skip the light fandango

Title: Weight of Life
Author: Maren
Pairing: B/A
Rating: Adult (sex & language)
Summary: Post NFA, Angel turns to the only person who can help.
Author Note: Written for theantijoss for fickledame's B/A Angstathon. Many thanks to a2zmom, stephanierb, and southernbangel for their invaluable beta help and encouragement.


Weight of Life


The box is dark, hot, and stuffy and he has to force himself to remain calm. He hasn’t had to travel this way in a very long time and for a moment he wishes he still had access to the Wolfram & Hart jet. But he doesn’t, and he had to get to Italy quickly, so he’s shut inside an airtight box in the cargo hold of a commercial plane.

He doesn’t want to think about how much money it cost him to get this box on board and through customs. He has precious few resources these days and he had been forced to call in every favor he was owed to get him this far.

Only one more person left he can ask for help.

He hopes he can still count on her.

*********
It’s close to midnight when he gets to her apartment. He hides in the shadows of a doorway across the street and watches, waiting for her to come home. He knows she isn’t there. Even if the windows weren’t dark, he would know. So he waits, and while he waits, he thinks.

A few months ago he hadn’t imagined that he’d still be alive. He expected to die back there in that alley as he lay broken and bleeding beneath the rubble of the decimated hotel. He watched the leering demon standing over him with a sword, his vision narrowing as the oblivion of unconsciousness encroached on his peripheral sight until the only thing he could see was the sword swinging toward his neck. It never made it. Instead, the sky above split open and a portal appeared.

The Hyperion had saved him in the end—kept him trapped underneath its heavy bones as the vortex pulled the other demons in the vicinity into the portal. After, he knew it had been meant for him as much as the demon hoard that disappeared in what was described by the reporters as a freak tornado. It took everything demonic in the area that wasn’t held down—the army, but also Illyria and Spike. Gunn was left behind, but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t lived long enough to see the show.

Angel had been alone and severely hurt. When Connor showed up among the hotel ruins shortly before dawn, Angel might have been angry or even relieved if he hadn’t been so numb. Then Connor tried to pull him free of the rubble and he found out he was anything but numb. The agony of broken bones grating against one another and lacerating his skin was excruciating and then he didn’t remember anything for days. . .

His head snaps up, his eyes breaking contact with the pavement and his thoughts trailing off as he senses her approach. Sensitive ears pick up the clickclick of her high heels on the cobblestone, sensitive nose picks up the unique scent of her, and finally, sensitive eyes see her even in the pitch black of the sliver-mooned sky. Angel thinks he would see her, know her, even without these senses. He is aware of her in a way not completely explained by science and physiology, aware of her in a way not completely explained by slayervampire. It is this awareness, a hum at the edge of his consciousness and independent of any tangible sign of her, that has made it impossible to let her go.

Angel knows this. He has tried. He has a girlfriend and a thousand regrets to prove it.

She stalks closer, her gait brisk and stiff, and he can see that she is distracted. Then she stops, her head whipping up and around, and she is staring into the shadows where he resides. His throat closes, a lifetime of emotions lived in the short decade he has known her threatening to spill out of him in a rush of words and tears. Angel pushes it back, hasn’t allowed himself to cry in years and doesn’t want to open those gates. He’s lost too much, feels too much sorrow to think he could ever stop once he started.

“Angel?” she breathes, and he sees the hope flicker across her face.

Stepping out of the deep shadows of the building, he closes the distance between them. When she sees him, her eyes flash with joy, her face lights up with the smile of hundred suns. Then, just as quickly, it is gone, replaced by a wary watchfulness that wasn’t entirely unexpected but devastating nonetheless. He freezes, realizing that he is reaching for her only when he sees his hand extended between them. Angel lets it drop back to his side and nods instead.

“It’s me, Buffy. I need to. . .”

“You need to hurry and come inside before anyone sees you,” she interrupts, glancing around the dark abandoned street before turning toward the door to her building and pulling out a key. He follows her in the door with its chipped blue paint and up a narrow flight of stairs. Angel can feel her agitation following in a wake behind her, hear the fast and hard thumpthump of her strong heart and he feels momentarily elated that he can still affect her. Then she is unlocking her door and turning on a lamp.

“Come in,” she says, gesturing nervously with her hand before wrapping her arms around her waist in a move that is both self-protective and well practiced.

Angel steps inside her apartment and gives it a cursory look. It is the same cozy but impersonal space he saw before. The air carries the scent of Buffy, candles, and fading traces of Dawn. He cannot smell the annoying boy here any longer. There is another scent that he does not want to name.

Now that they are here, in this closed-in space without the flicker and rustle of the cool night air tickling their skin and offering them escape, he feels trapped, the sensations of her almost over stimulating.

She moves to the window, unlocks it, and pushes it open. He allows himself to wonder if she can read his mind.

“Buffy. . .” he begins again, breaking the silence that threatens to extend indefinitely. He is suddenly reminded of their meeting after her resurrection, and the tense silence that settled around them after she’d pulled away from his kiss.

She spins away from the window, not quite hiding the tears that glisten and threaten to fall, before interrupting him again.

“Are you hungry? Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you something?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer, just sweeps past him with a tight, fake smile. Her heart is still pounding too quickly and he resists the urge to grab her upper arm and pull her close so that he can rest his lips on her pulse.

It seems that he has been fighting this impulse from the moment he first met her face-to-face in that alley in Sunnydale.

Instead, he tracks her progress into the kitchen with his eyes. Angel hears the mechanical hum of the old refrigerator as she pulls it open and hopes that she gets something for herself as well. She doesn’t look like he expected—still so thin that her skin looks almost painfully stretched over her bones, her features too large on her gaunt face. Still beautiful to him, but he had thought she would have filled out again, taken better care of herself now that she wasn’t exhausted with fighting The First. He’d thought, after glimpsing the way she danced with . . . well, he’d thought she would be happy and healthy here in Rome.

Instead she looks thin and tired and almost . . . defeated. Empty.

The beep of the microwave sounds loud and intrusive in the quiet oppressiveness of the apartment. Angel waits for her to reappear, caught between impatience and reluctance. Suddenly he is not sure what he should say to her about why he is here. He’d had plenty of time to plan his words in the cargo box, time that he spent carefully considering all of the words he could use to destroy her anticipated happiness. Now that he sees she is anything but happy, he is at a loss. It should be easier now. Somehow it isn’t.

He shifts his weight from one foot to another, restless movement that is foreign to him, and then she appears carrying two mugs. She avoids eye contact, staring at the mugs in her hands as though they contain something much more dangerous and unpredictable than the blood and coffee he can smell. Angel briefly wonders why she keeps blood in her apartment, and then he remembers. He tries to suppress a scowl. Fails.

It doesn’t matter. Buffy isn’t looking at him anyway—just stares at the cups and then sinks onto the corner cushion of her couch. She sets the cups on the table in front of her, takes a deep breath that he can hear as well as see, and finally looks up at him.

“It’s human,” she says quietly as she gestures toward one of the large white mugs. He thinks that by now she should know that vampires don’t need to be told such things, then is briefly glad that she has maintained some level of naiveté about the monsters she hunts.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, sitting on the other end of the sofa and reaching out for the mug. Buffy watches the movement of his hand like a hawk, her heart beating even faster and he smells the anxiety that surges through her blood. A frown settles on his face even as his hand grasps the handle and he begins to lift it to his lips.

A short, gasping sound rasps from her throat as her head snaps up and her eyes fly to his. Then she is closing the distance between them and her hand is hovering over his face for a second before she reaches out and brushes the tips of her fingers over his cheek. Angel forgets the mug, forgets the pain, forgets the scent of the vampire that is thick in the air, and leans in to her touch. When her fingers move to his eyes he closes them, letting her digits dance lightly over the lids before they smooth over his forehead and then back down his cheek to caress and cup his chin. He opens his eyes as her thumb sweeps up and traces the outline of his lips, a whisper of a touch, tentative and teasing. His eyes meet hers, a unique shade of gray-green that is the color of home, and he sees the wonder and the moisture that teeters on her long lashes and threatens to fall. Unthinking, he slowly parts his lips and touches the pad of her thumb with the tip of his tongue, savors the taste of her briefly before slowly catching the flesh between his lips and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue never loses contact with her thumb, his eyes burn into hers with forbidden feeling long-suppressed.

“Angel,” she breathes, her voice catching slightly on the second syllable, and then her eyes close and the tear that was caught in her lashes breaks free and spills down her cheek. He releases her thumb and his lips move to her cheek to catch it before it falls. Then her lips are on his, desperate and hungry in the way that they always are . . . eventually. But now it is instant and he loses himself in the taste of her, moves his arms to wrap around her and draw her closer.

Forgets the mug of blood. Drops it on the hardwood floor with a loud clatter that makes her jump and pull away. She stares at the deep red blood pooling around his black booted foot and the white shards of the broken mug. Some of the blood has splattered on the white material of her couch, tiny droplets of red that will be impossible to get out, even with her extensive stain-fighting experience.

“I’m sorry.” Angel’s voice mingles with Buffy’s and they smile, breaking the spell. She moves further back, putting a distance between them that is magnified by the schooled, emotionless expression that settles over her face in the wake of the fading smile.

“Don’t apologize. It’s no big. Hell, I’m used to blood stains. I was just thinking the other day that this place would feel homier if I just . . .”

“That’s not what I meant.” It is his turn to interrupt.

“Oh. Of course.” Her eyes are hard, the small smile she flashes almost grim. It is clear that she thinks he is sorry for kissing her. Angel groans inside, briefly chastises himself for his seeming complete inability to communicate with this woman in words, and opens his mouth to explain. Buffy cuts him off with a wave of her hand and stands; pacing back to the open window with its gauzy white curtains blowing in the breeze and looks out at the dark street. He wants to follow, wants to pull her back into his arms and feel her again, but he sees the stiffness of her body, the rigidity of her shoulders and he knows that she will only push him away. He tries not to think about just how much that would hurt him.

He’s still trying to get over her. Still has a girlfriend. Still lies to himself about not wanting her. Still lies to himself about believing his own lies.

“I thought you were dead,” she starts, and then lets out a breath of a laugh. “I mean, gone, poof, ashes. We heard about the battle and your law firm and the destruction, but we never heard from you. I never heard from you.”

Buffy turns toward him then, and he watches the twist of her thin hips in the jeans that should have hugged her curves tightly but instead gap at the waist.

“I’m sorry I freaked out on you. I just. . . I was so afraid. I thought you might be the First and part of me didn’t want to know if you were.”

“So the blood was a test,” he says with a glance at the puddle on the floor. She follows his gaze and gives him a brittle smile.

“And you passed with flying colors. And also flying blood.”

He feels his lips lift in a smile but he feels no mirth. Her wit is still quick, but there is something missing. Something integral to her character, an innate capacity for joy that has only been missing one other time since he’s known her. Angel stands and walks toward her, the heavy thump of his boots on the floor reverberating in the near silence. He stops when he feels her body tense in preparation for retreat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you Buffy.” His voice is quiet in its sincerity. He hadn’t called because he hadn’t known what to say, still doesn’t really but he needs her help now even as he doesn’t want it.

“Why, Angel?”

As she asks the question, her eyes burning into his, searching for some truth that he isn’t sure exists even in his own rationalizations, his cell phone vibrates in his pocket. He ignores it—only two people have the number and he doesn’t want to talk to either his son or his lover in her presence. Not yet.

His hands reach into his pockets and he turns off the phone. “I was hurt in the battle, pretty bad actually. It took a long time to heal and then I was busy trying to stay alive while I gathered information about the Senior Partners. I’m sorry but I didn’t know. . .”

”No, I mean why didn’t you call me before, ask for my help? I have resources now, and besides, I’m still the slayer. I still. . .” she trails off, her eyes burning into his with a mixture of anger and something softer, more vulnerable. Her hands run loosely up and down her bare arms, taming the goose bumps that have risen on her flesh and she looks away. “I’m still Buffy,” she finishes quietly, clearly changing her mind about whatever she had been ready to say.

He sighs, raises one hand and rakes it through his hair. He knows she won’t like the answer.

“I didn’t call you because it wasn’t your fight, Buffy. It was my fight and Wes’s and Gunn’s, among others, but it wasn’t yours.”

The snort of disbelief rips through the space between them and she is suddenly in front of him, her finger planted in his chest. She is seething with anger, her chest rising erratically with her quick breaths. “What the hell are you talking about, Angel? It’s always my fight, always my destiny. It’s not about us and it’s not about some childish turf war. Don’t you get that?”

Now his anger matches hers and he strikes back, no longer able to stifle the residual hurt over her rejection, no longer able to ignore the stench of the Immortal that sticks to the surfaces in her apartment and serves as tangible proof of her continued relationship with him. His hand snakes up and grabs her wrist, pulling her finger slightly away from where it is digging into his chest. When he speaks, it is through clenched teeth, his eyes flashing darkly.

“Don’t you get that not everything is about you? You were here, running around Rome with your newest vampire boy toy and I had a serious job to do with people who trusted me and whom I could trust in return. That’s what I get, Buffy.”

Her gasp is pained and she steps back as though he has slapped her, pulling her wrist out of his grip. Hurt, anger (always more anger), and something else (shame?) color her features, the red rush of blood to her face causing her to flush hotly.

“How . . . who told you about him?” she stutters, one hand fluttering to her neck to touch her faded scar before suddenly dropping as she realizes what she’s doing.

His own rage fades in the face of her distress, leaving the hollow ache that has throbbed in him since his last visit to this place. He regrets the harshness of his words, wishes that he could take them back even though he meant them. Wishes that he could step closer and kiss the raised flesh on her neck that she has so recently touched as he murmurs soft words of comfort and. . .

Impossible, he reminds himself. He is here to finish what he started, not to daydream about something he can never have.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says instead, the words soft and resigned. “I’m here for your help now, Buffy. What matters is that I need your help now.”

Her mouth opens in reply as just as her phone rings. The noise seems shrill in the small space and he sees her jump a little at the sound. Buffy’s eyes slant toward the phone and he can tell she is debating about whether to answer it. She moves and reaches for it just as the machine beeps and a woman’s voice floods the room.

“Angel, it’s Nina. I know you said that this number was for emergencies only but I’ve been trying to call your cell phone and you’re not answering and I’m worried, baby. I just want to make sure you got there all right and I thought you’d have called by now. Please call me. I need to hear your voice, o.k.? Just call when you get this. Love you.”

The machine beeps again as Nina hangs up. Buffy’s hand is still hovering over the phone, her body tense with what he imagines is shock. Then she lowers her hand to her side and lifts her face to look at him.

Angel cringes inside and watches all of the light in Buffy’s eyes disintegrates as her face hardens into an impersonal mask, the red flush draining until she is almost unnaturally pale. Knows in that instant, as he sees the flash of pain that she is not quick enough to hide from him, that whatever he had with Nina is over. The lies are too empty now, in her presence, and he is sure that he can no longer pretend that what he has with Nina is anything worth having.

“Buffy…”

Buffy makes a low noise in her throat, turns her back on him, and walks stiffly from the room. Angel sighs in frustration, wishing that just once this night he could say what he meant to say without screwing it up or having her interrupt him. He can hear a door open, and then the rustle of her movements as she gathers something together. Then she is back, arms full of sheets and a blanket.

“It’s almost dawn and I’m tired. You can stay here tonight, and we’ll talk about what you need from me tomorrow. If it can wait,” she intones, pretending that their conversation wasn’t interrupted by the voice of Angel’s lover. Her head tilts, questioning, and he fights the urge to tell her that no, it can’t wait. He can see how tired she is in the sag of her shoulders and in the dark circles under her eyes.

Nodding, he takes the linens from her arms, the tingle of energy caused by his hands brushing against her bare skin electric and just as powerful as always.

He can wait. Tomorrow is another day and he hadn’t lied when he told her he wasn’t getting any older.

*********

When his eyes open it is early evening and he is disoriented. For a moment he forgets where he is and why he slept so long and so well. Then he smells her and all of his questions are answered with one name. Buffy.

Angel sits up quickly, the last vestiges of sleep dissipating in the knowledge of what has to be done. He can hear her moving in the bathroom, the sounds and smells of grooming floating in the air that escapes from beneath the closed door. A bare hint of her blood reaches his nose and the bloodlust surges forward, his need and desire to lickbitesuckherdry driving into his gut until his hands are shaking and his mouth is watering. Angel growls, soft and low, as he moves quickly across the living room and into the kitchen. He hasn’t fed well in days and he is suddenly ravenous—hungry enough to drink human blood. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like to savor the taste of human as it gushes down his throat, but he doesn’t have anything else and his skin is crawling with the need to feed.

She finds him there, standing in the kitchen drinking his second bag of blood as the hunger slowly fades into his recesses and he is less of a danger to her. He hates that there is never a time when he is no danger to her -- he is always a menace measured in degrees and he remembers that this is one of the reasons he kept leaving her. Angel wishes he could leave now, wishes that he didn’t have to see her looking fragile and lost and so damned comfortable in the skin of both. He wants to see her strong and defiant and full of light and life so that when she refuses to help him he can leave on his journey to hell knowing that she will be all right.

“You looked so peaceful, so I let you sleep. I hope that’s o.k.,” she speaks, her eyes barely lighting on him before skipping away to glance at the clock on the wall. He hadn’t noticed it there before, but now the ticktick is loud and intrusive.

“Thanks.” Angel glances at the empty bag in his hand, and then inclines his head toward it. “For the food, too. I hope it won’t be missed.” He doesn’t mention that it tasted a little off—it was fresh enough and even better than he anticipated, but it tasted not-quite-human and he wonders if she cares what her boyfriend is eating.

Her eyes cloud, but she shakes her head. “No problem.”

A jealous part of him wants her to lose the cool façade and respond to his jab. But she doesn’t and it’s just as well.

His hunger abated for the moment, he looks around the small kitchen and notices its bareness. It doesn’t look like this is the home of two young women and then he remembers that he hasn’t seen Dawn, can in fact barely detect her lingering presence in the apartment as though it has been weeks since she was last here.

“Where’s Dawn?”

“She’s. . . Giles and I thought it would be safer for her to be with him in England,” Buffy stammers, one hand reaching up to smooth through her hair. It shimmers in the light and he is tempted to reach forward and catch a strand between his fingers, test to see if it is as soft as it looks. . as soft as he remembers. Then he refocuses on her words, and their possible meaning. He wonders what could possibly be threatening enough to make living with the Slayer unsafe.

Angel shoots her a questioning look. She ignores him and walks to the cupboard, the click of her heels on the tiled floor drawing his attention to her attire. As she pulls a glass from the shelf, her arm stretching over her head, he catches a glimpse of the bare skin of her too-thin back over the waist of the black pants that gently flow over her curves until they fall over black boots. Her shirt is dark silver and long-sleeved, and he sees through the sheer fabric to see a silky silver camisole covering her skin underneath. Her jewelry is silver and onyx and looks delicate, like her. She isn’t dressed for a quiet night in her apartment, catching up with old friends. Angel shakes his head.

They were never just friends.

Buffy opens the refrigerator, takes out the orange juice, and pours it into the glass. She takes a sip before closing the refrigerator and turning back to face him. He looks pointedly back at the refrigerator.

“You should eat something.” There is more possessive command in his voice than he intends, as though he has a right to tell her what she should or shouldn’t do.

Her eyebrows raise and she meets his gaze for the first time since entering the room, eyes steely as she visibly bristles at his tone. “No thanks, not hungry.” Then she is looking at the clock again, a slight frown creasing her mouth. “Besides, I have a dinner . . . appointment tonight”

Anger surges forward, making his eyes darken as he clenches his fists at his sides. When he speaks, it is through teeth that he cannot stop from gritting. “With him? With the Immortal?” Angel hears the jealousy in his own voice, doesn’t care. He has spent the last several weeks fighting the thoughts of her with him, each new sliver of information another cut into his heart. He can’t believe that she is this blind to the extent of the Immortal’s evil, but there is no other explanation. The scent of the other vampire lingers in her apartment, stale and musty like the ancient books that used to line the shelves of Wesley’s bookcases.

Buffy takes an involuntary step back, her hip bumping into the counter, as a rush of air leaves her lips. “How . . . how do you know about that?” Shock colors her breathless voice as she clumsily sets the glass of juice down on the counter beside her, dangerously close to the edge. Angel sees her hand shaking, the pulse jumping in her neck, and something inside him thrills at the visible signs of her fear. But there is something that laces the fear, something he can’t quite place even though it feels so familiar to him.

He steps closer to her, refusing to allow her to escape this. It’s time.

“I saw you with him once, here. I was in Rome to . . .,” he stops, not wanting her to know that she was the real reason he had come all those months ago. Raising a hand to grab the back of his neck and dropping his head, he tries to relieve the tension there with a quick rub. Then he looks back up at her, to where she still stands shaking in front of him with wide eyes. “I was here on business and I stopped by to see you. That boy who was staying here told me . . . and then I saw you out with him, later.”

“Oh,” she says, fear slowly fading as anger replaces it in her eyes, in the returning rigidity of her stance. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—typical Angel m.o. to show up, lurk around behind my back, and then disappear without a word. You’ve really grown as a person since you left Sunnydale, Angel.” Her sarcasm is sharp and biting and just as quickly as his anger faded in the face of her fear, it returns.

Another step closer, but she doesn’t flinch. This is the slayer he knows, the one he hasn’t seen until now. “You looked like you were having a great time. I didn’t want to interrupt the fun,” he growls.

For a moment she looks stunned, and then she snorts lightly and shakes her head. “You’ve always been an expert on seeing what you want to see.”

“You think I want to see you with that . . . that thing?” His voice is a near shout. Angel wants to reach out and take her by the shoulders, shake her until she comes to her senses. But he knows that he doesn’t need to touch her to hurt her, knows that what he is about to say, what he has come here to say, will do it without the help of his hands. Swallowing harshly, he forces his voice lower before he continues. “Buffy, when I saw you with him, I was . . . jealous . . . hurt. I knew him as Angelus and I thought he was a vampire playboy, toying with you. I couldn’t understand why you would debase yourself to be with him.”

He stops, closing his eyes against the imagined visions of her looking flushed and tousled, sated and glowing the way Darla and Drusilla had appeared after being with him. Angel had spent too much time answering the question of why Buffy would ever want to be with the Immortal in his own imagination.

Angel opens his eyes again and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Buffy stands perfectly still, silently waiting for him to continue. The fact that she says nothing to defend herself registers in his mind and fuels his tumultuous emotions. He had planned to be gentle, careful with her. Instead he finds himself speaking with a brisk, hard authority that leaves no room for shielding her feelings.

“I left without saying anything because I didn’t have the right to say any of the things I wanted to and I didn’t think you’d want to hear them anyway. But now I don’t have that luxury, and neither do you. Since the battle, I’ve been gathering information on the major operatives of the Senior Partners that are left in the world. I came here because I have information that points to your boyfriend being one of them. Buffy, I realize this must be hard for you to hear and I’m sorry, but the Immortal is evil and he is working for the Senior Partners. I need your help to take him out.”

As he speaks, Angel watches the play of emotions over her face and finally recognizes the shame that combined with the fear when he first mentioned the Immortal. Then he is done speaking and she is whirling around to face the counter, her shoulders shaking as a harsh, guttural sound tears out of her throat. The quick force of her motion nudges the glass of orange juice that was teetering on the counter and he moves forward, unthinking, to catch it before it shatters at her feet. He feels her back press against him, shaking, as he returns the glass to the counter. Shame fills him as he sees the impact of his harsh words on this woman that he loves in spite of himself. The salty-fresh scent of her tears hits his nose and he gently places his hands on her shoulders, spinning her around so that he can take her into his arms and soothe away whatever pain he caused.

“Shhh, Buffy, I’m so sorry.” Soft, almost a whisper.

As she spins in his arms, the sight that meets his eyes is unexpected. Her shoulders are shaking and tears are streaming down her face, but it is with laughter. Angel takes a step back from her, then another, wanting to put distance between himself and this woman who is laughing in great gulping gasps, the sound joyless when accompanied by her twisted features and pain-filled eyes.

“Oh Angel, you’re so wrong. The Immortal isn’t working for the Senior Partners,” she says, the laughter fading as she takes a deep, wracking breath. He opens his mouth to argue, but what she says next makes the words die in his throat.

“He is a Senior Partner.”

The laughter has stopped, but her tears haven’t. They stream down her cheeks, unchecked.

***********

He feels numb, a slow dull buzz humming along just under his skin the only feeling he can comprehend, and really, it’s as much a silent noise as a feeling.

Seconds, or maybe hours pass before he hears her voice calling his name. He looks up to see her standing across the room, and he realizes it must have been him who moved because she is still standing in the same spot. Buffy’s eyes are dry now, shuttered as she carefully approaches him, slow, as though she is afraid any sudden movements on her part might result in violence. In some way he is aware that he should feel something about that . . . maybe hurt, maybe guilt, perhaps anger. But all he can do is stand there as her words repeat over and over in his mind.

He is a Senior Partner. The Immortal is a Senior Partner.

She is fucking a Senior Partner.

Finally, Angel feels something. It is dark and violent and something that he hasn’t felt in quite some time. It is past human rage into the realm of his demon emotions, and it is laced with something he has never felt toward this woman before.

Contempt.

The recognition flashes for a second before he pushes it away, letting the safety and comfort of the numbness return. He concentrates instead on the ticking of the clock, on the low buzz of the light, the soft ring of cashmere that circles his neck, strangely confining.

When he feels her hand close over one wrist he is startled. His eyes fly to her face. She is looking at him impassively, her features perfectly controlled for the first time since he had shown up at her apartment. It is as if a switch has been thrown and the fragile, sad woman Buffy has become is replaced by someone stronger and untouched by emotion. In that moment, Angel knows he is speaking to the slayer general.

“Come sit down,” she says, releasing his wrist as she walks to the small glass and iron café table and pulls out an uncomfortable-looking chair. Angel stays where he is, his buttocks pressed tightly against the edge of the counter that has stopped his unconscious movement backwards. Only his eyes move as he tracks her across the small space. A sigh pushes through her lips, and he watches as her shoulders slump. He can still see the tension in her neck and in the drawn lines of her face.

“Angel, please sit and we can talk. There’s a lot of stuff that’s been happening since I came here and I don’t have much time before I have to leave. There are things I need to tell you that I wish . . . that I have been praying that you’d never have to know.”

“What, that you’ve been fucking evil incarnate . . . again?” The words are out of his mouth before he even realizes that he planned to speak. As he sees the light in her eyes flicker and die, flinching as though he has physically struck her, he is almost sorry for having said them.

Buffy straightens her shoulders as her mouth presses into a thin line, but she doesn’t defend herself. He wishes she would scream at him, tell him he’s assuming too much, tell him that he’s wrong, tell him anything that will erase the images of her being touched by something so unworthy. Instead, he gets stiff silence.

In the wake of that silence, Angel studies her closely, comparing this woman to the girl who captured his heart and soul. The girl was a living light; bright and sparkling even with all the weight of the world squarely on her shoulders. The girl would never look this hard—determined, yes . . . certainly strong and tough. But not like this, not this paradox of brittle invulnerability, adamantine and unbreakable because all of the innocent and fragile parts have already been fractured. Yet there are moments when he catches sight of her vulnerability, pieces that are cracked and delicate and closely guarded in secret places where he isn’t invited. It is jarring to see her this way, partly because her hardness stands in sharp contrast to last night’s vulnerability but also because when he imagines the life he wants for her, there is no place for this.

He realizes he loves her more than ever. It is apropos to his life that in the moment he wants to hate her most, he only wants her more. Before, she was a mystery to him—an innocent who represented all of the things he didn’t deserve all wrapped up in a beautiful dream. Now she is more familiar, like him in ways that he’s sure neither of them would like to fully explore, and instead of being tainted . . . less desirable in some way . . . she is more beautiful, more of a dream wrapped in reality because this is a woman he can understand.

If she will only let him. If she can only explain.

All of these things run through his mind as he watches Buffy absorb the sting of his cruel words, her posture rigid. She has averted her gaze to stare out the small window, eyes trained blankly on the fading light of dusk and he can feel how shallowly she is breathing. When the last of the light disappears, it will be time for her to go to him and Angel wants to know, needs to know why before that happens. It takes two of his long strides to reach the empty chair at her table. He sits, never taking his eyes off of her.

“Please, explain this to me Buffy,” he quietly pleads.

Her eyes stay trained on the window and he thinks that maybe she didn’t hear him, but then the dulled-green orbs swing back to him and she begins to speak as though nothing harshly unpleasant has passed between them.

“I should probably start by saying that other than the nifty abilities to break demons and heal really fast when they break me, the consistency of my slayer powers has been pretty crap. So when they all-of-a-sudden make a surprise cameo appearance, I can pretty much figure it’s a big deal.”

She stops and looks down at her hands. They are clasped in front of her on the table and she is stroking the ruby-hued nail of one thumb with the pad of the other. Angel imagines that it must feel slick and smooth—hard, like she has become since sitting down at the table, every inch the warrior.

She pulls her hands apart and lays her palms flat on the table. Her eyes meet his and she continues. “Almost as soon as I got here, the dreams started and wow, had I forgotten about the Technicolor and surround sound of a full-on slayer prophecy. They came complete with a dark, deserted forest and heavy-breathing invisible monsters chasing me, and I suppose for anyone else it would have been a regular nightmare but hey, I’m the Slayer . . . well, a slayer anyway, so I gotta figure that if I’m terrified and running from whatever’s chasing me, then it’s bad.” A deep breath breaks up her monologue and Angel nods, encouraging her to continue.

“Anyway, dark, forest, lots of trees and brush that are cutting at me and slowing me down—you get the picture, and I finally reach this clearing. Dream me decides it’s my chance to put a face to the panting demons, so I turn around and it’s like someone opened the gate at the local petting zoo or something, because I’m running from these animals. But they were more than that. I mean, I knew they were more dangerous than almost anything I’ve ever faced before and I was terrified. One was a wolf, one was a ram, and then there was some kind of deer thingy. . .”

“A hart,” Angel interrupts with a strangled whisper. “You were dreaming of Wolfram & Hart, my former employers.” He looks away, gaze fixating on his hands. Flexing his fingers, he digs them into his thighs, harsh and biting, but he cannot distract himself from the guilt that washes over him. It is magnified when Buffy nods and continues.

“Yeah, we kinda figured that out. Especially after you started guest-starring in the dreams.”

His eyes fly from his lap to her face. Sees a crack in her mask when her eyes dart away from his, trying to hide something from him and succeeding, for the moment.

“Me.” A statement, because after all that has happened to him since the Powers recruited him, he isn’t surprised he plays some major role in this mess.

“Mmhmm,” Buffy affirms with a nod, her brow furrowed as she stares absently at a smudge on the glass tabletop. “You started chasing the animals. Well, that was my interpretation. Giles thought you might be with them, chasing me. It was the subject of many, many . . . discussions.”

Suddenly, Giles’ attitude toward him those months at Wolfram & Hart makes more sense, but the explanation doesn’t take away the resentment he still feels for the man. Apparently his resentment of Giles is shared, if the way Buffy says his name is any indication. Angel has never heard her speak about him in that tone before, as though she can barely make herself utter his name. Beyond the resentment there is a touch of rage and he wants to ask her what has happened between her and the man who was once like a father to her.

Maybe that is it . . . maybe Giles has become too much like a father to her . . . too much like her real father or Angel’s father or Cordy’s father. A disappointment.

“Then things changed again. The deer thingy. . .”

“Hart,” Angel automatically corrects. She flashes him a grim smile and waves her hand.

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, the hart pulled away from the rest of you and it was just me and it. Suddenly, in that really weird surreal way it always happens in dreams, the monster wasn’t a deer anymore, but a vampire. A vampire who flashed me a smile before he ripped out my womb with a knife. I was highly freaked when I woke up. We all went heavy into research mode after that, but there wasn’t enough to go on, at least not until. . . “

Buffy abruptly stands up, pacing away from the table. When she begins again, the rate of her words is faster-- as if the quicker the story leaves her mouth, the less sour it will taste.

“Not until one night when I saw him in a club. The vampire from my dream—the hart. Faith was here for a check-in visit and we had gone out to blow off some steam. We were doing the timeless sweaty dancing method of steam releasage when the waiter came over with two drinks and pointed to the guy who sent them to us. And there he was, in all his dark, smoldering glory. I went over and politely declined-- if you call throwing the drink in his face polite.”

Angel’s thoughts are reeling with questions and he searches her face for answers. But she is lost in the memory, her hands wringing together as she paces. For a second he is distracted by the sight of her, the diaphanous cloth of her shirt teasing him with glimpses of her skin underneath, the smell of her perfume with its almost chocolate-like undertones sending memories of her licking his chest flashing through his mind. His traitorous mind quickly turns his thoughts into images of her tongue on other male flesh and he snaps back to the present, angrily demanding that she continue.

“You need to keep talking Buffy, because none of what you’ve said so far explains why you’re going out to dinner with a Senior Partner tonight looking and smelling like that,” he seethes. His jaw flexes almost compulsively as he swallows the rest of the accusations that threaten to spill out of his mouth.

Buffy stiffens and stops pacing. He sees her lip tremble almost imperceptibly before she takes a deep breath and fixes him with a blank stare. Her detachment is almost a physical thing—he can see her going someplace else even as she finishes her story.

“Fine. To make a very long and sordid story marginally shorter and less sordid, I exchanged words with the mystery vamp, who turned out to be the Immortal. Actually, I said a few nasty things but he never the lost the charm, told me he wasn’t a threat to me or my girls and asked me to meet him a few nights later. That night and the next day we spent researching, found out the vamp was called The Immortal. Giles found a reference that tied him to another dimension and Willow teleported there to get the goods. She found out that the Immortal had originated from there around the time that the pure elder demons were laid to rest in the well. She also found out that he wasn’t quite like other vampires. He can’t be killed by my usual methods—wood stakes don’t faze him, sunlight is painful but not deadly, ixnay on the holy water and he’s somehow magically protected against beheading. More indestructible than the damn Turok-Han.”

She pauses as a memory assaults her and shakes her head in disgust. “Nasty bastards. Anyway, we decided I’d meet with him as planned, do a little recon. I was . . . surprised, when he was nothing but charming. He told me he wasn’t evil, didn’t kill humans to feed, was just spending time amassing wealth in his chain of nightclubs and restaurants and trying to stay in the good graces of all the new slayers running around. He was flirtatious, came onto me pretty hard—all seductive smiles and green eyes staring deeply into mine. After my little run-in with Dracula, I can tell when a vamp is trying to put a mind-whammy on me so I picked up on it pretty quickly. That night I let him believe he had me in his trance. Since then I’ve been playing spy, trying to find the key to destroying him before he destroys us.”

Angel waits for her to continue, then realizes she is finished as she meets his eyes and waits uncertainly for his reaction. When it comes it is swift and sharp with barely suppressed violence—at least that’s the way he feels inside but on the outside he just stands up slowly and turns his back on her.

“Angel. . .” Soft, plaintive; all of the authority lacing the meaningless words strung together to tell her story gone now. It leaves the woman, not the slayer, to face his wrath.

“Is that all?” His response is cold and clipped and he clenches his fists together at his sides.

“Y-yes” Her hesitation is brief, but hears it and his fists tighten further.

“You’re lying.”

Angel hears the slow intake of breath and the long sigh that follows. Her voice is lower, more cautious when she answers his charge. “Last night I had another slayer-dream.”

“And. . .”

“And nothing,” Buffy asserts, the edge back in her tone for a brief moment, and then gone again. “I’m not ready to talk about it. I don’t know what it means yet, and it. . it was personal.”

He stands perfectly still, his thoughts skipping automatically to the more personal dreams he had shared with her once. They are dreams he has continued to have alone in the years between and he wonders if she ever woke up with her body aching for him like he has for her.

She moves behind him, closing the distance that separates them and he can feel the heat of her body as she approaches. A whisper of sound as her movement disrupts the air directly behind him and then her palm is resting on his back. Angel feels the warmth of her touch and he closes his eyes against the intensity of the sensation. She is flooding his senses and he is torn between the urge to walk away and the need to pull her into his arms and kiss away all of the pain and indignity of the past several months of her life. Caught in the tide of uncertainty, he does neither.

He counts the beats of her heart as she hovers behind him, the clock ticking on the off-beats and he can sense the turn of her head as she studies it. Then Buffy is pulling away, her hand losing contact with his back and the click of her heels hiding the sound of her heart as she moves to the doorway.

“I have to go now—he’s expecting me,” she murmurs. His jaw clenches furiously in response but he still doesn’t turn to her.

“Angel . . . ,” she swallows and he can imagine her sucking in her lower lip to wet it. “I’m so close to finishing this. He’ll pay for what he did to your family. I promise.”

Now he whirls around, but she is already gone, the soft click of the front door the only sign that she was recently there.

*********


Weight of Life, Part 2