Companion Piece to Vatrixsta Cruden's "Glimpse" - Angel's POV

NC-17 For graphic sexuality! Yum! :)

To V, because she's just wonderful for words, and I'm just totally in love with her.  The restraining order should be issued any moment now.

Perfect Happiness

I know I should let her sleep. With the sort of life she leads -- Hell, that we *both* lead -- she needs rest far more than she needs me pawing at her all the time.

But I can't help it. All those years of unfulfilled longing and that desperate ache for her in every inch of my being are finally history, and sometimes...

Sometimes I just can't force myself to let her be.

"Mmm, that feels nice," she rumbles, a little shiver running down her spine that I can feel against my skin.

"I should hope so," I whisper in her ear. It's amazing to me... how our complicated past, all our painful yesterdays, just melt away to nothing but the sensation of this delicate velvet shell beneath my lips.

It's all so simple now.

She turns over to face me, and for the billionth time since I first lay eyes on her, all those years ago, I feel my dead heart jump. The damn thing doesn't beat, but just one look in her eyes is more than enough to make it throb with something so close to life, it's overwhelming. It's always been exactly thus, with her. She's the life force that I lack. The sunshine that warms my eternal night. She's the borrowed blood in my veins, the unnecessary breath in my lungs.

She is the Reason Why.

I brush a lock of her daylight gold hair away from her beautiful face, and just... look at her. Let it all rush through me... fill me... make me complete. It's the first time in all my incarnations that I've truly felt whole. Right. At home in my own form, with hers against me. And it's taken a very long time... a lot of struggle and strife... a great many moments of almost giving up, to get here. And it's Buffy who has made the difference, every step of the way.

She giggles... a sound so delightfully out of place in the first serious moments of wakefulness. The very center of my being pulls tight with the joy of that sound, and I'm torn... between giving her a teasing growl that will, no doubt, advance into a
war of mad tickling, or a purr... the expression of even my demon's perfect contentment.

Buffy decides for me, trailing a feather caress over my face... my forehead... then plunging her fingers deep into my hair to scratch my scalp like a cat.

Christ. I'll be her cat. I'll be the mud under her tiny feet, as long as she never stops touching me with those perfect, gentle fingers. It's out of my hands, now... I'm her willing slave, her devoted pet, and all I can do is nuzzle at her as the purr escapes from my chest.

It's an honor to be so close, so intimate, with her, after being utterly denied for so long. To be allowed to know every private inch of her skin, every warm nook and cranny of her so well, is a greater gift than any the Powers might dangle before me.
Buffy and a lifetime of moments exactly like this one are all the humanity I'll ever need.

I love this woman. I love every small thing about her. And I love this--waking up beside her--being the first thing she sees every evening, and the last at dawn, and knowing that she wouldn't have it any other way.

I wish there were words for this... some way that I could tell her or write it to her or even (as cringe-worthy as the thought may be) sing it to her. I want so much for her to know how much joy she brings me... how much just this simple moment fills my
soul with once-forbidden bliss.

But... there really aren't any words that can convey my feelings... even the works of the great poets seem dull and lifeless when compared with the sheer thrill of knowing she is mine... and that she loves me. I do my best to show her, though, every second
of every day. I touch her whenever she's near... leave little tokens on my pillow when I rise before her, just as a reminder -- "You are everything to me."

As it turns out, it is Buffy who is really the mistress of expression in our relationship. When we're apart, she sends me long, rambling letters, half filled with words of love, half with details of her life that I miss. Willow's latest wacky spell failure (although those come fewer and further between as time goes by); Xander's latest dirty joke; Gile's geek-like excitement over the latest addition to his already over-stocked library. She talks about her classes, giving her opinions about politics and art and history, and asking about mine, as her "resident expert". She goes on for pages about whatever thoughts cross her mind, and when she signs her name with "Always" and "Buffy" with the big, loopy 'B', it almost drives me to tears because there's no more to read. Every word has felt like a tiny, tender kiss from her warm lips. So I read it again. And again. And again, until I'm forced to tuck it away and contend with some minor crisis, or I'm crying so hard I have to call her, just to hear her voice.

I miss her, when we're not together. Funny... we were utterly apart for two years, and I lived through those fairly well. Okay... maybe not so well, but... I did live through them. Now, two weeks without her feels like an eternity, and by the end of our brief separations, I think I might go completely mad if I can't touch her... smell her... hear her say my name.

We tend to have a lot of... enthusiastic sex, after those times apart.

Point being... I still have yet to find a way to adequately express any of this to her.

She urges me upward until we're face to face once more, and looking into her eyes, this time... it's like every time. Falling into warm pools of love and lust that are the color of autumn grass, spring earth and stormy sky by turns. I can lose everything in those eyes.

In fact, once upon a time, I did.

"I like waking up with you," she informs me in a tone that manages to be firm and insistent, yet soft and gentle all at once. She's a woman grown, now, no longer the young girl I fell in love with a lifetime ago. A woman who means what she says, says
what she means, and gets what she wants, with full understanding of that unique, magickal female power she wields.

My heart's little sorceress.

"I don't even feel awake until I'm with you," I confess, and it's true. My life has a haze of unreality about it, when she isn't near. Nothing is solid... nothing sounds or tastes quite right unless I can hear her whisper or taste her soft skin.

"And I like being able to do this," she declares, almost purring herself, and runs her hand down the meridian of my body... a long, slow line of fire from chest to groin, where she lingers. "Without having to worry about... anything."

Not to quote Spike in bed, but... Bloody Hell, what this woman does to me. My whole being is set ablaze from that single, simple touch. "You should worry," I growl. She should because at any moment, I'm going to lose my already tenuous hold on sanity, and I'm going to devour her whole... bury myself in her... drink her down until I just... expire in her arms, and we both turn to dust.

Whew. Passion can sometimes be a frightening thing.

"Why? What're ya gonna do to me?" she drawls. After all, she is the greatest Slayer in history. What does she have to fear from one measly, barely 250-year-old demon who is so utterly and completely besotted with her, he'd rather impale himself on the
nearest chair leg than let any harm come to even the smallest hair on her head?

Nothing. And then... there is the irrefutable, #1 rule of nature, which she now demonstrates -- the person with their preternaturally strong, yet heartbreakingly gentle, hand on your genitals is most decidedly the one with all of the power.

You know, I like to consider myself fairly collected and civilized, so far as vampires go. I work hard to keep my details in order (which Cordy insists is anal-retentiveness to a degree that would keep an army of therapists in business) and my mind clear. But when Buffy touches me...

Good Gods, there is nothing left of me but her hand, and every nerve in my body now screaming with purely bestial desire for her. I think I was about to say something. Possibly something either wise or witty... maybe both, but... Who cares?

She's the Great Huntress, and I'm her yielding prey, and she makes a meal of me so carefully, so perfectly, I'm uttering insensible noises as her talented mouth devours my flesh. She painstakingly tastes every inch, and I could swear that my body
temperature kicks up to far higher than room temperature when her blunt teeth clamp gently around my nipples, chattering like a cat on the prowl, drawing the ultra sensitive skin between her lips and flickering it with her tongue before she moves on.

If I wasn't so consumed by this bliss, I'm fairly certain I'd be embarrassed by the helpless, silly whimpering-moaning-grunting noises that break from my throat.

Buffy likes to have the power... and I like to give it to her. Especially knowing that she uses it solely for good. She nibbles around my hipbones, where she knows damn well that I'm ticklish, and in a moment, I'm giggling like a schoolgirl, wriggling beneath her as though I'm trying to escape her assault.

Believe me when I tell you that I'm not.

The silly interlude is interrupted, however, when Cordelia's ethereal roommate takes offense to our lascivious behavior, and yanks the sheet out from under Buffy. Her weight collapses on top of me, and misses gelding me by a stroke of sheer luck and
Slayer reflexes.

"Damn it, Dennis!" I bark at the ghost, "Cordelia SAID we should enjoy the weekend without her!"

I swear, sometimes I wish I could find a ghostly dating service, and get him out of our hair. For one, I do feel sort of bad for making him uncomfortable -- after all, this is *his* home, and he *is* trapped here, whether he likes it or not. And for another, it can be damn creepy to be making love, and feel the cold chill of air pass through the room that tells that he's there... watching.

I can't wait until the hotel's repaired. Cordelia's place is beautiful, and, let's face it, Buffy and I could be on a bed of broken *glass*, and I probably wouldn't complain... much. But I miss my king-sized bed, with the satin sheets. I miss the 68 other beds, the countless chairs, the tables, my big, marble, claw-footed bathtub, the plush carpet in my sitting room, the kitchen island, the bench in the courtyard, the balcony outside my room, the winding staircase...

"In all fairness to Casper, I don't think she meant that we could have sex in her bed," Buffy reminds me.

Touché.

I trace the curve of her spine with my fingertip. Looking at her... feeling her against me... Hell, I've already forgotten Dennis' little tantrum, my near-castration, the hotel, and pretty much everything else.

"You're the one who said the couch would cause pre-mature back problems," I tease her, earning myself a poor excuse for a withering glare.

"And I don't have enough to deal with, I should have to worry about..."

She goes on, but... all I can hear is the humming in my blood as her hand takes possession of my still rigid penis, and starts a firm, steady rhythm that makes my eyes roll back in my head, and my brain make little spluttering, short-circuiting noises.

Then the damn bed starts shaking. I might have assumed it was an earthquake, if the bed wasn't the *only* thing shaking in the room. Buffy and I both groan.

"Dennis," she explains calmly, but I can hear that little edge of frustration creeping into her voice, "She left so she wouldn't have to listen to us. Remember how it traumatized her last time?"

"Mardi Gras," I sigh in happy memory.

Ah, yes... I have such fond recollections of New Orleans, this past spring. Buffy and I had only recently reunited, and we were so loud, the concierge had to come knock on our door and ask us ever so politely if we could keep it down... because we were disturbing the screaming, drunken revelers in the streets outside.

Now *that* was fun.

Okay, so... this is fun, too. Buffy crawls between my knees and gives me a lusty grin as she leans down, and...

OH... Christ, her MOUTH! Her tongue... her *teeth*! Forget Heaven. When I finally expire, I want to go straight to Buffy's mouth. She doesn't just *fellate*... oh, no. She *engulfs*. She *devours*. She *consumes*. She sucks my very soul between
those lips, I swear. Tickles the ground of my being in languid circles with that... tongue... paces my non-existent, pounding heartbeat with one hand wrapped around the root and the other cupping my testicles.

Forget control. I don't need it. I don't want it. I tangle my hands in her thick hair and thrust up into that incredible, tight, hot, vibrating, wet, delicious, sensuous cavern until the universe explodes into light.

Is that me screaming?

When it mends back together again and I open my eyes, I find her nuzzling my groin softly, looking up at me with those eyes that plead, 'Make love to me?'

Thank the Powers for vampire stamina and constitution. And Slayer lust. And demon grace, because I flip her onto her back before she can blink, and now it's *my* turn to play. I press myself against her and commence my very favorite activity --tasting every square millimeter of her sweet, living flesh. A hunter's senses are a precious gift when I'm with Buffy, because there are so many minute details about her that a human man would miss. Like the way the soft skin under her jaw is slightly saltier than that of my mark on the base of her throat. Or how barely perceptible shivers shoot up and down her spine when I kiss her eyelids... and best of all, listening to the way her heart throbs and pounds in ever increasing staccato under my ministrations.

Poor guys just don't know what they're missing with her. Which, needless to say, is a good thing. Because I would really hate to have to give up my champion of good status to take up mass murder again and be forced to go out and hunt down every fool
who had dared to touch her and rend them limb from limb. Slowly. Which I don't think would go over well with either the Powers or Buffy.

I take all the time in the world to notice her tiny minutiae, moving from her face, back to her neck, across her fine collarbone and the muscles of her upper chest.

"We don't get to spend enough time together," she sighs.

I chuckle against the curve of her breast. "You and your sacred duty that won't let you leave the Hellmouth," I complain with a smile. I don't mean it, of course, and she knows that. I'm proud to the core of who and what she is, and my only true complaints are that, yes, her Calling does keep us apart, and... I admit, I worry about her when I'm not physically present to watch her back. Not that she really needs it, but still. I am, after all, a male beast at heart, and it's part of my genetically programmed duty to want to look after my mate. I can't help it.

"You and *your* sacred duty with Cordelia and her visions that always happen within the Los Angeles City Limits," she shoots back, and I give a nip to the velvet underside of the breast I've been attending in punishment. She grins defiantly.

Wench. I'll show you.

She gasps as I travel downward once more, opening her trim, tanned legs to grant me access to the apex of her form.

I have been around for a very, very long time. I think it's safe to say that in almost 250 years, I have experienced nearly every feast of the senses that this dimension has to offer. But there is nothing, and I mean *nothing*, that can compare to the heady musk that is Buffy's feminine scent. I swear I could spend eternity right here, just inhaling that awesome, enthralling, reality-shattering aroma.

I do, however, know a number of ways to... let's just say... increase that ambrosial perfume.

It starts with teasing... slow, wet kisses and tongue trails over the cut of her hips and the curve of her belly... the smooth satin of her inner thighs. But my love doesn't enjoy *too* much teasing -- a fact I've learned the hard way -- and her tiny, frustrated whimpers are my cue to move on... and in.

Not that I mind.

I part her swollen flesh gently with my thumbs, and starting with the very base of her entrance, lave a long, languid line up the center of her sex, concluding with a circling flick over her hard nub.

She screams at the top of her powerful lungs and arches us both clear off the bed. I smile to myself -- *that* makes it all worthwhile. As I continue to lap at her lazily, she thrusts upward, urging me on, that scent growing thicker and sweeter as
her essence pours like fine wine from her core. And... okay, so the taste is even better than the scent, and the plentitude of pheromonal honey she feeds me snaps something inside me... some barrier that separates soul from beast, and in moments, I
feel that animal rut take over. The biological imperative to possess her... consume her... I suck her clitoris between my lips and nurse at it like a pup to a teat, feeling my features shift as I do. I can't help but grunt greedily as I devour the feast her body offers, plunging into it like the succulent buffet that it is, and when she comes...

If I haven't said so already, Buffy is the most beautiful, enticing, mind-bogglingly magnificent creature in the universe. The way her soft lips go slack and her fine brow furrows tight as the orgasm takes her... the way she cries out my name like a prayer, over and over gain, and her powerful body goes completely taught beneath me...

Just... beautiful. And I want, more than anything in this moment, to be one with that perfect, divine beauty.

Using her hips for purchase, I climb that miracle of flesh and blood and bone, until we are eye to eye once more. When the demon is to fore, my senses are even keener, and looking down on her now, I can watch the colors flicker and change in her eyes... see the blood flushing her skin to a ruddy rose...

There was a time when I was ashamed to have her look into the face of my demon. It seemed a sacrilege to me that the very symbol of all that was good and light should be forced to look on such repulsive malfeasance. But when she looks at me now, the love in her eyes doesn't flicker or fade. She doesn't flinch or turn away... she meets all that I am straight on with a gentle smile, and reaches up to trace the ridges of my forehead and nose as if there is nowhere else in the cosmos she would rather be gazing. It shatters my heart into a billion quivering, grateful pieces, every time she does that. I love her... so much. And her perfect, unconditional acceptance is the greatest blessing a monster like me ever could have asked for.

And that, you see, is why I lost my soul to her, once upon a time.

So I kiss her. Gently, careful not to bruise or cut her delicate lips. I press my hands beneath her hips and pull her fully to me, and slip inside her in one slow, easy thrust. Buffy winds her arms and legs around me, and I swear, time just stops as we lie there, motionless, and stare at one another. I know that we both feel it... contentment. Completion. Home, where we both belong. That's what it is, when our bodies blend and meld like this... when our physical forms are as one, just the way our hearts and spirits always are.

There is no sensation in the world like being inside Buffy. Yet another reason why I lost my soul.

And thinking that, I force my human features to return. The change doesn't really register in her eyes -- she honestly doesn't care which of my countenances is gazing with utter adoration at her. She loves me... all of me... so it doesn't matter.

But it matters to me. Despite having learned to accept, and sometimes even embrace, my demon nature, my soul longs more than anything to be a *man* making love to her. Some small, shadowed corner of my mind is repulsed to think of a monster being granted entrance to this most sacred of gardens.

She knows this. So although it's all the same to her, she acknowledges the return of the man with a smile and a tender kiss to my now-smooth forehead.

God, I love her.

Suddenly, she pushes against my arms, collapsing my full weight on top of her. I lean up and give her a smirk.

"All you had to do was ask," I remind her. I would give her anything in my power to give, if she only asked. I'd knaw off my own arm and hand to her with a happy smile at her request.

"All I have to do is ask, huh?" she mutters, and there's something... not quite right, in her voice.

I pull away again. "Have I done something?"

"No," she denies without hesitation, and I shiver as her tiny hands smooth down my back. "I'm just curious about something."

Well, that's good, then. I have no problem talking during lovemaking. Emphasis on the lovemaking, as I turn my attention to licking and nibbling at her clavicle. For a moment, she's quiet but for her heavy breathing, and I'm almost certain I've made
her forget what she was going to ask.

Almost. "Do you think about being inside me as much as I think about having you inside me?" she blurts out.

'HELL, YES!' my brain and body reply in tandem, and I can't help but laugh. She has this silly insecurity that she's some sort of wanton because of her professed uncontrollable lust for me that she insists consumes her every waking thought.

What I've never really told her is how many times I've almost had my head lopped off, or gotten a fairly substantial bruise from Cordelia throwing one of Wesley's heavier books at me because I'm thinking about Buffy's smooth thighs wrapped around my waist, or her soft breasts cupped in my hands... and, yes, about being buried deep inside of her, exactly the way I am now, instead of whatever it is I'm supposed to be concentrating on.

I can't stand the notion that she feels some sort of misdirected guilt because she has an active, healthy sex drive. I mean, for God's sake -- she's 21 years old --she's *supposed* to be lusty! That she's lusty for me is just... a particularly pleasant bonus.

"Is this about your inner-slut musings?" I ask her, kissing the tip of her nose, "Because we've talked about this --"

"It's not," she interrupts, "Not directly."

"You're hedging," I observe, and press myself a little deeper, because my body is protesting that this conversation is lasting a *tad* too long for it's preference.

"God, you feel good," she moans.

Ah. Not just my body, then. "So do you," I whisper against her lips, "You always do."

See what I mean about the inadequacy of words? Here I am, about to perish of sheer pleasure, and all I can tell her is that she feels "good." Pathetic.

"Answer," she mewls, thrusting her hips up into me, and I know I might be in trouble, because that tiny movement just made me forget the original question.

She does it again, and I remember. Heaven.

"Perfect happiness, Buffy," I remind her seriously. Now that the fear is so far behind us, it's almost... a badge of pride for her. That her love... her body, and no other... was such pure comfort to me that I forgot all the pain and guilt... all the anguish and remorse that had been my only companions for a century. How that moment... that flawless, pristine moment in her arms, at last brought rain to a parched desert of a lost soul, and set it free.

"Still needing more," she insists, rubbing her leg up over my hip and damn it, almost making me forget again.

Oh, God... I don't know if I can form words right now, and I *really* wish she could read my mind, but... She can't. And she wants those words... needs them... and I can deny her nothing.

"Being with you like this..." I begin, but have to pause for a moment and think about baseball or dirty dishes or something, because my every nerve is roaring for release, "It's everything to me, Buffy. It's peace; it's happiness. It's my deepest desire,
and most oft thought of musing. It's why I left."

Tears well up in her big, sparkling eyes, and I'm almost sorry I said that last part. She was so hurt and angry with me for so long because I walked away from her. She never really understood -- she knew the reasons, of course, but what does logic
matter to a young girl whose heart has been shattered? It's taken a long time... a lot of talking and yelling, slamming doors, throwing things and crying, to even move beyond it. A lot of heartfelt, earnest vows that, no, I would never leave her again.
But still, I can feel that tiny, irrational fear in her, sometimes...

"You're never going to walk away from me again," she informs me.

I have to smile. "Even if I thought there was a chance you'd let me get away... I can't leave you again, Buffy. It took all the strength I had to do it the first time." And saying that, it all comes back. That night in the smoke, looking at her one last time, feeling her blood pumping in my veins and knowing, even as I turned my back and walked away, that I would never be able to get her out of my heart... my bones... my soul. I remember crying myself to sleep every day for months, clutching her picture under my pillow... and it hurts to just think about that pain again.

So to remind myself that those days, that pain, is long gone, I kiss her. And kissing her, I remember that I am tightly sheathed inside the warm shelter of her body, and I am once again shocked that she could feel any shame at all for wanting something that is so purifying... so perfectly good, and right.

"And I know I've said it before -- but never think you're a slut because you want me the way you do, because you enjoy using your body as an instrument of pleasure. I've been around for close to three centuries, and all the women I've been with combined haven't inspired in me the physical lust -- to say nothing of the emotion -- that you do."

That's the reassurance she was looking for, because her face lights up, even as her tears spill down her cheeks.

It also happens to be the absolute truth. I've been with hundreds of women... Hell, my Sire was a 400 year old *prostitute*. And a good one. But I have never, ever, in all of my years, been driven to the heights of passion that this tiny, innocent Slayer has invoked in me.

"I am too a slut," she insists lightly, wrapping herself around me like a monkey and pulling herself up off the bed. Damn, but she's dexterous... and... graceful and... strong..."Just not in a bad way."

I groan at the sensation of her surrounding me. "I'll go with that."

You may not be aware of this little fact, but... I most certainly am. Slayer strength applies to *every* set of muscles in Buffy's body, external *and* internal. And being the finely tuned weapon that she is, she knows how to use them. She clamps down tight around my shaft, and... Oh, Good Holy Mother of God! She's the only lover I've ever had who can make love to climax without moving a single part of her but those miraculous, vice grip vaginal muscles. Before I know it, any semblance of restraint I might have managed to retain has vanished, and I find myself slamming into her again and again... drilling her... claiming her... trying with all my might to climb into her very center and get lost there, in this ecstasy. Our tryst shifts in a heartbeat from gentle to animal, and again, the demon rises... when it's hard and rough like this, it's as much about feral mating as sweet, soft soul-love.

And I am so. Damn. Glad. For my lover's preternatural strength. Not to mention her darker predilections.

I lower my head to her breast once more, and nick the sensitive skin with a fang, watching almost in wonder as her thick, vital blood wells up in the cut, until she tangles her hands in my hair and urges my mouth downward with an almost glass-shattering cry.

As I close my lips around the wound and nurse on the powerful, enchanted elixir of her heart, I am washed clean. Like being shriven of sin... baptized and born again as she fills me and I fill her, and I'll think later about the irony of the fact that feeding from her feels like a holy sacrament, and she is the Goddess, blessing me with the miracle of her body... her very life force...

I drive into her, a ferocious pace that would probably kill any merely human woman, but she is no *mere* anything, and I don't care. Her blood is like pure octane, and my body is cranked up to 20 with the incredible fire of it. I feel myself tightening, expanding, contracting. I grunt and snarl, and she bellows in delight and pulls me upward. I plunge into her mouth just as I plunge into her core, and over the precipice into this abyss of benediction... the release from pain... the falling, screaming, tearing, wonderful, obliterating eruption that leaves galaxies born in its wake. I arch away from her and let out a roar at the power of it... all the beginnings and endings -- the Alpha and the Omega of existence in one, eternal, immaculate moment.

And then I float softly back to reality again... to the sound of her heartbeat easing, her breath evening... the brine musk of her scent and mine combined. I lap tenderly at the wound I opened in her breast, even as I listen to her blood still thundering in my veins. She touches me softly... traces the lines of my tattoo, pets my hair...

My God... I love this woman. Have I said that already? Oh well. It doesn't matter. I'll say it again and again, because I can never say it enough to fully express how much I feel it.

"This is my favorite part," she murmurs sleepily.

"What?" I whisper to her skin.

"The part where I get to fall asleep with you. The part where I wake up and you're still here, and you're still you."

I feel a pang in my heart, at that. Of all my many sins, what I did to Buffy the morning after we made love the first time... destroying what should have been the sweetest, softest moments of her young life... it is that single transgression that I
can never, ever forgive myself for.

"Oh," I reply, and pull her closer, shifting upward until I can look in her eyes again.

"I miss you," she goes on, "All the time, but especially at night when I'm trying to fall asleep and you aren't there to cuddle up to." She gives me a grave look. "Never underestimate the blissage found in late night cuddling with the one you covet."

I pull her closer still, and... it's never close enough. "I'm always with you. Even when you can't feel me, I'm right there, same as you are with me."

For which I thank the Powers every moment of every day, because there are more times than I can count that just knowing she exists... and that she loves me... are the only things that help me hang on. It'll all be worth it, someday, when we are together like this all the time.

'Hell,' I think as I slip into sleep with my love in my arms, 'It's worth it right now.'

The cell phone woke him with a start, sending him bolt upright with her name on his lips.

"Buffy!"

But he glanced around and realized...

He was alone. In his own empty bed, in his own empty room.

For a long time, he was confused, and blinked furiously, as if to set his obviously mistaken vision right again, because he *knew* she was there. She was *just there* -- he felt her and heard her and saw her and tasted her and...

But she wasn't there, and when he finally grasped that it was only a dream, he sat with his face buried in his hands, and cried.

Then, he heard the phone ringing. He wiped his eyes, chastising himself for waking up in tears -- *again* -- and picked it up.

"Yeah."

"Angel?"

He froze instantly at the sound of her voice. The dream flashed once again through his mind, and the tears returned, followed closely by a throb of bittersweet joy, and he wondered -- did she somehow feel him calling to her across the endless miles that
separated them?

"Buffy. Hi."

Silence for a moment.

"I know it's early for you. I'm sorry if I woke you up."

Her voice was so soft... so sweet... like velvet brushing against his ear.

He laid back against the pillows. "No, it's okay. Are you... all right?"

"Yeah," she lied. He could hear her sniffling. "I just... wanted to, um... see how you were? And... thank you for the orchids. They were really beautiful."

Angel had gone to Joyce's funeral, of course, but chose to stay in the shadows on the periphery of her world, where he belonged. Though his heart ached and he longed to go to her... give her some small modicum of comfort... he resisted, knowing that his
presence would probably just cause more pain that she simply didn't need.

And... truth be told, he was afraid that if he touched her just once... even for a moment, he would never be able to force himself to leave again.

"You're welcome. It was the least I could do. I respected your mother very much, Buffy. She was a special person."

'She gave life to my heart's only light.'

"Yeah. She was."

"Are you doing all right?"

"Hm? Me? Oh, sure. I'm fine. It's getting... better."

He closed his eyes at the pain in her voice. "It will keep getting better. I promise."

A soft sigh. "I hope so."

Another heartbeat of pregnant silence fell between them, during which his brain scrambled through a bewildering maelstrom of things he wanted to say... thoughts and feelings he was dying to share with her, none of which stood out enough -- or were
appropriate -- to speak aloud.

"Angel?"

"Yes..."

"I, um... the reason I really called..."

If his heart had been beating, it would have stopped. "Yes?"

"This is going to sound really... stupid, but... I wanted to... tell you that... I love you. I mean... if anything happened, I wanted to make sure you knew, because, well... you never know. So... I do. Love you, I mean. Still."

He took a deep, suddenly very necessary breath. They never could tell, she was right. With the sort of lives they led, at any moment, either one or both of them could be dead.

But he couldn't help remembering the perfection of his dream, and if he looked hard enough, just over the horizon, beyond the few ("not too many") fiends and plagues, the Armageddon's and monsters... just beyond the saving of the human race, and
Shanshu, he could see it... shining like a beacon -- wearing hair of new spun gold and eyes of sage...

Perfect Happiness.

"I love you, too, Buffy. I always have, and I always will."

There was no mistaking her gulping sob, this time. And once again, Angel wished with all of his heart that he could wrap her in his arms and never let pain, sadness or death touch her, ever again.

"Thank you. I... really needed to hear that."

He sighed. "Me too."

"Okay. So... take care?"

"I will. You do the same."

"I will. Bye, Angel."

"Bye."

He set the cell back on the nightstand and contemplated it for a long time.

Maybe not now, but someday...

~End~