Andante con Moto with Chains and Fangs

Underneath your clothes
There's an endless story
There's the man I chose
There's my territory.
                       --Shakira

            "Wesley, is this what I think it is?"
            Angel stared at the sheaf of papers in his hand, not sure if he was being dense or just cautious about jumping to conclusions.
            But Wes said, "Yes," rather matter-of-factly, which surprised Angel, given the magnitude of that small answer.
            Angel felt as thick-headed as Lilah often accused him of being--completely incapable of comprehending any of this.
            "But this is--" He broke off, almost afraid to vocalize it.
            "A counter-curse, you could call it." Still, Wesley sounded almost as if he were rattling off a grocery list. But then he looked up, right into Angel's face, and Angel saw an echo there of the same trembling, hesitant elation rising into his own throat. "I've been corresponding with Willow, and we were able to find . . . well, a good many things I'd been looking for for a very long time."
            Angel swallowed. "How--how can we make this work?"
            "Well, I do have a bit of a plan."
            "Of course you do." Angel allowed himself a smile, suddenly seeing a shadow of the old Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, easily excitable and socially inept, but still usually fairly well-informed. "Let's go into the office and talk about it."
            In the office, Angel put his feet up on the desk to listen while Wesley expounded. Maybe elevating his feet would force some blood into his brain. God knew his circulatory system wouldn't do it. But he still felt dazed.
            "The circumstances, of course, would have to be highly controlled. Once we properly assemble and distill the potion, it has to be administered at precisely the correct moment or it won't work."
            Angel nodded. "Right when my soul starts to go."
            "Yes. Too soon, and the effects won't last long enough to complete the binding. Too late, and it will--well, be too late, and your soul will already be gone."
            "So I have to take it exactly when the process starts."
            "Would you be able to tell when that is? Do you remember what it felt like?"
            The memory lay dark and heavy, a strange, sickening kind of pain. "Not something I'm likely to forget."
            "Good. That's good. However, you should not administer the potion to yourself."
            "Why not?"
            "Because if something goes wrong, we run the risk of setting Angelus free. If you're contained in some way, then the risk is minimized, and if Angelus appears, he'll be contained."
            "And you can kill him."
            "Or keep him immobilized long enough to re-administer the curse in its original form."
            Angel mulled over that. Over all of it. "How do you picture this going down?" he finally ventured, because he wasn't happy with any of the images forming in his own head. Then he realized his choice of words had been rather inappropriate, and winced, but Wesley didn't seem to have noticed. Maybe British people didn't do that. Or didn't call it that, at any rate.
            "Well," said Wesley, dragging Angel's mind back out of the gutter, "the most logical course of action would be to duplicate the circumstances of Angelus' last appearance."
            "With me . . . contained."
            "Correct." Wesley, Angel could tell, was trying very hard not to squirm. Angel, on the other hand, had gotten a mental image of himself manacled to the bed with Buffy on top of him. He crossed his legs. "And you would what, watch to be sure everything goes as planned?"
            Wesley actually blushed. "That would hardly be appropriate. I'm certain that your . . . partner--"
            "Buffy," Angel broke in. "It has to be Buffy."
            "Yes. I think you're right."
            "I wouldn't trust anybody else with this--" Then Angel realized Wes had agreed with him.
            "Yes," said Wesley again. "I'm certain she would be sufficiently attuned to you to know when the appropriate moment would be to administer the potion. And she's strong enough to overcome Angelus if that would become necessary."
            "She killed me once already. Seems a little much to ask her to do it again."
            "The intent, of course, is to prevent that from happening."
            Angel looked at the papers again, at the lines of Latin and arcane symbols. To be released of the curse without losing his soul--it was too much to get his head around.
            "How long will it take to prepare the potion?" he said finally.
            "Three days or so."
            Angel nodded. "Get it started."

            Buffy's mother had told her not to worry, but that was a virtual impossibility, given the circumstances. The operation to remove Joyce's tumor had gone swimmingly, but Buffy just couldn't shake the feeling something was wrong. Add to that the wrenching emptiness where Riley had been, and Spike's sudden stalker act, and all just wasn't well in Buffy-ville.
            Everyone else seemed happy, though. They'd all gotten together for a little welcome home gathering for Joyce. Buffy's mother was only barely up to receiving guests, but she sat graciously on the couch while the entire Scooby gang waited on her. It occurred to Buffy, watching Xander refill Joyce's coffee cup, that her mom had become the surrogate mother for the bunch of them. The Scooby-mom. The thought made Buffy smile.
            The ringing of the doorbell caught her by surprise. After all, everyone was already here.
            Xander looked up. "If that's Spike, tell him to get the hell out of here."
            Buffy got up. "Since when does Spike ring the doorbell?" She trudged to the door. She really didn't feel like dealing with Spike right now. But when she opened the door, she froze, staring, because it wasn't Spike. Not even close
"Hi," she managed after a moment.
            "Is this a bad time?" Angel asked.
            "Why are you here?" she stammered. It was so strange to see him there on her doorstep. He seemed bigger than she remembered--he had the last time, too, when he'd shown up at her dorm room. Bigger and darker and grimmer, even though his eyes held a softness when he looked at her, and the cant of his eyebrows shifted into a question as he spoke.
"I need to talk to you. Can we talk?"
            "No vampires allowed!" Xander called from the living room, still assuming, Buffy knew, that Spike was at the door.
            Buffy smiled a little and moved aside. "Come on in."
            Angel moved past her. The soft cashmere of his black duster brushed against her hand. He brought a smell with him, a tangy odor common to vampires but with musky undertones unique to Angel. It made Buffy's skin tingle as she thought of curling up in his blankets, wrapped in that smell.
            The conversation in the living room died when Angel appeared. Joyce was the first to recover, smiling brightly even though Angel had gone sober, taking in the bandages.
            "Angel," said Joyce. "What a pleasant surprise."
            "Yeah," he said, then, "I just wanted to wish you a speedy recovery."
            "Thank you. That's so sweet. Can we get you anything? Xander, get Angel something to drink."
            "No, that's okay." Angel spared Xander a glance, and Buffy noted the usual tension. It was nice to know some things never changed.
            "Angel," Buffy put in, "I don't think you've met Anya or Tara." She was grateful for Angel's ad-libbing, but wasn't sure how far he could take it.
            "Oh, we've met," said Anya. "Last Thanksgiving. Just for a minute. Between moments of slaughter and mayhem."
            "I didn't get your name, though," said Angel. "Nice to meet you. And you, too, Tara." His eyes shifted to Willow, who was holding Tara's hand. "Hey, Willow. Nice to see you again." He paused, then said, "Thank you."
            Willow smiled. "You're welcome. Good luck."
            Buffy looked from Angel to Willow and back, wondering what exactly was going on. Then, realizing there was just no way to make all this not awkward, she said, "Well, if you could excuse us for a minute." She headed for the stairs, trusting Angel to follow, which he did.
            In her bedroom, Buffy closed the door, then went to sit on the bed. Angel walked to the window and half-sat against the sill, his hands in his coat pockets.
            "So. Your mom had brain surgery and Willow's a lesbian. What else did I miss?"
            "Riley left me." She wasn't sure why she just blurted it out like that. It was still such a new wound she hadn't figured out how to tend it properly.
            "I'm sorry," said Angel gently.
            "No, you're not."
            "I'm sorry he hurt you."
            She shrugged. "I hurt him. What difference does it make?" Now the hurt had turned to anger, which made it easier. "So why are you here? And what was that downstairs with Willow?"
            His eyes went suddenly shifty, looking everywhere but at her. "I need--"
            She snapped her fingers toward his face. "Eye contact, Angel. I hate it when you do that."
            Obediently, he looked into her face, but not without taking a long, unnecessary breath to steel himself first. "I'm sorry. This is a little awkward."
            "I wouldn't know, because you haven't told me. What's up?"
            He cleared his throat. Then, with a corner of his mouth trying very hard to twitch up, he said, "I need you to come to LA and sleep with me."
            She stared at him. "I'm sorry?"
            "Don't make me say it again."
            Buffy swallowed. He stood there in his long, black coat and his usual dark layers, but she suddenly saw him sleek and naked, pale, cool skin and long limbs, and her body started to pound. "I assume you don't mean a quick nap."
            "No. I mean--"
            "I know what you mean." She kept her gaze fixedly on his. "Angel, we did that once and it really didn't go well."
            "Most of it did."
            Buffy stopped breathing for a moment. Suddenly she could remember it all so clearly--every brush of his lips over her skin, his hands moving on her, his fingers opening her-- "Why are you asking me this?"
            "Wesley and Willow found a way to counteract the curse."
            She blinked, suddenly understanding. "You should have started with that."
            "Yeah, that probably would have been smart." She tried not to gape as he explained. "You're the only one I would trust with this, Buffy. The only one I would trust with my soul."
            He reached for her, folding her hands in his. She had forgotten what it was like to be lost in his eyes--utterly, thoroughly consumed--and for a moment it scared her. She'd never felt this deeply with anyone, never been this raw and open. Certainly not with Riley, though at the time she'd honestly thought she was giving him everything she could. But it hadn't been like this. She had always held back just a little, protecting herself.
            But not with Angel. With Angel all the barriers just fell. It wasn't a conscious choice--something about him just triggered it. His smell, his aura, the depths of his dark eyes--she didn't know what. Just something about the way he filled the air, the way his body took up the space next to her.
            "Angel . . ." she managed, "if something goes wrong . . ."
            "I know."
            "I don't think I could bear it if I lost you. Especially if it was because of me. Last time--"
            "This is different. This time we know what's at stake."
            "I don't know if that makes it better or worse." She squeezed his hands tight. "What do you want me to do?"
            "Just come to LA. Talk to Wesley. He can explain all the ins and outs of the magic--" He stopped, realizing what he'd said, as Buffy felt her face go hot. "The--semantics--of the spell. Then you can go from there."
            "I can do that."
            He smiled a little. "Okay."
            The movement of his smile brought her attention to his mouth and suddenly she found herself leaning forward, drawn into him as if by some magnetic force. He bent his head to meet her, kissing her softly.
            She pulled back before it could go too far, because she wanted it too badly. Wanted to relearn all the familiar flavors and textures of his mouth. Wanted to feel his hands on her, to utterly lose herself in him.
            He closed his eyes a moment, as if gathering his own control. "I could stay for a while," he said, his voice unsteady. "As long as I can get home before sunrise."
            "That'd be nice."
            "It seems like the thing to do. I mean, I had no idea--your mother--is she okay?"
            "So far, so good." She came to her feet, still holding his hands. "Come on downstairs. There's blood in the fridge if you want it."

            On the way down the stairs, Angel decided he didn't want to know why Buffy had blood in her refrigerator. It wasn't important. He could ask her another time, when it wouldn't be so awkward.
            It was awkward enough as it was. The gang had relaxed back into laughter, but fell silent again as he and Buffy came back into the living room. Xander sized him up, shifting as usual into antagonistic mode.
            "So what's up?" Xander said. "Some kind of big problem or apocalyptic event you can't handle yourself?"
            "No," said Angel simply, and sat down.
            Xander's eyes narrowed. "So why are you here?"
            "I invited him," Buffy broke in before Angel could formulate an answer. "I figured the more well-wishers we had, the more good vibes we could cook up for Mom."
            Xander didn't look convinced, but said nothing else, much to Angel's relief.
            "I'm glad you're here," Dawn piped up. Angel offered her a smile.
            "You've grown since I saw you last." He'd barely recognized her when he'd walked in before.
            "Just a little. Or a lot." Dawn had gone flustery and red-faced. Angel remembered her tendency to lose coherence in his presence. He still found it endearing.
            "You look great," he said.
            They all stared at him for a few more seconds, particularly Anya and Tara, then Willow said, "Hey, I wasn't done with my story," and launched midstream into a narrative about something magic-related she and Tara had done the week before. Angel tuned it out. He looked at Buffy. She was watching him, an odd look on her face. He could still smell her arousal; it had been thick in the bedroom but then so had he--thick and hard, but easing up a bit now, finally. She smiled at him, then turned to ask Willow a question.
            The flow of conversation quickly rose and excluded him, as it nearly always had, and as he'd been hoping it would. He got up and went into the kitchen.
            There was, indeed, blood in the fridge. He opened a jar and sniffed. It was fresh, and good quality, and in his edginess over the past forty-eight hours or so he really hadn't had enough food. By the sound of the voices in the other room, no one would be likely to bother him for a while. He took a glass from the cabinet, filled it, and took a sip.
            He was hungrier than he'd though. Even cold, the sweet flavor set him craving more. Keeping his back to the door, he took a solid swig.
            "I-I think Spike usually heats it in the microwave."
            Angel turned around, startled. The new girl, Tara, stood behind him. She looked hesitant, uncomfortable, but he got the impression this had nothing to do with him personally.
            "Spike?" he repeated. "She keeps this for Spike?"
            "Yeah. H-He can't hunt anymore, and he has some cash flow problems, so Buffy keeps a little blood on hand."
            "He can't hunt?"
            "No. He's got a chip in his head. It won't let him h-hurt humans."
            Angel gave a humorless laugh. "Who's the poof now?" He took another swig from the glass before he quite realized what he was doing--God but he really was seriously hungry. Tara seemed unfazed.
            "Wes thinks it's going to work?" she said suddenly.
            He nodded. "Yes. You helped with the research?"
            "A little."
            "Thank you."
            She nodded. "You're welcome. It was fun, the research."
"How long have you and Willow been together?" He took another drink, intrigued at Tara's complete lack of reaction.
            "Almost a year."
"What happened to Oz?" Not the most appropriate of questions, but he didn't realize it until after he'd said it. "I'm sorry. I just wondered. I knew him. He saved my ass once."
"Oz . . . Oz l-left." Her gaze had slid away from his, the vague stutter returning. Then, surprisingly, she smiled a little. "He had werewolf issues."
"The demons can be a bitch."
"I guess you would know." She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of pop. "Do you want a refill?"
            The question surprised him. "Um . . . yeah, actually. I'll get it."
            "No, it's okay."
            More than a little taken aback, he held his glass out to her and let her top off the contents.
            "Is Spike around a lot?" he said suddenly.
            "More than any of us want him to be." She closed the jar of blood and put it away, then popped the tab on her pop can. "Why?"
            "I don't know. It just seems like maybe you're used to having vampires around."
            "Not really. But the blood doesn't bother me. I mean, you drink blood, I sleep with women. We all have our little quirks."
            Angel laughed a little. "Yeah, I guess we do, at that."

            Buffy sent everyone home at ten. It was a little early for most of them, but her mother looked increasingly tired even though she'd slept most of the day. Dawn, too, was starting to drift off.
            "You should go on to bed, Mom," Buffy said when Joyce carried the half-empty bowl of chips into the kitchen. "I'll clean up."
            Joyce nodded. "Dawn can help."
            "No need," said Angel, trailing behind them. "I'll take care of it."
            Buffy gave him a grateful look. "Let me just get Mom to bed, and I'll be back down."
            He nodded. Dawn, wavering a little on her tired feet, gave him a goodnight hug before heading upstairs. Angel looked a little startled, but hugged her back.
            Joyce didn't actively reach for Buffy's assistance on the way up the stairs, but Buffy hovered, catching her mother once when she wavered a bit. In the bedroom, she got out Joyce's pajamas and helped her mother change.
            "Angel didn't come here for me, did he?" she asked as Buffy pulled down the bedcovers.
            "No, Mom, he didn't. He probably would have if I'd told him, though. Which is the main reason I didn't tell him."
            "Why did he come?"
            Buffy considered, wondering how her mother would react to the truth. But, in the end, it just didn't seem right to lie.
            "He's found a way to deal with that curse thing. So he doesn't have to worry about losing his soul anymore."
            Joyce slowly drew her feet up into the bed and let Buffy adjust the blankets over her. "He wants your help."
            "Yes."
            Joyce looked up at Buffy and Buffy could see the concern in her mother's eyes. "What are you going to do?"
            "I don't know, Mom. This is a really bad time for me to be running off to LA, even just for a day or two."
            "Go," said Joyce, and Buffy blinked in surprise.
            "Mom--"
            "Buffy, I know you still love him. The minute he walked in the room, you changed. Lit up. You never looked quite like that even with Riley."
            "Mom, you're in no condition for me to be running off."
            "I'd bet Willow and Tara would be able to keep an eye on me for a day or two." She laid a hand on Buffy's. "You could never have a normal life with him, but if this works, it would be close. Life's too short to spend it alone."
            Buffy swallowed, fighting tears at this reminder of her mother's mortality.
            "I'll talk to them tomorrow," said Joyce. "That way you can get going in the morning."
            Buffy wanted to protest further, but there seemed no point.
            "He loves you, Buffy." Joyce seemed determined to convince her daughter. "I'd forgotten until I saw him looking at you tonight. Even your father never looked at me like that."
            "Mom--"
            "Grab this while you can. Don't worry about me."
            Buffy nodded. There was no point arguing. She bent forward and kissed her mother on the forehead. "Okay, Mom."
            Joyce smiled. "You work so hard, Buffy. You sacrifice so much. You deserve some happiness."
            "And you deserve some sleep."
            She adjusted her mother's blankets, then rose and left the room, turning the light off behind her.
            Angel stood in the hallway. His presence startled her, but she gathered herself quickly.
            "Eavesdropping?" she said.
            "Not on purpose."
            She nodded and headed for her own room. "Let's talk."
            She sat on the bed, leaving him to lean against the windowsill again. "She's right, you know," he said. "I do love you."
            "Angel, don't."
            "You want me to lie about it?"
            "Don't pull out the sweet talk just to convince me."
            "I'm not. I just thought that . . . considering what I'm asking you to do, that you should know that."
            She just looked at him, at the sincerity on his face. "I love you, too," she said finally. "It doesn't seem to want to go away." Then she looked away, cleared her throat. "I'll come. I'll drive down tomorrow morning, as soon as I get things settled with Mom. I'll have a talk with Wesley and we'll take it from there."
            "Okay." He pushed away from the windowsill. "I'll head out, then."
            "Stay." The word jumped out of her mouth before she could stop it. "Just . . . just for a little while." Her voice cracked.
            "Buffy, are you okay?"
            This was too much. Things were crumbling inside her, falling apart. "I'm so scared. Mom--I don't know what I'd do if I lost her."
            He came to her, sat next to her on the bed and held her, and everything inside her broke open. She'd been working so hard to keep up a stoic front, to not let anyone see her fear. And now she couldn't hold it back anymore, and she cried against his chest as he stroked her hair and shushed her gently.
            "I'm sorry," she said finally. "Every time I see you I cry all over you."
"It's okay. I'm good at being cried on."
"Could you stay?" She looked up at him, into the concern in his dark eyes. "Just for a little while. Just so you can hold me."
            He said nothing, just toed off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, drawing her down next to him. His hands slid soft down her back as she nestled into him, pressing her face into his chest.
            She needed this so badly. Just someone to comfort her. Riley had left just when his presence could have brought her some peace, and she had a hard time not hating him for that. She'd spent more than one night burrowed into his hard, warm chest, listening to his heartbeat, his breathing, taking comfort in his heat and his presence.
            This was different. Angel's chest was silent and still, and he brought little warmth with him. But his arms were strong and firm, his lips soft against her hair as he kissed her there, almost reflexively. His lightweight sweater smelled of wool, and beneath that lurked the tangy-musky Angel smell that she'd missed so much. She felt safe here, and she hadn't felt safe in a long time.
            He shifted next to her, resting his chin on her head. She took a long breath and settled into him. Her body slowly went lax, until finally she drifted into sleep.

            Angel lay there for a long time, just holding her. He wished he could do more. Not sexually, though that would have been nice. He wished he could gather her broken pieces and put them back together. He'd never really been able to fix anything for her--in fact it seemed his presence had generally just made things worse. And all he'd really ever been able to do was hold her, until he'd given up even that.
            It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now he wondered. He'd recognized the need to let her go, so she could move on, but now she was alone again. Alone, and, to his discomfort, her bed still smelled vaguely of Riley. It was so vague he doubted Buffy could smell it, but Angel could. The odor had soaked into the mattress, the pillows, things that couldn't be tossed in the washing machine. He forced himself to ignore it, but the thought of another man in Buffy's bed made him want to hurt someone. Not Buffy. He would have hurt Riley if it had been possible. How dare he take that wonderful, precious thing Angel had given up and treat it so cavalierly?
            He forced his thoughts in another direction, aware his anger was making him tighten his grip on Buffy's small body. He made himself relax, made himself cradle her more gently. She only curled closer to him, her face peaceful in sleep. He stroked her hair, drew in her scent. She had fallen asleep.
            How many times, back in LA, had he longed for this? Not even sex, just this. Holding her, being with her. Feeling the rhythm of her breathing, watching the movement of the pulse in her throat. It made him remember how he'd felt when he'd been allowed to love her that single time. It had been the first time in his life he'd felt like a real person. Like someone who meant something.
            He could have that again. If this worked, he could have that again.
            He barely dared even to think about it.
            He stayed as long as he could, letting himself feel, trying not to think. Finally, when the sunrise was in serious danger of beating him to LA, he kissed her softly and slipped away.

            Buffy woke early the next morning, just as the sun began to creep in her window. Still surrounded by Angel's smell, she sat bolt upright, her first instinct to keep him from the encroaching morning. But she was alone in the bed.
            She let herself fall back against the pillows. He would be back in LA by now, probably settling down for a good day's sleep. She rolled onto the other side of the bed, into the place where he'd lain next to her, and breathed in everything he'd left behind.
            She was going to LA. Today. To wake him from his sleep and give herself to him. To try to save his soul.
            All a noble cause, of course, but Buffy couldn't quite get her brain past the "give herself to him" part.
            She couldn't let herself think about it. She just needed to move forward, one step at a time. She could make the necessary decisions when the time came.
            The sunlight crept across her bed and she let its warmth caress her. She spent so much time in the dark these days she felt like a vampire herself, sometimes. As if the light, touching her, might turn her to ashes.
            If this worked--if she could be with Angel--what would she do? Give up the sun and spend her life with him? Go to LA? She couldn't desert her mother--
            Angry at herself, she pushed the thoughts aside. It wasn't time to be thinking about the future. It was time to get dressed and eat breakfast.
            She was surprised to find her mother already up and talking on the phone. She wound up the conversation as Buffy came down the stairs, and smiled at her daughter as she hung up.
            "It's all set," Joyce said. "Willow and Tara are on their way over. I thought I might whip up some pancakes for everybody."
            "Oh, no, Mom, that's too much work," Buffy protested.
            "Not really. I bought frozen at the store. I can just microwave them."
            "I can do that, Mom."
            "It's okay--"
            "No, Mom, please. You go sit down. I could really use some distraction right now."
            Joyce finally relented and sat at the kitchen table. She'd already put coffee on; Buffy poured two cups and began to doctor them.
            "You're nervous?" Joyce asked.
            "Yes, you could say that."
            "It'll be okay, Buffy."
            Buffy nodded. She brought the coffee to the table and sat next to her mother. "I just don't want to have to kill him again."
            Joyce only smiled a little, sympathetically. There was no real way to answer that, Buffy knew. The thought hung heavy over every other consideration. The memory. Of him standing there in front of the petrified Acathla, all trust and love and innocent unknowing, and she shoving the cold, glinting steel blade through his body.
            It was more than the image. She could still feel it if she let herself. The give of his flesh and the exact level of force it had taken to push that clean blade through him. The vibration in the handle as the steel had scraped against his ribs. Even the smell of his blood, which had hung in the air for an agony of moments before hell had swallowed him.
            She couldn't do that again. Just couldn't.
            And then there was the other memory, just as vivid, just as tactile. Exactly how much pressure it had taken for him to breach her virginity, the deep slide of him inside her. Looking up into his dark eyes, all love and trust and utter peace. She had felt the same way. As many times as she'd had sex with Riley, she could remember no single time with the same intense clarity as she remembered her only time with Angel. Not even the first time with Riley had imprinted on her so deeply.
            But even so, the beauty that had been that night had become tangled up with what had come after.
            Her train of thought was mercifully broken when Willow opened the door and came in, Tara trailing behind her.
            "Hey, Will, come on in," Buffy called. The two women came into the kitchen. "Help yourself to coffee and microwave pancakes."
            "Buffy," Joyce protested, "I thought you were going to do the pancakes."
            "Oh, no, let me," said Tara. "I love to nuke things."
            "She does love to nuke things," said Willow.
            "Thanks for doing this for me," Buffy said. "Thanks for helping me take care of Mom."
            Willow grinned. "Not a problem. You just go take care of Angel."
            To Buffy's surprise, Tara laughed a little. "Take good care of Angel."
            Buffy rolled her eyes. "I'll try."

            Convinced her mother was in safe hands, Buffy left after breakfast for the trek to LA. It was a bright, warm day, a good day for driving, and as she hung one arm out the window into the golden wash of the sun, she hoped intensely that she was doing the right thing.
            The two-hour drive seemed to last only minutes. She parked in front of Angel's hotel and walked up to the front door. Her hands shook as she pushed it open.
            The lobby appeared to be empty. She stepped in as quietly as she could, listening to the echo of her heels on the tile floor.
            "Just a minute!" a voice called, from somewhere behind the reception counter. Wesley. Buffy walked up to the counter and leaned on it to wait.
            Wesley emerged from the office a few minutes later. Buffy returned his welcoming smile, though she still wasn't completely convinced she liked him.
            "Buffy," he said. "I'm glad you've come."
            "Angel made it back all right?"
            "Yes, but he cut it rather close. I was beginning to worry." He hesitated, his smile fading. Probably realizing what the impending conversation with Buffy was going to entail. "Why don't you come on back to the office where we can discuss this in some detail."
            The office had an odd, spicy odor that Buffy realized reminded her of the mansion on Crawford Street where Angel had lived before he'd broken up with her and left town. Incense, perhaps. She wondered why. She would think the odor would overwhelm his vampiric senses, but maybe that was the point. Even a vague layer of odor could cancel out any number of smells, either distasteful or just human.
            "So, how much did Angel tell you?" Wesley settled into a chair behind the desk, where he had arranged a set of manila folders.
            Buffy found a chair on the other side of the desk and sat, folding her hands in an attempt to counter her nervousness.
            "He told me about the potion, and how it apparently works. As far as the timing, administration, that kind of thing."
            "I've brewed the potion, and it matches the description in the books as far as color, odor and viscosity. We can't, of course, know if it actually works until we use it."
            "I understand." Buffy chewed her lip a moment. "Wes, if this doesn't work--" She broke off. "I can't kill him, Wes. Not again."
            "I understand. It's possible that, if he does, indeed, turn in spite of our use of the potion, we might be able to restore his soul by another means. I have done some research in this area and have found some things we could try."
            "But if that fails? Or if Angel nixes that approach?" Buffy had a feeling he would do just that. He'd rather die, she knew, than risk unleashing Angelus on the world again.
            "Then I'll do it. I discussed this with Angel. We both felt this was the best solution." The gentleness of Wesley's voice surprised her--she wasn't sure why. He just seemed so much more understanding, more in tune with her and what she might be feeling, than he ever had when he'd been her Watcher.
            "Are you sure you can?" Buffy said. "It's not as easy as you might think."
            "If I have to kill him, it won't be Angel. That knowledge alone makes it that much easier."
            Buffy closed her eyes, trying not to flash back yet again to that horrible, wrenching moment. It had been Angel, then. If she let herself, she could still taste the tears on his lips.
            "Thank you, Wesley," she finally said. She looked at him, studied his face. "Tell me what I need to know."

            They managed to discuss the timing of the administration of the potion without actually mentioning how Angel was going to get to that happy place where he lost his soul. The timing was crucial, Buffy understood, but she also thought herself capable of handling the situation.
            And so now it was time. While Wesley went to fetch the potion, she made a phone call home to be sure everything was okay. All was well, Willow assured her, and her mother was sleeping.
            Wesley returned with a small, nondescript vial filled with a deep purple liquid. It swirled with lighter shades, making it look like abalone.
            Gingerly, she took the glass vial from him. "There's not very much."
            "It's highly distilled. He needs to take all of it."
            She nodded. "Should we go up? Or is he sleeping?"
            "He probably is sleeping, and yes, we should go on up."
            Buffy swallowed, gathering courage, then slipped the vial into the breast pocket of her shirt. "Let's go, then."
            Wesley led the way up the stairs to Angel's room. It was odd, Buffy thought, all of them living in the hotel. Or maybe they didn't all live here. In which case it wasn't really all that odd a choice for Angel, who'd never lived anywhere truly normal.
            Wes stopped in front of the door and looked at Buffy. "I'm not at all certain how to handle this."
            Buffy considered, feeling her face go a little warm. "It actually might be best if you stay outside. If you hear a good scream, don't come in. If you hear a bad scream, then . . ." She trailed off, smiling a little.
            "Will I be able to tell the difference?" Much to Wesley's credit, he managed to look her in the eye.
            "I'm really not much of a screamer. So, yeah, I think you'll be able to tell."
            Wesley smiled. "Good luck."
            Gingerly, Buffy took hold of the doorknob and turned it silently, pushed open the door.
            Angel had a suite rather than a room, and the bed wasn't readily visible from the door. Buffy closed the door gently behind her, but left it unlocked. She took a long, slow breath, swallowed a few times, then went in.
            Angel lay sprawled on his back in bed, under the blankets, apparently fully clothed. His body was utterly still except for the rapid movement of his eyes under closed lids, chasing dreams with their flitting. It was eerie to watch, and made her wonder, not for the first time, how he could be so beautiful and still be technically dead. How she could love him, when there was no breath in his body, no softly beating heart in his wide chest.
            But none of that mattered to her. What mattered was the essence of him, what she saw in his eyes when he looked at her.
            She sat on the edge of the bed, next to him, and cased his bed. The nightstand offered a safe place for the precious vial, so she put it there. She would have to keep him oriented toward that side, so the potion would be within easy grabbing distance--
            Then she noticed the nightstand on the other side, where Angel had made his own preparations. Manacles. A wooden stake. A glass jar of holy water. She shivered a little, then practicality set in again. Exactly where was she supposed to attach the chains on the manacles? Neither the headboard nor the wall looked sturdy enough to hold him. He probably had an answer, though. When it came to preparing for worst-case scenarios, Angel was an expert.
            She didn't want to think about that. If Angel had taken responsibility for the worst-case scenario, then she could concentrate on the opposite.
            She looked back at the swirling potion on the nightstand, then back at Angel. He hadn't stirred, and his eyes had stilled. He could have been dead.
            He is dead, said her little Slayer voice, but she'd learned to ignore that a long time ago, especially when it came to Angel.
            He was beautiful, all semantics aside, and she wanted to touch him. But she sat for a moment just looking at him, taking him in. She couldn't think too hard about what was about to happen, what it might mean. It was too much. One breath, one heartbeat at a time, was all she could handle right now.
            She reached out to him, touched his face. He seemed oblivious to the contact, so she stayed that way for a time. Then she bent forward and kissed him lightly on the peak of his cheekbone.
            He moved a little at that, his face shifting toward her. She smiled, stood, and slowly unbuttoned her shirt.
            Suddenly he rolled to one side and his hand rose to touch hers, stopping her.
            "Buffy," he said, and smiled.
            She let her hands fall as his fingers touched the button she'd been about to unfasten. He didn't finish what she'd started, though--just toyed with the button, running the tips of his big fingers along its small edges.
            "You came," he said.
            She smiled. "Not yet. But we can work that all out later."
            He grinned. Buffy couldn't help laughing a little--it was always gratifying when she was able to amuse him enough to get him to show his teeth. "Sorry," he said. "No can do. This is all about me."
            "That's what you think."
            "But Buffy, if you're all...distracted...at the wrong moment, how do I get my magic potion?"
            "Oh. That's actually a good point." She pouted a little.
            He reached up and touched her face. "Don't worry. If this works, I promise I'll more than make it up to you."
            She nodded, smiling. Finally, he unfastened the button. He slid her shirt down her shoulders, slid his hands down her bare back.
            "No bra?" He brought a hand forward to cup her bare breast. She felt her nipple spring up against his palm. It wasn't the first time he'd touched her like that, but it seemed like it suddenly to Buffy. She shivered, closed her eyes a moment, then looked into his face. He had sobered, a heaviness in his eyes that she didn't quite understand.
            "It was a surprise for you." She touched his face, traced the line of his drawn-down brows. "No panties, either."
            He smiled a little. "Can I make a confession?"
            She let her hand cup his jaw. "Angel, you can tell me anything. You know that."
            "I'm not sure I can do this."
            So that was what lurked in his eyes. Fear, but he was hiding it. "It'll be all right."
            He lifted her breast, his long, cool fingers curling around the soft curve. Her body had begun to clench with desire; she wanted him so badly she hurt with it.
            "What if it isn't?" he said.
            "Then Wesley will kill you. You'll die a very happy man." She said it lightly, but couldn't quite meet his eyes.
            "Buffy--"
            "I know. You think this doesn't scare me? You think I want to lose you?"
            He let his hand fall. She could still feel where he had touched her, the cool imprint of his fingers.
            "Maybe we should just--let it go." His gaze drifted over her shoulder, looking, she knew, at the potion on the nightstand behind her.
            "Is that what you want?" She let her hand fall from his face, to her lap, suddenly self-conscious. "Do you think it's not worth the risk?"
            He looked at her, silent, into her eyes, then down, at her bare breasts, her belly. When his eyes rose back to hers, she saw some measure of peace there.
            "It is. It's worth the risk."
            She reached up to him, drew his face down to kiss him. She savored it a moment, then drew back.
            "Don't do it for me," she said, though she wished it could be that way. "I can't promise you anything past today. I just can't. With Mom, and Dawn, and everything that's going on back home--"
            He laid a finger against her lips. "I know. It's okay." His mouth quirked. "So get over yourself and let's get this thing done."
            She shook her head. His humor always surprised her, it came so rarely. "Do you know how to make a girl feel special, or what?"
            "Actually, yes, I do." And he kissed her again, long and soft and sweet, and she wished more than anything that she could stay here in this moment forever, forget everything else and lose herself in him completely. It would be so easy, so lovely and simple.
            She could forget, though, for a while at least, and maybe it was that as much as anything else that had brought her here, because it had been a long time since she'd been able to lose herself this way.
            She pulled his dark sweater off him, over his head, and drew him back to her, pressing her breasts against the familiar, firm planes of his chest. Then he was back to kissing her again, smoothing his hands down her back. He was starting to let go--she could feel it in him--starting to lose himself in the moment. Yet he seemed thoroughly absorbed in kissing her, and his hands hadn't ventured below her waist. Old habits, she thought. He was confining himself to the limited petting they'd relied on that last half-year or so they were together, when they'd understood the stakes. They'd always been so careful to go only so far and no farther.
            Well, it was time for that to stop, and apparently Buffy was going to have to take the lead. She found the button on his trousers, unfastened it, found the zipper and the hard ridge of his erection beneath it. Not much work for her to do there.
            She worked his clothes down his legs, looking at him. She'd been shy about it that first time, not sure if it was polite to look, and later basically the whole area had been declared off-limits. Now she didn't care, so she looked. Big and gorgeous, she thought, just like the rest of him. She reached for him, to see how he felt in her fist, and was surprised when he stopped her, grabbing her wrist.
            "The manacles," he said. "I'm not going any farther with this until you chain me up."
            "Oh, that's right, we're doing the bondage thing." She'd almost forgotten in the heat of the moment. It was a good thing one of them could keep a level head. "What am I supposed to chain you to?"
            "The bed is fine. These are magicked up so I can't get out of them or dislodge anything they're attached to."
            "Really?" That was interesting, but she could hear about it later. Right now her mental processes were severely short-circuited by lust. She was having a tremendously hard time thinking about anything except getting him inside her.
            Toward that end, she leaned over him and grabbed the manacles from the nightstand, trying not to think too hard about the other items there, the stakes and the holy water. And she saw the ax on the floor then. She'd missed it before. It was huge--big enough to behead--well, Angel. She closed her eyes, made herself not think about it, and leaned back toward him.
            He held out his hands and she clamped the metal cuffs around his wrists, made sure they were fastened properly, then attached the chains to the headboard.
            "Are you sure these'll hold?" Angel could rip the headboard right off, she knew, but apparently the magic was supposed to prevent that.
            "Wesley and I tested them pretty thoroughly."
            Buffy couldn't help grinning. "Wes just couldn't get you to your happy place, huh?"
            "You know what I mean."
            "Yes, I do," she said, and pulled his pants the rest of the way off him.
            He was naked now, naked and vulnerable and securely chained to the bed. This was, she decided, a good way for him to be. She slid herself over him, letting her bare breasts caress his body. It all seemed new. She'd been so consumed with the enormity of her first time, before, that she hadn't even been able to think about the details of his body, the textures, the shapes. And he'd been so careful with her she was certain she'd missed out on most of the fun stuff.
            Time to make up for that. Or at least some of it. She'd learned, in her time with Riley, that she enjoyed sex immensely, and this--well, she had to admit it really didn't get much better than Angel manacled to the bed.
She kissed him, relearning the shape and movement of his mouth. It had been a long time since she'd tasted him this thoroughly, and she lost herself for a time in the textures of his lips, the movement of his tongue. She'd always loved kissing him. He was good at it, and there was something profound about the way his mouth fit against hers.
            Everything about him felt good. The wide, solid bulk of his body under her, the small nipples that rose under her fingers, the stirring of his erection between them. He was phenomenally hard--the result, she supposed, of his forced long-term celibacy.
            After a time, she rolled away to slide out of her jeans. His skin had warmed while she was kissing him--it always did when he was aroused, she remembered--but he still lacked the pervasive, occasionally uncomfortable heat of a human male. That was kind of a good thing, she thought. Sleeping next to Riley had sometimes been like sleeping next to a space heater.
            She hated the way her brain kept flashing to Riley. Natural, she supposed, since she'd been with him so long. But she didn't want to think about him, not right now. She wanted just to be with Angel.
            It was hard not to compare, though. She slid her lips softly down Angel's belly, listening to him gasp above her as she took his not-quite-hot length into her mouth. Or as much of it as she could. Even his skin tasted different, and what was it about that vampire flavor that made her so wet? Was it a Slayer thing? Or was she just some kind of vampire-fetishist pervert?
            She had to admit she didn't care. It wasn't like she got tingly for just any vampire that happened along. Only for Angel.
            She worked him for a while with her mouth, then lifted herself over him. She wanted very much to have his hands on her, but that was impossible at the moment, with him chained up as he was. Instead she leaned forward into him, close enough for him to catch her breast in his mouth, and while he bit and teased her nipple, she lowered herself over him.
            For a moment she paused, just reveling in the way he felt inside her. He filled her up as if he'd been made to be there. He wasn't much longer than Riley, but he was thicker, and God, but it made a difference.
            She looked into his face to find his eyes glazed over a little. Leaning forward, she kissed him again, carefully worked his mouth, then shifted over him, drawing him even deeper into her.
            "God," he breathed. "I'd forgotten . . ." He trailed off.
            "Forgotten what?"
            "How good it feels." He closed his eyes, his hips lifting a little under her. "I try not to think about it." He looked at her again. "You're so hot. It almost hurts."
            "Is that good?"
            "It's good." He closed his eyes and pulsed his hips, and she matched his rhythm, hardly able to believe that she was here, and this was real, and she was riding Angel.

            Two hours later, she kissed him on the forehead, rolled off him, and pulled her clothes back on.
            "I'm sorry," he said.
            "It's okay. We'll figure this out."
            He looked desolate as she pulled a blanket over him and patted him gently. "Can I get you anything? Should I unchain you?"
            "No, leave it. Just in case. And no, I don't need anything."
            "Okay. I'll be back in a few minutes." She kissed him gently, savoring his mouth again. "It really is okay."
            She buttoned her shirt and went to the door. Wes still sat outside, reading an obscure tome of some kind. He looked up as she came out.
            "Is it over?" he asked. "Did you give him the potion?"
            "Not yet." At Wesley's look, she added, "Technical difficulties."
            "Really? I'm surprised."
            "Plus I really need something to drink. And I need to pee. So let's go downstairs."
            Cordelia was downstairs in the office, filing, when Buffy came out of the bathroom. Cordy walked out to the lobby, following Wes, who carried a glass of iced tea.
            "Thanks, Wes." Buffy took the tea and drank. It was a little weaker than she liked it, but it slaked her thirst and washed the Angel-taste out of her mouth. She liked the Angel-taste, though. She missed it now it was gone.
            "So," said Cordelia. "Is he happy yet?"
            "Not quite."
            "Technical difficulties, you said," Wes put in.
            Cordelia raised her eyebrows. "He can't get it up? That seems so unlike him. Hey, Wes. Do they make vampire Viagra?"
            Buffy rolled her eyes. "It's not that. He's not having a bit of trouble with that. He's just . . . he's having trouble relaxing."
            "Oh, right." Cordy nodded wisely. "He can't come."
            "Well, yeah, to put it bluntly." She glanced toward the stairs. "I should go back. He wouldn't let me unchain him."
            "Wow," said Cordy. "So he's, like, naked and chained to the bed? This would be a really good time to ask him for a raise."
            "I doubt he would appreciate that," said Wesley.
            "I'm just not sure what to do," Buffy admitted, still not over the fact that she was talking about this with Cordelia and Wesley. "I've tried just about every trick in my repertoire."
            "Which I'm sure is long and varied," said Cordelia. "Hey, is he really big?"
            "Hey, is that your business?" Buffy said.
            "I'm just curious. I mean, he's a big guy."
            "He's in proportion."
            Cordelia looked impressed. "Is he circumcised?"
            "Cordelia!"
            "Well, I was just thinking, you know. He was born in what, seventeen whatever? So I was thinking maybe he isn't." She looked at Wesley. "Are you?"
            Wesley looked taken aback. "No, actually, I'm not."
            "God. Who knew there were so many foreskins walking around this place?" Cordelia shook her head. "It boggles the mind."
            Wes looked irritated, whether at Cordelia for asking the question or himself for answering it, Buffy wasn't sure. "I'm thinking perhaps your mind is easily boggled. Now, unless there's someone else's penis you'd like to inappropriately discuss, I'd suggest you get back to your filing."
            "Well, I don't have one, and Buffy doesn't have one, so I guess there are just no penises left in this building to talk about. Unless either of you would like to provide more details?" She looked hopeful for a moment, but when neither Buffy nor Wes was forthcoming, she shrugged and headed back toward the office.
Buffy was certain they'd finally gotten rid of her when she turned back and said, "Hey, Buffy, maybe you should get him liquored up. Lower the inhibitions a little."
            "Okay, Cordy. Thanks for the input."
            But Cordelia still wasn't done. "How do vampires get erections, anyway? I mean, isn't it a circulation thing? And don't they, you know, not circulate?"
            "There's a book on the shelf in there all about it," said Wesley dryly. "Perhaps you'd find it interesting reading."
            "Really? What's it called?"
            "The Undead Hard-On," Buffy offered.
            Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Ha ha. Very funny." Finally, she returned to the office.
            "'The Undead Hard-On,'" Wesley repeated. "Funny. It is an interesting question. I wonder if Angel knows the mechanics."
            "Oh, great. That's just what he needs, is somebody asking him that. 'By the way, honey, I know we're having some problems here, but would you mind stopping for a minute to explain the mechanics of your erection?'"
            "No, I suppose not. Perhaps at a more opportune time." Wesley actually looked like he was serious, making Buffy hope she managed to be around for that conversation. "You know," he went on, "the liquor idea isn't bad. It just might work."
            Buffy considered. "No. I think I just might have a better idea."

            Wesley hadn't liked her idea one bit, which didn't surprise Buffy, but he still gave her what she needed. He also gave her a disapproving look as he resumed his seat outside Angel's door.
            "I hope you know what you're doing," he said.
            "Of course I know what I'm doing," she told him, with a sort of arrogant bravado she didn't really feel. But she was relatively sure she knew what she was doing, and that was close enough.
            Carefully, she opened the door, slipped into Angel's big suite. Strangely, she felt now as if she were going into battle rather than heading back to bed with a willing lover. Sometimes, she thought, her life got just plain weird.
            Angel sat with his eyes closed. He had shifted in the bed so that not so much of his weight hung from the manacles. As a result, the blanket had slid down a bit, exposing his stomach and the top of his right thigh. Buffy paused, feeling the heat slide down her body. There. That felt less like battle readiness. Amazing, in a way, that she'd just been working him over for two hours and was still completely ready and willing to head back into the fray.
            He moved a little, uncomfortably, and opened his eyes. "Hey," he said. "You're back."
            She walked to the bed and sat next to him. "Don't sound so excited."
            "Sorry. I'm just . . . a little frustrated at the moment. On several levels."
            "We'll take care of that here in a bit." She slid her hand under the edge of his pillow, depositing there the item she'd brought up from downstairs, where it would be in easy reach.
            He shook his head, oblivious to what she'd just done. "I just keep thinking--"
            "Don't think, Angel." She unbuttoned her shirt and leaned closer. "It's not your best skill."
            "Oh, good. Insult me. 'Cause that always gets me going."
            She leaned over him, traced her nipple across his lips while she unbuttoned her jeans and slid them off. Her hand went under the blanket, fingers slipping down his stomach, and lower. He opened his lips and drew her breast into his mouth. The hard suction made her gasp. He echoed the sound when she curled her fingers around his erection.
            "You know, your problem isn't so much that you can't get it up, but that you can't get it back down."
            He said nothing; his mouth was full. He drew her further in and his teeth scraped her skin, pressed gently, then a little harder, into her. She closed her eyes, absorbed the sensation, then shifted her body, moving the blanket aside. He made a soft sound in his throat as she sank down over him, drawing him back into her.
            "Don't think," she whispered. "Let it all go."
            He pulled away from her and let his head fall back against the headboard, his body tensing as he pulsed his hips under her. The slide and grind made it hard for her to think. She forced herself to look at the potion, to remember why she was here.
            "Don't worry about anything. There's nothing for you to worry about. I'm here to take care of you."
            His pace quickened a little. She clasped his shoulders, hanging on to him. He was letting go a little more, she could tell, but after the numerous close-but-no-orgasm moments of the previous session, she could also tell he wasn't letting go enough.
            But he was close. As close as he'd been since they'd started this marathon. Bending in toward him, she whispered in his ear, "Bite me."
            His eyes snapped to hers, coming out of the glaze of his lust. "What?"
            "You know what you want. You know what would make this perfect for you."
            "Buffy, no. I won't."
            But she had her trump card, and now she pulled it out from where she'd hidden it under the pillow. A paring knife, small but sharp, the blade glinting. An unlikely sex toy, in most circles, but not when your partner was a vampire.
            She traced the blade over the point of her shoulder. Blood beaded, a string of round rubies. With a finger, she gathered them and brought them to his lips.
            He flinched away, but she grabbed his jaw and held him still as she forced her finger past his lips, touching the blood to his tongue. He swallowed automatically. "God," he breathed.
            "It's good, isn't it? It's what you want. Take it."
            The look he gave her was bleak.
            "Angel," she whispered. "You are what you are. It's okay." Gently now, urging rather than forcing him, she maneuvered his head toward the cut on her shoulder.
            "Buffy--"
            "It's okay."
            She turned her head to watch as he finally gave in, licking the blood from her skin, then latching on, suckling from the wound. It hurt, but it aroused her, too. She fought that back. She had to stay lucid for him, to do what she would have to do.
            Gently, she slid her fingers into his hair, cradling his head. "Let it go." She could feel him fighting it. Fighting the demon. "Let it all go. It's okay."
            A tortured moan tore from his throat and he jerked against her. She held his head there against her shoulder, her fingers soft in his thick, dark hair, and watched as he finally gave in. Let it all go.
            His mouth changed shape against her skin, the fangs extending, penetrating her flesh. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, knowing the pain would fade in a moment. And it did, changing to a consuming, pulsing ache as he sucked at her, the rhythm matching the rhythm of his hips between her thighs.
            Her hand slid down his back, easing him a little closer. Looking over his left shoulder, she could see the black lines of the tattoo on his right, moving as he strained against the chains. She turned her head toward him and kissed him, there on the contorted, demonic ridges that had grown on his forehead. Against his face, the face he was ashamed of, she whispered, "I love you."
            He convulsed in her arms. The movement brought both his teeth and his sex deeper into her. She clutched at him, holding him, and he growled, low and harsh in the back of his throat. She clenched down hard as finally he let everything go, pulsing inside her, his body lurching with the rhythm.
            Easing him a little to the side, she reached for the potion on the table. His head lolled back away from her, releasing her shoulder. Blood ran down from the wound, down her arm.
            She snagged the little vial with its swirling, purple contents and turned back toward Angel. He had leaned his head back against the headboard, his face human again, and there were tears on his cheeks. She'd gotten him where he needed to be, then, to that place where he understood how deeply she loved him. That was what had done it last time--not the sex or the orgasm itself, but what they meant to him. What they meant to her. What he meant to her.
            "Buffy," he whispered. "Buffy, I love you."
            She bent forward to kiss him, unfazed by the blood--her blood--that lingered on his lips. Blinking back sudden tears, she realized she'd gotten to that place, too, that place where every other consideration fell away and nothing existed in the world but this perfect connection. And here she'd thought she might get over him someday.
            "Buffy," he said again, and this time his tone was different. She tensed, looking into his face. Fear rose into his eyes and his face creased in pain. "Buffy, it's--"
            She yanked the cork out of the vial and shoved the open end against his mouth. But he had clenched his lips against the pain, and she had lost him, he was gone in the tearing away of his soul--
            "Dammit!" She grabbed his face with her free hand, wrenched at his jaw. "Dammit, Angel, drink it!"
            He fought her, oblivious, she knew, to what he was fighting, driven perhaps by the demon, who would have a vested interest in making sure this didn't work. She thought she felt something crack under her fingers--bone, or maybe a tooth--as she used every bit of strength she could muster to force his mouth open. Just far enough to get the vial between his lips, to dump its contents into his mouth. Then she tossed the vial aside and used both hands to hold his mouth shut.
            "Swallow! Swallow, you son of a bitch!" She was half-sobbing now, face-to-face with the possibility of failure, the possibility of losing him.
            Vaguely, she heard the door open behind her, but she didn't have time for that now. Angel was fighting her with everything he had, some of the potion already oozing between his lips.
            "Push his head back." Wesley's voice came calm and she didn't even look at him, just did as he said, putting a hand under Angel's chin to shove his head back. And, finally, convulsively, he swallowed.
            "Hold him there a minute. Be sure he got it all."
            She held him, though he wasn't fighting her as violently now. He swallowed again, then again, and after the third time his body eased under her. His head rolled to one side, eyes closed.
            Buffy looked at him, still holding his head. "I think he's out."
            "Now we wait."
            And suddenly Buffy realized the state she was in--naked and disheveled and straddling Angel's equally naked body, with him still inside her, though softening now, and Wesley standing there behind her getting what was probably quite an eyeful. Hesitant, she looked back over her shoulder at him.
            He met her direct gaze, nothing in his expression but concern. "Are you all right?"
            She nodded. He nodded back, then made a quick retreat. Much more gracefully, she thought, than she might have in a similar situation.
            "Wesley?" she called after him.
            He paused, but didn't turn around. "Yes?"
            "Could you give me a few minutes and then bring up some gauze? Maybe some Neosporin?"
            "Of course."
            She waited until the door closed behind him, then eased herself off Angel's inert body. Her shoulder ached now, though the bleeding appeared to have mostly stopped. She pulled her jeans and shirt back on, leaving the shirt partially unbuttoned so she could reach the wound to treat it.
            Angel was well and truly out, hanging like a dead person from the manacles around his wrists. Buffy slid a hand down the side of his face. No response. She rearranged the blankets over him, kissed him, then went to answer Wesley's knock.
            "Here," he said, handing her gauze, tape, and a tube of ointment. "Are you badly hurt?"
            "Not too bad." She settled into a chair in the front area of Angel's suite and eased her shirt down her shoulder. "It's kind of an awkward angle. Could you help with the tape?"
            "Of course."
            Buffy held her shirt so Wes couldn't see down it--not that he hadn't seen plenty of her already--while he doctored the torn spot on her shoulder.
            "It's not tremendously deep," he commented.
            "He was holding back. It worked, though."
            "I'm surprised you didn't give him your neck."
            "I needed to be conscious, remember? Besides, I thought maybe we could try something new."
            Wes smiled a little, uncomfortable. "I'm sorry I barged in--before."
            "It's okay. You did the right thing."
            Wesley smoothed the last strip of tape into place. "How is he?"
            "He's unconscious. Is he supposed to be?"
            "I'm really not certain."
            "Maybe you should take a look at him."
            "Maybe."
            She followed Wes into the bedroom. "I'm not at all certain what I might look for," he admitted. "He has no real vital signs, after all."
            "Well, he's not a little pile of dust, so I guess he's alive."
            "I think all we can really do now is wait."
            Buffy nodded. "Would you mind taking first watch? I should call my mom."
            "Of course."

            Angel drifted, lost in a gauzy sort of half-light that seemed to obscure more than it illuminated. Voices echoed around him but he couldn't make out what they said.
            Then the pain came, wrenching down his chest, rending, as if a fist had shoved into his chest and taken hold of his spine, then ripped it free.
            He screamed.
            And he woke up.
            The scream had been part of his dream, but the last remnants of it tore from his throat in a strangled shout as his eyes came open.
            "Angel?"
            He turned his head to face the voice and found Buffy standing next to his bed. "Buffy."
            "Are you all right?"
            "I think so." Then it all rushed back to him in an intense, barely comprehensible blur. He smiled. "Yes. I think I really am."
            Buffy blinked back tears. "You're sure? No urges to kill someone, or to wear leather pants?"
            "Leather pants chafe."
            "Oh, thank God. It really is you." Still blinking, she unfastened the manacles still holding him to the bed. "It worked. It really worked."
            She fell against him and he put his arms around her, holding her, barely able to believe it, himself. "It did."
            But somehow, it all just seemed too easy.

END.