The sun hangs above the horizon. The moment stretches like a shadow. In seconds, or hours, the world will rotate; the orange glare will vanish into green ocean and indigo night. For now: sunset. You stand in the rose garden. White petals and red; black thorns. Creepers rustle and struggle over the stones. Water trickles from a tiny fountain down one moss-damp wall. He is inside, sleeping, restless with the coming of night and the rushing course of your blood.

Your eyes are closed. The day's last light is your only shield. You imagine that he wakes, and, drawn here by your familiar scent, stands in the darkness beneath the stone arch. His hair is tousled with sleep, his eyes black and sharp as a falcon's. Shirtless and barefoot, muscles bunching under perfect pale skin; chest moving with a breath he does not need. His brow wrinkles and he whispers your name--

Because he loves you. You know he does. Your name touches his lips, like an act of contrition.

And then he laughs.

The sun dips behind the sea, bringing darkness between one breath and the next. You gasp, tasting electricity in the air. The hairs on your arms rise; your skin crawls. Your nipples tighten painfully. Your bones are ice water, and sweat prickles in your armpits, between your thighs.

He is there. Not as you imagined, hesitant and slow with waking; he is alert, eager, confident and cautious.

"I came to kill you," you say; you must remember that you are the hunter here.

"I don't think so." He laughs softly, and there is warmth in his grin, in his eyes. "Nah, Buff, I really don't. 'Cause I'm not dead yet, and I don't see a stake."

You pull a stake from your waistband and show it to him, lying flat on your palm. He is a monster and you exist to destroy monsters; here is the tool you will use. When the sun was high, his death was your only consideration. But now he steps into the night garden, and his smile is meant for you, and the lazy, desirous slide of his eyes means that he still wants you.

He wants you: he loves you. He takes another step, closer. Hunter, hunted; are you the predator or the prey? Your feet are poised to run, your hands to fight; your hummingbird heart holds you motionless.

"Hey, Buff, c'mon..." Another step, and you are within the circle of his arms. Your breath shudders in your throat. You clutch the stake, a spasm of your hand; its point rests against his unmoving chest. His smile is so tender that it might break you to stand here, and these are his arms around you; you are his.

Burning tears escape and slide down your icy cheeks. He loves you. His lips are cool against your eyelids, tasting salt. He wants to comfort you. Scent of roses and dust; breath no different than the small breezes through the starlit garden. His hands on your shoulders are gentle, his fingers massaging softly. He leans closer and you can feel his strength, the solid weight of him, so long missed, so wonderfully dear.

He will kiss you now. Everything you once forced yourself to forget will be renewed. His lips, his tongue; darling, lover, Angel...

His eyes flash yellow. A sob catches in your throat. There is a demon beneath that beloved face. Close your eyes, oh, close your eyes--

You raise your mouth to his kiss. Your body trembles like the last leaf in fall. Your heart yearns for him, your blood sings with desire. His nose nuzzles the warmth beneath your jaw, the long curve of your neck. His teeth are slick and sharp above your skin-deep pulse. He will kiss you--he loves you--he does--

"No!"

You throw yourself backwards. He loses his grip; the stake shoves towards his chest. You open your eyes to monster, to demon. Yellow eyes and ridged, snarling face; fangs red-tipped. You clap a hand to your throat and feel blood welling in the mark of his bite. He mirrors you, hand to chest, to the shallow wound you left with your stake.

You back away; the stake is a weapon in your hands, and your love is a weapon in his. Monster fades, and he is handsome again, bewildered, reaching out, and he whispers your name.

"Buffy..."

You turn, and run; you run, still loving him, until your throat bleeds raw.

Pretend that you're with her in an alley at night. Pretend that there is garbage all around you, and the dust of monsters; pretend that the mystical bond that flows between you erases free will and makes your every move inevitable.

Pretend: otherwise you'll remember that this is your bed and your safe-as-houses room. You weren't forced into this; you didn't allow it to happen--you made it happen. You watched her in the library; sunlight, drifting through dust motes, warmed her hair to chestnut and glowed deep in her tanned skin. Her lips parted around a breath when she noticed you, and her black eyes widened. Across some immeasurable span of time, you manoeuvred closer, until your knee brushed hers beneath the table. That night, she was brazen, asking you to dance. You played at coyness. She believed the lie you told your friends, but your hands were greedy the instant they were hidden.

"Bitch," she hissed, then, as you guided her fingertips to your body, "such a fucking cocktease," and you shivered at the vicious promise behind her words. You ground against her for as long as the music made you invisible. You danced, and she matched your moves so precisely that you might have been alone; but her touch expands you, awakens you; brings you, shivering, to life.

Fever-bright, ferocious with sensation and want, you returned to your friends, forgotten and gaping. "Vampires," you shouted, shrugging, and she laughed beside you, "Yeah, gotta get with the killing."

You led her away; you brought her home.

Her skin blazes hotter than anyone you've ever known and for a moment you fear that you will burn if you touch her. She lies beside you, one hand cupping your cheek, one fluttering over the curve of your ribcage. She kisses you; softly, thoroughly, as if she has planned every moment of your seduction. You breathe in, long quaking breaths filled with the wonder of her touch. You push closer, demand more; you are fierce, and soon she crashes higher to meet you. She eases your clothes away; you tear at hers, then breathe in smoke and dusk; the scent of her flesh. You rake fingernails over her skin; you take her nipple in your mouth and suck, vigorously, ardently.

"Fuck," she whispers, teeth tight against her lower lip then releasing in an explosion of air, "oh fuck, Buffy."

You goad her into roughness. She seizes your wrists and slams them to the bed, and, laughing, you struggle; you writhe. "Like this?" you ask, "do you like it?" and she whines desperately, attacking your body with her mouth, her hands, pinches and blunt teeth. You are slick and furious with arousal; your laughter catches in your throat like sobs, your eyes burn and you squeeze them shut when her tongue reaches your clit. You fist the bed, the sheets; you bite down on every word that rises to your mouth. You are silent when you come, swiftly and brutally.

Afterwards, you bring her pleasure like retribution. Nearly asleep, you wonder how long she plans to stay.

"I love you," she says, watching you, fingers twitching restlessly. Naked, she is wholly unaware of her own body, her full breasts marked by your mouth, the contrast of white sheet against pink-dark skin; yet she is self-conscious, saying the words, and she doesn't meet your eyes.

You freeze; her eyes dart to your face, then, even more quickly, away. She is silent. You fight with words that refuse to be spoken. She flings the sheet away, and pulls on her pants and boots, then her top, and you only watch.

"I thought that'd fucking mean something to you," she spits at last, her back to you. She swings out the window, boots thumping shingles.

It is only then that you can follow her. The heat of her anger draws you after her. You pull on clothes and shoes; you find her walking back to her motel. "Faith," you say, but the words are gone again, and you hurry in front of her, then stop. "Faith..."

"Fuck off."

You reach for her. "Please..."

"I said fuck off," and with a bright flash your head snaps back.

"Jesus--Jesus, Buffy--"

She hit you.

There's blood on the tip of your tongue, a dull throb in your lip.

She loves you.

"I'm--fuck, Buffy, I'm sorry--"

You turn your back on her; you run. Hating her, you run, until your tears wash her memory away.

Cold creeps into your heart the moment you set foot in the crypt. It hurts, like the memory of your grave: filled with the scent of dust and death. The walls chase you inwards. The room contracts and pushes into you, heavy and oppressive. You struggle to hold back the unreal weight of the ceiling. You want to break out, shatter the walls, escape. You shrivel each time you come here, you are lessened; you fall into yourself like a dying star.

He's waiting. He expects you, now, and you tell yourself that it's no use avoiding him; he will only chase you down if you stay away.

There are no preliminaries. He believes he knows you, and you've given up believing otherwise. He clamps his fist on your collar and yanks you to him, whipcord body and winter eyes. The kiss is cruel and you feel his cold mouth draining life from you, draining heat. You replace your warmth with anger; you sink your teeth into his lower lip until he bleeds. He grins, feral; he licks the scarlet line and growls his pleasure. His hands scour your breasts, scraping across your nipples, leaving red welts that raze the walls of your numbness.

You are never with him when he rips your clothes away. You're always surprised by the tatters you use to cover yourself when you slink home. Your mind is blank, absent; you imagine yourself a convenient doll, tossed about while he strips away your coverings, your disguises. It's like coming awake to find yourself on his bed, watching him approach, arrogant prick and lusting gaze.

You're dry. His fingers, blunt and rough, push inside. You squeal, your head thrown back; you clench around his fingers. He pauses to chuckle against your stomach; the cool wet slide of his tongue makes you twitch away from him.

"Tight," he says, "you're so..."

Your fist lashes out without thinking. He's knocked sprawling. He curses; bruises bloom high on his cheekbone, puffing his eye shut. He snarls and leaps on you. His knee sinks into your stomach with a sudden shock of nausea. Your mouth gapes, winded, weeping. He plunges his tongue into your mouth, tastes your breathlessness; you batter him away. Air screams back into your lungs.

"Get--off--"

Rage explodes in his eyes; fangs flash. He drives forward, mouth latching on to the crook of your elbow; pain scalds you. Your blood is the only thing that warms the ice of his existence. He licks slowly, mockingly, and you stare as crimson dribbles from your elbow, down your arm.

"Admit it, Slayer, you love it," he says. You don't answer. He is cold and rigid against your thigh; his hand moves between your legs again. "You love me," he rasps, "say it."

You are silent.

He guides himself to your cunt; he rams into you. You cry out but you hold back tears, and you find your voice.

"No," you say, "no."

"I--love you--" he grunts, thrusting with each word, stretching you until you burn.

No, you think the word, no, with every movement, with every jarring shove; no.

No, and heat builds within you; no, and pain bleeds into the dim beginnings of pleasure. He bucks faster, harder, and your hands find his ass, tight and tautening with every push. You say, "fuck, oh fuck," with every breath, your hips twisting. Helpless in his desire, he batters into you, frenzied.

He comes with an agonized groan, and you go still, filled with him, and you hear his whispers. "Love you, Buffy, love you, say it, fucking bitch," and his weight is so cold, like the airless dirt you heaved aside to return to the world. You thrash desperately; panicked, whimpering.

"Stay," he says, "you can stay," but you are already running.

You leave him behind when the world ends. Loving, hating him; you take flight and abandon your history in the gaping hole that was once your life.

You believe you can discard your past. You find certainty in evasion. You only wish to shake them all away, like dreams forgotten with waking.

He lives in Los Angeles and you plead duty to go to Cleveland. She edges into your affections and you claim wanderlust to arrive in Rome. He follows you and you declare independence, autonomy, freedom; and you send him away once more.

He, she, he loves you; he, she, he hurt you; you love, you hate him her him.

You run.

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July 14, 2005