that night’s patrol.

Now, the adrenaline of the fight washed away, there was nothing to keep her from her memories. Nothing to protect her from what had been done. Angelus had ripped out another piece of her heart last night. She wondered how much was left for him to rend. Surely not much, not after all the pieces he had already carved for himself. Yet every time she thought she had reached her lowest point, every time she thought she had endured as much pain as it was humanly possible to bear, he proved to her that she could survive a little more torment, a little more agony, that the limits of her strength had not yet been reached.

Sometimes she hated being strong.

Buffy drew in a shuddering breath and walked through the door of the Bronze. Sooner or later, she would hit her limit. Sooner or later, she would be so deeply sunken in despair, nothing he could do would hurt her further. Then, maybe she would be able to drive her stake straight through the heart of the demon in her lover’s body, and watch unmoving as both exploded into dust.

Maybe.

Buffy gave herself a mental shake. This train of thought was getting her nowhere. She had come to the Bronze to distract herself, until she was so tired that last night wouldn’t matter. Until she could just go home and crawl into bed, forgetting what had taken place there, ignoring the sweet, delicious ache in her flesh from the ways he had forced her to rapture… Buffy shook her head, as if to clear it. She would not let it get to her. She would survive this, as she had survived so much else. And the first thing she needed to do was get herself something to drink, something soothing and minimally caffeinated. Something with chocolate. Straightening up, she cast a glance over her surroundings as she headed toward the counter to place her order.

She had stayed out on patrol a bit longer than usual. Most of the kids her own age had already gone home. It was a school night, after all. The remaining customers were the young college crowd and their peers, with only a few high school seniors in the mix. If she were wise, she would do what Willow, Xander, Oz and Cordy had already done: call it a night and go home. But she wasn’t wise. She was hurting, and home was no longer a refuge, but a battleground in a viciously intimate war.

Buffy got a decaffeinated café mocha with extra whipped cream topped by lush curls of shaved dark chocolate and a dusting of cinnamon. Taking it over to one of the high tables just off the dance floor, she set it down then took off her coat, tossing it onto one of the vacant stools. Smoothing her short leather skirt over her thighs, Buffy settled onto her stool, picked up the oversized teacup and took a long savoring sip. Heaven. Warmth and chocolatey goodness spread from her tummy to her chilled limbs. Not that it was a cold night. But it had been so long since she had felt warm…

Buffy stared out across the dance floor. It was empty. The last band to play for the night was on break, not due back until their final set at 1:00 a.m., by which time she would, she sincerely hoped, have gotten up the nerve to go home. She was badly in need of sleep…sleep which would elude her in the bed where Angelus had taken her, unless she were tired beyond thought. Music came from a jukebox that held an eclectic mix, but no one seemed interested in moving to it. After midnight on a weeknight, there just weren’t a whole lot of people around.

The Bronze’s near desertion suited her just fine.

Her gaze wandered over those who remained, mostly small knots of people talking, a few playing pool or working the pinball machines. She was wondering if she should make use of one of the latter, when the song that had just started playing registered. She sighed, setting down her cup. The last thing she needed right now was k.d. lang crooning about Constant Cravings, not when her own craving for Angel was forever with her, and destined to be forever unappeased. At least, she thought that listening to that song was the last thing she needed. But there were some things she needed even less.

She couldn’t blame the song. It was her own inattention that was responsible. She should have heard him, should have felt him, should have sensed him long before two arms wrapped about her from behind, immobilizing her own arms, banding her ribs, and pulling her up against the solid, well-muscled wall of his silk-covered chest. A beloved, dreaded voice whispered in her ear, "Hello, lover."

Buffy closed her eyes against the pain. The arms that were exerting just enough pressure to confine her, without crushing her ribs, were arms that had once offered her the most complete comfort, the safest haven, in the world. No longer. She was in at least as much danger as she had been the night before. But then, so was he. Buffy gathered her reserves of courage.

"You don’t want to do this, Dead Boy," she deliberately used the name with which Xander had taunted him, knowing how much Angel had loathed it. She hit her mark…and the arms about her tightened just enough to make her bones ache while a low growl sounded in her ears. She ignored the pain and carried on with the offensive. "My mother doesn’t visit the Bronze, Angel." He could not use that threat, so effective last night, here. "This place is nearly deserted. You are just begging for me to stake you." Amazingly, her voice didn’t shake. More amazingly, her words didn’t further enrage him. He chuckled instead.

"Sure it won’t be you who’s begging, lover? You know I can make you."

She would not cry, she wouldn’t. "I’m not the begging kind," she rejoined.

"Oh, Buff, you should know better than to issue a challenge like that. Because now I have to prove to you how wrong you are." The whisper in her ear was low, seductive, and it was followed by the cool, wet assault of his tongue into the sensitive shell of her ear. Buffy couldn’t suppress the tremor that ran through her at that caress. Verbal sparring would get her nowhere; Angelus enjoyed it too much.

"What do you want, Angel?" she demanded as coldly as she could, lulling his suspicions, making him think she wouldn’t fight back…just before she tried to break his grip on her arms. But he knew her too well. She didn’t succeed.

"Naughty, naughty," he taunted, gripping her tighter against his chest. Her bottom was pulled to the very edge of the stool, pressing into his hips as he stood behind her. She could feel the answer to her question, hard and jutting against her body.

"What do I want?" Angel mused, kissing her temple, and rocking his hips slightly forward. "What do I want?" he repeated, his fingers stroking the flesh imprisoned beneath his hands. "Well, the Bronze is kinda dead, music’s unimpressive, and the espresso is a tad on the bitter side, this late. What could I want? Oh, I know.

"I want a dance, lover."

A dance. That was the piece of her heart he wanted to shred this time, she thought bitterly. His words hurt. Because she had longed to be held in Angel’s arms for a slow, sweet, romantic dance, but they had never quite managed to do that. Their time together had been spent fighting evil, or stealing kisses. There had never been time for the simple romantic pleasures of young love. Now, the demon who had taken over Angel’s body was demanding that she allow one more cherished dream become a nightmare.

"You’re joking," she said.

"Nope. Your boyfriend was too busy mooning over you to actually do anything…interesting. Which is why I had to wait so long for him to get gone. I don’t deny myself the things I really want, like he did. And I want to dance with you." The last words were spoken with unmistakable threat. But Buffy would not tamely allow him to pollute one more unrealized hope.

"Take a look around, lover," she said caustically. "The Bronze is nearly empty. Bet if I staked you, no one would notice your dust until time to sweep up."

"Bet if I drained your blood, no one would notice your body until closing," he retorted, punctuating the threat by setting his lips against the pulsing beat of her jugular. His tongue swept the skin there, telling her how easy it would be for him to use his fangs, instead. Why didn’t he? Before she could puzzle that out, he repeated his demands

"C’mon lover, dance with me. You know you want to."

The hell of it was, she did. Not with Angelus, of course. Buffy wanted, desperately, to be able to dance with Angel. But she never had. She never would. The curse used to restore his soul was a bit of lost knowledge that couldn’t, according to what Jenny Calendar told them, ever be recovered. Her beloved was irretrievably lost to her, replaced by an all-too-intimate enemy. An enemy now demanding a dance she had no intention of giving.

"You’re wrong, Angel. You are the last man --well, no, the last thing on earth I want to dance with." She wanted to make him angry. Maybe he’d do something stupid so she could fight her way free of this mess. But he was under control.

"Liar," he breathed against her ear. Suddenly he was lifting her from the stool, hauling her onto her feet, and now he pulled her yet tighter against him, until she shivered anew at the feel of his well-remembered, once-loved body pressed so enticingly against her. "I am the only man on earth you want to dance with."

Bitter truth. She acknowledged it to herself, but she would never admit it to him.

"Have it your way," she snapped, not willing to let him know how his words devastated her. "But you can’t dance with me in this position. So let go."

She had amused him again. "Buffy, Buffy, Buffy," he chuckled against her ear, "I thought, after last night, you’d have a clue how nicely we could dance in this position. Then again, maybe not in the Bronze. All right. I’m gonna let you go. But before you reach for that stake up your sleeve, you look around. I didn’t come alone."

Frowning, Buffy scanned the crowd again. Then she swore silently. A dozen vamps were scattered throughout the Bronze, chatting amiably with the unsuspecting young people. "If you go all Slayer on me, my boys will kill the first human they can reach, and flee before you can get to any of them."

"Pretty dicey insurance," she taunted. "If I go all Slayer on you, your boys won’t have any reason to do anything for you at all."

"And you are so ready to take that risk, aren’t you?" He knew her too well. She couldn’t risk even one young life, not with the only thing at stake her already wounded heart.

"Can we just do this?" she demanded.

"Whatever you say," he said agreeably. The arms confining her released their grip. Bracing herself, she turned to face him.

Bracing herself had been pointless. It hurt anyway. Her dark and beautiful Angel stood before her. It would have been easier if he had been smirking, easier if he had been mocking her. But, instead, his face was grave, unsmiling, and he was looking at her just the way he used to…the way Angel used to.

He was wearing an Italian silk shirt in deep wine red, a killer combination with his black leather pants. He was dressed for seduction, she realized. Any young woman who took his fancy would have to be flattered by his attentions, would have to throw caution to the wind and common sense out the window when he suggested they leave wherever they were, and go for a midnight stroll. Would have to surrender to his embrace, anticipating kisses and finding something fatally different.

What would Buffy herself find in his embrace tonight? Love or death? She was beginning to think that the difference, with Angelus, was almost negligible.

"Let’s just do this," she muttered again, heading out to the dance floor.

He smiled wickedly and followed.

k.d. lang had long since sated her cravings, and now another, fairly forgettable melody wound to a close. As Angelus pulled her into his arms, a new song started.

Or rather, a very old one. Buffy suppressed a groan. Who in the Hellmouth had decided that the soundtrack from Sleepless in Seattle was suitable for the jukebox in the Bronze?

Even as his arms closed around her, pulling her into an embrace, even as he pressed her head against his shoulder, Buffy desperately hoped that she had not fallen in love forever. But the bitter truth was, she was pretty sure she had.

"The thing about modern music is, they don’t know romance," Angelus confided as he moved her gracefully across the empty dance floor.

"Which is, of course, your field of expertise," she said.

He smiled. "Tell me you don’t want this," he taunted. She looked up at him, starting to say that she didn’t, but the mockery in his eyes told her the futility. She shook her head and let it fall back against his shoulder. It was easier if she didn’t have to look into his face. He said nothing, just held her, tenderly, the way she had dreamed Angel would hold her for their first dance. Buffy forced back tears, and tried to ignore the song’s lyrics. She wasn’t successful.

Everything they were had faded away… Angel was gone, leaving Angelus in his place. Angelus who never tired of tormenting her, and whose latest torment was sapping a little more of her will to fight. She so did not want to cry in front of him, but the stupid, sappy song lyrics were reminding her of everything she had lost. And being in his arms was reminding her of everything she had never had.

"It’s true, isn’t it, Buff? You feel everything so deeply. You only give your heart completely, and you can only give it once."

"Shut up."

He dipped her, a romantic move that left her helpless in his arms, looking up into his face. His expression was still devoid of mockery; he still looked achingly like Angel. "I have your heart, lover, and we both know it." Slowly, he raised her back up.

She shook her head in denial. "You have nothing of me at all."

"We both know that’s a lie."

When I fall in love…

"I have entrée into your house. And Willow’s and Giles, in case you’d forgotten." Fear swamped her at his words.

"I swear, if you hurt them--"

"That isn’t what this is about," he cut her off. "Right now, I have you in my arms and we both know that this is where you belong." Pain and rage replaced her momentary fear.

"Since when?" she demanded. "You hate me for what I made Angel feel. Do you think I don’t know that?"

"Hate and love, they’re so very close. And you made Angel feel some things I don’t mind feeling at all." His eyes held hunger, and not for her blood. Buffy paled, taking his meaning all too well.

"So, how about it, Buff? Will you stay in my arms forever?"

It was the cruelest thing he had yet done. "You bastard," she said shakily. She tried to pull out of his embrace, but he was prepared. Another romantic dip forced her to cling to him to keep from falling. "Bastard, bastard, bastard," she repeated. He raised her again, as slowly as before. He wasn’t unduly upset by her reaction.

"You haven’t thought this through," he said, his tone reasonable. "You get what you want, to be with the man you love forever, and I get what I want. You, and you alone, in my bed."

A surge of treacherous heat coursed through her at his words. Oh, Angel… she mourned.

When I give my heart…

"You. Aren’t. The man. I love," she choked out. "And it wouldn’t be me in your bed. It would be some demon walking around in my body."

"Is that what you think?" he said. "That all I am is Angel’s body with a demon inside? Look, I lost my soul and my conscience, that’s all. Everything else is the real me. The demon is just an animating force, it doesn’t control me."

"Liar," she said, but she was shaking. Giles had told her that a vampire wasn’t a person at all. That even though the demon had the memory and personality of the original person, that person was dead and gone, his or her soul floating in the aether. Angelus’ words could not possibly be true.

But they were seductive.

"All you have to lose is your conscience, your remorse," he said, his voice like velvet, wrapping her in soft darkness. "Don’t tell me you don’t hate being the Slayer, that part of you doesn’t want to just chuck it all and tell each of the wimps you protect to get off their asses and fight for themselves." He was remembering, she knew, the times she had vented, to a sympathetic Angel, all her frustration at having had to give up a normal life to fulfill her duties. He also remembered her fears. "Why should you risk your life for them every night?" he said in that velvet, oh-so-reasonable-sounding voice. "Why should you die for them? Because you know, sooner or later, you are gonna die in this gig." That was blunt. Likely true, but where Angel would have moved heaven and earth to keep it from being true, Angelus would move heaven and earth to make it so. He lowered his face until his mouth was beside her ear. "Wouldn’t you like it to be in my arms?" he whispered.

And the moment I can feel that you feel that

Longing nearly overwhelmed her. She was shocked by how tempting his words were. Because part of her wanted nothing more than to be held, forever, in Angel’s embrace, and it would be so very easy to simply surrender, bare her neck, and let him take her.

Let him make her exactly the kind of murdering, ravening beast he was himself.

Buffy turned her head away.

"I will never give you what you want," she told him.

"Won’t you? ‘Never’ is a long time, Buff."

The interminable song ended at last, and she stopped moving. She slowly straightened up, and gathered her courage to look at him. He still wasn’t smirking. He was still more Angel than Angelus. He could still break her heart. She would have to work at not letting him.

"Thanks for the dance," she said as coolly as she could manage. He laughed and let her go. She moved away from him quickly, heading back to her table. The jukebox came on again and more music drifted across the Bronze, something loud with a driving rhythm and no lyrics she could distinguish, which was a profound relief. Buffy grabbed her coat, planning to head out and go home, but this time, she did feel him, just behind her.

"What now?" she demanded, without turning around, her coat clenched in her hands.

"You haven’t finished you mocha. Why don’t we take it back to my table?"

"You. Are. Out. Of. Your. Mind."

"Am I? Are you sure I haven’t just found my way back into it?"

She was tired, so tired. "What do you want?" she said, fighting tears. "Stop playing games. Just tell me."

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