Blissful Encounter (cont...)

Part 17

When consciousness returned, Faith blinked, not quite sure where she was or why. The last hours were muddled in her mind, like a constant blur, with no way to find her way through it.

She groaned, realizing without looking that she was lying on the floor with the usually fluffy material of the expensive carpet her mother had given her the day she'd gone to college now scratching the sensitive skin of her naked back.

Naked?

Naked!

Instantly her eyes popped open, all blurriness forgotten, and she found herself staring into a pair of stormy blue eyes, watching her intently and - she noticed with more than a little annoyance - with amusement. In a flash all the images came back to her. Kissing Lindsey. Groping Lindsey. Tearing at Lindsey's clothes. Devouring.

She groaned again, letting herself fall back on the carpet, for once not caring that it was scratchy and uncomfortable, and that she was still nude, her body open to his disturbing gaze. She'd noticed in his office earlier that he had a way of looking at people that made you feel naked even if you were properly dressed. So - she mused - it didn't really matter if she wore clothes or not, and besides, he'd already seen, hell, he had tasted, every part of her body, so it was all the same diff.

"Why didn't you just go?" She asked without looking at him, keeping her eyes closed against his intense gaze, against the knowledge she knew she would find in his eyes.

"Honey," he drawled, his southern accent more pronounced, "that wouldn't have been very gentlemanly of me, would it?"

"Fuck you," she hissed, finally looking at him again, anger sparkling in her dark orbs.

He sighed almost dramatically, and then grinned, "You might be the daughter of one of the richest men around, but you've got the language of an alley cat. Does daddy know about it?"

Not quite able to follow him, she narrowed her eyes, reigning in the annoyance and anger she felt at his behavior. Never before had a man treated her that way, and it was more than confusing. He didn't seem to have respect for her father's name. In that way he was a lot like her English-lit professor, but unlike Wyndham-Price, Lindsey was also sure of himself, with a cocky attitude she wanted to wipe from his face, but knew she'd never achieve the goal. "What?" she asked, keeping her voice low and infused with a warning.

"That you're sleeping around. That you're far away from the perfect daughter he sees in you."

Strange, she thought, feeling her heart turn inside her chest, how much such a remark could hurt, even if it came from a stranger, a man she barely knew, even though she'd heard it before. But somehow, maybe because she was still a foolish little girl inside, still not quite finished believing in dreams, a part of her had hoped that his blue eyes, so serious sometimes, so cocky at others, would be able to see more in her, would be able to look behind the mask she was always wearing. And maybe because he didn't, was why it hurt so much. Because she had - once again - misjudged a man.

She was a fool, she thought, scrambling to her feet and searching for her clothes. She would never learn that men were all the same, that none of them ever cared. "My father wouldn't listen to you," she said bleakly, "And besides, he would hardly care."

"You think?" he asked, still lying on the floor, completely unconcerned about his own nudity.

"Yes," she nodded, yanking her shirt over her head, "I've had over twenty years to prove it. And now I would very much like it if you got your clothes on and left. My roommate will be coming soon, and I don't want her to find you here."

"So I'm dismissed?" he replied, reaching for his own clothes. "The stallion did his duty and now he can go?"

Anger came quickly, and so hot, she thought she could feel it burn on her tongue, burn through her heart. But it was better than the pain, so in a way she welcomed it. "Hey," she cried, "You were the one that started this. You've got no right to behave that way. And you said I was sleeping around. So…" she paused, blinking the tears away that were about to break through the anger, about to betray her bravado, "I just assumed that's what you wanted too."

"That's where you are wrong," he said slowly, but firmly while pulling on his shirt, slinging his tie around his neck. He smiled slightly when he saw her stiffen at his words. Good. This was madness. He had fallen for her so hard and fast like never before in his life. She was only twenty-three years old, she was his client for goodness' sake, and he couldn't keep his hand off her. But he also knew that with her history, with her own cocky attitude, that certainly matched his, it probably wasn't wise to let her know that he was a goner already. So he simply looked at her, and said, "This, dear Faith, is far from over."

Her sharp intake of breath told him that he'd caught her by surprise.

*****

Buffy's words stopped Angel dead in his tracks, made him stop and turn around, to find himself drowning in the tortured statement in her once so sparkling hazel eyes.

"P-please don't go," she repeated, tears streaming down her cheeks, her fingers clenching her arms like claws so tightly, Angel almost winced at the sight. A part of his mind had acknowledged the presence of Buffy's mother, had heard her talk to Spike. But his whole being was so focused on Buffy, on the pain in her gaze, the battle she was fighting to reach out to him, to give him her trust, he couldn't say anything to her mother yet. It humbled him in a way he had only experienced once before in his life, and he knew from experience that he had to be very careful now not to destroy the fragile bond she had allowed to form between them tonight.

"I'm staying," he said slowly, walking back to her, glancing quickly at her mother who seemed to be watching everything while holding her breath at the same time. He knew it would be the polite thing to say hello, to talk to her. He was a strange man in her daughter's apartment after all, but right now he couldn't worry about courtesy or manners. The only thing that mattered was Buffy, and the fact that he'd finally broken through her defenses.

Again, he held his hand out to her and this time - after a short hesitation - she put her palm into his, letting him lead her towards the living room. He sat her down in a chair, with him kneeling in front of her, still holding her hand while his thumb stroked it's back, slowly, soothingly. "Will you tell me?" he asked finally when she had calmed enough, when the initial trembling had eased - at least a little.

From the corner of his eye he saw her mother hovering in the doorway, uncertain what to do, uncertain what to say. So she simply stood there, her eyes wide and sad, the eyes of a mother who realized she'd lost contact with the essence that was her daughter. He wanted to reach out to her, too, wanted to draw her in, but wasn't sure he'd be strong enough for both of them tonight. Yet, he felt Mrs. Summers needed something to do, needed to be part of this somehow, and so without taking his eyes from Buffy, he said, "Maybe you could make some tea?"

After a startled moment, she hurried to say, "Yes, yes. Of course. I'll make it right now." She was gone, but Angel had heard the relief in her voice not to be left out.

Buffy hadn't even noticed her mother's presence he realized. She was staring ahead blindly, her teeth biting her lower lip so hard it bled.

"It's okay," he said softly, stroking her hand again, "You don't have to if you aren't ready. There's time later."

She started to nod, then shook her head in the negative, "No, I … I want to," she whispered, "but I … I don't know h-how to begin."

"How about the beginning?" he replied in an attempt to lighten the mood, but knowing it was in vain. She was far beyond that, was far beyond lightness or jokes.

She nodded again, rubbing a trembling hand over her forehead, then letting it fall into her lap to the other that was still firmly in Angel's. It wasn't much, he thought, but maybe that little touch was giving her the strength she needed. He liked to think it was.

"I-I was in college," she began, keeping her eyes directed on her hands, "A - a freshman, and I, there was this guy. H-he was … good looking … and charming and - and I'd been, well, the other girls were teasing me," she laughed, but it bore no humor. "B-because I was still a virgin. And then h-he came, and he was great … funny, attentive." She paused, her mouth curving into a self-loathing smile, "And I was so stupid."

She looked up then, and the pain in her eyes almost took his breath away. "I suppose," she smiled a little sad smile, "it's this way with guys. I mean, Riley couldn't remember his first time either. Or rather, the name of the girl. He remembers the first time, but only that he was clumsy and nervous. He couldn't tell me how she felt when I asked him."

And so she'd assumed all men were like this, Angel thought sadly, feeling the coolness of her hand, the pulse at her wrist fluttering underneath his forefinger. "Not all men are like that, honey," he told her softly, glad she was looking at him. "The first woman I slept with, her name was Darla. She was older than me, and experienced. She was seeking me out - at least that's what I think today. I … uhm," he had to grin at the memory that seemed now ages away, "I was sixteen, still in high school, and she was the aerobics trainer who came to our school one afternoon a week. She trained the girls. She never told me her real age, but my guess was she was around thirty. We met for about four weeks, then it was over and … I never saw her again."

"Did you …" she started, then frowned and shook her head.

"Did I love her?" he asked, sensing her unspoken question. When she nodded, he told her honestly, "I thought I did - then. Today," he smiled, knowing that what her felt for Darla, who he'd once admired as a boy, couldn't hold a candle to what he felt today. To the depth and connection he felt for the woman in front of him. "Today I know it was just a teenage fantasy. But then it seemed real and true." He waited a heartbeat before he asked, "And you … slept with that guy?"

She nodded, "Yeah. And I thought, I thought I was in heaven. He seemed to have experience, and even judging it from today's view, he wasn't a bad lover for a twenty one year old boy, but … while I thought it was special and beautiful, I was nothing but a challenge for him. A virgin to deflower - that's what they said behind my back later." She bit her lips again, and Angel felt her squeezing his hand. "When … when I confronted him, he laughed. He said that, that I was a stupid girl believing this was anything serious."

"Oh, honey," he said softly, reaching out and cupping her cheek. "I'm so sorry." But already when he said the words, he knew somehow that wasn't all, that there had to be more. Being treated that way by your first lover was something that unfortunately happened all the time, and although he loathed the idea of a girl having such an experience, and especially if it was Buffy, he also knew that they all managed to get over it sooner or later. It was a bad experience but it wasn't enough of an explanation for Buffy's behavior, for the walls she had surrounded herself with. "But that's not all, huh?"

Her head came up with a snap, and she looked at him for a moment with wide eyes, as if startled by his insight. Then she sighed, and Angel liked to think that she'd realized he was different, that he wasn't like the guy who'd used her or her ex-boyfriend who couldn't remember the name of his first girl.

"No," she whispered, her gaze back at her lap, "I … four weeks later I discovered I was pregnant."

"Preg-" The word stuck in his throat, closing it up, making it hard for him to breathe. She'd been pregnant. With the child of a guy who hadn't really wanted her in the first place. "Oh, Buffy," his own voice was reduced to a whisper now. "Oh, baby."

Her tears were falling again, "I, I was so ashamed. And I … I wanted to tell him … even after. But when I came to his room, he wasn't..." a sob tore from her throat, "there was a girl with him - in bed."

"God, Buffy". Disturbed more than he'd thought possible, Angel drew a hand through his hair, trying to get a grip on his own raging emotions. The rage he'd felt earlier was threatening to come back. He wanted to find the man, wanted to tear him apart, make him hurt physically as much as Buffy had suffered emotionally. "I'm so sorry. So terribly sorry."

"Me too," she replied, frowning slightly. "I … was upset and … but on the other hand there was this tiny person inside of me, this baby. And although I was afraid, and … sad, I still wanted it. I already loved it."

"Of course you did," he assured her. How could she not? Buffy wasn't the kind of person to reject an innocent baby, a child that hadn't done anything to deserve wrath or anger.

She went on as if he hadn't spoken, too caught up in her story now, the words tumbling from her lips faster and faster as if she was getting rid of something that had been long overdue, and it probably was, Angel thought, "… I, I mean, I didn't know how my parents would react. I hoped my father, my step-dad, would be supportive, but my mom … and still I loved it." There was such sadness in her voice now that Angel already feared he knew what she was going to say, and a part of him wanted her to stop, wanted her not to go on, not to say the words that would shatter a dream, but also sensing that they needed to be said.

But when she did, and even though he expected them, he felt each one of them like a mortal blow.

"I lost the baby a week later. It wasn't anything … nothing went wrong. I didn't fall, or … anything. The doctor said these things happen all the time, that, that miscarriage is a common thing during the first trimester, but … I …" she raised her head, her eyes swimming in tears, so lost and sad, "I loved that baby, Angel. It was a part of me, and it … d-died. For a while I wanted to die, too. Then, when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, I called my step-father and he came, and he pulled me back, made me see the light again."

She said nothing for a moment, just looked at him, then finally, tentatively, she reached out, stroked the skin on his cheek, rough from a day's growth of beard. "You were a lot alike, you know," she said softly, a first real smile creeping up her features. "I loved him very much."

Angel's heart was so full, he felt it would burst any moment, looking into the eyes of this woman who was already in every cell, every fiber of his body, who was already a part of his soul. She hadn't told him she loved him, maybe it was too early for that, but maybe without even realizing it, she had given him a compliment that was equally precious. She'd compared him to her stepfather, a man Angel had never met, but who seemed important to her, and whom she'd loved without reservation.

Blinking his own tears away, he looked deeply into her eyes, "I really would like to hold you now," he said gruffly, emotions constricting his throat.

"I would very much like to be held," she replied, slipping her arms around his neck, and letting him pull her down into his lap, almost crawling into him, holding onto him with all her might.

Over her head, Angel sensed a movement at the door, and as he looked up he saw Mrs. Summers standing there, tears falling down her cheeks as well. One hand firmly pressed over her mouth, she was watching her daughter being held in the arms of a man she hadn't known before tonight. With almost startling insight Angel realized that she hadn't heard the story before, that she hadn't known - until now - that her daughter had lost a child, and so much more, that year in college. How must she feel, hearing all this now, realizing that Buffy hadn't trusted her enough to tell her, had only opened up to the man who was holding her in his arms now.

A part of Angel wanted to reassure her, wanted to give her comfort, but another part resented her for letting this happen in the first place. Not the experience, not the miscarriage. Joyce couldn't have done anything to prevent that, but for leaving her daughter alone in all this, without her mother, who obviously hadn't been there for her when Buffy had needed her desperately. That didn't mean that mother and daughter didn't need to talk, but right now wasn't the time for it. It would come - but later, when emotions were less raw, and hopefully less painful.

So Angel dismissed Joyce from his thoughts for the time being, focusing back on the woman in his arms, her hot tears falling onto his shirt, burning the skin underneath with the despair they stood for. But maybe, and Angel hoped this would be the case, they were healing tears, too. Maybe they could help to ease the pain that had so long held her soul in it's fist, had crippled her slowly, to a point where she'd been too afraid to love, or let someone else love her.

Although listening to her sobs and tears was painful, Angel did listen - not trying to soothe with words that meant nothing, just holding her, stroking her back, showing her that he was there, that she could count on him, trust him. He would show her that he was nothing like the man who'd taken her virginity as if it meant nothing, and then had abandoned her. The man who'd never known that he'd left her with a child, a child long dead and gone.

A part of him felt a perverse satisfaction at the thought. This man would never know that he'd created something beautiful with her, something she'd loved instantly. He would never know what could have been, and in Angel's eyes that alone was punishment. He thought about Buffy being pregnant with his child, the idea filling his heart with such joy he wanted to burst, and he thought about not even knowing it. Yes, he thought again, this was punishment, albeit unconsciously, like a precious gift you never received, a joy never given to you. This man had hurt her, and in return had been denied of what Angel considered a miracle. It wasn't enough, but it was something.

He heard Mrs. Summers in the kitchen clattering with cups, while Buffy was slowly calming down in his arms. "I cried all over you," she said, her voice muffled in his shirt. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he told her, giving his voice all the softness he could muster. "I'm glad I was here, glad you trusted me with this."

"You are, huh?" She looked up then, a slight smile playing around her lips, and it warmed his heart.

"Yes," he smiled back, cupping her cheek. "I meant what I said before, Buffy. I love you. And this … it's part of loving someone. Being there for that person. For good and bad."

Something between a sob and a laugh tore from her throat, "Bad, maybe. But this certainly qualifies as worse. You want the worse moments, too?"

"Definitely," he replied without hesitation, looking deeply into her eyes.

She raised a hand, wiping the tears from her face, "I'm a mess tonight, Angel. I'm, I don't even know what I am. I … I think I'm not ready for this, yet."

Again he smiled, "That's okay. I'm not expecting anything. I know this was hard for you - and I feel humbled that you told me."

"Okay," she said simply, running a hand through her hair, stifling a yawn.

Gently his thumb stroked the soft skin on her cheek, "You're tired. Emotional revelations can be very draining."

"You seem to know what you're talking about."

He saw her looking at him with a hint of curiosity and a silent question, but he couldn't answer her, because he was too drained himself. But also because he had promised not to tell, had made a vow to his sister in a night a lot like this, with Katie's body in his arms, sobbing out her very soul.

So he simply shrugged, "Life experience," he told her vaguely.

"Because you're so old," she joked, but her eyes were still sad, although he noticed they weren't as desperate anymore as they had been before. It wasn't much, but maybe it was a start. Healing wouldn't come overnight, and Angel didn't expect it to, but he needed something to hold onto, needed something to hang his hope on. Because he wasn't going to give this up, give her up. He might still be young in years, but his life had been far from easy and he knew that something like this didn't happen all the time. She was too important to let her slip away.

"I might be younger than you," but my life experience certainly matches yours, he'd almost said, but in the face of her recent revelation he wasn't so sure anymore. He couldn't, didn't even want to, imagine what it meant to lose a child, even one you hadn't had the chance to hold in your arms. So he simply said, "But does it really matter?"

She looked at him long and seriously, before she replied, "Maybe not. But I can't think about it. Not tonight."

Angel saw Mrs. Summers coming back again, holding a cup of tea in her hand, "Did you notice your mother is here?"

Buffy's startled eyes flew to the older woman who was now kneeling down beside her, still holding the cup. "Mom?"

"Yes, baby. I'm here."

"Oh, mom," Buffy pressed a hand on her lips, only now realizing that her mother had heard the story too.

"It's okay," Joyce said soothingly, glad when Angel took the cup from her hands, and reached out to her child. "I needed to hear it. And I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I was such a horrible mother."

"Oh, mom," Buffy said again, "I never thought that."

"I know," Joyce smiled despite the pain Angel could see in her eyes, "But it's the truth. But maybe," she wet her lips, uncertain how to go on, "if you let me, we could try to make this better. I never wanted us to drift apart like this. Maybe it's too late to be your mother again, but how about being a friend, do you have any need for one in your life?"

Another sob came from the younger woman's throat, and with a muffled cry she flung herself into her mother's waiting arms. "Oh, mom. Yes, yes, I'd like that. A friend. A mother. Mom, I missed you so."

"And I missed you," Joyce replied. Her eyes met Angel's over her daughter's shoulder, and there was a world of emotions in them. Angel knew they had to talk, all of them, especially Buffy and her mom. But that would come later. Today all that mattered was that the healing had begun.

Part 18

There is always a wicked secret, a private person … --- W.H. Auden

Joyce closed the door quietly, careful not to disturb Buffy who had fallen into a light sleep only moments ago. She sighed and leaned against the door, closing her own eyes for a moment, when she suddenly remembered that there was still a man sitting in her daughter's kitchen, a man whose full name she still didn't know. She'd been tempted to ask her daughter about him, but one look at her still tear stained face, the swollen eyes, the exhaustion that seemed to have invaded every fiber of Buffy's body wasn't something she could just ignore. So she hadn't asked, but she still wanted to know.

Maybe it was just curiosity, or maybe it was the concern of a mother who'd just rediscovered her true responsibilities, that made her push away from the door and walk slowly into the small kitchen. There he sat, long legs stretched out in front of him, head leaned against the wall, eyes closed.

For a moment Joyce just looked at him. He seemed awfully young and vulnerable that way, certainly not older than the twenty-six years Buffy had mentioned, but Mrs. Summers already knew that the moment he opened his eyes the impression would change completely. There was a world of knowledge in those eyes that seemed much too old for the man they belonged to, and Joyce found herself wondering what had happened in his life to put that knowledge there.

The very same moment said eyes opened and stifling a yawn, he gave her a smile, straightening in the chair. "Mrs. Summers," he acknowledged her, standing up, impressing her with his manners. She knew the reaction had been unconscious, he was too tired, too concerned to care, and maybe because of that, it impressed her even more.

"Please sit down," she nodded at him. "I still don't know how to call you."

"Liam," he replied, smiling again. "Liam Sullivan."

"My daughter," she cleared her throat that was still feeling raw from the emotional roller-coaster she'd been through tonight, "called you … Angel?"

She almost smiled when he blushed slightly, "That," he laughed a little, obviously embarrassed. "My sister used to call me that. And somehow, it stuck." He shrugged, "I don't know why, but Buffy insists on using the stupid name."

Joyce nodded, understanding instantly why her daughter had chosen to stick with his nickname. It somehow fit the man she was looking at. She had seen his gentleness while dealing with a distraught Buffy, had heard the softness in his voice, all his senses attuned to the woman he obviously loved. "I see," she nodded again, finding a chair for herself, and rubbed her temples wearily.

"She is asleep?" he inquired, concern heavy in his gaze.

"Yes," she nodded for the third time, raising her head, "Finally. I'm ... I'm still having trouble coming to terms with what I heard tonight. To think she never told me," she shook her head. "I always wanted to be the best mother. I read so many books, but … I'm a total failure."

"Don't," he said softly, much in the same tone he'd used with Buffy before, and Joyce looked up. "Beating yourself up won't help. Buffy needs you. Now. That's all that matters. This isn't a best-mother-of-the-year contest."

Scrutinizing his gaze for a long moment, Joyce was again stunned by the wisdom this young man obviously possessed. Then - once again - she looked into his eyes and it all seemed so clear. Slowly she ran a hand through her hair, "Do you want something?" she asked, gesturing at the kitchen counter.

"No, thanks," he declined with a smile. She looked tired and worn, Angel noticed. Which, given the circumstances, wasn't surprising at all. How would he feel finding out that his daughter had kept something like that from him? The way Joyce obviously felt right now, he thought, answering his own question. "But what about you?"

"No," she sighed wearily. "I couldn't, not now." With a glance at the clock, she leaned back in her chair, "You seemed to know exactly what to say to her."

He shrugged, a little bit uncomfortable with the change of subject. "I've had some … experience." He'd given everything not to have it, but tonight it had proven useful at least.

Joyce waited a moment, before she asked, "Someone close to you?"

Angel knew that she wasn't trying to be nosy, or intrusive. She just wanted to understand, wanted to hear a reason why Buffy had told him and not her. Still, he didn't want to answer, but did nevertheless. "Yes," he said finally. "She's …had it rough."

She nodded, considering his words, realizing that for some reason he wasn't offering more. But somehow - maybe because she'd seen him with Buffy tonight - she didn't need anything else. Where she once would have demanded a lengthy explanation, she kept quiet now. "I wish," she said finally, "her step-father was still alive. He always knew how to handle her. They had a special connection. Something," she laughed quickly, unhappily, "I'm painfully missing."

Angel ignored her self-loathing, and instead concentrated on the other subject, "Buffy loved him very much."

It wasn't a question, Joyce realized, but a statement, and again she wondered what this young man already knew about her daughter. "She told you about him?"

"I draw," he replied to give her an explanation, "and I paint, even though I'm not anywhere as good as your late husband. But in that way we had something in common."

"I see," Joyce nodded again, thinking that Rupert's painting couldn't be the only thing they had in common. Not only had Buffy told Angel about her experience in college, she'd told him about her step-father, a subject she never touched, not even with her mother. Not that it meant much, Joyce thought with an inward sigh. After tonight she had seen the full extent of the degree mother and daughter had grown apart, had been forced to face the unpleasant truth. But Buffy had opened up to Angel in a way that was heartbreaking and touching at the same time. Buffy had opened up her soul, had given the young man her trust. Growing apart or not, Joyce was certain of one thing. Buffy had never been one to give her trust easily, but when she gave it, it meant something.

Even though Joyce was still trying to found out what exactly.

"So Buffy and you have been seeing each other?" she asked finally, cautiously. Angel wouldn't betray Buffy's trust, Joyce knew.

And true, the moment the words were out of her mouth, his eyes narrowed slightly, and he looked at her speculatively. "I'm not sure this is something you should discuss with me," he replied slowly, pronouncing each word carefully, but his voice was still soft, not at all offended or defensive.

Joyce smiled slightly, she couldn't help herself, "Have people ever told you that you surprise them?"

A smiled crept up his features in return, transforming them from good looking and serious to dangerously attractive, "Once or twice."

"I can't imagine why", she said dryly, but there was a lot of humor in her voice. "You're not at all what I expected when I saw you."

"Why?" he shot back, "Because I'm not wearing a suit and tie. Or because I'm younger than your daughter?"

"A little bit of both, I think," she replied honestly. "To my embarrassment, I have to admit I tend to be one of those people who judge others too quickly sometimes. But one is never too old to change, I suppose."

He let that remark go, knowing that it didn't need to be commented on. Instead he leaned back, looked at Buffy's mother for a moment, before he said slowly, "Maybe it's a good time to warn you now."

Her brows shot straight up, "Warn me?"

"Yeah," the smile crept up again, softening his serious eyes. "I'm planning to stick around Buffy for a while, probably a long while, so you'd better get used to me."

She should be outraged, Joyce knew, but after everything she'd seen tonight, there was no outrage left, no indignation at his statement. He didn't look at all like the man she'd hoped for her daughter, and yet he seemed to be exactly what she needed. Sometimes, she thought with a chuckle, mothers just had to accept things and be glad they'd worked out so well. Especially mothers who'd forgotten what it meant to be one.

"Is that so?" she looked at him sternly, but couldn't hold back her grin for long. "Well, if that's the truth, we'd probably better start by you calling me Joyce."

*****

She was smiling at her. A full blown, toothless smile, a smile she knew so well. That little girl with blond locks and blue eyes, blue eyes like all babies have, blue eyes like an angel.

She had seen the smile before, so often she couldn't count. And she knew the girl. Only sometimes it was a boy. A little boy with dark eyes and hair. His feet were perfect. His hands were, too. The hands of an artist. A painter. Or a musician. A baby's hands.

A smile played on Buffy's features as she slept. The same smile she saw on the baby's face. Happy. Content. But her head was already thrashing left and right, knowing what would come, knowing the joy wouldn't last long, couldn't last long.

The shadow came slowly, it always did. Dark and threatening, and it was going to steal the smile and the baby. The shadow didn't have a face or a smile. It didn't have eyes, nor hands or feet. It was just dark and dangerous. And painful. God, she was so tired of the pain, didn't want to feel it anymore. But she knew it was in vain. She could already feel the edges of it, could already feel it tearing at her womb, taking what was precious, what she already loved.

Her fingers clawed into the sheet, the covers already on the floor. She was lying on the bed only in a tee-shirt and panties, trying to fight the pain, trying not to surrender to the fight she knew she couldn't win. It would go. The smile. The laughter. The beautiful eyes. She was prepared for it, knew it, but that didn't mean it would hurt less.

Buffy gasped for air, the nightmare still holding her in it's grasp. Tears started leaping from her closed lids, forming little streams on her cheeks, instantly wiped away when the skin came into contact with the pillow while her head was thrashing from one side to the other. She tried to reach for the smile, but the shadow was already growing, tried to hold on to the eyes, but they were already gone, blinded by pain and fear. Then suddenly a little ray of light started to built at one edge of the shadow, growing bigger by the second. It had only been a shimmer at first, but now it was spreading, starting to surround the shadow, chasing it away.

And after a few moments there was so much light, Buffy felt almost blinded by it. She tried to see, tried to reach out. But it was too late, the smile and laughter was gone. But for the first time, so was the shadow.

The thrashing of her head stopped the moment her eyes popped open, staring at nothing for a short moment, before focusing on the ceiling that was barely visible in the dark bedroom. Only the pale light of the not quite full moon shone through the window where the curtains hadn't been closed. Her breathing slowing, Buffy wiped the remaining traces of tears from her cheeks. What a strange dream. It had been so familiar, she'd dreamt it hundreds of times before, but never had it ended in pure light. Always the shadow had won.

She remembered waking up in Riley's arms, crying and screaming the name she'd given her unborn child, remembered Riley trying to soothe her, but at loss how, not knowing what had caused the nightmare in the first place. A part of her had longed to snuggle into his embrace, to let his strong arms surround her with warmth. But strangely his arms had never promised warmth or tenderness. They'd felt like something foreign, something that didn't belong there.

And suddenly it was all there. The warmth. The tenderness. The light. She didn't feel alone like usual. She felt enveloped in love and understanding, felt treasured and held, even though she was alone in her bed. But in her heart she knew that he was out there, still watching over her, that he hadn't just left when her mother had helped her to go to bed.

She'd thought herself ruined forever, ruined for any kind of emotional bond, for any kind of trust, and in consequence, for love. Because there was no love where there was no trust. It had been her reason for going for nice and easy - for the Rileys in this world. The good, reliable guys that were undemanding, and utterly harmless, because they had never touched her heart, her inner core.

And like a curtain being torn from her inner eye, she realized with startling awareness that that had been the reason for her shying away from Angel. From the first moment she'd met him, she'd felt something stirring inside of her, had felt that hiding from his knowing eyes wasn't possible. With a feeling that bordered on despair, that hidden part had reached out for him, wanting him, as if he was the one, the only one to heal her wounds, to soothe her broken spirit and soul.

Funny that he'd had the same impact on her like his step-brother had had so many years ago. The attraction had been instant and strong. The difference was she had been a stupid girl then, and was a wary woman now. And where there had been darkness and carelessness in Parker, there was so much light, so much tenderness in Angel, it took her breath away.

She'd been pushing him away, telling herself that it could never work, that he was too young, too different, while her heart had already known it had been nothing but excuses, born from her fear of risking her heart again. But he hadn't run like others, he'd stayed, had shown his love in so many ways, she couldn't count. He'd taken her insults, had taken her flirting with Spike, had taken everything because he loved her, because … she mattered to him.

He wasn't like Parker who had only needed a few hours to replace her with the next stupid girl on campus. Angel was nothing like his step-brother. He was true, strong, loving, and she trusted him. And, she admitted to herself for the first time, she loved him. And this love was spreading like a fire through her, warming places she'd thought cold and lost forever, opening her soul and heart. She wasn't emotionally crippled like she'd thought all these years. She loved. And was loved back. And it was the most amazing feeling she'd ever known.

Part 19 (definitely R for sexual situations *g* - maybe NC-17)

Faith Marshall was still furious with herself, with her parents, with Lindsey MacDonald, and with the world in general, when the door of her dorm room opened at ten o'clock at night, and her friend and roommate wandered in, wearing a silly, satisfied grin on her face.

Tess stopped as soon as her eyes fell on the other woman, lying sprawled on her stomach on her bed, "Hey, Faith. You're back." She stopped, sniffed, "Did you - smoke?"

Damn. Some of the stale smoke that seemed to be attached to Lindsey's clothes still had to be in the air. Faith pushed herself into a sitting position, "A friend came to visit," she replied. It wasn't actually a lie. Someone had come to visit. Only, he wasn't a friend. They might have fucked like bunny rabbits, but nothing earth-shattering had happened.

**Really?** a little voice inside her head whispered. **And how about that earth-shattering climax. How about those stormy eyes you don't seem able to forget?**

Disturbed with the annoying little voice, Faith tucked her long hair behind her ears, "We talked." Now that was an outright lie, but no way she'd tell her friend what had happened in this room tonight. And on the very spot Tess was standing in.

"That means it wasn't the one who was here this afternoon," Tess said while crossing the room to her own bed and sitting down.

Friend? She didn't have friends. Besides Tess, that is. Instantly alert, Faith straightened, her gaze sharpening on her friend. "Someone was here today?"

"Mmmmm," Tess replied, lying back on the bed, still fully clothed, and sighing contentedly. "You know," she added dreamily, "Daniel is such a sweetie."

Irritated with the change of subject, Faith tried to control her annoyance, and asked, "Daniel? You mean Daniel Carmichael?" If the situation had been different, if she hadn't been in this mess, she had brought on her all by herself, she might have been able to sound interested at the news of her best friend dating the college quarterback, but as it was, her voice sounded flat, the interest forced.

And Tess - knowing her like nobody else did - knew it instantly, "Excuse me," she said bitingly, "that my private life isn't as interesting and fucked up as yours."

Hating herself for her reaction because she cared for Tess in a way she cared for nobody else, Faith stood up, and walked to her friend's bed, looking down at her for a moment, then sitting on the edge. "I'm sorry," she said, reaching for her friend's hand. "I don't mean to be such a bitch, it's just …everything is so complicated and," she grinned slightly, "fucked up."

After a moment Tess grinned back, "Yeah, I know." She sighed, "And I didn't mean to sound so… so selfish."

"No, that's okay. So you went on a date with Daniel Carmichael. That's great news." Again the enthusiasm was missing from her voice, Faith realised, but at least she sounded more sincere.

"Yeah," another happy sigh slipped from Tess' lips. "We didn't actually *do* anything, mind, but the evening was so … he was sweet, and thoughtful, and perfect."

"Sounds like a match made in heaven," the brunette replied, smiling to take the edge from her words. But when she saw her friend's smile fall, she sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. "God, Tess, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me tonight."

**Liar, liar, pants on fire.** The little voice taunted. **You know exactly what's wrong with you. You can't forget about your stormy eyed prince in an expensive suit. The guy who marched into your life like a thunderstorm and refused to leave again.**

God, this was disturbing. Nobody could call her innocent, Faith thought with an inward laugh that wasn't laughter at all. No, nobody could, not by a long shot. Still, Lindsey MacDonald, with his blue eyes that could turn to stormy gray in the matter of moments, had touched something inside of her nobody had ever touched before. And it was turning her insides upside down.

"Hey, it's okay," Tess' hand squeezed her own. "I know a lot's going on in your life. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes for all your dad's money."

A sarcastic smile turned up Faith's lips. "Thanks. So, that friend of mine you mentioned. Do you remember the name?"

"No," Tess shook her head. "Sorry. He might have said it, but it somehow slipped my mind. But he was … a hunk. Tall, dark, handsome. A slightly brooding look, but you know how that adds to some men's attraction."

Alarm bells rang in the back of Faith's mind. She didn't know anyone who fit the description. Wrong, she amended instantly. She might know someone, but for the life of her couldn't remember who. Too many men had come and gone throughout her life, to rule out the possibility of the one Tess had just described. "What did he want?" she asked finally when she caught Tess looking at her expectantly.

"So you don't know him?"

"No," Faith shook her head, hoping it was true.

"Well, he said he was a PI-"

"A PI?" The alarm bells were ringing up a storm by now. A PI?

"Well, yeah. I supposed he works for your dad," Tess stopped, chewing her lower lip, "at least that's what I assumed. Thinking about it, he never really said. He asked some questions about you."

By now her ears were almost falling off by the tornado the alarm bells were causing in her head, "What questions?"

"Nothing special. What kind of girl you were? He knew about Kevin."

The blood drained from Faith's face in a rush, her skin suddenly feeling clammy and strangely unreal. "K-kevin?" she stuttered.

"Yeah." Confused. Tess sat up, touching her friend's shoulder, "Hey, is something wrong? He really talked as if he knew."

"N-no," Faith shook her head, feeling a tremble run through her whole body. Kevin. God, she couldn't think about Kevin. It was the one thing in her thoroughly fucked up life she really wanted to forget, but somehow it seemed to pop up at every turn. She didn't seem able to get rid of the stain the memory still caused on her soul. Involuntarily her left hand moved to her stomach, a place where once a child had nestled, a child she'd killed. It didn't matter that her parents had forced her to have an abortion. She'd been nineteen then, an adult, it had ultimately been her decision. She had killed her child, and she had to live with it. Not her parents, who had long forgotten about that "incident."

"Faith, are you okay?"

She heard Tess' voice as if from a great distance, and nodded, not wanting to worry her. Tess was her friend, but how could she understand what it meant to kill something that was already part of you? "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Why don't you tell me more about your date with Daniel?" she asked, standing and walking back to her own bed. She let Tess' voice wash over her, hoping it would rid her of the guilt and pain, but knowing it would never happen.

*****

She looked exhausted, her hair mused from sleep, her eyes red-rimmed. Her cheeks still bore the traces of recent tears, but to Angel she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. When she saw him, the sleepiness seemed to vanish, and a hesitant smile tilted up the corners of her mouth that caused a funny feeling to spread through his chest, enveloping his heart, making him feel joyously happy and dizzy at the same time. He tried to put a halt to this feeling, tried to rein in his hope, not wanting to read too much in that one tentative smile, but knew it was already too late. His hope had already shot right through the roof. There was no way he could put a lid on it now.

"Hey," he said softly, hoping his voice wouldn't come out too hoarse, expressing everything he felt at the sight of her, only dressed in panties and a skimpy t-shirt.

She stopped in mid-stride, her smile slipping a little, but she looked at him steadily, and there was something in her eyes he didn't quite dare to read. It was a new softness he hadn't seen before.

"Buffy!" Joyce turned away from the sink where she'd just been rinsing a cup and smiled at her daughter, "How are you feeling?"

"What," Buffy began, then cleared her throat when her voice wouldn't come out in little more than a whisper. "What time is it?" she managed finally.

"A little after midnight," Joyce supplied, filling the cup in her hand with shaky fingers. She didn't know what to expect from her daughter now, didn't know how to act around her. She was still the same Buffy, but in a way, she also wasn't. So she took the easiest way for now, "Do you want something?" She gestured at the cup in her hand.

"No, thanks," Buffy retorted on a little yawn, before her attention shifted to Angel. "You're still here."

The slight wonder in her voice, and the pleased surprise in her eyes did funny things to his gut, and Angel realized that she hadn't had a lot of good surprises in her life. No, mostly they'd been quite the opposite, like realizing that the father of your unborn child was nothing but scum, or that your boyfriend didn't remember the first girl he'd been intimate with. Angel made a vow to himself, there and then, that from now on he'd bring a lot of good surprises into her life.

He smiled softly, "Where would I go?"

"How about home?" she replied, sitting down on the chair opposite to his.

He shrugged, "Not that I don't like my house, and maybe I could have done something really important. Like cleaning. But did you really expect me to just go?"

She waited what seemed like an endless moment with her answer, the importance, the profoundness of it hanging in the air like lead. And when a silent, almost whispered, "No," left her lips, her eyes met Angel's and held, a world of meaning passing between them.

//Can't speak, can't breathe Can't get up off my knees Don't know what comes over me//

Joyce suddenly felt like an intruder into something private, something she wasn't part of. A part of her resented it, she was Buffy's mother after all, knew her daughter for more than 30 years. Another part wanted to just leave - they might not notice her departure anyway - but something kept her rooted in place. For the most part, however, she just couldn't go, after forming a new, but still very fragile, bond with her daughter tonight.

That very same moment, Buffy seemed to remember her mother's presence, and with great difficulty - so it seemed - tore her gaze away from the man across the table. "Mom," she said slowly, "You must be tired."

Tired? Joyce didn't feel tired at all. Emotionally drained. Yes. Weary. Maybe. But not tired. Her whole being was still in turmoil from all the things she never wanted, but had needed, to hear. Yet, she was still mother enough to recognize the silent message Buffy was sending with her eyes.

Lying through her teeth, something she'd never done before, but which was maybe a result of her newly required mother instinct, Joyce looked around for the purse she'd deposed somewhere but long forgotten. "Yes, yes," she nodded, "I'm tired."

Buffy's mouth turned into a half-smile in response, a smile that seemed so much more intimate than all the forced cheer Joyce had received over the past years. Blinking against the tears that were suddenly threatening to well up, she saw her purse laying on the desk in the hallway. "I'm going to leave you on your own now." She gave the couple a smile, "Angel, it was nice meeting you, maybe you'll come over some time. With Buffy. I'd like to have you for dinner."

Without looking up, without taking his eyes from her daughter's face, Angel nodded, "That would be nice."

"Well, then it's settled," Joyce walked back to her daughter, purse in hand. She bent down and kissed the younger woman's cheek, glad when Buffy didn't flinch the way she had so often before. "See you soon, honey," she whispered.

"Thank you, mom. For being there for me."

God, she had to leave now, Joyce thought desperately, or she'd start to bawl like a little girl. "Bye," she said instead, hurrying out of the apartment without looking back, content in the knowledge that her daughter had all that mattered right now.

*

Buffy found him watching her the moment the door fell shut, and she focused on Angel again. His lids had dropped slightly, giving his eyes an intense and strangely disturbing look.

//Whenever you come near Heart's pounding in my chest Little voice inside my head Can't hear a word it says But the feeling's loud and clear.//

Buffy felt heat spread through her body, her lips suddenly going dry, and it intensified when he finally spoke, his voice hoarse with a mixture of suppressed passion and want. "You sent her away," he said slowly, his eyes darkening underneath the lids.

"Yes, I did," she confirmed, holding his gaze.

"Why?" He bit out the one word, as if it was too hard to say it at all.

"I think you know why." She gave him a smile that grew slightly tremulous. It was ridiculous, she told herself. She'd made love with him on the hood of a car, and in the dirt beside a highway, but somehow this was different. They had come together in a moment of heated passion then. Tonight, however, she was initiating it on purpose, and with a feeling in her heart that made her utterly vulnerable.

//Love must be telling me something Giving me some kind of sign Spelling it out for me Love must be telling me I must be falling tonight//

She saw him shift slightly in his chair, for a moment wondering if the reason could be an arousal as painful as hers, for she was most certainly aroused, the heat between her legs turning into a most delightful ache she welcomed with pleasure. It was all because of him, the man her heart had taken in whole, had admitted she loved, and for him, the man who'd stood by her, had not wavered, no matter how hard she'd tried to push him away.

"Buffy." His voice pulled her from her thoughts. "I'm not sure this is a good idea tonight, not after-"

"I am sure," she said firmly. No way she would let him retreat, would let him go all gentlemanly on her. Not tonight of all nights, not when she'd finally discovered she was still capable of love, of joy, of pleasure. Not when she needed him, when every fiber of her body was crying out for him. "I am very sure," she repeated, emphasizing her point. Then she reached out, covering his hands with hers. "Or don't you want me?"

//I've been in love and lost I swore I'd sworn it off No matter what the cost I'd learn to live without//

His response was a low groan that seemed to come from a place deep inside of him. "God, Buffy. I'll always want you, no matter what. I just thought-"

She put two fingers over his lips, sealing them, the contact sending goose-bumps all over her body. "Then why don't you stop thinking now," she suggested, letting her voice drop to a seductive whisper, "and take me to bed instead?"

//But you weren't in my plans Now baby here I am I still don't understand But I know there ain't no doubt//

She could see the moment his control snapped, could see his eyes going almost black, his lids dropping even further, giving his face a thoroughly sensual look. He was out of his chair in a flash, gathering her in his arms, lifting her up, and as they were getting closer to the bedroom, his mouth was already fusing with hers, his tongue demanding entrance while his teeth were nipping her lips, gently teasing, promising more to come.

The door to her bedroom was thankfully open, so he just pushed his way inside, Buffy still securely wrapped in his arms, her hands roaming through his hair, making the skin of his skull tingle. As soon as they reached her bed, his knees bumping against the edge, he let her down gently, but kept contact with her, not willing to break it. "Buffy," he whispered her name hoarsely, his hand combing through her blond hair, so soft to his touch, like silk, caressing his skin. "God, Buffy."

She chuckled then, a low sound, thoroughly sensual, but a bit uncertain at the same time, "I know," she whispered, her eyes locking with his. "I know. You can't know how I feel right now. When I lost the baby," she paused, searching for something in his eyes, then, obviously finding it, she went on, "I wanted to die. A part of me did."

"But you're alive, Buffy. And so am I. And that's what counts. All that counts." He kissed her, softly this time, without tongue, just a touch lips to lips, sweet, almost hesitant, before he looked at her again. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I'm starting to," she replied, laughing shakily. Her heart was pounding in her chest, almost jumping with the sheer joy. It was a feeling that was so completely foreign to her, she could hardly bear it. She could smell his musky scent, could feel the heat emanating from him, enveloping her, warming her from the inside where she'd been so cold, so alone for so long.

Slowly she lifted her hand to his cheek, feeling the rough unshaven planes of his face. He looked tired, probably a lot like herself, but it didn't matter, for his eyes were so alive, so sparkling, she couldn't stop looking into them. They were reaching deep into her soul and stirring the ashes of what she had thought were long-dead coals - starting a fire that was blazing through her now. "I … I can't promise you anything," she told him, feeling shaky to the core. She had admitted to herself she loved him, but wasn't ready to tell him. Not yet. But soon, she promised herself, she would tell him soon.

"I'm not asking you to," he retorted, "If I learned anything from life, it's that there aren't any guarantees. There can't be. Life is too uncertain."

"But I know I need you tonight. More than you'll ever know."

"I doubt that," he said, smiling slightly. "How could you need me more than I need you? Tonight. Forever."

Her heart fluttered, and so did her stomach, "Forever is such a long time."

"Not long enough. Not nearly long enough." Cutting off further conversation his lips covered hers again, and they parted instantly. Hot and slow his tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting, questing, promising. She felt his breath on her cheeks as his lips left her mouth, found a path from her cheeks, to her closed eyelids, then down to the sensitive hollow of her throat, hot and alive, burning her, claiming her, warming her.

His arms came around her, pulling her closer, his lips whispering her name over and over. Buffy let her head fall back, let the sensations wash over her. She knew she was mainly taking and not giving, but it didn't seem to matter to him, didn't seem to slow him down. She could feel his hands slip underneath her shirt, like two burning furnaces on the bare skin of her back. She felt her body turning to liquid fire, molten and languid, fiercely aching for his touch.

Her breasts felt full and waiting, her nipples already erect, hardened even more when his mouth claimed them through the shirt. She moaned, her fingers clawing his hair, her body arching against him, wanting him more than anything she'd ever wanted in her life.

His hands wandered down her side, his fingertips tracing every curve, every line of her body, down over her hips and finally coming to rest on her abdomen. "Maybe one day," he whispered, "we will have a baby."

Startled from the passion that was already spiralling out of control, she looked at him, "Wh-what?"

"Nothing," he whispered, kissing her again. "Do you ever imagine what it would have looked like?" he asked.

"Looked like?"

"The baby," he clarified. "Do you sometimes imagine its face?" He already did, he realized, could already picture a little girl with blond hair and hazel eyes, the image of her mother. She'd be a miniature Buffy, a girl he could spoil and protect, and make sure she would never drift away from her parents the way her mother had. A girl that would help to chase Buffy's shadows away. She would never forget about the child she had lost, she wouldn't be the woman he loved it she could, but maybe she would learn to live with it, secure in the love and trust she was receiving.

She stared at him for a moment, saw the love and understanding in his eyes, the warmth, and nodded, "Yes, I do. All the time. Sometimes she has blue eyes, or he has dark ones."

"Sometimes it's a boy and sometimes a girl?"

"Hmmm," she agreed, when his hand slipped back underneath her tee-shirt, moving upward, towards the curve of her breast. "God, Angel."

"I love you," he said, kissing her again, "I'm glad you can talk about it now."

"Only with you," she replied, kissing him back.

"I'm glad," he whispered, the love for her consuming him completely.

"I was so cold for so long, Angel," she told him, "so cold."

"Then," he said, his warm breath, tickling the skin of her neck, "let me warm you. Let me chase the cold away."

With a swift movement he pulled her shirt over her head, leaving her body bare to him, only the panties remaining in place. His dark head bent, his lips closing around her nipples, caressing them into aching, hard buds. Buffy moaned loudly, letting herself fall into his arms safely locked around her. "Angel," she hissed, gritting her teeth against the fire that was threatening to consume her. "Oh God."

"Easy, baby. Easy." His mouth left her right nipple, turning its' attentions to the other one, Buffy almost shattering at the contact. God, was it possible to have an orgasm from having your nipple sucked? She felt her blood roaring in her head, felt her heart pounding a mile a minute, felt herself losing control, and didn't mind.

Then suddenly her panties were gone, and he parted her thighs, pressing a kiss to the tender inside, biting, sucking. He could finish her right here, right now. Another kiss, another gentle stroke of his finger, and she would collapse in a quivering heap at his feet. But he didn't kiss her again, didn't part her thighs any further to stroke her. Instead he let go of her, getting rid of his own clothes, then lifted her up, his arms wrapped around her, letting his arousal rub over her belly, then probe between her thighs, pushing through the blond curls to the heat underneath.

She braced her hands on his shoulders, her breathing spiralling out of control, uneven, harsh in the stillness of the bedroom, her muscles already clenching and unclenching, waiting for him to join her completely, to fill her the way he had twice before. But he didn't, surprising her again. Instead he pushed her back, watching her as she stretched out on the bed, then joined her, with a smile on his face. "God, you're so beautiful. Your skin is like satin, your hair like silk." His fingers took a path from her belly towards her curls, then without warning dipped lower, filling her with two, making her gasp. "You're soft where I'm hard," he whispered, "and so sweet. God, you are sweet."

"Angel," was all she could manage. "Angel."

"Yes," he replied, removing his fingers from her tight heat. "And I love you."

Nothing came in return, but he hadn't expected it. It was too soon, he told himself. She was still too raw from tonight's revelations. He would have to be content with the trust she was showing him, giving him freely. "Tonight is only for you," he told her, slowly coming to lie on top of her, his knee nudging her thighs apart again, his hardness probing, but not yet entering. "Just for you."

She was beyond coherent speech, was swept away by the sensations he was causing inside of her, but she still managed, "I … I .."

He looked up, into her glazed eyes, unfocussed, in a world of passion and ecstasy. "What, baby? What?"

"I … want … you."

"You've got me," he returned, pushing inside of her, slowly inch by inch, filling her, loving the feeling of her heat welcoming him, surrounding him, accepting him. "All of me," he said when he was finally sheathed to the hilt.

"Y-yes," she stuttered, almost losing it then.

But he would have none of it, withdrew with the same agonizing slowness, before he pushed inside again, setting a steady rhythm that brought her to the border of completion but wouldn't let her find it. Wriggling underneath him, seeking more friction, she became impatient and wrapped her legs around his bottom, forcing him to penetrate her deeper, not letting him withdraw all the way out. She felt him chuckle against her throat, but he complied, deepening his strokes, and picking up the rhythm at the same time.

She felt the spiral starting deep inside her belly, felt her vaginal muscles clenching around him, felt him groan, before an earth-shattering climax swept her away, made her unconscious to the way she cried out his name, or that he joined her the moment she went over the edge. Angel's own climax was equally strong. He strained against her, emptying himself into her hot and heavy, and he held her tightly, so that they might never slip apart.

//But you weren't in my plans Now baby here I am I still don't understand But I know there ain't no doubt.//

Part 20 - again definitely rated R (maybe NC-17) for sexual situations

When a noise, sounding a lot like someone ringing the bell at his front door, came floating to Wesley's ears, he didn't open his eyes. Groaning instead, he reached for the pillow next to him and pulled it over his head, hoping to block out the ringing noise that went from his ears straight to his head, almost splitting it in two, reminding him once again why downing two whole bottles of Scotch last night had been a bad thing for a guy at his age.

But self-pity, loneliness, and a dose of good old despair thrown into the mix had made him forget all about his almost forty year old body, and the way it wouldn't take it too kindly when fed with an unusual amount of alcohol. Something he would pay for dearly the whole morning he guessed.

He'd been out for the better part of yesterday, trying to research stuff for the book he was planning to write for ages, but never had found time for. Now with the mess Faith Marshall had made of his career, he finally had the time, although it was still highly unlikely any publisher would be interested in a book by someone who'd been accused of sexually harassing one of his students. But with nothing better to do, researching a book had still looked better than just staring into space the whole day, and so he'd gone off to the college library, a place still open to him, even though he was suspended otherwise.

And it had helped taking his mind off his current problems, stopped him from thinking about the progress Kathie's brother would make or make not. The whole thing was driving him crazy the way it was. So he'd actually managed to do something for the book that might never be published after all, and returned to his home hoping to find something on his answering machine from Liam, telling him about his progress. But all that had been waiting for him was a call from Kathie canceling their date because of an emergency with a friend, and no news from her brother.

Thoroughly frustrated with the day, Wesley had finally succumbed to those two bottles of Scotch, the results he could now feel in a pounding headache and a stomach that had long gone from queasy to openly revolting, clearly protesting against the mistreatment of the previous night.

The ringing came again, longer this time, and with a frustrated groan, Wesley threw the pillow away, struggled to sit up on his bed without having his head split in two by the blinding pain that shot through his skull. Realizing he was still fully dressed, all his clothes wrinkled to a point where it almost looked fashionable again, he finally managed to stand, glad the world wasn't spinning around him, even though his stomach protested against the sudden change of direction and squeezed dangerously.

Fighting down the nausea, Wesley found his way towards his door, then tore it open, determined to shout at whoever was daring to disturb his Saturday morning, but the words died on his lips when he saw Kathie standing in front of him, her chestnut hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing old, faded jeans, a red turtleneck and the barest hint of makeup. His stomach did a funny little flip-flop that had nothing to do with too much Scotch, and a lot with his hormones that seemed to have gone wild lately. "Kathie?" He stared at her, unable to tear his gaze from her beautiful brown eyes.

She stared right back at him, probably assessing the situation, taking in his rumpled appearance, the yellowish colour Wesley knew his face must show. "Uh-oh," she made, not waiting for him to invite her, just pushing past, and entering his house as if it was her own, something that sent another little flip-flop through his system. It was a nice idea thinking of his house as theirs. "You smell like the next low-life bar after midnight," she commented finding her way into the kitchen and Wesley had no problem detecting the disapproval in her voice.

Absentmindedly closing the door, he turned, following her and finding her at the sink deposing the contents of a paper bag he'd not seen her carrying before. He couldn't exactly make out what she'd brought with her, but glimpses of red and green led him to believe it was vegetables.

The thought of actual food sent another wave of nausea through him, making him feel as green as the cucumber she put on the counter beside the sink. "I … uh … suppose I had a little bit too much last night," he said after his stomach had settled and the dizziness in his head vanished.

One of her delicate brows came up, "A little?"

Annoyed with her insight, but more with his own foolish behaviour, he sighed, "Okay, I had two bottles of Scotch. Expensive ones, if I may add. So what? I'm an adult. I can choose to get drunk if I want."

"No arguments on the chosen part," she replied, not looking at him, "but I'm not sure about the adult thing. Adults don't drink themselves into oblivion."

He heard the edge in her voice, saw the strange stiffness in her shoulders, but he was too surprised by her strange behaviour that he didn't pay them any attention at first. "I wasn't oblivious," he protested, then thinking about the way he'd passed out on his bed, still wearing all his clothes, he amended, "Okay, I acted irrational. I felt sorry for myself." He paused for a beat, then added, "I missed you."

"That's … nice to hear," she said, still not turning around, "but … I … I never saw you drink before. And of course I didn't see it last night, either, but … do you drink … often?" The question came out oddly forced, and Wesley saw she had gripped the counter so tightly, her knuckles turned white.

Forgetting all about his headache and his nausea, Wesley was behind her in two steps. Cautiously reaching out, he planted a hand on her shoulder, startled by the tight knotted muscles in it. "Kathie?," he asked softly, "What is it?"

She said nothing for a moment, then a pained little noise left her lips, sounding a lot like a little kitten in pain. Wesley felt it slice through him like a knife. "Kathie?," he asked again. "Did I do anything? I really don't drink as a rule. The last time I got drunk like that was," he chuckled slightly, "I have a hard time remembering it, some time during college I suppose."

A forced laugh left her mouth then, but it instantly turned into a sob, and with utmost tenderness he turned her to him, tilting up her face, and found her eyes swimming in tears. "Kathie?," he said her name for the third time. "Darling, what is the matter?"

She had to smile at the endearment that slipped so much easier these days, but couldn't help a tear to slip from her eye. Shaking her head, she said, "There is … nothing. I'm just being silly."

Disappointment flickered in his eyes, and with a stab Kathie realized it was because of her. She and Wesley had steady gotten closer over the past weeks, his kisses had grown bolder, but they hadn't been intimate beyond a passionate kiss and the occasional fondling. And it was because of her, because she wasn't ready for more, wasn't ready to give up her last safety belt, to let him tear down the rest of her protective wall.

"I see," he said tightly, pulling back, taking with him the warmth that had enveloped her just before. "So you still don't trust me, huh? Do you think there is something true in Faith's accusations after all?"

"NO," she shouted, horror in her eyes that he could think such a thing. "No," she repeated. "I would never think that. Never. You've got to believe me."

"I have, huh?," he laughed, but it was without humor. "And what about you, why don't you believe?"

Startled, and confused, she shook her head, "But I do. I believe-"

He interrupted her before she could finish, "No, you don't. Not where it counts. There you always keep you distance, never let me close." He looked at her for a long moment, "And I'm trying to understand. I really am. But … how can I when you don't explain, when you just keep me guessing."

New tears were welling up in her eyes, and a tightness constricted her chest, she had never felt before. She felt as if being caught in her own personal fortress, safe but unhappy, and she couldn't find a way out. "But … but that's not true," she cried, knowing very well that she was lying, could feel it in her heart, and see it in his eyes. "I-"

"You don't trust me," he interrupted her again.

"But I do," she protested, angrily wiping the tears from her face, "I trust you. More than I …," she stopped, realizing that again she was about to lie. More than… she'd been about to say. More than what? More than everyone? Certainly not. Angel was the person who knew all about her, and even he didn't know her best kept, her darkest secret. She'd never been able to tell him, never been able to open up, afraid what he might do as soon as he knew. And what would Wesley do? What would he think about her, knowing the unspeakable, knowing everything. Would he still look at her with love in his eyes, or would it be replaced by disgust?

That, she realized, was her greatest fear. That he would stop loving her, stop adoring her, the way he always did, the way his eyes were caressing her the moment they fell on her.

"I am right," he stated, his shoulder slumped, his eyes sad and knowing. "You don't trust me."

"I …," she started then broke off again, not knowing what to say, how to defend herself. Then she tried again, "It's not that. It's … hard to explain. It's complicated and …," she shook her head, swallowed, "There are things … in my past … I can't talk about them - yet."

"Yet? Or not ever?"

"I'm trying," she cried, despair clawing at her gut. Was she going to lose him? She couldn't let it happen, couldn't risk losing the only man she'd ever loved, the only man she - trusted? "I am trying," she whispered finally. "Really, I am, Wes. I am. You can't know how painful it is."

"No, I can't because you never even tried to tell me." He shook his head, turned away, sighing, "Kathie, maybe you should leave me now. This is … getting us nowhere and … I need a shower anyway."

She felt as if he'd kicked in the gut by his words, felt her lower lip starting to tremble, the tears spilling over. She was going to lose him. Oh God. OHGODOHGODOHGOD. "You are sending me away?" she asked desperately.

"Yes," he nodded, looked at her again. "For now. You were clearly disgusted by my post-drunken state, but you won't tell me why. You could hardly look at me. And again, I have not the slightest idea what's the reason. I have some ideas, but that's not the same. And I'm not going to force you to tell me. It has to come from you. Because you trust me. Because … this …," he gestured at her, then at himself, "… us … maters."

"It does. Believe me, it's important. More than that, it's the most important thing in my life," she cried, trying to make him see, make him understand, that she wasn't doing this to hurt him, but because it was too hard, because it hurt too much.

"Maybe," he gave her a sad smile, then walked towards the door, "I'm going to have a shower now. And I suppose you'll find your way out." When he saw her flinch, he added, "This isn't the end, Kathie. But maybe we both need the distance. Some time to think things over." Then he left, and Kathie couldn't remember ever having felt more alone in her life, trying to understand when her idea of cooking for him today had gone so wrong, and how she could make it right again.

*****

The first thing Angel felt when he woke that Saturday morning was the warm, soft body laying sprawled atop of him. The next thing was that he didn't mind the additional weight at all. Opening his eyes he saw Buffy's head only inches apart from his snuggled at his chest, her golden hair gleaming in the morning sun, her breathing still even, telling him that she - unlike him - was still asleep. He almost chuckled at that, but restrained himself, not wanting to wake her with the movement of his chest.

But he did reach out, one finger softly touching her silken strands, marveling in the feeling to have her so close to him, so intimate and trusting. After the first time he'd made love three times more to her, one time only with his mouth, bringing her to a climax all on her own, but he'd almost followed her just by watching her climbing and shatter, utterly open to him, revealing everything, hiding nothing. Never in his life he'd been closer to a human being, and it made him feel like the king of the world.

This night had been about her, and her alone and she had taken everything with a soul that seemed greedy for love and attention, a soul that had only now realized it wasn't broken for good. Angel felt humbled beyond words that he'd been the one to give her back all the joy, that he'd been allowed to be part of the rebirth taking place right before his eyes. The first time they'd made love, on the hood of her car, had been wonderful and he'd always cherish the memory, but there had been an urgency in her then, that was missing now. She had been relaxed last night, letting the feeling wash over her, bathing in it, absorbing it with every cell of her beautiful body.

He'd watched in awe, and hadn't he known it before, he would have known then that this woman was his destiny. The way she'd looked at him when she'd climbed to her last climax, the way her eyes had locked with his, the intense statement, all that had strengthened the bond they'd been forming yesterday. She wasn't careful anymore around him, wasn't trying to protect herself, because she understood that with him it wasn't necessary.

She trusted him.

"What are you thinking?"

Her soft spoken words pulled him from his musings, making him smile before he even looked at her. When he did, he felt his groin responding instantly and heard her chuckle. "Ohhh," she made, grinning like a cat who'd just discovered the fattest mouse in the stable. She let her eyelids drop a little, and licked her lips. "Shouldn't you be … satisfied after last night?"

"I suppose it's a question of temptation," he replied, grinning as well. God, this was heaven. She was almost carefree and she took his breath away. He hadn't seen her like this before, had always hoped, but never dreamt, that this woman existed inside of her.

"Is that so?" She quirked one brow, and sighed when she felt his cock harden against her thigh, "Yeah, I suppose it is. A good think it's Saturday and I can take care of the … little problem."

"Buffy-," he began, but she stopped him.

"Shhhh," she made, grinning at him again, her hazel eyes sparkling. "You took care of me last night, this time it's my turn. I will love you so thoroughly, Liam, Angel Sullivan that you're going to forget your name when I'm finished with you. I will make you plead for mercy, and won't show you any." She winked, then chuckled, a low and throaty sound that made his cock stand up straight.

Angel smiled at her, "Promises. Promises."

"Promises, huh?" She returned his smile, then, without warning, began making her warning a reality. She didn't bother with gentle seduction, although for a moment she considered it. She would do that, later, she promised herself, but this time she got straight to the point. Before he could guess her intentions, she knelt on the bed, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, started kissing away the dampness that glistered on the tip of his arousal. When he groaned and moved his hips, she let him fill her mouth, taking all she could, enveloping his length, savoring the taste of him, the heat and the incredible softness of the flesh sheathing so much hardness.

When the muscles in his thighs were taut and quivering, when Angel knew he couldn't take one more minute of this incredibly erotic play, she pulled away, leaving him like that, and stretched out lazily - lazily for goodness sake - beside him, grinning again. "Well," she winked, "it's your turn now."

With one swift movement he was over her, parting her legs at the same time, and coming up hard inside her, filling her in one fluid stroke. She started to laugh, that sexy, throaty sound again, but he swallowed it with his kiss, claiming her mouth the way he was claiming her body, letting the passion spiral high, then settle it, only to let it spiral again. He wanted to make this last forever, but his heart was racing in his chest, his blood roaring through his veins, while Buffy made soft little sounds and tantalizing movements beneath him that bordered on torment. But God, what a sweet way to be tormented.

When she came, with a cry, her cheeks flushed, her breast heaving, her vaginal muscles still clutching him, that was enough to make him follow, crying out her name, but as she'd promised - forgetting his.

"Hmmm," she said, as soon as she was able to catch her breath, "What a way to wake up."

"Uh-huh," was all he could offer, his head laying between her breasts, his softening cock still inside of her. "Love you," he breathed.

He felt her shift beneath him, but again she didn't respond, just tightened her arms around him, holding him close to her body, to her heart. She wanted to say the words, but something, maybe some tiny part of residual fear was holding her back, killing the words before they could leave her mouth. So she just kissed him on his hair and sighed, "Hungry?"

"Mmmm."

She felt him nod against her breast, his stubble that was even more prominent than last night scratching the sensitive skin, making it tingle. But this time she was too content, to satisfied to feel arousal again. "Breakfast?"

"Shower first," he retorted, finally looking up and meeting her eyes. "Good morning by the way."

She grinned, "Morning. What do you think about eggs and bacon?"

"Sounds like heaven." He kissed her, slowly, lazily in the afterglow of morning sex. "I could get used to this. My personal love slave, and she's able to cook, too. How much do you earn? Could I stop working and reply on living off your money?"

She grinned, "Not on your life, buddy. I'm not going to support a lazy lover."

"Not even one who …," he wiggled his brows, made her laugh.

"Not even if you were Casanova. I believe in emancipation - of both sexes."

He sighed dramatically, "That means I'm still going to have to spend long nights apart from you, in my car, drinking cold coffee."

For a moment she seemed to consider it, then shook her head, "You're getting no pity from me. No way. You're young and healthy. Earn your own money."

Angel laughed then, too. "I wouldn't dream of living off my girlfriend's income."

"I know," she replied with sudden softness.

"So how about that breakfast?"

"Go shower," she wiggled underneath him, pushing slightly at his shoulders. "It'll be ready as soon as you're finished." She reached for her shirt when he got up, and pulled it over her head, grinning at the disappointed statement in his eyes. "Go," she ordered, and watching him disappear towards her bathroom, thinking that he somehow seemed to belong already, and unlike with others, it didn't make her want to throw up. This time, she wanted to shout with joy.

But because it was Saturday morning and most of her neighbors would probably still sleeping, she walked towards the kitchen, humming a love song instead.

Part 21

"What's that?"

Buffy's head came up with an almost audible snap, and she found Angel standing in the doorway, only clad in a pair of unbuttoned jeans, and nothing else. He was fresh from the shower, his hair still wet and several remaining droplets were still clinging to his bare chest. Her mouth went instantly dry at the sight and she had to swallow hard, before she could make her voice work. "Wh-what?" she asked in confusion, her mind refusing to do anything but focus on the perfect example of the male species standing in her kitchen doorway.

His mouth turned into a knowing half-grin, but instead of commenting on her current state he nodded at the flat box she'd placed on the chair she'd obviously reserved for him. "That," he repeated. "Is it - for me?"

Following the direction of his eyes, Buffy looked at the package as well, and after a moment she managed to pull herself together, and her thoughts away from X-rated images racing through her mind. "Oh," she blushed, then cleared her throat. "Yes, yes it is." Laughing slightly, and a little bit self-consciously, she pointed at the box. "It's … uhm … nothing, really. I went out a couple of days ago." She rolled her eyes, "Actually because I needed a cocktail dress, but I ended up with this."

Now it was his turn to feel suddenly dry-mouthed, and oddly touched by the idea of her buying something for him - at a time when their relationship hadn't been one at all.

With slightly trembling fingers he reached out, touching the fragile wrapping paper with initials stamped on it, probably coming from one of the expensive boutiques she frequented, no doubt. For a moment, Angel found himself wondering if this could ever work, with them coming from backgrounds so different, then he firmly suppressed the thought. It was nonsense anyway. He had worked too hard for this, he wouldn't let self-doubts destroy it again. Backgrounds were just that, the past. It was up to them to make the present and the future.

His voice rough with emotion he carefully lifted the box, placing it on the table while he seated himself at the same time. "Can I - open it?"

"Of course," she encouraged, biting her lower lip as a sure sign of nervousness. "Go on."

Tearing the wrapping, he lowered his eyes and lifted the lid. The box contained an obviously handmade sweater, with a soft, rough-textured, dark-burgundy background. It had an intricate pattern in white and blue, with a satin sheen to it. Angel touched the sweater with tentative fingers. It felt wonderfully soft, and was, without doubt, an expensive piece of clothing. But it was also a thoughtful, well chosen gift from a woman he loved more than he'd thought possible. "It's beautiful," he said softly, still looking at it, "I …" rising his head, he smiled slowly. "Thank you."

For a moment her features were blank, but then the most beautiful smile broke out on her face, turning it radiant, like morning sunshine, and her eyes became sparkling beacons. Angel suddenly found it hard to speak, felt himself tumbling head-on into her, his breath quickening, his heart starting to race.

"I'm glad," Buffy said, totally oblivious to what her smile had done to him. "Well, put in on. I want to see it on you."

Swallowing, he forced himself to relax. They had made love several times in the last twelve hours, damn it. Why the hell did he still feel like a love-crazed teenager at the sight of her beautiful smile? He'd thought he was past hormone-induced love-sickness, but obviously he was wrong. At least, where Buffy was concerned. He just had to look at her, and he turned to mush. "I … uh … yes, I will."

Standing up with the sweater in his hand, setting the box aside, he was grateful for the chance to move, to give himself a moment to pull himself together.

Buffy watched as he pulled the sleeves over his hands, then lifted his arms. A sudden rush of heat swept over her as she saw the muscles of his chest and belly stretch and flex as he tugged the sweater over his head. Something about that expanse of naked skin lessening as he pulled the edge of the sweater over his shoulders, past the flat, male nipples, over the ridged abdomen and past the navel that seemed intimately sexy to her, above the still unfastened waistband of his jeans, made a wave of pleasure spread through her in ever widening ripples.

God, she was going to go insane, she decided. She was over thirty years old, not a blushing virgin by a long shot, but Angel had awakened a side of her she hadn't even known existed. She couldn't help thinking of the sweater coming off instead of going on, and that rippling heat abruptly changed course and flooded downward to pool in some low place inside her.

She felt color warm her cheeks and was glad he was busy straightening the edge of the sweater and not looking at her. Or wasn't she? Then he smoothed a hand down the front of the garment, pressing the softness of the sweater against his chest as if he liked the feel of it against his skin.

And in a rush, the heat inside of her tripled.

It was even worse than last night, she realized. She wanted him - again. As if she couldn't stand not touching him for a moment. She'd never known that watching a man pulling on a sweater could be that erotic, could do such things to her insides. It was like touching him herself, like-

God, this was madness. She couldn't even sit at a breakfast table and not fantasize about making love to him.

"Buffy?"

She looked up then, at his face, into his eyes, and a shock rippled through her. She found an answering heat in his brown orbs that had darkened so much they were almost black.

Wetting her dry lips, she swallowed, "Angel?"

"Would you mind terribly if we'd skipped breakfast? I'm suddenly not very hungry anymore."

She was out of her chair and walking towards him, before she even realized what she was doing, "No. I'm not very hungry either," she whispered.

He swallowed as well, his eyes turning even darker, becoming almost impossibly black. "Ever done it in your kitchen?" he asked.

"N-no," she stuttered, feeling herself fall into his hypnotic gaze, "But I'm open for a try."

"Good." His voice was hoarse and deep, making her knees turn to jelly. "I hope this stuff isn't expensive."

"W-why?"

"Because I can't find it in me to care right now."

It was a good thing she had emptied the fruit basked the day before, and that she'd never particularly liked that special coffee mug, because everything landed on the floor, when he lifted her on the counter and made true of the promise she'd seen in his eyes just before.

*****

Lindsey MacDonald closed the file he'd taken home with him for the weekend. He propped his feet up on his small living-room table, entwined his hands behind his head, and sighing, leaned back on his sofa. Usually he hated lazy Saturday mornings, but somehow, in a strange way, this wasn't a Saturday morning like all those others in his life. Although he didn't want to admit it, he knew without a doubt that it had to do with a girl with a pair of brown eyes. A girl who seemed tough as nails but was soft and vulnerable instead. She didn't do a bad job of hiding it, but Lindsey had seen through her act from the very start. Maybe because they were so alike when it came to hiding their true personality was concerned.

Closing his eyes, he remembered the way she'd been clinging to him in the final waves of orgasm, the way she'd thrown back her neck, wild and so incredibly beautiful he'd had problems breathing. But he also remembered how calculating she'd sounded in his office, how false her smile had been towards her parents, how she'd tried to lie to him, tried to make him believe the poor bastard had actually touched her in a way she never invited. In reality, he thought with a mirthless laugh, it might have been the other way around.

Not that Wesley Wyndham-Price invited female fantasies as a rule. Lindsey had seen the picture of the bookish professor with his dark-rimmed glasses, the clothes that seemed too large for his thin frame. He had also seen the intelligent eyes behind the thick lenses that told a lot about the sharp mind this man possessed, and the seriousness that told the lawyer instantly that the professor was a man to trust. But Lindsey was certain a sharp mind had never been part of Faith Marshall's idea of an attractive man, neither was she particular on trust, he guessed.

No, he thought, opening his eyes, whatever had happened between Faith Marshall and Wesley Wyndham-Price had nothing to do with sexual harassment, and all to do with a poor little rich girl who had too long suffered from parental neglect. But she was a poor little rich girl who had also learned how to get what she wanted. The English lit professor had simply come between them, or rather given Faith a reason to use him. He'd probably refused to upgrade her, and now the young woman was determined make him pay.

As beautiful as she was, Faith was a woman of contradictions, and as much as she attracted him, as much as his senses went into overdrive at the mere thought of her, he'd better not underestimate her, or he might not end up on top of her - a place he'd like to take up for a while - but he would be her next victim. Yes, he thought, standing up and walking towards the kitchen to refill his empty cup, he would be smart to keep an eye on her. She might be fun and almost irresistibly attractive, but she was also dangerous. And he'd do his damnedist not to forget about it.

*****

Still wearing the silly grin on his face, something he didn't seem to be able to get rid off this morning, Angel opened the door to his house some time around noon, sighing contentedly like only a man could who'd been thoroughly satisfied by the most amazing woman he could imagine. Shrugging out of his jacket, he tossed it over a chair. He was still so relaxed in the afterglow of spending the morning with Buffy, talking to Buffy, making love to Buffy. They had done it once more before he left, this time against the wall of her hallway. He had to chuckle at the memory, and felt his groin tighten at the images flickering before his inner eye. Grinning, he shook his head, then walked into the kitchen.

He wasn't quite sure what he had expected to see there, probably nothing as his mind seemed too preoccupied these days to do anything but picture Buffy Summers - preferably naked - but it certainly wasn't his sister, sitting at the table, an untouched glass of milk in front of her, her face hidden by the curtain of dark hair falling around it. Her fingers were in her lap, but there was a stiffness in her shoulders Angel knew only too well, had seen before, and had prayed never to see again.

But here it was, and although the last thing he wanted to do today was get involved in someone else's problems, he was also aware that when his sister was concerned, almost nothing mattered. They'd gone through thick and thin together, had managed to overcome the events of her sixteenth birthday, and there was no way in hell he'd be able to block out the sadness radiating from her or the way her stiff shoulders moved up and down in silent sobs.

When Kathie became aware of his presence, her shoulders stiffened even more, and slowly her head came up. Surprisingly her eyes were dry, but they were red-rimmed and Angel could still see the traces of recent tears. He could see from the puffiness of her skin that she'd been crying for a while, and tell from her swollen lips that she'd chewed on them restlessly, a certain sign of distress.

Giving her only a quick glance, Angel walked over to the refrigerator to get himself a soft drink and popped open the can. Placing the can on the counter in front of him, he sat down opposite his sister, and after a moment, he looked at her. "What happened?" he asked slowly, not sure if he wanted to hear it, but knowing he would.

She didn't say anything for a long time, then shrugged. "Wes sent me away," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, and obviously strained by hours of crying. Angel suddenly felt like a heel. While his little sister had been crying her eyes out he'd been making love with Buffy on her kitchen counter. And enjoying it.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he wrapped the other around the soft drink. "He - sent you away?" It sounded strange, somehow not at all like the Wesley he'd come to know and like. The Wesley he knew was shy and sometimes stiff, but Angel would bet his agency if the professor wasn't head over heels in love with Kathie. "Why?"

She shrugged again, "He said I don't trust him. He - uh - he was smelling like he'd been drinking, and when I … asked him, he said he'd had two bottles of Scotch last night."

To any other person hearing this, it might not mean anything, but in Angel's head all alarm bells started to ring. Sitting up straight, his eyes became intense, "Did he - hurt you?"

Startled by the question, Kathie's head came up with a snap. "NO," she hurried to say. "No. Nothing like that. He - he was sober. As always. But … but smelling it …" Angel saw her struggle, and saw her lose when tears welled up in her eyes. "God, Angel. It all came back to me. Like … like a horrible nightmare I couldn't get rid off. I … tried … but all I saw were their faces, and their drunken laughter, and … th-their h-hands."

Her voice almost broke in the end and when the tears started to fall, Angel was by her side in an instant. Crouching down in front of her, much in the same way he'd done with Buffy the previous night, he took her hands, "Oh Kat," he said softly, reaching out with one hand, cupping her cheek. "I'm so sorry."

The tears dripping from her lashes, she managed a smile, "It's not really bad, Angel. Just when I smelled," she sighed, "that stuff on him, I … I couldn't think anything but…" she shrugged in the end.

He nodded, letting his hand fall from her face, curling it around hers instead. "So you freaked and he wanted to know why, right?"

She nodded miserably.

"And when you didn't tell him, he got angry?" He looked at her intently, wanting to understand what had happened between his sister and Wesley.

"No," she shook her head, sent her hair flying, "Not angry. Just ... sad. Disappointed. God, I hated to see the disappointment in his eyes. And the weariness. I think he's fed up with me."

He almost grinned at that. Wes fed up with her? Not by a long shot. Angel had a feeling that the professor was into this for the long haul, but now was not the time to discuss this special subject with his sister. "That's nonsense, baby." Her head came up again, staring at him almost in wonder. He smiled, "The guy loves you. But I can also understand how he feels. He's in love with you, but you're still keeping a part of you private. It's as if you're not trusting him, and in a way, it's the truth."

"You really think?" she asked doubtfully.

"Oh yeah," he nodded, kissing her cheek and standing up to walk back to his place. Reaching for his drink, he took a long gulp, before facing her again. "I know it, Kat. Because that's the way I felt with Buffy. She … always kept something hidden from me, didn't open up." He couldn't stop the smile blooming at his next words, "Until last night, that is."

"I thought you were with her when I found the message on the answering machine," she said. "So, she opened up to you. And then?"

"A gentleman never tells," he replied, grinning.

She rolled her eyes, "Gee, as if I even want to know. Knowing your brother has sex is almost as bad as thinking that way about your parents." A shadow flickered through her eyes, before she added, "At least that's what I've been told." She sighed, "So you had a good - night?"

"The best," he told her. "She's amazing. She's the one, Kat. The one I've been waiting for."

She smiled, "You're in love with her."

"Totally and completely. Irrevocably." He knew he was grinning like an idiot, but who the hell cared. He was flying high this morning. So high not even his sister's problems had managed to dampen his good mood. Angel still wasn't quite sure he liked the fact that Buffy had stacked several one-time-use razors. Sure, it could be she needed them for herself, but somehow Angel couldn't quite make himself believe it. And, so he thought on an inward sigh, looking at the red-rimmed eyes of his sister, was it really important? He and Buffy had, at least, crossed the bridge Kathie and Wes still seemed to have in front of them.

"I'm glad," Kathie said honestly, "I wish…" she trailed off, and sighed again.

Angel put the soft drink down, and walked back to his sister. "You need to talk to him, baby. If he's really important to you, you need to tell him. I know it's hard, but he needs to know, because only then can he understand."

He saw her swallow, saw her run a shaky hand through her hair, "I suppose you're right. It's just so hard. Talking about it, it's like living through it again."

He reached out, and taking her hand, he pulled her up, wrapping her up in a brotherly embrace, "I know, Kat. I know. But without it, this won't work."

Kathie let herself sink into his embrace, letting his strong, familiar arms surround her with gentleness and the safe feeling of protection. Angel had never let her down, had always stood by her, even when things were really rough. But he was her brother, while Wes, Wes was the man she loved. Deeply and honestly. Maybe not with the same passion Angel had for Buffy, but then, she wasn't Angel. Had never been. Her past had shaped her, had made her into the woman she was today. Her experiences were not the same her brother had had. But he was right. She had to tell Wes. But before she could do that, she had to open up to her brother as well, had to tell him the whole truth, the one she'd carried deep inside of her, afraid he might freak and do something stupid.

Not anymore, though. He wasn't the eighteen year old, impulsive teenager anymore. He was twenty-six, almost twenty-seven, and the most responsible person she'd ever known. He could face the truth. She'd faced it, too. Had carried it inside of her, until she'd sometimes thought it would strangle her.

Slowly she pulled back from his embrace and the moment their eyes locked, she took a deep breath, "Angel, there is something I have to tell you. And you're not going to like it."

Part 22

"Jeez, it's raining cats and dogs out here, so move and let me in where it's warm and comfy."

Buffy stepped back from her door, staring disbelievingly at her co-worker and friend, Cordelia Chase. She looked more like a drowned rat than the usually stylish woman the blond saw every day at work, as she quickly entered Buffy's apartment close to dinnertime. "Cordelia?" she asked, still not believing her eyes.

The brunette turned, and pulled off her drenched coat. "Well, it's a relief you still recognize me. Maybe the damage isn't too bad."

"Damage?" Buffy echoed, trying to get her thoughts back on track. She'd been lost in daydreams for the better part of the day, most of them containing Angel, and not a lot of clothes, so it was hard to concentrate on her friend who was looking at her expectantly.

"Duh," Cordelia exclaimed, patting her hair, "Claudio spent ages to get it done, and I'm afraid it's all ruined now."

"Uh," for the first time Buffy really looked at the woman in front of her, and her eyes almost bulged out of her face, "You've cut your hair," she stated in disbelief. "And you're … blond!" And indeed Cordelia had suddenly turned blonde. Not, Buffy thought, that it looked bad. Because it actually looked nice, but somehow it was ... wrong. Yes, that was the only word she could think of. She, Buffy, was blond. Cordelia was brunette. She frowned, not quite sure she could follow her own thoughts today. It was all Angel's fault anyway. He had turned her into someone she barely recognized anymore. Gone was rational, always cool Buffy Summers, and she was replaced by a love-crazed woman, who didn't seem to be able to go a few hours without her lover.

"Do you like it?" the former brunette asked, turning around in front of the real blonde.

"Uhm … yeah, nice," Buffy replied, finally managing to close the door. "What brought that on?"

Cordelia gave her a look, then sighed, "Would you believe if I told you I was in love?"

Dumbfounded Buffy stared at her. Cordelia? In love? Something earth shattering must have happened. As long as she'd known the former brunette, Cordelia had had lovers. But never, not once had she been in love. Not the kind of love Buffy now knew existed, not the kind of love she was suddenly recognizing in her friend's eyes.

Slowly, Buffy nodded, "Yeah, actually I can believe it."

A still brunette brow came up, "You can? Does that mean you and your … hunk finally got it done?"

Feeling a blush creeping up her cheeks, Buffy quickly turned away, and walked towards the kitchen, knowing her friend would follow her. "Do you want a cup of coffee? I just made some fresh."

"You look different," Cordelia said when sat down on one of the chairs. "Lighter somehow." She grinned, "No need to tell me, I'm already seeing it crystal clear. You and Liam, huh?"

Closing her eyes for a moment, Buffy took a deep breath before she turned with a filled cup in her hand. "Did anyone ever tell you that being nosy isn't always welcomed?" Not that she didn't want to talk about Angel. Actually, she wanted to shout it from the roof, but she wasn't so certain she wanted to discuss this with Cordelia. True, her friend had seemed supportive, had even urged her towards an affair with Angel, but that didn't mean she'd be thrilled hearing her boss had helplessly fallen for the "hunk".

A brilliant smile was her answer, "Yeah. Many times. Never bothered me." Cordelia took the cup from Buffy, sipping carefully. "And … is he any good? I mean, he sure does look promising, but a lovely package can be deceiving. Just because he looks like a hunk, it doesn't mean he can get the job done, so to speak."

Buffy couldn't help it, she burst out laughing. "Honestly, Cordy, is there anything else you can think about? But to answer your question, yeah we … uh,are together."

The smile turned even more brilliant, "That's great. Wonderful. For a while I was afraid you'd get stuck on that loser Riley."

Feeling she needed to come to her ex-boyfriend's rescue, Buffy shook her head, "Riley isn't a loser. He's nice. An okay guy, and he'll be a nice girl's dream. He just isn't for me."

"Pah," Cordelia made a sweeping gesture with her hand, "Tell me what you want. For me he's still going to be the loser he is. I've never met anyone more boring. At least he seems to have satisfied you, I have to give him that, even though I'm still at a loss how he did it."

"Oh, I don't know about that." The words were out before Buffy could stop them, and she turned beet red the moment she realized what she'd just said. "Uhm … I mean-"

"I know what you mean," Cordy grinned knowingly. "So Liam is a hunk inside and out. Good to know. You need someone like him. You'll see, passion is the word."

Uh-oh, Buffy thought. Passion. Sure, there was passion. Raw, hot, all-consuming. There was lust. Need. Hunger. But there was also this little part where she loved Angel. With all her heart. She still hadn't said the words yet, but it didn't really matter. What mattered was that she knew. And she was sure Angel knew as well. How could he be so close to her and not know that she loved him, in a way she hadn't even known love could exist. "Yeah," she said finally, realizing that Cordelia was waiting for her to say something, "There is passion. Definitely passion."

"Perfect," Cordy sipped from her coffee, her gaze turning thoughtful, "Did he stay here last night? Because you look exactly like a woman whose been loved thoroughly. Nobody can fake those bedroom eyes."

Buffy gulped. "Bedroom eyes?"

"Uh-huh," the former brunette nodded, "Take it from a pro. You've got them. But that's a good thing. I'm glad you finally found a good lover. Women need that. Even though most would deny it if asked."

Realizing that Cordelia still thought Angel was nothing but a pastime for Buffy, just a lover like Cordy had had several of, the blond felt inclined to clear up that point. "Cordy," she began, "Liam isn't just … a lover."

A brow came up, "He's not?"

"Well, he is," Buffy amended, "but I - he's more. It's … I -"

The cup met the table with a thump, while Cordelia's eyes widened in disbelief, "You're in love with him?"

Crossing her arms defensively in front of her chest, Buffy raised her chin, "Yes, I am," she replied firmly. "Very much actually."

"But," Cordelia gestured wildly, "But … but he's … young. A lot younger."

Huh? Had she missed something? Was this the same Cordelia who had encouraged her to have an affair? But as she'd thought already, an affair and love were two entirely different things for her friend. "You said yourself-", she tried to defend herself, but was interrupted instantly.

"When I was … telling you to take him as a lover, I thought as a lover. Not to fall in love with him."

"Well, tough," Buffy shot back. "Because I am in love with him. And it's not really any of your business. I don't need to justify our love."

Cordelia held up both hands, "Hey, no need to get angry. I'm just … surprised, I guess. That's not like you. I mean, you never ever did something spontaneous since I've known you."

Somewhat mollified, the blond took her own mug and settled into the chair across the table. "Things … change." She laughed at the words, hardly able to believe how tame they sounded, yet they stood for a complete turn around in her life. "I love him, Cordy," she repeated, "It's amazing and … frightening at the same time. But it's still the same. I love him."

"Tell me about it," the former brunette gave her friend a long last look before lifting her cup again. "And besides. People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, if you get my drift." She sipped, "Believe it or not, but, I, uh … Do you remember Gunn? The guy who came with Liam that first night?"

Buffy nodded, "Sure I do."

Cordelia snorted slightly, "Which is indeed a miracle, remembering how you had eyes for Liam only."

The blonde's brows rose, "And I wasn't the only one."

Rolling her eyes, her friend let out a long breath, "Okay, okay, I thought he was a hunk, and he still is. I do tend to get caught up in the moment sometimes," she caught Buffy's grin and threw her hands in the air. "Alright, I get caught up every time. But this," she became serious all of a sudden, "this is serious. It's like nothing that ever happened to me before. It's like - WHAM - struck by lightning. Buffy," she sighed dramatically, "I'm a goner. I'm so in love with this guy. And that after I thought myself immune."

"Wait," Buffy held up a hand, "let me get this. You're in love with - Gunn?"

"That's what I've been talking about for the last, ah, half an hour."

Buffy didn't want to point out that the better part of that half hour had been spent talking about her and Angel, Instead she smiled. "Well, it's great."

Cordelia snorted again, "That's what you think. Don't get me wrong. Gunn's a great guy, but he's a street kid, with absolutely no manners, no tact - and okay, I was never accused of having too much tact myself, but still. But the worst of all," Cordy stopped and to her utter surprise, Buffy saw tears well up in the brunette's eyes, before she continued, "The worst part is. I don't think he loves me back."

Buffy was about to answer, when the doorbell suddenly rang.

*****

Kathie bit her lower lip, her trembling hand hovering over the doorbell at Wesley's home. She'd been standing here for almost an hour, not certain what to do, and even less what to say the moment the door opened. Leaning her head against it, Kathie took a deep, shuddering breath, but it didn't help to steady her. She still remembered the anguish in Angel's eyes when she'd told him. He hadn't doubted her for a moment, believed every word she was saying, had held her while she cried, had kissed her before leaving the house, a painfully vacant statement in his eyes.

Kathie knew she'd hurt him with her story, had taken the remaining bits of innocence, had destroyed all happiness he'd been carrying around today like a beacon. But she also knew he was right when he told her that only the whole truth could bring healing and, in the end, let her move on. She'd carried it around for too long already. It was time to tell her story and that meant not only Wesley, the man she loved, but also Angel, the brother who'd stood by her through everything.

He would get over it, Kathie knew that without doubt, but he had to work through it, the way she'd had to. And maybe, after everything was out in the open now, they would finally learn to live the life of normal people, not scarred by the past, not always doubting themselves, not trying to be careful all the time. Maybe now she could finally love.

Taking another deep breath, she pressed the doorbell, her heart starting to hammer in her chest when she heard footsteps from the inside. The next moment the door was pulled open, revealing Wesley, rumpled and tired, the weariness increasing the moment he recognized her.

"Kathie?"

His voice was rough, and although he certainly hadn't tried to sound sexy it still sent ripples over her skin. She licked her suddenly dry lips, "Hi, Wes."

He looked at her long and hard, before he asked, "What do you want?"

Steadying herself by breathing deeply a third time, she tried to summon a smile, but her lips wouldn't obey. "I … I want to talk to you," she said finally.

"Talk?" His brow came up. He seemed distant, but the sudden light in his eyes made it possible for Kathie to hope. "About what?"

"Would you let me come in?" She bit her lower lip, entwining her hands tightly.

Whatever she had done, something suddenly shifted in his eyes, turning them warm and loving. Had he seen her intention already? God, she hoped he had.

"Wes?" she asked.

Shaking his head slightly, he looked at her. "Will you tell me then?"

She swallowed, "Yes."

Another long and steady look, then slowly, he stepped back, opening his house to her. "Then," he smiled, "you're very welcome."

*****

She couldn't believe her eyes, finding Angel standing in front of her door, but before Buffy could even say a word, Cordelia appeared beside her. "Hey, Liam," she greeted, then frowned when there was no reaction from him. "Hey," she waved a hand in front of his face. "What's your deal?"

"Angel?" Buffy spoke the word slowly, not sure how to approach him. He looked like she'd never seen him before. His gaze was unfocused, he was drenched in rain and sweat, his hair standing up in every direction as if he'd run his fingers through it more than once. His clothes were disheveled, his shoes muddy and wet, as was the rest of the man. But the worst were his eyes. She had seen them angry, happy, glazed with passion, wild with need, but she'd never seen such desolation in them, such pain and fury, and, she realized, the fury was directed inward. At himself.

"Angel?" she said his name again, tentatively reaching out and touching his arm, not caring when he flinched at the touch. She knew it had nothing to do with her touch, but with the way he wasn't really himself right now. "Why don't you come in?" she invited softly, and pulling slightly at his sleeve she became even more concerned when he followed without resistance. "We have to get you out of your clothes. They're dripping wet."

"And that's my cue to go," came Cordelia's voice from behind them.

Buffy looked up, giving her friend an apologetic smile, "I am sorry. I know this is important to you, but-" She shrugged, nodding towards Angel's shaking form, sitting lifeless on one of the chairs in her hallway.

"Hey, no worries. I can recognize an emergency." Cordelia grabbed her coat, making a sound of disgust when she realized it was still wet, then, shrugging, she pulled it on. "See you Monday," she waved, " and then I want to know why you call him Angel." With that she was gone, leaving Buffy with a small grin on her face that vanished instantly when she looked at Angel who still hadn't moved an inch. His hair and clothes were dripping on her carpet, while he was still staring blankly at his hands that were hanging loosely between his thighs.

With greatest care, as if handling a raw egg, Buffy put a hand on his shoulder. "Angel, you need to get out of your clothes," she repeated her words from before. She sighed when there was again no reaction. He was too heavy to just drag him towards her bathroom, but she couldn't leave him like this either. Somehow she had to get his attention, had to break through this wall of silence he was wearing like a shield right now. At least he'd come to her, she thought, hoping that meant he trusted her the way she trusted him.

She was about to talk to him again, when suddenly he started to speak. The words came slowly, as if torn painfully from his soul, his gaze still firmly focused on the floor. "I walked," he began, his voice rough, almost raw, "I … I don't know how long. I … lost track of time."

Buffy kneeled down before him, eager to look at him, to make him look at her. "That's okay," she whispered, cupping one cheek with her hand, horrified when the skin of his face was clammy and cold, the lips already turning blue. "Angel, please. You need to change your clothes. You're getting sick."

He laughed at that, hollowly, a sound that made Buffy's heart ache. "Doesn't matter," he murmured. "Nothing matters. Absolutely nothing."

"You're wrong," she said urgently, framing his face in her hands, "So wrong. A lot matters. We matter. Our love for each other."

His eyes flickered to hers, and for a moment the old warmth was back, and a glimpse of hope, but they were instantly gone, once again replaced by pain and hopelessness. "Does it?" he asked. "Really?"

Growing more and more concerned with his unfamiliar behavior, Buffy kissed his ice-cold lips, then forced him to look at her. "Angel, listen to me. We're together now. There's nothing we can't do. Nothing we can't conquer. But first you have to tell me what happened?" She grabbed the first thing that came into her mind, "Did something happen to Kathie?"

He erupted almost violently at the mention of his sister's name, coming out of the chair, not caring that Buffy was pushed backward. He walked towards the door, his hand reaching for the handle, then fell down to the floor. His shoulders slumped, he stayed that way, didn't turn, didn't look at her. "I … I don't know if I can do this," he whispered finally. "I … God, Buffy. I don't know if I can live with this."

She was behind him in an instant, slinging her arms around his waist, holding him, pressing herself close as much as she could, not caring that his soaked clothes were now soaking hers, only wanting to give him warmth. To give him love. "You can," she said firmly. "We can. Please, Angel, tell me."

She felt him shudder in her arms, and knew it had nothing to do with him being cold from the rain, before his hands came up to cover hers that were still resting on his stomach. "I'm so glad you're here," he whispered. "So glad."

"Me too," she replied. "And I will not go away."

He laughed again, harshly, unhappily, "Don't be so sure. Maybe you will as soon as you know that my father raped my sister and I did nothing to prevent it."

TBC...

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