DISCLAIMER: BtVS and AtS are not mine (never claimed they were). No infringement intended. I'm just an obsessed fan. Please don't sue. 
RATING: NC-17 (maybe R for those of you used to smut, but there's explicit blood-play and sexual reference that may disturb fluff fans) 
SUMMARY: Buffy meets Angel after rising from the dead. Whatever happened in the interlude mentioned but never featured in either BtVS or AtS? 
FEEDBACK: wnsurfergirl@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION: Sure. Just let me know where it goes. 
SPOILERS: BtVS 6/AtS 3: Up to and including "Flooded" and "Carpe Noctum." 
CATEGORY: B/A (of course!)
DEDICATION: To my favorite fan-fic writers: Ducks, Harpy, Mariah, Mayaan, Vatrixsta Cruden, Jill, Indie, Yahtzee, and the Fic-goddess herself, Cynamin. I can't get enough of you! Super big thanks to Jess aka BRTW for the beta! 
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written alternately in Angel, Buffy POV. Excerpts from the shows are denoted with **. 

I'm in my own body again. No feeble heartbeat. No arthritis. And here I am-sans heartbeat and arthritis, trying to apologize for the things that went on while Marcus was in my body. If he weren't already a dead man, I'd be beating the Hell out of that guy. I already have issues (gosh, I'm learning American pop-psychology fast!) with out-of-body experiences. It just hits too close to home. To the reason I can never let myself be happy, never let myself really feel for a woman. For the woman of my heart, let alone Fred. 

I've just finished explaining to Fred my situation, but apparently Cordy has saved the day. Again. She knew I'd screw this up, and apparently I already have. Sex with Lilah? My stomach makes a dive, but I catch myself and block out the memories I don't have anyways. I feel violated. Again. 

Fred seems to understand. It's not her. It's me. The double me. My lack of control over the other self. Angelus. 

*"It's like something out of Fitzgerald-the man who can have everything but love,"* Fred sighs. 

I grin and nod for her to continue. I don't have the heart to tell her that Fitzgerald was a drunken fool. I remember watching him piss away a fortune at a roulette table and then collapsing unconscious on the casino floor . . . I suppose he did manage to capture a few poignant moments, though. The '20s were fun in spite of that prohibition lark. 

She turns to me, mistaking my reverie for quiet attention. *"Well, maybe in some ways you're better off. Because love is-well in a way it's everything-but it's also heartache and disappointment, and those are good things to avoid."* 

Heartache and disappointment. Yes, I know those drawbacks oh too well. In the past century, I've relearned the meanings of those words a hundred times over. I sit quietly with Fred in the garden, thankful for the kindred spirit at my side. But also slightly uncomfortable.
She nods her head and looks down, reassuring herself and attempting to comfort me in this moment of . . . uncomfortable revelations. 

I feel a pang for Fred. I hope I didn't lead her on. These have been strange days. After Willow came and told me Buffy died . . . I stopped reflecting and tried to stop really . . . caring. I was too numb, too surprised to react in any way at all. That's why I had been trying to live in this world--even going to the cinema, for God's sake. 

But deep down, I was at war with myself-and the Powers That Be. The Oracles promised me that when I gave up my humanity, I was guaranteeing Buffy's life. Some of the rage I felt never really got expressed, and the one man who could understand my pain is gone. Doyle. I feel another stab of regret. Nevertheless, I continued in my mission, trying to evade my inner thoughts, the inner monologue that constantly tells me 'It should have been you.' I can't go there. Not again. I can't lose Wes and Cordy again. And now Fred . . . Human life is so short and so precious. So I've just been moving on, trying to distract myself. But in the process I think I've been oblivious to a few things here. 

Suddenly, I feel Cordelia burst upon us. Her heartbeat his racing, and she's sweating slightly from running. Running? I spring up, ready to conquer the new foe. 

*"Angel! Willow's on the phone."* She can barely speak she's so winded. *"She's alive."* She. She. Only one woman . . . *"Buffy's alive."* 

They didn't fail me. They kept their promise. In a split second, I'm running inside toward the phone. As I reach the lobby desk, I can hear Fred outside. 

*"Who's Buffy?"*

The phone is ringing. I look over at Giles, my mentor, my friend, and, for all intents and purposes, my father. We can finish this conversation later. The flood in the basement, the broken coffee table, and my future . . . There are more immediate concerns. Like--the phone. *"Who's calling me?," I call out while walking to the kitchen. "Everybody I know lives here. I'll be back," I reassure Giles. 

It's too much. Dawn. A mortgage. LIFE. I hear Dawn making a guess at who's on the other line. 

*"I bet it's creditors,"* she tells Giles in a voice I remember well-she's trying to show she understands this mature world. How little she knows. *"The hounding's begun. I read about it. So you think we'll starve?"*

I can hear Giles scrunch up his forehead in consternation. *"I very much doubt it,"* he reassures Dawn. My sister. Not my sister. Not my life. 

As I pick up the phone, I hear her vent her worries to Giles. *"No chance I'd have to quit school to work assembling cheap toys in a poorly-ventilated sweatshop?"*

Giles chuckles. *"Poorly-ventilated ... What have you been reading?"*

I'm distracted when I finally answer the phone. As I speak, I finally remember to look at the Caller ID. It's a 213 area code. An L.A. number-maybe my long lost father? Fat chance. "Hello?" 

"Buffy?" The voice is like velvet and chocolate, but slightly breathless. Ironic, for one who doesn't need breath. 

"Angel?" My heart flutters and palpitates, and I wonder if he can hear it over the phone. Vampire senses and all. 

"Oh my God . . . I knew you would come back. They promised . . . " His voice is a whisper, slightly erratic, and I can hear the tears in his throat, because they're welling up in mine. 

"Angel, what did you say? I can't hear you." It's a lie, but he sounds so confused. Confused, like me. 

"Buffy . . . " The way he says my name. Like it's sacred. Like it's magic. "I have to see you." 

"Angel . . . " I'm aware that I give his name just as much reverence. Angel. My angel. "Yes, that'd be nice. Where? Here in Sunnydale? In L.A.?" 

He pauses for a moment. "No. Let's meet somewhere in the middle. Do you know Summerland?" 

Summerland's not really in the middle. It's only 30 miles from Sunnydale and about 90 miles from L.A.. But it's in between. Knowing my driving skills, it will take just as long for me to arrive there as it will for Angel to drive through the Valley and up the coast. 

"Sure, that'd be fine. Where?" I don't mention that he's going out of his way. I have to see him. He has to see me. 

"There's a beach there, secluded. Across from the freeway. I'll wait for you there. Will you be okay driving?" 

"Yes," I reassure him. Why am I always reassuring people these days? I'm the one who was DEAD. "Thanks, Angel. I'll see you there."

I'm about to hang up. I've been so numb lately that even a call from Angel hasn't startled me out of my walking-zombie mode. 

"Oh, and Buffy?" There's concern in his voice. 

"Yeah?" 

"Drive safely." 

I laugh. It's a hollow laugh, I know. It's more like a chuckle. And then I hang up. 

When I return to the living room, Giles' face shows grave concern. I guess I must have my 'game face' on. I probably look like I feel-determined and with a plan, and yet in a dream state. There's been a lot of that going around lately. Xander looks like a deer caught in headlights half the time, I hardly see Willow anymore, Giles always looks like he'd rather be someplace else, and Dawn gives me looks of quiet desperation, needing something I can't give her. 

*"Buffy, what is it?"* he inquires softly. 

*"Angel,"* I reply simply. 

*"Is he in trouble?,"* he asks with slight worry. I'm glad Giles got over his encounter with Angelus. It's taken him a while. I think Angel being gone (and out our lives) has helped ease the resentment, the anger, and the pain. 

*"He knows I'm . . . "* Alive? Alive but dead inside? Alone? *"He needs to see me,"* I say with finality, daring him to contradict me. *"And I have to see him."*

*"Yes, of course,"* Giles replies with barely disguised discomfort. *"You'll leave for L.A. tomorrow?"*

I shake my head before I can formulate words. There are still butterflies in my stomach from talking to Angel. 

*"Not L.A. And not here. We'll meet in the middle. There's a place . . . "* Summerland. Land of Summers. Summers' blood. 

*"I see,"* Giles answers with seriousness. *"Well, we'd better get these bills and things out of the way before you ... "*

I pick up my purse and jacket before he can finish his sentence. *"I gotta go now."*

I'm halfway out the door before I remember what he was going to say. And how I interrupted him. *"Thanks for taking care of this for me."*

I'm gone before he can reply.

I fire up the convertible and head towards the coast. I'd rather take the slow, winding route along the coast tonight. Even though it's well after dusk now, traffic in L.A. is the one eternal constant in this city. Plus, seeing the ocean reminds me of her-powerful, unyielding, tumultuous, passionate, and beautiful in sunlight I'll never see again (well, probably not in her lifetime anyways). But that's (the very uncertain) future, and right now is about the present, not scrolls and prophecies. It's also a bit about the past, but I'm playing a selective memory game. Now I can finally let myself remember her--alive. Suddenly the pain isn't as great. The silent ache isn't as persistent. And I feel free. Free, like the stretch of winding coast before me. 

The farther north I drive, the more I can sense it. The Hellmouth. Buffy and Giles always knew demons were drawn to the Hellmouth, but they could never understand its gravitational pull. The closer one gets, even miles away, the stronger the vibrations get. It's a portal without disguise or pretense, waiting for and beckoning the soulless. And me. 

In spite of the circuitous route I'm taking, I'm in Summerland in little over an hour. The one-lane Highway 1 (or 'PCH' as the Angelenos call it) was empty in the now darkening evening. 

As I arrive, I see her waiting in the parking lot by the beach. She holds her arms tightly around her against the ocean breeze, and in that moment, all I can think about is protecting her-from the wind, from evil, from all that life has been throwing her way ever since I left. For her own good, but mostly for mine.

I had just pulled up and gotten out of the car when I saw him arriving-in a huge black convertible that looked like it must get 7 miles to the gallon. Geez, for a guy who was going to live forever, you'd think he'd pay a bit of respect to the environment. But then, I should talk. I'm driving Mom's old pseudo-SUV. Actually, I shouldn't be driving at all. I never did get that license . . . 

When he gets out of the car and looks at me, all thoughts of cars and ozone pollution disappear. We run toward each other, and for a second I feel a bit corny. I think I saw recently this scene-two lovers racing toward each other on the beach--in a commercial advertising some drug. But of course it was daylight. And there were seagulls and children in the background. Angel and I are alone here in the dark. Alone, but not alone. Together. For the first time since I came back, I feel a completeness in my soul. The deafening quiet, my ever-present funk, is replaced with a surge of loud joy. 

He crushes me to him, and we embrace briefly before walking toward the dunes. He smiles down at me, and I know he can see me as clearly as I can see him. In order to be a match for vampires, Slayers have better night vision than cats. Not that I've ever seen what a cat sees . . . 

The sense of him so close to me after being alone in the car sends my stomach into knots. It's the Slayer reaction to vampires, but with Angel it is always quickly overtaken by butterflies. Plus, I've been around Spike enough these days to filter out the supernatural sensory overload. 

We sit down on a nearby dune, sheltered slightly by an overhanging cliff. We haven't said a word yet. Words are unnecessary where dueling tongues can do the job. Talk can come later. Right now all I care about is his soft lips, brushing against mine and his strong cool hands pulling me down beneath him. 

The hardness of this world . . . suddenly it's a mixed blessing. Our tears run together and down the back of my neck. His blood tears mixed with my salty ones feel like cool streams on my hot, aroused skin. And I feel his hardness between my legs, pulsing, pushing, and inviting my legs around his waist. The cool sand feels surprisingly soft beneath me, but I yearn for his hard muscles. My blood is pumping so fast and hard I can barely breathe. 

Suddenly I break our kiss and gaze into his chocolate orbs. I want to really feel him, but I know that is a big taboo for us. Since I've been back, though, I have a different . . . 'sense' . . . of feeling. I got a paper cut opening one of the numerous bills yesterday morning. It stung, and I brought my finger to my mouth. I felt, then, for the first time since Willow decided to go all mega-sorcerer on all of us, alive. The blood, the pain . . . It's the one thing, besides Angel, that I remember in 3-D color vision. It repulses me and draws me in, reminding me who I am. The Slayer. The risen dead. 

I bare my neck to him with obvious intent. 

"Buffy, no . . . " He shakes his head and I can see the guilt in his eyes. <*"Drink. Me."*> He's thinking of that night in the mansion, when he had to drink me to continue living. Well, not living, but existing anyways. 

"It's not like last time," I tell him sincerely. "You don't need it. But I do."

He stares down at me incomprehensibly and shakes his head. "No, Buffy, I can't . . . " 

I sigh and pull him to my breast. If I can't convince him with words, then I'll show him. 

Angel complies readily to my invitation, kissing my chest through my lace bra, which is exposed by my already scrunched up T-shirt. I lift my arms, and he takes off my shirt. The breeze on the beach is cool, and even though Angel doesn't have any warmth, his broad shoulders shield me from the night breeze. 

We are naked now. Well, half naked anyways. We seem to have come to an unspoken agreement to stay half clothed in order to ward off temptation. Temptation that seems more enticing the more I feel her blazing hot skin next to mine . . . 

Silence. We've barely spoken since we arrived here, but sensing her so close sends off an amazing choir of voices in my head. And her blood, is racing, pumping, and making her once-tan skin gleam in the moonlight. She offered me her blood. I'm hesitant. It brings back too many bad memories. Buffy almost dying, the hospital, the mayor, the looks of horror from Giles and Xander . . . Faith . . . And I wouldn't hurt her for the world. I can feel her frailty. Last time I saw Buffy, she was thin. She had rings around her eyes from not sleeping, and in the bustle of her mother's funeral, she looked as if she hadn't eaten for days. Now she has the pallor of the dead. Not quite vampire-like, and certainly still beautiful, but definitely pained, and strikingly angular. 

Why would she want me to drink from her? 

I push the thought aside and concentrate on her demands. I kiss her breasts through her lace bra. Buffy moans and bucks up against me, and I can feel her hot center as she grips my hips with her legs tighter. The aroma is making me heady. In abandon, I bite off the lace constraint and start to devour her. She tastes like vanilla and sunshine. I breathe deeply, silently thanking Cordy for reminding me to shower before I left L.A.. Marcus' cologne was pungent and was throwing off my already hypersensitive sense of smell. 

I lavish attention on each breast, and pretty soon, I'm lost. Lost against the sound of her raging heartbeat, lost in the comforting taste and smell of her . . . The feel of her. 

Buffy squirms beneath me, and her movements become erratic. She's running her hand through my hair, but in the next moment, she's pulling at the roots of my hair, moaning like a dissatisfied kitten. With one hand, she pushes my head into her pillowed chest with Slayer strength, and with the other, she's clawing at my hair. She pulls off a chunk from my scalp and I roar in surprise, vamping out in automatic response. 

Before I can think straight, she's pushed my head into her again. And now I'm sucking at her breast . . . with my fangs. She pushed me down hard, but not that hard, and I've only made slight pinpricks around her areoles. I'm sipping, not slurping like the last time. Her powerful Slayer elixir overpowers me, distracting me for a moment from my intention not to do this. Buffy moans with pleasure, gripping my buttocks in encouragement. 

And suddenly I understand. The pain. She likes the pain. Oh God . . . 

I finally got him to taste me, and it's as erotic and intimate as I remember it. He makes little sucking sounds, and I feel my life force leak out. I feel comforted by it, and for a moment, I imagine Angel as a child suckling at my breast. I'm giving him something he needs. Feeding him. Blood. But it's also so kinky that it's driving me insane with passion. With the need for him to be inside me. 

When Riley became a walking snack bar for those ho-jobs on the other side of town, I wasn't angry because he was letting vampires suck him off. The fact that Riley was getting off (regardless of how) with other women was the real kicker. I was pissed because I, of all people, know how personal the act is. I wonder if any of the Slayers before me (or those who will come after me) knew or will know about how erotic a vampire bite can be. It's the ultimate sharing of bodily fluids and just as intimate (if not more so than) sex, which, as I know from experience, can be casual and loveless. That was my second orgasm the night I made Angel drink me. Since the night of my seventeenth birthday, I had never felt that lurch in my womb, the tingling sensation of impending release. And it's what I need right now. The pain makes me feel alive, fills the deadness inside with a purpose, a meaning. 

And then he stops. His face morphs back to his human features, and he looks at me with sad understanding. He knows . . . 

But then he returns to my breast, lightly licking the small wounds close. They're already closing, and I know instinctively that there will be no scar like the one on my neck. I'm a bit saddened by the thought. 

Angel gathers me closer into his embrace, and we shift around, so that I'm lying on top of his chest and wrapped around his legs. 

"Buffy, we-" Before he can speak, I kiss him again. I can taste me in him. It's slightly salty with a rich coppery aftertaste. I continue kissing him until I've shared in my blood from his lips. I lick my chops like a hungry cat and smile mischievously at him, but Angel looks worried. 

Angel brushes my hair back from my face, and suddenly I feel like a child in his arms. I never thought about our age difference much-it was way too huge to even get my head around-but suddenly I feel like he must see me: a child. Maybe a woman now, a freak of nature returned from the dead, but still, in the great scheme of his time, a child. 

My attempt at lightening the mood with leering grins suddenly crashes with a big thump. I see the compassion in his eyes. And I think there's a bit of pity in there. No, please not pity . . . I feel my eyes welling up, and before I can help it, tears are spilling down my cheeks. Rivers of pain.

I hold her close as the tears spill over her now well-defined cheeks and sit up, rocking her like a child and cooing with nonsensical words. The irony of the situation hits me hard, as it often did when we were in Sunnydale years ago. A vampire. Comforting a Slayer. My brave little warrior, my strong Buffy. I feel her ribs and drape my leather coat around her, shielding her from the cold. I wish I could shield her from more than that. 

"Tell me, Buffy," I say quietly. "Tell me about where you were." 

She looks up then. While her eyes are still puffy and red from crying, I can read the expression there clearly. Lost. Alone. Hurting. Dead.

She sighs and reaches for my hand, starting to play with my ring. The heart, as always, is facing towards me. 

"I was in Heaven," she replies quietly. 

I nod. Though Willow told me her death was surrounded by mystical forces, I comforted myself with the thought that Buffy was in a better place. All good Slayers deserve to go to Heaven, I'd hoped, and Buffy most of all. 

"It was . . . ," she begins, searching for words. "It was soft. And light. And I was at peace." 

I rub her back and continue to rock her, with less urgency now. "Tell me about coming back." 

I feel her tense up in my arms and feel a sudden dread. Memories of coffins and dirt and Darla on a clammy Irish night cloud my vision . . . 

When I shake myself free of the reluctant visions, Buffy sits absolutely still, looking out at the dark crashing waves. In the distance, we can hear the squeal of dolphins. From a distance, their fins look like sharks, but sharks don't bound over the waves in the moonlight. The dolphins surf the waves at night, when the humans have left them to rule over their domain. We watch them quietly, drawn to their obvious joy in the ocean. The surge of life. 

"I-," she begins, but I hear the tears well up, constricting her throat. 

"Buffy, you don't have to tell me-" 

"No!," she says a bit too quickly. "I mean, yes, I want to tell you. I think a vampire is the only one who could possibly understand what I went through . . . " 

Then I was right. Damn Willow! How could they do this to her? Why didn't Giles stop her? 

"It's alright, Buffy, I understand." I kiss her lightly on the forehead and bring her eyes to mine by lifting her chin gently with my forefinger. Now I don't want her to put words to the things I know she could tell me-the impossible fear of waking up in a coffin, digging to the surface against worms and dust, escaping the darkness of the earth.

"I sense that this has been . . . very difficult for you, Buffy. And I know it's selfish, but I'm glad you're back. I knew you would be." 

Her eyes crinkle, but it's not much of a smile. When I left her, it was so that she could embrace the light and leave darkness and death behind. Now I see that that's all she has. Death and darkness are her destiny.

"You said that before," I tell him softly. My tears have dried up, and right now I feel strangely lucid. 

"Hmm?," he replies, but I can tell there's something. 

"You have something face." Oh God. Way to stick my foot in my mouth. I've said those words before. And his reply then isn't exactly something I want repeated. 

Angel's eyes widen in surprise, and I can see that he remembers my words to him in the sewer too. But there's something else there. Guilt? Regret? 

"Buffy, I-"

"No, Angel, I'm sorry," I begin, retracing my steps. If the PTB (and Willow) decided to give me a second chance, then I want to take it. Maybe this time we won't drift apart, becoming strangers in all but death. 

Angel takes an unneeded, but apparently comforting, breath and shifts me around in his lap so that I'm facing him. 

"There are some things . . . I haven't told you," he begins. 

I'm a bit surprised, but not really. Nothing surprises me these days. Plus, I'm used to people keeping things from me 'for my own good.' That stops. Now. New life, new Buffy. 

I nod for him to continue, patiently awaiting what he has to say.

"The Oracles told me that I would save you in the End Days," I say hesitantly. It's the truth. It feels like the half truth that it is.

"The Oracles?," she asks. "Who're they?" 

"They are-or rather, were-representatives of the PTB. They . . . could clarify the future, guide me in my mission. Until they were brutally murdered." 

Buffy gasps in recognition of the loss. A physical link to what the Powers want . . . how many times could she have used that? 

"Why did they tell you that?," she asks again. 

I take another breath, calculating my response. I hadn't thought about what I was going to tell her. I hadn't thought I'd ever see her again either. But I knew. In my heart of hearts, I knew. And suddenly, I know I want to see her again. 

"It's a long story. I promise I'll tell you all about it someday. Next time we meet." 

"Next time?" She brightens, giving me the first genuine smile I've seen since we've been sitting here. 

"Sure. We could meet here again sometime, and I could . . . tell you about some prophecies we've been learning about." 

She crinkles her nose at the word 'prophecy.' Buffy has always had an aversion to prophecies (and an uncanny knack for averting them), but the gesture on her face reassures me. It reminds me of the old Buffy. 

"Do you promise?" Her voice has a pleading tone. It's soft, but there's an empty hopelessness there. She's looking for something-someone-to remind her she's really here. To make her feel. Something. Anything. I know that state of mind all too well. Darla . . . . God, I almost lost it then. Would Buffy ever have forgiven me? That's one story I can't bring myself to tell her. Not yet. 

I take her hand and brush a kiss across her knuckles and tell her soberly: "I promise." 

She sighs contentedly and leans into my embrace, looking again out over the dark Pacific. We lie back down together, content to feel each other near. When the first hues of pre-dawn cross the sky, she nibbles on my ear. 

"We should go," she whispers, giggling slightly. "The dawn patrol surfers will be here soon, and I don't want to get caught topless on a public beach." 

I smile at her attempt at good humor. We both know the truth about why we have to go now. The dawn is coming. And with it, my exit. 

As I lead her back to the parking lot, I take her frail hand in mine. We walk silently and then face each other. I don't want to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. That's why I left Sunnydale like I did. To say good-bye would mean it was final. Forever. Only one thing is forever. Our love. 

I don't say it. I dare not. She needs hope, but not despair. And I only bring despair to the ones I love. But I can see that she senses it in me, and in her hazel eyes, I see her love reflecting back. We embrace. Like old friends. Old lovers. 

She walks back to her car without looking back, and this time I'm the one gazing after her. But then she turns before she gets in, giving me a smile that looks like it was made just for me. "I'll see you. We'll meet in the middle." 

There is more meaning behind her words than just the space between L.A. and Sunnydale. She wants to test the limits of the curse by playing in the middle. She wants to find a middle ground where she can have her life and I can continue my unlife, my mission in L.A. . . . while maintaining something that resembles a relationship with Buffy. She doesn't even know about my Shanshu, but she wants me. 

Her car sputters off, and I can tell she's having difficulty with the parking brake. I smile in spite of myself, but don't say good-bye. "Always," I chant softly to the wind, the ocean, and the PTB that brought us back together.

END.