Though lovers be lost love shall not;

There was a grace to be had in dreams, for Death has no power within them, and all things that are impossible in the waking world are easily accomplished.

He felt her drift toward him as he lay sleeping. Opening his dreaming eyes, he found her gazing down at him, her own eyes, the soft gray-green he remembered, luminous with tears.

"Oh, my love," he groaned, knowing he must be the cause of her pain. He sat up, reaching for her. Naked, she went into his arms, her tears falling unceasingly. He clung to her, and wept. "I should have been there, should have stopped it," he mourned, whispering into the remembered silk of her hair. "I should never have left you alone to face a god." He went on, berating himself, reciting a litany of his failings; all the ways in which he had never been good enough for her, the ways in which he had done more harm by entering her life, or by leaving it, than if he had never met her; all the ways she would have been better off without him. She desperately wished she could speak to him, to explain that her death was neither his fault, nor his responsibility, to remind him that she would have died far sooner, far more pointlessly, had he not saved her time and time again. But, the words she formed were stilled upon her tongue: she had no power of speech. She felt a moment’s bitter regret, but the time permitted them was too short to waste in railing against what could not be. She turned her attention to what could be, and lifted her face from its resting-place in the crook of his neck, to stop his foolish words with tender kisses.

She was not cold as a vampire, but she had lost her human warmth, and he ached for that, crying more bitter tears. She kissed them away, and proved that she had not lost her fire.

The dearly remembered taste of her filled his mouth as her tongue licked across his lips. He opened for her, hungry and demanding.

Angel knew he was dreaming because only in a dream could his lost love come naked into his arms. Only in a dream could she abandon herself to his embrace. Only in a dream could he press her back against the bed and come over her, feel her part her thighs invitingly, cradling his hips. In dreams alone was he free to run his hands over every silken inch of her flesh, eliciting the celestial music of her rapturous sighs and moans, his mouth drinking down the taste of her. And, in dreams, there was no bar or hindrance to his desire to touch her, to taste her, to feast upon her.

It was safe, in dreams, for him to kiss her breathless as he teased the nipples of her breasts into hard little peaks, safe for him to rain more kisses over her temple and brow, safe to lick the pulse beating--so still, so still do not think how still it has really fallen-- beating vitally, strongly, indomitably beneath his lips. There was no danger in running his tongue along the pulsing vein until she shivered in desire, and tangled her hands in his hair to press his tormenting mouth closer to her willing flesh. Nor was there danger in letting his tongue trail further down the sweet paths of her body, over her collarbone and across the lush, firm mounds of her breasts. There was no danger in suckling at the rosy peaks until she was whimpering, bucking beneath him in an attempt to pull him closer, pull him inside. No danger in disappointing her, in order to more completely fulfill her, kissing down the underside of her breasts, along her rib cage, across the soft, enticingly feminine swell of her belly, the full curves of her hips, the lush firmness of her thighs, her calves, her dainty feet. In dreams, he need not hurry or fear. There was time to draw each diminutive toe into his mouth and caress it with his tongue, time to press kisses to her instep, lift her legs to tease the soft flesh at the back of her knees. There was nothing to be feared in kissing the tender, damp softness of the inside of her thighs, and nothing to be feared in licking up the honey of her desire as he slid his tongue caressingly against her plump folds and slick little nubbin. The scent of her need, the taste of her rich against his tongue, were not signals of approaching danger but hallmarks of impending delight.

For in dreams he could lose himself in the touch and taste and scent and sound and sight of her, could take comfort in her chimerical presence, and not worry that the price of such fleeting comfort would be the return of the demon bent upon her torment. So, Angel commenced to lose himself in her pleasure, in the pleasure he brought her.

He drank the taste of her avidly, rejoicing in feeling once more the soft skin of her flesh against his cheek and beneath his lips, losing himself in the delicious liquor of her desire, his tongue caressing her sweetness, relearning her secrets. Slowly, so slowly, he built her pleasure, savoring each breathless cry, each tiny gasp. She tangled her hands in his hair once more, desperate for him to give her the fulfillment she craved. He was ruthless, ignoring her importuning until he had drunk his fill of her.

He could never do that, he realized. A thousand years of having her in his arms could never be enough to slake his thirst for her, or appease his hunger. But, for now, he could draw out her pleasure, until she was sobbing in need, hips twisting against his mouth, hands pulling ruthlessly on his hair. He traced his tongue delicately, skillfully, over the core of her need, and just as she began to weep in despair, he closed blunt teeth gently over the pearl of her desire, suckling fiercely upon the bit of flesh.

She wailed beneath him, her body arching into his, drenching his face with the sweet elixir of her fulfillment. He drank it avidly, wanting to drown himself in the taste of her, a taste he had too long been denied. Eventually, she calmed, and he kissed another leisurely path up her body, until he settled over her once more, and claimed her mouth, even as she claimed his. She wrapped her supple legs firmly around his waist, her arms around his neck, drawing him to her.

This time, she would not be denied. She slid her tongue across his lips, and he opened for her, sliding his own tongue in to gently duel with hers, even as he slid into the welcoming haven of her flesh.

For a moment, both went still.

She had not been in heaven, she realized, until now. This was what had been missing for her: this completion, this celebration, this union. Her love for Angel was deathless, eternal, so deeply a part of the fabric of her being, that there was no heaven for her where Angel was not.

This was what he was fighting for, Angel realized. This was the whole point of his otherwise useless existence: to join with his beloved, and to worship her body with his own. She was sacred to him, his love an offering, whatever pleasure he could give her so much less than what she deserved. She had sacrificed endlessly to safeguard an unknowing and uncaring world. Those for whom she fought had allowed her to suffer and die. It was for him to ameliorate her suffering, to restore her to life, to keep her safe, to make her happy.

Being one with her was a perfection so joyous, it would have loosed the tethers of his soul, had he not known, even in the depths of ecstasy, that this was dream, not reality.

But as he savored the taste of her against his mouth, the feel of her flesh against his own, the liquid heat of her womanly core surrounding his manhood, he understood that he would move heaven and earth, and brave the fires of hell itself to ensure that she was returned to him.

A moment, only, were they held still and unmoving. Then, slowly, so slowly, he began the aching withdrawal that would lead to a more complete union.

She sobbed for the loss of him, and wept for the return. He kissed each tear, and murmured soothingly, a litany now, not of his failings but only of his adoration, a thousand variations on one simple truth: he loved her, had always loved her, would always love her. Death could never change that. And she, who could not give him words, showed him with her tears, her kisses, her body, that for her it was the same. They were joined, and they were one, and it was as it had always been meant for them: perfection, joy, passion, fulfillment.

He came into her deeply, stretching her to the limits she could bear, caressing her until she could bear more, could yield more, could take him more deeply within. She drank down his kisses, her tongue avid upon his own, her hands hungry for the feel of his flesh beneath them. She lifted herself to him, matching each splendid stroke, partnering him in the ancient rhythms they were now claiming as their own.

Whatever skill he had, whatever knowledge of female flesh, whatever prowess he could lay claim to were utterly beside the point, now. He existed solely to please her, and everything he did was bent toward that aim. So, he kept his rhythm slower than his body, starved for her, could endure, determined to endure whatever would most please her. He shifted himself slightly, listening to the little hitches of her breathing, the tiny sobs and moans, until he knew he was seated perfectly for her, touching her inside, in the places her sweet body most hungered for his. His hands traced over her softly rounded curves, finding where she most needed to feel his touch. And he kissed her fiercely, tenderly, longingly, his tongue lapping at her own, drinking down her taste.

She suffered the slow, sweet torture for as long as she could bear, but she had been deprived of him for too long, and she had too little time, now. She arched beneath him, her nails raking down his shoulders, hips twisting to quicken his pace. He followed her, sensing her urgency, unable to resist the lure of it.

They moved together as they had been made to do: a storm of passion, need, desire. The storm rose within them and around them, wind and lightening running in their veins. And as they had been created to do, they found in each other’s embrace a perfection of love so intense, so exquisite, so profound, as to leave them breathless and stunned at its apex.

They made love the way stars are cast into the heavens, and they shattered like comets spun across the night. And at the moment of her greatest rapture, he had the profound grace of seeing his beloved, looking into her face transfigured by ecstasy, in defiance of the death that thought to claim her. A moment later, she had the grace of feeling her beloved come apart in her arms, and of knowing that she alone could anchor him through the storm.