"I could have been anyone
You could have been anyone's dream
Why did you have to choose our moment?
Why did you have to make me feel that?
Why did you make it so unreal?"
           --Oh, to Be in Love--Kate Bush

           Wolfram and Hart had acquired new offices. Interesting. Gwen stood outside on the sidewalk, staring up at the wide sweep of glass and chrome. She knew what had happened at the old offices, information gathered by hearsay that she'd only partially believed. Maybe it had been true. She should have asked Angel. He would have known. He'd always kept a close eye on the goings-on at Wolfram and Hart.
           Adjusting the strap of her attaché case over her shoulder, she walked the last few yards up the sidewalk, into the bright, airy atrium of the big building. It seemed friendlier somehow. Maybe it made the employees feel better to have this much light, made them think a little less about how all their predecessors had been slaughtered and turned into zombies. If that was, indeed, what had happened.
           "I'm here to see Lilah Morgan," she told the receptionist. She assumed that was who she was here to see--in the past when she'd been contacted about a job, Lilah had given her the details of her assignment. This time the call had given no explicit instructions, only that Wolfram and Hart had a job requiring her specific talents, and that she should report for the particulars today. She still wasn't sure how she was going to explain to Lilah that her specific talents had been altered appreciably.
           The receptionist gave her an odd look. "I'm sorry, Miss Raiden, but Lilah Morgan passed away some weeks ago."
           Gwen's eyes widened. "Really?" Maybe the rumors had been true, after all. But they'd indicated Lilah had been one of a very few survivors of the massacre, possibly even the only survivor.
            "I'm afraid so, ma'am. Did you have an appointment?"
            "I--I did, but not specifically with Ms. Morgan." Gwen paused, gathered herself. She'd never liked Lilah, but the shock factor hadn't faded yet. "I have a two o'clock appointment to discuss a possible assignment."
            The receptionist nodded and picked up a phone. After a short conversation, she said, "Yes, you're confirmed for two o'clock with our new Manager of Operations. His office is on the twenty-first floor. You can go on up."
            Gwen nodded, too rattled to ask any further questions. Lilah dead. Lilah had seemed too self-confident, too bitchy, too just plain evil, to ever die. Blinking back tears, not even sure why they were there, she headed for the elevator.
            There were a few other people on the elevator, and she automatically moved back away from them, avoiding contact. With a gloveless hand, she fished a Kleenex from her small purse and wiped her eyes. She had no reason to grieve Lilah. But so much had changed over the past few months. She replaced the wet tissue in her purse. The man next to her moved sideways suddenly and bumped into her. His bare fingers made momentary contact with hers. She flinched, but nothing happened.
            So much had changed. She had seen her parents. Had embraced them. Her father had kissed her on the cheek. His lips had been warm and soft, his tears damp on her skin. She'd sat next to her mother and just held her hand for hours. Things she had never dreamed she would be able to do.
            And now here she was, back in Los Angeles, back at Wolfram and Hart, with no idea whether she could do whatever job they had for her, with her particular talents so drastically changed.
            The elevator stopped on the twenty-first floor and she got out, heading for the office at the end of the hallway. A receptionist outside looked up as she came in.
            "Gwen Raiden," Gwen said. "I have a two-o'clock--"
            "Yes, I'm aware of that," the woman said coolly. "He'll see you right away."
            Gwen nodded. She went to the office door behind the desk and pushed it open.
            He sat on the desk, his back to her, facing the window. She knew him immediately from the wide shoulders, the curl of dark hair against his collar.
            He was sitting in the sunlight that came in through the window.
            Her feet stuttered under her and she came to a halt. "Angel?"
            He turned, pivoting on the desk to look at her over his shoulder. "Gwen," he said.
            She just stared at him a moment, at the sunlight falling over his face. He looked different, she thought, but couldn't quite pin down why. Maybe it was just the sunlight. Finally she swallowed hard and said, "Your secretary is a bitch."
            He smiled. "I know." He turned around on the desk, dangling his long legs over the edge facing her. "How are you, Gwen?"
            "I'm...I'm okay." There were the stupid tears again. "Why are you not on fire?" If he had changed somehow, found humanity--
            But he lifted his hand into the light, turned it, and said, "Filters on the windows," and she felt tears slide down her face. He looked back toward her and frowned, sliding off the desk to his feet. "Gwen, are you okay?"
            Frustrated, she pushed the tears away. "I'm fine, really. It's just..." She stopped. It was all so complicated. Instead of trying to find the words, she reached her hand out to him.
            He lifted his own hand, met her fingers with his. His eyes widened. "No sparks."
            "No. It's gone."
            His brows drew together and he studied her face. "Gone? Completely?"
            "Not completely. It's controlled." She lowered her hand and took a shuddering breath. "It's really screwed up my body chemistry, or something. I get...weepy, and emotional, and sometimes I have trouble with coordination." She shrugged. "It's getting better, though. Anyway...whatever job it is you have for me, I might not be able to do it."
            "There's no job."
            "No job?"
            "No. I just wanted to be sure you were okay."
            "Then why didn't you just call me and ask?"
            "It's complicated. This actually seemed safer for you, given the circumstances." He looked back out the window. He did look different--it wasn't just her imagination. He looked broken.
            "Are you all right?" she asked.
            He nodded, his face blank. "It's been a tough few months." He turned again toward the window, squinting at the light. "Have you been in LA?"
            "No. I went to Wisconsin. I've been with my family since just a day or so after the last time I saw you."
            "Good. Good. I'm glad."
            He seemed far away again, his gaze focused on something in the far distance, out the window, or perhaps on nothing at all. Gwen found her mind returning to the last time she'd seen him, when she'd snubbed him and left with Gunn. She still felt guilty about that, still felt bad about giving him the obligatory mercy fuck and then leaving him. Even though, deep down, she knew it had been the right thing to do.
            "So," he said after a moment, slowly, "was it better with Gunn?"
            "Was what--" she started, then realized what he meant. "I didn't sleep with Gunn."
            He turned toward her, eyebrows lifted a little, as if he didn't believe her. "No?"
            "No." She paused. "There was someone later, though, when I went home."
            Angel smiled a little. "You had a fling. That's good."
            "Yeah. Sort of a fling." More like a one-night stand and breakfast, but that didn't matter now. In a quiet voice, she added, "No, it wasn't better."
            He just looked at his hands. "He was warm."
            "Yes, he was warm. But he wasn't you."
            Slowly, he turned back toward her. His expression was unreadable. "Gwen, don't--"
            "I know. It's not like that. Not really." She took a wavering step forward, then moved back again. "Well, I'm okay, you're okay, you don't have a job for me to do, so I guess I should go."
            He said nothing, but his eyes on her were dark and a little warm. She took another step backward.
            "I'm sorry," she said.
            "For what?"
            "For leaving. I had to. There were things I had to deal with." She hadn't really wanted to bring this up with him, but now it seemed like it was just pouring out of her, and she couldn't stop it. "It wasn't fair to you, though, to just break things off so suddenly, with everything that was going on with you. I mean, you had enough to worry about, with Cordelia, and your son, and all the other--" She broke off. "Angel?"
            Angel's face had gone dead white, which was a bit of an accomplishment for him, considering how pale he generally was to begin with. He just stared at her, as if she'd hit him in the head with a baseball bat, and he wavered a little. She came toward him, afraid for a moment he was actually going to crumple. "Angel?"
            "My son," he said, his voice as dead pale as his face. "You remember my son?"
            "Connor. Yeah, I remember. Of course I remember."
            "Gwen..." He pushed away from the desk, literally swaying on his feet, then suddenly put a hand to his face. Gwen gaped at him. He was crying.
            "You remember my son." His voice was choked.
            She went to him and hesitantly lifted her arms, and he clutched at her, dragged her against him. His body was taut, fighting to contain the emotion that had overtaken him. He pressed his face into her shoulder and she could feel the tears.
            "I don't understand," she said.
            He shook in her arms. "Give me a minute," he managed. "Just give me a minute, and I'll tell you."

#

            The story took a long time to tell. By the time he was done, she was sitting on top of the big desk and he was stretched out over it, his head in her lap, while she combed her fingers through his hair and just listened. She hurt for him when he finally reached the last chapter, his voice thready and broken, as he told her exactly what he had done, exactly what he had given up, exactly what he had compromised, to save his son.
            She didn't know what to think, had no idea what she would have done in his place. When he had been silent for a few seconds, she took a long breath. "I didn't think your stories could get any weirder, after the last one."
            He managed a choked laugh of sorts, but he was still sniffling, trying to hide it and failing miserably. She let her fingers slide from his hair down to his face, where they caught the cool, wet tears as they wound down over his cheekbone.
            "Do you think you did the right thing?"
            He shook his head. "I don't know. It seemed like the only thing I could do, at the time. Now I wonder..."
            Some of the pain seemed to have eased from his face, she noticed. He'd had no one to share this burden with, no one he could talk to. It made her angry. "They wanted you. They knew exactly how to get you. What knife to twist."
            "Wolfram and Hart," he mumbled.
            "Yes."
            "I let them do it."
            "You let them do it because you love your son."
            He closed his eyes, a quick spasm of pain moving over his face. "I did. I do. But he's not mine anymore."
            "You let them save him, but you let them take him away from you at the same time."
            There was a moment of silence. He was still as death in her lap, then slowly he opened his eyes to look up at her. "I didn't know what else to do."
            Her fingers shook a little as she gently combed them through his hair. It was a little longer, she noticed, combed differently. "Maybe there wasn't anything else."
            He rolled to the side, turning his back to her, at the same time pressing his face into her thighs, clasping her knee with one big hand. He said nothing. For a long time she held still, feeling his fingers trembling on her, feeling his tears soak through her jeans.
            "How did they miss me?" she said finally. Wolfram and Hart were usually brutally efficient.
            "I guess they didn't know." His voice was muffled against her legs. "They didn't know about us."
            Us. The word carried implications she knew he didn't mean. "I thought they knew everything."
            "Not everything."
            Hesitant, she slid her fingers deeper into his hair, until they met his scalp. She wondered if he was even aware of the intimacy of their position, he with his face against her thighs and she slowly melting at the pressure of the contact. He would know, though. He always knew.
            "Angel..." she said quietly.
            His fingers tightened on her knee. "Yes?"
            "Have you..." She swallowed. This was a bad idea. But when had that ever stopped her? Especially when it had to do with Angel. "Have you ever made love in the sunlight?"
            He was silent for a moment, his fingers loosening, then tightening again. "Not for a long time. Not since before..."
            "Before you were Turned?"
"Yes."
            Two and a half centuries, she thought. A very long time. She let her fingers trace down his face, along the line of his wide, solid cheekbone. "Do you want to?"
            "Yes."
            His answer had come quickly, but he didn't move. He was waiting for her, she realized, wanted her to make the first move.
            So she did. She took his hand in hers and lifted it to her lips, kissed his long, tapered fingers, his knuckles, his palm, until he pushed himself up in her lap, cupping her cheek and drawing her down to him as he rose to her.
            She let herself melt into him. His fingers on her face, the coolness of his mouth as he kissed her, made her body sing, made her want him even though she'd sworn to herself she'd never allow herself to want him again. Her mouth went soft against his, opened, let him in. He tasted of tears.
            Her voice caught in her throat in a taut, needy gasp and she clutched his shoulders, trying to pull him up closer to her. She had forgotten how big he was, how wide and solid. In response to the movement of her hands, he shifted again, sitting up, then easing her back onto the desk until she lay half under him. He kissed her, harder, his weight settling into her as he adjusted her on the desk.
            She couldn't not respond. Her body knew what he could do and couldn't help wanting it. He put a knee between her thighs and her legs fell laxly open, letting him settle between them. He was hard, rigid against her, his hips pulsing convulsively. Involuntarily, she thought, then he drew back from the kiss, pressing his forehead against hers while he rocked his hips into her, eyes closed, concentrating on the movement. The length of his erection stroked up and down across her, building the heat even through the layers of clothing. Her head lolled back and she moaned, just feeling it, as he pressed harder, shoving her back into the desk, his head falling to her shoulder as he hunched over her.
            "Stop it," she said suddenly, and he did, immediately, his eyes jolting open and meeting hers.
            "What?" One hand rose to cup her cheek. "What? I'm sorry--"
            "No," she said, almost harshly, and her hands went to his belt buckle, jerking it open, jerking open his pants, yanking down his zipper until she could reach under his cotton boxers and cup him in her hands, lifting the familiar, heavy, cool flesh in her fingers while he sagged over her and let out a sound almost like a sob. "Inside," she said. "I want you inside."
            He shook his head. "I can't."
            So they were back to that again. "Why?"
            "The current's gone." His hand slid down the side of her body, thumb grazing her breast, down until he cupped her hipbone in his palm.
            Without the current, she thought, no pain to keep him focused. He was afraid of the curse. He was afraid that without the pain, he might start pretending she was someone else...
            "Do you think I'm that stupid? Do you think I can't figure this out?" His hand tightened on her hip. "You don't want me," she said.
            He lifted his head to look at her, a puzzled expression on his face. "I do."
            "You don't. You want her."
            "Who?" He had that dazed look in his eyes and she knew his brain wasn't engaged. With his genitals still cupped in her hands, she had him at her mercy, but she wasn't even entirely sure he was aware of that.
            "Cordy," she said.
            He shook his head. "No."
            "Buffy, then," and this time he didn't respond to her at all, but his brows drew down, harsh and straight over his dark eyes, and he drew away from her.
            "Let go of me," he said.
            Instead, she squeezed him harder, digging her fingers into his scrotum. He flinched, grasped her forearms, but didn't push her away.
            "Is that what you need?" she said, hardly able to understand why she was so angry. "You need to hurt? If I hurt you enough, can you remember you don't love me so you can keep your fucking soul?"
            Something in his face changed, and he swallowed. She could see the pain in him, so deep she knew she couldn't touch it.
            "Gwen, is that what you think?"
            Tears flooded her eyes. She was so unstable, and it snuck up on her, as it had this time. She still wanted to hurt him. Wanted to make him bleed, because he didn't love her, even though she knew he couldn't. Then he lifted a hand to her cheek, brushed a tear away with his thumb, and kissed her, so gently, so softly. "Gwen, I can't. I can't because I don't want to hurt you."
            It didn't help. She forced her hands to loosen on him, to let him go. His cock had softened a little, but still thrust eagerly against her palm as she drew back.
            "I don't understand."
           "The current's gone. You don't need me anymore."
            "Oh, God, Angel," she breathed. "It's not like that--" She stopped. She wasn't even sure what she felt anymore, what she felt about him, about herself, about the way her life had changed--it was all so new and still felt so tenuous. Every morning she woke up half-certain she would be restored to her old self, current running through her body, isolated once again from the world of sensation she had only begun to explore. Except this time with Angel gone from her life, never to be seen or touched again.
            She couldn't express this to him. She could barely admit it to herself, how much it frightened her, that she might not be normal forever. But she was afraid, too, that she *would* be normal. Because she didn't know how.
            "You can't love me," he said, a strange desperation in his tone. "You just can't."
            She gathered herself, slid her hand back down his belly, low, into the coarse hair, remembering how hot the other man had been here, in the fold of his groin. "I don't want love," she said. "I just want you inside me."
            He smiled a little. "We can't. We had breakup sex, remember?"
            "So now we have the obligatory one-more-time-with-the-ex sex."
            His lips brushed her forehead. "It's obligatory?"
            "Yes."
            "There are so many rules. I can't keep them all straight." His voice still sounded sad.
            With her eyes locked to his, she lifted a hand to trace the line of his cheekbone, touched the tip of her finger to the mole just behind the outside corner of his right eye. "I just want to make love to you in the sunlight."
            "We shouldn't." At least it wasn't "I can't," anymore, she thought. He went on, "It's just not a good idea."
            "Was it ever?"
            One corner of his mouth curled up. She loved his mouth--the blatant masculinity of it, its wide lines and the way the corners tipped up just enough to soften its harshness. "Point taken."
            "Kiss me."
           He did. His mouth played hers for a time, moving against her lips, as if he had never kissed her before, as if every version of contact between his mouth and hers was new. She was limp and warm beneath him, ready and wanting. Pushing her hands back inside his boxers, she shoved them down until his bare cock prodded into her stomach. She pulled her shirt out of the way, letting the cool, hard length of him stroke against her skin. The head slickened with the stimulation, and he made a sound in the back of his throat, the sound she remembered so well, the sound of his rising passion.
            God, how she had missed this. She had missed this so much, and she knew she would have to let it go. Let him go. For good this time.
            But for now she lifted her arms and let him peel her shirt off her, arched into him as his mouth took her breast in and pulled, hard, until she braced her hands against his shoulders and threw her head back, keening. The sunlight from the window poured over her body, turning her breasts to gold, limning his dark hair with red.
            He maneuvered her farther back along the desk, into a fuller wash of sunlight, pushing her jeans down at the same time. His mouth slid from her breast with a pop and a sharp, spearing sensation, and his lips found her stomach, walked down her body, his hands smoothing down her buttocks, shoving jeans and panties out of his way. His nose pressed into her belly, her navel, lower, until he nuzzled between her legs, soft, aroused breathing tickling through damp hair, tongue touching her, seeking, opening her. The cool softness of his tongue, sliding through her slick, wet heat, made her arch her back and shove her head back against the hard, wooden desk. He licked and suckled her, slid two long fingers inside her. He knew how to work her by now, and she clenched her fists, dragging pieces of paper off the desk into her hands. Vaguely, she hoped she wasn't destroying any important paperwork.
            Not that it mattered, with his fingers spearing into her and his tongue working her so hard she thought she was going to turn into light, herself, as the sunlight spread over her skin, his hair, his face. She closed her eyes and just let it crash over her, until her body shuddered and broke apart inside, sending her flying. That man in Wisconsin hadn't even come close to this. Hadn't known how.
            She felt the tears rise, but before they could quite take over he lifted himself over her, kissed her softly. His legs eased down between hers and he traced his fingers across the inside of her thigh, fingers cool except for the heat he brought with them out of the depths of her body. The broad planes of his chest slid against her as he braced himself with his elbows and looked down into her eyes.
            "I can still feel my tongue," he said, smiling a little, and she laughed, and then burst into tears.
            "Gwen, Gwen." He kissed her face, brushed her tears away with his thumbs, and she grasped at his shoulders, anchoring herself to him.
            "I'm sorry," she managed. "I'm so sorry."
            He whispered against her cheek, "Gwen."
            "I just . . . I want you so much . . ."
            His lips moved down her neck, soft, then his tongue traced the scar where Angelus had bitten her. Against the mark she knew lay there, which almost burned in her intense awareness of it, he whispered, "We have to let this go. We both do."
            "I know."
            "It's for the best."
           She nodded. "I know."
            "It just has to be over," he said, and shifted, and slid inside her.
            She gasped, sinking onto him, drawing him in deep. He was so thick, so hard, and filled her with such intensity, such authority, that she could do little else but succumb to it, let it happen. This would never happen to her again, she knew. No one else would ever touch her like this, ever be this to her. Because he had been her first, and nothing could change that.
            But he didn't love her. She felt more tears come, hot on her face, as he moved inside her, pushed in hard, building a rhythm that made her whole body want to burst out in joyous, bereft weeping. For everything she had, everything she wanted, everything she had lost, everything she could be.
            His hands moved up her arms, flung there on either side of her head, then his fingers folded between hers and he held her there, looking into her eyes as he thrust into her, slow but hard, each deep penetration shaking her entire body. She locked her gaze to his, losing herself in the deep, endless darkness of his eyes.
            "Don't cry," he murmured, but she could do nothing but, tears pouring hot over her face. Her fingers clenched hard on his, her thighs clasped tight against his hips, and she sobbed as he increased his tempo, taking her faster and harder and higher, his face bent close to hers now, so close she could have felt his breath if he had been breathing, could have felt the radiant heat of his skin if he were human.
            "Gwen..." His cool breath brushed her cheek, and he rose over her, impossibly deep inside her body, and let go. But kept his eyes opened, locked to hers, letting her see, letting her watch that moment of utter vulnerability, as his orgasm rocked through him.
            It was enough to set her own body pulsing again. She clung to him, hands still locked on either side of her head there on the desk, and forced her own eyes to stay open, to let him see into her as she saw into him.
            It seemed to go on forever, a limitless bubble in which they were both suspended, wrapped in that moment of ecstasy, then he let out a long hiss of breath as he came down, and bent to her, and kissed her so softly she could barely feel his lips against hers.
            "Will you think about me sometimes?" he asked.
            "That's an incredibly stupid question," she answered. She tightened her legs around him, pulling him in as best she could as he softened inside her. He bent into her, closing his eyes finally, as if to absorb the last remnants of the sensation of possessing her, then slowly drew back, out, and let her go.
            "I'm sorry," he said.
            "Shut the fuck up," she shot back. "Don't ever be sorry. Not for me."
            He cast her a look under those dark, straight brows. "I'm not sorry for you. I'm happy for you."
            She slid off the desk, pulling her jeans back into place. "I wish I was."
            His hand caught her arm and he looked at her sincerely, as if he weren't sitting nearly naked on a desk covered with now-rumpled paperwork. "You will be. You should be. You just need time."
            Pulling her shirt back on, she blinked hard. It was so hard to tell, these days, if the tears came from emotion or from the weird side effects of the chip. "I won't come back again."
            He nodded. "I know."
           Slowly, he slid down from the desk, zipped his pants, put his shirt back on. Unable to resist, she touched him one last time, trailing her fingers down his sternum, his flat stomach. She wanted to say something, but there were no words, nothing coherent she could give voice to. Finally she turned away, heading for the door.
            "Gwen," he said, just as her hand touched the doorknob.
           She turned to look at him. His brow was furrowed, his eyes heavy with incomprehensible sadness.
            "Remember him for me," he said, and his voice broke.
            She swallowed hard, and nodded. "I will."

END.