Toxic Past

by Kristi

Chapter Twelve

Six Months Later:

            “So how’s it feel? Your very first apartment,” Buffy asks. She’s sprawled naked on a mattress on the floor of Angel’s bedroom. He turns onto his stomach and rests his chin on his forearm. He looks around his bedroom. The walls are pristine white. A couple of canvases lean against them, waiting to be hung.

            “It feels…”he starts. His feelings about his first apartment are conflicting. It’s overwhelming, it’s wonderful, it’s scary, and it’s nice. “It feels good,” he finally says.

            “A little bit scary?” She asks.

            He sighs and chuckles a little. “A lot, this is the first place I’ve ever had of my own. I don’t know what to do with any of it.  I don’t have furniture. I don’t even know where you buy furniture. I- I’m just overwhelmed,” he says.

            Buffy giggles. “Well, you have a mattress and that’s all that’s really important,” she says.

            “You think so,” Angel grins and glides his fingers over her bare stomach.

            “Mmmm, definitely, let me show you why,” Buffy says.

            *

            Buffy turns her key in the lock with a smile. Much to Lindsey’s disappointment, Buffy has spent more time at Angel’s apartment then in her own. Angel’s apartment is still largely unfurnished. She smiles at the sight of Angel standing in front of the big sunlit windows. He has an easel set up and is putting the finishing touches on a painting.  It’s a silhouette of two lovers, entwined. There are few details but a fall of golden hair covers both to the waist. The male has a strong profile and broad shoulders. It is them. Buffy would know this even if Angel hadn’t told her. He has painted them before. He has a whole series of paintings of them and of her. They are all vague and obscure but if one knows what to look for it’s obvious who the people in the paintings are.  At first she felt funny about being painted. Now she feels flattered. It is gratifying to see how beautiful they are, how beautiful she is, in his eyes.

            “I think that’s one of my favorites,” Buffy says.

            Angel stops and turns to her with a lazy smile. He wipes off his paint brush and lays it aside. He stands up and envelopes her in his arms. He still finds it amazing that this woman loves him. He also finds it hard to believe that eight months ago she was not in his life. It feels as if she was always there. Occasionally he will get nervous about something and his skin will crawl, his blood will boil and his entire being will scream for drugs. Buffy can still calm those urges with the touch of her hand, the brush of her lips.

            “How was your day?” He asks.

            Buffy purrs and curls closer to him. “It was good, but this is the best part.”

            He kisses to top of her head. “Mine too,” he says.

            “How’s Evil Inc?” Buffy asks, referring to Wolfram and Hart.

            Angel chuckles. “It’s not evil, Buffy.”

            “It’s a law firm and therefore evil,” she persists.

            “It was fine, as exciting as delivering in house mail can be,” Angel says.

            “Don’t knock it. It gives you time to paint,” Buffy says.

            “I’m not. I’m happy to have the job. It’s just boring,” he says.

            “Maybe one day you’ll be a famous painter,” Buffy says.

            Angel chuckles. “Not likely. I’ll have to die first or cut something off,” he says.

            Buffy mock pouts. “No cutting things off or dying. I like you just the way you are,” she says.

*

            “Come on Cordelia, just take a look at his paintings. He’s good,” Buffy says.

            She’s sitting in a chair across from Cordelia’s desk at the Chase Art Gallery. Cordelia is studying her nails as if they were the most interesting thing ever. She sighs loudly.

            “Sorry, Buffy. You may be into Crack Addict Chic, but I’m not.”

            “Cordelia, he’s not a crack addict anymore and his paintings have nothing to do with crack. They’re passionate and beautiful and breathtaking,” Buffy says.

            Cordelia sighs again. “Alright but I’m not promising anything. Chase Art Gallery is extremely discriminating. I’m only doing this because your Lindsey’s sister and for some reason he loves you,” she says.

            Buffy rolls her eyes. “It could be because I’m his sister,” she says.

            “I have a brother and two sisters. Your point is?” Cordelia says.

            “Never mind. When can you come over?” Buffy asks.

            “How about this evening? Lindsey and I are going to a cocktail party. We’ll stop by before the party, say six thirty,” Cordelia says.

            Buffy breaks into a wide smile. If she didn’t know Cordelia would object she’d jump up and hug her. “Thank you, Cordelia. We’ll see you tonight,” she says.

            “You had better be there. If you leave me alone in an apartment with a crack addict I’ll never forgive you,” Cordelia says.

            Buffy shakes her head, knowing that arguing with Cordelia is a waste of time. “I’ll be there. I almost live there now,” she says.

            “Yeah, Lindsey’s not terribly happy about that. I gave him some speech about wings and letting you go. I think he has empty nest syndrome,” Cordelia says.

            She is actually probably right.

*

            Angel hears Buffy’s key in the door.  He turns the heat on the oven burner down. The cream sauce bubbling on the stove is almost done. The pasta is in a pot of boiling water on the back of the stove. He makes it to the door just in time to greet her with a kiss. Her arms wrap around his neck.  He loves how natural they are, how perfect they are together and her touch, it still makes his knees weak.

            Buffy takes a deep breath and leans back in Angel’s arms so she can gaze up at him. “Something smells wonderful, what’s the occasion?”

            “No occasion. I just wanted to make supper for you. We’re having fettuccine and garlic bread,” Angel says.

            “Yum, can you put it on hold just a little while?” She asks.

            Angel’s brow creases. “Why?”

            “Cordelia and Lindsey are coming over. Cordy wants to see your paintings. She might feature them in her gallery,” Buffy says.

            Angel unwraps himself from Buffy with a sigh. “Buffy,” he starts.

            “No, don’t. If I can’t ask my brother’s girlfriend to look at my boyfriend’s work, then what good does Cordelia serve exactly?” Buffy asks.

            Angel smirks and looks up at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “When you put it that way,” he says.

            Buffy grins. “Exactly. I’m going to go jump in the shower and try to put on something that Cordelia won’t deem trailer trash,” she says.

            Angel turns the burners off and covers the pots while Buffy is in the shower. He glances down at his paint speckled jeans and white tee shirt. If Cordelia deems most of Buffy’s wardrobe trailer trash, he can only imagine what she will think of his. In truth, clothing hasn’t been high on Angel’s list of priorities the last few months.

            Buffy emerges from the bedroom, hair freshly dried and makeup applied, more then Angel is used to seeing her in. She has on a pair of black slacks and a very light white sweater.  Angel’s face breaks into a smile.

            “You look beautiful,” he says.

            Buffy blushes slightly and grins. “You would say that if I was wearing burlap,” she says.

            “It’s not my fault you’d be beautiful in burlap,” he says.

            Buffy laughs. They are interrupted by a knock on the door.  Buffy takes a deep breath and opens the door. Lindsey sweeps her off her feet in a hug.

            “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, Darlin,” he says.

            “You’re always welcome here,” Buffy says.

            “And you’re never home,” Lindsey counters.

            Buffy grins. “Okay, I’m not going to argue with a lawyer.” She turns to Cordelia with a smile, “hi Cordelia. Come on in,” she says stepping aside.

            Cordelia gives a glance over Buffy’s clothing and shrugs a perfectly rounded shoulder draped in Armani. “The crack addict chic works for you, Buffy but you really should use more concealer. It will take care of those bags,” she says.

            “Nice to see you too, Cordelia,” Buffy says without any bitterness. She’s gotten used to Cordelia’s attitude and mostly she thinks Cordelia keeps it up out of her interest in maintaining appearances then out of real dislike.

            Angel shakes Lindsey’s hand and gives a very slight nod to Cordelia. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

            “Alright, so let’s look at these paintings. Lindsey and I have to be across town in twenty five minutes,” Cordelia says.

            Angel nods. “Sure, right this way,” he says.

            He leads them further into the living room where his paintings are leaning up against the walls. There are a few of them hanging on the walls. There are six total.

            “These are them. I just started a new one this afternoon but it will take me a few days to finish it,” Angel says.

            Cordelia walks back and forth in front of the paintings, pausing before each and occasionally crouching to examine one closer. She stands up and walks back over to Lindsey.

            “These are…quite frankly wonderful,” Cordelia says.

            Buffy breathes out a sigh of relief. Angel manages to look more apprehensive.

            “I mean really,” Cordelia considers the painting in front of her. It is the silhouette of the lovers. She pauses a moment longer and then looks up at Angel. “Not only am I willing to put your paintings in my gallery, I would like to do a showing in maybe two weeks. I’ll have Lindsey draw up the contract for you but in general the gallery gets fifteen percent of everything sold,” Cordelia says.

            Angel swallows hard. “Uhm, I- yeah that’d be good,” he finally manages.

            “Good. Now, Lindsey and I have to go but stop by the gallery on Monday. We’ll hammer out the details,” Cordelia says grabbing Lindsey’s elbow and dragging him out the door.

            As soon as the apartment door shuts, Buffy squeals and tackles Angel in a flurry of golden hair and excitement. He laughs and spins her around; when he finally sets her on her feet she is dizzy. Buffy leans against Angel and smiles up at him.

            “I’d say this calls for a celebration. Have you got any champagne to go with the fettuccine?” Buffy asks.

  Chapter Thirteen

Angel fidgets in the mirror, tugging at his jacket. Buffy picked out his clothes, black slacks, dark blue silk tee shirt and a black leather jacket. His stomach rolls and his blood boils. He clenches his fists to avoid clawing at his skin. His body is screaming for crack worse then it has in months. He knows it is because he’s nervous, that doesn’t make it any easier to handle. If he can just hold out a little longer Buffy will be here and she can soothe away the urges with her warm little hands and her soft lips, her lilting giggle and that sunshine smile.

 He glances at the clock and slips on the black loafers Buffy bought for him. He looks in the mirror one more time and tries to make his hair behave. He shakes his head, giving up. Buffy will be picking him up any minute.  He pats his jacket pocket, making sure the box is there and walks into the living room just as there’s a knock on the front door.

            Angel opens the door and every thought, every word completely leaves him. Buffy is standing there in his doorway, rendering him completely breathlessly. He opens his mouth and shuts it back, unable to find words for what he wants to say. He just shakes his head and snatches a sketch pad up from the bar near the door.

            Buffy laughs and arches an eyebrow at him. “Hi, it’s good to see you too,”

            Angel presses his fingers against her lips and grabs her wrist. He pulls her in and stands her next to the window.

“I have to draw you now. There’s no way I’ll remember how stunning you are at this moment,” he says but somehow he knows he will remember for the rest of his life the way she looks, the way she smells and the way she feels.

            Buffy blushes and stands where Angel places her. “You know we’re going to be late,” she says.

            “Artists are eccentric, don’t you know that? I’ll just tell Cordelia I got caught up drawing my next masterpiece,” Angel says.

            Buffy shakes her head. There’s no way she can argue with him when he says things like that.

            Angel sketches her quickly, glancing up to capture the details, the fall of her pale pink dress, the gathering at the waist, the way the color makes her skin glow and the way her hair falls around her shoulders and down her back. He sketches a last tiny detail and lays his sketch pad aside. He smiles at her.

            “Never in my life, have I seen anything more beautiful,”

            Buffy gravitates to him, his arms wrap around her. She doesn’t even have to tip toe in her high heels. He lowers his head and his lips brush hers. Buffy gasps softly at the light contact. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, pulling her closer into him. Buffy weaves her fingers into his hair, pulling him down to her. His hands flirt with the zipper at her back. She giggles and leans back.

            “Exactly how eccentric are artists and how late can we be?” Buffy asks.

            Angel grins and nuzzles her nose with his. “Not that late, besides, I have a present for you before we go,” he says.

            “Oooo prezzies,” she says.

            Angel laughs and delays getting the box from his pocket just to watch her green eyes sparkle a little longer.

            “Gimme gimme,” Buffy teases beckoning with her fingers.

            “I’m guessing patience isn’t one of your virtues,” he says.

            She giggles. “Not when it comes to presents.”

            He digs the box out of his pocket and hands it to her. It’s a black velvet square, bigger then a ring box but still small. She glances up at him, her fingers hesitating on the box.

            “Go ahead, it won’t bite,” he says.

            Buffy swallows hard. She doesn’t think it’s an engagement ring. They’ve talked about the future but not so much in specifics like weddings and children. Would she marry Angel? Her heart screams yes without hesitation but there are other, less spontaneous parts of her that hesitate.

            She pries open the box slowly and gasps. Tears gloss her eyes and Angel takes the box from her. He pulls the gold locket out and opens it. There is a small picture of the two of them. Buffy smiles because she remembers when Lindsey took it at Christmas. She was already so far into love with Angel she couldn’t see straight; she just couldn’t let herself admit it.

            The other side of the locket is inscribed with one word, Destiny.

            “Napoleon gave Josephine a locket like this one on their wedding night,” Angel says.

            A smile breaks over Buffy’s face.  Angel steps behind her and fastens the locket around her neck. Her fingers find the golden locket and the smile grows wider.

            “You’ve been talking to Giles. He loves to give history lessons,” Buffy says.

            Angel chuckles. “Yeah, he likes to tell stories and I like to listen to them. History has always fascinated me.”

            “So Napoleon gave this to Josephine on their wedding night,” Buffy pauses and bites her bottom lip. “What does it mean?”

            Angel smiles and runs a finger over the locket. “It means you’re my destiny. Everything that’s happened, everything I’ve done was to lead me to you, destiny,” he says.

            “I think I like destiny,” Buffy says.

            “Me too,” Angel responds.

            “By the way, I don’t think I told you, but you look amazing and now we’d better go or Cordelia is going to skin us both alive,” Buffy says.

            Angel runs his hand over the lapel of his jacket self consciously. “You sure?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow in askance.

            “Positive,” Buffy assures him. She reaches up and ruffles his spiky hair. Buffy steps back and looks at him. In the past several months Angel has only grown more handsome. He’s lost that gray corpse look that so many junkies have. His skin is pale and cool, like alabaster. His frame has filled out and the natural grace that was only hinted at in his emancipated state has fully established itself.  Angel himself is a work of art Michelangelo would be envious of.

            “Okay, let’s go then,” Angel says. He twines his fingers with Buffy’s and pulls her out of the apartment. She can feel a tremble go through his body and she knows he’s nervous.

            “You know, it’s going to be wonderful,” she says.

            “From your mouth to God’s ear,” he says.

            “Trust me. It’s going to be wonderful,” she says.

*

            “I have never had such a successful opening in my life,” Cordelia says, sinking down into a chair. “I think we sold every single painting,” she says.

            Buffy squeals and wraps her arms around Angel.

            “I’m so proud of you!” She says.

            Angel grins. He is pretty proud of himself. It doesn’t seem like that long ago that he was in a warehouse with Gunn, Fred and Oz trying to figure out how he was going to buy crack and ramen noodles.

            “So how do you feel?” Buffy asks.

            Angel grins down at her and squeezes her. “There aren’t words. Superman, I don’t know,” he says.

            “Come on Superman, your Lois Lane is dead on her feet,” Buffy says.

            Angel sweeps her up into her arms, causing a fit of giggles to erupt from her.

            “I want to know when your next painting is done!” Cordelia calls after them.

Chapter Fourteen

Buffy wakes up slowly, inch by agonizing inch. She cracks open one eye and searches for the digital clock on the night stand. Surely that can’t be right. She opens both eyes and squints, 8:23 AM

            “Crap,” she mutters and starts to get out of bed. Angel’s arms wrap around her, pulling her back down into the blankets with him.

            “Angel, I gotta go to work. Anne is expecting me,” Buffy says.

            “Shelter takes up too much time,” he says while nibbling at her neck.

            Buffy moans softly. “Yeah but that’s where I met you, so it’s not all bad.”

            “Just as long as I’m the only druggie you ever meet there,” he teases.

            “Don’t worry, I limit myself to one druggie per life time,” she teases back.

            Angel nuzzles the nape of her neck and lets his hand slide down her body to rest on her hip.

            “Seriously, baby, I’ve got to go to work. I promise we’ll pick up right here when I come home,” Buffy says.

            “Alright but only because you promise,” Angel says.

            Buffy grins and gives him a light kiss on the mouth. She crawls out of bed and drags herself into the shower. She makes it a quick one and throws on some clothes. She’s out of the apartment with a quick kiss on Angel’s head before her hair even dries.

            Buffy rushes into the shelter, apologizing as she stows her bag in her locker.

            “I’m so sorry, Anne. I lost track of time this morning,” she says.

            Anne chuckles. “Yeah I bet you did, it couldn’t have had anything to do with Angel could it?”

            Buffy blushes and turns the kitchen faucet on to run water in the sink.

            “How was his gallery opening last night?” Anne asks.

            “Wonderful. He sold every single painting and Cordelia said people were asking for more,” Buffy says as she drips some dish soap into the hot water.

            “Very nice, I should have given you the day off to celebrate. I didn’t even think about it,” Anne says.

            “Oh, no it’s fine. He’ll just be working on the newest painting today anyway,” Buffy assures her.

            “He should be proud of himself,” Anne says.

            “I think he is. He’s come a long way,” Buffy says.

            “So have you,” Anne comments.

            Buffy arches an eyebrow in askance. She piles some of the breakfast dishes into the sink. “Me? I’m just the same old Buffy,” she says.

            “Hardly, look at you. You’re in love. Eight months ago I couldn’t get you to go out on a date to save your life. You were even slightly cynical about it and now you’re the picture of old fashioned story book love,” Anne says.

            Buffy grins. “You’re kind of right. I guess we both have come a long way but it’s all Angel’s fault,” she says.

            One of the volunteers sticks his in the kitchen. “Phone for you, Buffy,” he says.

            Buffy wrinkles her nose. “Kay, be right there,” she says drying her hands off.

*

            Angel wakes to persistent knocking on the door. He grumbles and scrubs his hands over his face. It can’t be that long since Buffy left. She must have forgotten her keys. He pulls the sheet off the bed as he stands and wraps it around his waist. He jogs into the living room.

            “You know, Freud would say you never wanted to leave in the first place,” Angel says as he opens the door. His jaw drops to the floor and he scuttles behind the door.

            “Freud would be right,” the blond standing there purrs but it’s not the right blond.

            “D-Darla?” Angel squeaks.

            The blond shoves her way inside. She pauses and lets her eyes rake over Angel. “I heard you were doing well for yourself Lover, but I had no idea,” she says.

            Angel clutches the sheet tighter, wishing he’d thought to grab the flannel pajama pants at the foot of the bed. He’d thought it was Buffy, he’d assumed they were just going to end up back in bed.

            “Uhm, just let me go get dressed,” he stammers.

            “You don’t have to be so modest my dear boy. I’ve seen everything you’ve got to offer and I wouldn’t mind seeing it again,” Darla says.

            “I’m going to get dressed,” he says backing toward the bedroom.

 He turns and flees to the darkness there, slamming the door shut behind him. He leans against it briefly. He hasn’t heard from Darla in at least a year. She’d moved on to bigger and better things, of course bigger and better things meant she was a hooker for a pimp that catered to a higher class of clientele but he wasn’t one to judge. He’d done a lot of things he wasn’t proud of to get by on the streets.

            “Oh, God, okay getting dressed first would be the best thing,” Angel says to himself. He grabs jeans out of the dresser and a long sleeved tee shirt from the closet. He pulls those on and runs a hand over his sleep tousled hair. He swallows hard. He might as well deal with Darla now because he knows from experience putting her off doesn’t make anything better; in fact it generally makes things worse.

            When he walks back into the living room she’s staring at a snapshot of him and Buffy. It was taken the first day they moved into the apartment.

            “Pretty little thing, who is she?” Darla asks.

            “My girlfriend,” he says.

            Darla turns her pretty mouth curves into a smile. “I figured that silly. I meant her name,” she says.

            Angel forgot how Darla seems to purr when she talks. Her voice is all smooth silk and sex. She actually worked for a phone sex place for a while until she found out the actual sex with the right people could make her a lot more money.

            “Buffy,” he says.

            Darla laughs. It’s a laugh that’s warm and rich, full and fur lined. “No, seriously,” Darla says.

            Angel narrows his eyes. “What do you want, Darla?”

            “Oh my, you’re serious. Was she a cheerleader too?” Darla asks.

            “As a matter of fact, she was. Why are you here?” Angel says.

            Darla walks over to him. She runs her fingers down his shoulder. He takes a step backwards. Darla pouts.

            “I haven’t heard from you in a while. I thought maybe we could have some coffee, catch up, for old time’s sake,” she says.

            “Old times? What were we going to reminisce about? The times I whored you out for crack? The times you begged me to?” Angel blazes with fury towards her for a moment. He pinches the bridge of his nose struggling to get his temper under control. He knows he has a temper. He inherited it from his father and he knows just how far out of control it can get.

            “Oh, my dear boy, don’t be that way. We’ve both clawed our way up from the bottom. I thought maybe we had something in common. We used to have a lot of things in common,” Darla says stepping close. She wraps one hand around the back of his neck and lays the other on his chest.

            Angel grabs her by the wrists and holds her back. “We don’t have anything in common anymore, Darla. I wasn’t good enough for you then, no reason to think I would be now,” he says.

            “Ow, you’re hurting me but that’s okay. I like it,” Darla simpers seductively.

            Angel shoves her to one side and shakes his head. “Get out, Darla,” he says.

            “Is this about her? Your cheerleader?” Darla spits.

            “Out,” he says.

            “Do you think she’ll still want you when she finds out everything about you? Does she know you used to whore your girlfriend out on the street corner in exchange for crack? Worse yet, does she know you whored yourself out to anyone that would pay?  Will she still love you then? Will she still want you then?” Darla yells.

            Angel steps in front of her and cocks his first back. Rage trembles through his body and he stops himself just short of hitting her. It’s not that he’s never hit her before, he’s not proud of it but they used to abuse each other much like they abused drugs. He grabs her by the wrist and tosses her out the door. “Don’t come back, Darla,” he says as he slams the door in her face.

            Angel leans against the door, his entire body shaking. A cold sweat breaks out across his face and the sobs rack his body. His entire body is aching and screaming for crack.  The world tilts and he slides down to the floor. Nausea almost overtakes him. He swallows back bile and tries to take deep breaths. He closes his eyes tightly, pushing the image of Darla and the past she drug up with her out of his mind but he can’t; she hovers there like a pungent, foul smelling smoke.

            It takes nearly a half an hour to get himself under control. The first thing he does is pick up the cordless phone and call the shelter. One of the volunteers answers.

            “Can I speak to Buffy Summers?” Angel asks. He needs to hear her voice. He craves Buffy like he craves crack.

            The teenager places the phone on a hard surface, he can tell from the clack as the phone is set down. He waits for what seems like an eternity for Buffy to pick up the phone.

            “This is Buffy,” she says.

            “Buffy,” he breathes; her name is a soothing balm that cools his blood and calms his itching skin.

            “Angel,” she says with a smile. She pauses a moment, waiting for him to speak, when he doesn’t she continues. “Are you okay?” She asks.

            “Yeah, I-uh there was a wreck on the highway. I needed to make sure you were okay,” he lies.

            “Yeah, I’m fine. Anne and I were just cleaning up the breakfast dishes,” she says.

            Angel nods and says “okay, good. Everything is okay there?” He asks, almost desperate to keep her on the line.

            “Things are fine here. Are you sure everything is okay there?” Buffy asks.

            “I-I woke up with a dream, my skin-it was bad,” he says.

            Sometimes he has nightmares, nightmares about his old life and when he wakes up his body wants the drugs. He smirks to himself; he supposes he isn’t really lying except this time the nightmare walked into their house in a red dress and too much perfume.

            “Okay, so I’ll talk to you a little while,” Buffy says.

            “Do you have time?” He asks. It what she always does when he wakes up with one of these nightmares.

            “Sure. Anne said Fred, Gunn and Oz were in here last night. They were asking about you. She told them sometimes you stop by in the afternoons. I can have her give them our phone number if you want,” she says.

            “Yeah, that’d-that’d be good,” he says.

            “Anyway, she said they seemed to be doing okay. Things are really slow here right now. It’s the summer, no one minds sleeping outside in the summer. Anne is kind of grateful, I think. It gives her a little bit of a reprieve before the winter rush starts again. I might get off early this afternoon since it’s slow,” Buffy says.

            Angel listens to her chatter and the heat of his blood slips away. His skin stops crawling and the cold sweat dries up. He is still amazed at the effect she has on him.

            “Thank you,” he says.

            “Anytime, I love you,” she says.

            “I love you too, Buffy.”

            She loves that he makes it sound like a sacrament. It gives her butterflies and forces a smile to her lips.

            “I’ll let you go. I know you’re busy, even if it is slow,” he says.

            “Alright, paint something beautiful for me. I’ll be home later,” she promises.

            Angel hangs up the phone and slowly gets to his feet. He goes to his easel and sets up a blank canvas to paint the most beautiful thing he can think of, Buffy.

Chapter Fifteen

“Oh! And popcorn, extra butter!” Buffy yells from the living room.

            “Got it!” Angel yells back and rummages through the cabinets. The sounds of an impending apocalypse come from the living room. They’re making their way through a long list of movies Angel has never seen, one of which is Armageddon.

            The phone rings and Angel snags it from the wall. “Lo,” he answers.

            “Hurry up, Angel; we’re coming to the part where I cry!” Buffy shouts.

            “Sounds like your cheerleader is calling for you,” Darla’s voice purrs.

            “What do you want?” He snaps.

            “Meet me in the alley behind your building in fifteen minutes,” she says.

            “No,” Angel says.

            “Meet me or I tell the cheerleader all the gritty details of life before her,” Darla says.

            Shame floods over Angel. Buffy knows enough of the dirt and grit in his past. He doesn’t want her to know anymore, there’s only so much a person can accept.

            “Alright but I want this finished,” he says.

            His answer is a dial tone. Angel hangs up the phone and closes his eyes. It’s ten o’ clock on a Friday night. He’s not sure how he’s going to explain this to Buffy. He shoves himself away from the kitchen counter and walks into the living room.

            “Hey, we’re out of popcorn. I’m going to run to the store,” he says.

            “Oh, well it’s not important,” Buffy says.

            “No, I want some too and didn’t you tell me once you couldn’t watch a movie without popcorn?” He says.

            She smiles surprised he remembers such a small detail. “Yeah.”

            “I’ll go get the popcorn. You stay here and I’ll be back in just a little while,” he says.

            She nods. “Okay, be careful and hurry back,” she says. She grabs Angel’s wrist and tugs him down to kiss him.

            He swallows hard and nods. He brushes her lips with her own and part of him wants to lock the door, take the phone off the hook and stay right here with her.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.  He grabs his jacket and leaves, locking the door behind him. It takes him less then five minutes to get to the alley. Darla is already there waiting for him.

            “Mmmm, you didn’t used to be so prompt,” Darla purrs.

            “What do you want?” Angel asks.

            Darla laughs softly, velvet lined. “Blunt and to the point. You used to like to play more. What happened?”

            “I’m not in the mood, Darla. What do you want?” Angel asks.

            “We had something, the two of us,” Darla says.

            “We had a crack addiction and hopelessness. I don’t have either anymore,” he says.

            “Angel, darling boy, don’t be like that. I want what we had. I want you back,” Darla says. She steps forward and winds her arms around Angel’s neck.

            He grabs her wrists and shoves her back. She hits the brick wall and breaks into the pout that’s made her as much money as the full breasts and shapely legs.

            “Fine, I’ll go tell your cheerleader all about the dirty, dirty things you’ve done. Maybe I’ll even let it slip to that fancy art gallery that’s selling your work now,” she says.

            The rage overwhelms him. Angel slams her up against the wall by her throat. He leans in close to her. “If you open your fucking mouth, I will ruin you. I will make sure that you end up back in that warehouse without even a rock to your name,” he growls.

            When he releases Darla, she falls to the ground gasping, her hands clawing at her throat. “You bastard,” she manages to choke out.

            “You’d do well to remember that, Darla,” he says and turns, stalking out of the alley. He leaves her in the alley, gasping for breath.

*

            A sharp rapping on the door wakes Angel. Buffy went to work earlier that morning. He struggles out of bed and pulls on his jeans, scrubbing his hand through his hair. He snags a tee shirt on the way into the living room.

            “Just a minute,” he says.

            Angel tugs on the tee shirt and opens up the door. There are two police officers standing there.  All the air leaves his lungs in one explosion and he fights to draw another breath.  He spent years running from the cops.

            “Are you Angelus Liam Maher?” One of the officers asks.

            “Yeah,” he says.

            “Angelus Liam Maher, you are under arrest for the murder of Darla McPherson”

*

            “This is Lindsey,” he says snatching up the phone on his desk. He shuffles the folders on the desk around and searches for a notepad and pen.

            “Lindsey, I need your help. Angel’s been arrested for murder,” Buffy says.

*

            “Okay, let’s go over this again,” the detective says.

            Angel glances over at Lindsey and he nods. Angel scrubs his hands over his face. “She called me last night about 10pm. She wanted to meet me in the alley behind my apartment building in fifteen minutes. When I got there she was waiting. We talked and I left. She was fine when I left her,” Angel says.

            “What did you talk about?” The detective asks.

            Angel swallows hard and pales. He knew they would ask. They would want to know. He glances at Lindsey again.

            “What ever you say here is confidential, lawyer client privilege,” Lindsey says with a slight smile.

            “She wanted-a relationship again, I guess-“Angel starts.

            “You guess?” The detective interrupts

            “She wanted a relationship again,” Angel says.

            “Why?” The detective asks.

            Angel shrugs. “My best guess, she’s tired of hooking. She thought maybe I’d provide something stable,” he says.

            “She was a prostitute?” The detective says.

            “The last time I saw her, yeah. I assume she was still doing it,” Angel says.

            “You say you talked. There wasn’t anymore to it then that?” The detective asks.

            Angel pauses a moment. “We argued. She-she threatened to tell Buffy about me and her,” he says.

            “You and Darla?”

            Angel nods.

            “You didn’t want her to,” the detective says.

            Angel shakes his head. “No, Darla and I-we’ve been over for more then a year but Darla and I were a couple at a really low point in my life,” he says.

            “So you argued over Darla telling your girlfriend about a previous relationship?” The detective says.

            “Yeah, but when I left that alley, Darla was fine. She was mad at me but she was fine,” Angel says.

            “And you were you mad at her?” The detective asks.

            Angel shrugs. “Yeah but not enough to hurt her,” he says.

            “So you’ve never hurt Darla before?” The detective asks.

            Angel stops and sighs. He’d hurt Darla in more ways then he had thought possible but he hadn’t killed her.  “No, not seriously,” Angel says and it is true.

            “What do you mean not seriously?” The detective asks.

            Angel rakes his hand through his hair. “Darla and I used to hit each other but we never-God, we were addicts, we-I never hurt her seriously. I never tried to kill her. I would never try to kill,” Angel says.

            “That’s all the questions for now,” the detective says.

*

            Lindsey manages to get Angel out on bail.  It hadn’t been easy but as a lawyer at Wolfram and Hart, he has resources.

            “Come on, Buffy is waiting for you at my apartment. I think it’s best if you stay there for a while,” Lindsey says.

            “Thank you,” Angel says.

            Lindsey shakes his head. “I didn’t like you at first, Angel. It didn’t have anything to do with you. It had everything to do with Buffy, but she’s happy, until tonight I saw her laughing and smiling more then I have in a long, long time.  So you’ve got a past, we’ve all got a past; hopefully they don’t turn up murdered. Yours did, you’re lucky I’m a damn good lawyer,” he says.

            Buffy flings herself at Angel when he walks in through the door. His arms go around her and he buries his head in the crown of her hair.  His hands slide over her hair, her back, memorizing her. Her tears flood the crook of his neck and drip down into his shirt.

            “I was so worried, so worried, “Buffy sobs.

            “Shhh, it’s okay now,” Angel whispers.

            “I’m going to bed, ya’ll stay up and talk,” Lindsey says, resting his gaze on Angel. Angel nods just slightly in response.

            “Talk?” Buffy says. “We need to talk?” She looks at Angel with wide, frightened eyes.

            “Yeah, uhm do you want some tea, crackers?” Angel asks looking around uncomfortably.

            “No, I want you to tell me what’s going on,” Buffy says.

            She pulls him to the couch and sits down, tugging him with her. “What happened? When you called you said you’d been arrested for murder, whose murder?”

            “An ex-girlfriend of mine, Darla McPherson. Do you remember last night when I went to popcorn?” He asks.

            Buffy nods.

            “The phone call I got, it was Darla. She’d stopped by the apartment a few days ago; she wanted to pick up where we’d left off. I told her to get out and I didn’t want to see her again. She started threatening me. She was going to talk to you,” Angel says.

            “Me? Why?” Buffy says.

            Angel sighs. He is tired all the way to his soul. “Buffy, before I met you I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. I-I’d lived on the streets a long time, since I was fourteen. I’d been addicted to drugs for longer then that. The things you’ll do for crack-“he stops.

            “It’s okay Angel. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not that person, not anymore. I don’t care about what you did in your past,” Buffy says.

            Angel holds her hand in his own. He glances up at her and the pain in his eyes has weight and texture.  “You don’t care when the details are fuzzy, but if Darla told you, she would make sure to embellish the details, to tell you every gory bit. I didn’t want that so I went to talk to her. I didn’t kill her,” he says.

            “Angel, I never thought you might have. It never crossed my mind. You couldn’t hurt someone,” Buffy says.

            Angel chuckles bitterly, if only she knew. “I talked to her, we fought. I told her if she didn’t leave me alone, I’d ruin her but I didn’t mean-I don’t know what I meant, what I would have done but it wouldn’t have been murder,” he says.

            “So can Lindsey get you out of this?” Buffy asks.

            “He says I’m lucky he’s a good lawyer,” Angel says.

            “Yeah, you are, we both are.”

Chapter Sixteen

            “Would you just look at this!” Cordelia says, slapping a newspaper down on the table in front of Lindsey.

 Artist Arrested for Murder

            The article went on to state Angel’s name and that he had recently had a showing for Chase Gallery. There was a picture of him and Lindsey coming out of the jail; Angel has his hands up in front of his face; Lindsey had him by the elbow, guiding him through the crush of reporters.

            Angel pales and directs his gaze to the floor.

            “Delia, Angel and I are discussing his case, maybe you could leave us alone for a little while, Darlin,” Lindsey says.

            “Don’t you call me Darlin in that sweet southern drawl; I know what you’re trying to do. That may work with Buffy or the ninnies you work with but it doesn’t work with me, Mister. Do you know how bad this sort of publicity looks for me?” Cordelia rants.

            Lindsey takes a deep breath and stands up, pushing himself back from the table. He wraps his arms around Cordelia and pulls her close. He places a soft, chaste kiss on her lips. “Cordelia, Darlin, just think how good the publicity is going to be when I get him off. People will be flocking in to see his paintings,” Lindsey says.

            “Oooo, good point, so what is he doing here? Shouldn’t you be back at your apartment painting?” Cordelia asks.

            “Delia, honey, let us work his case out. I’ll take you to dinner at Spago’s when we’re done here,” Lindsey says.

            Cordelia considers her options a moment and then shrugs. “In that case, I’ll go get a manicure.”

            When she’d finally gone, Lindsey turns back to Angel. “Okay, I need to know exactly what went on in that alley. They’ve got some pretty heavy evidence stacked up against you.”

            “They can’t have any evidence. I didn’t do anything!” Angel says.

            “She was strangled. They’ve got bruises approximately the size of your fingers on her throat. They’ve got bruises the same size on her wrists.  They’ve also got your record,” Lindsey says.

            “I was nineteen years old. That guy provoked me. They can’t use that against me,” Angel says.

            “They can and they will. He might have provoked you but he ended up in the hospital. You walked away high and barely a scratch on you,” Lindsey says.

            Angel shakes his head. “I was nineteen years old,” he says weakly in his defense.

            “The hospital has records of Darla going to the hospital with various injuries during the time she was with you. I need to know, did you give those to her?” Lindsey says.

            Angel swallows hard. “She was whoring herself out by that time. Some of the Johns hurt her but yeah, a couple of times I sent her there. You don’t understand-Darla and I-we hit each other.” He pushes the sleeve of his long sleeved tee shirt up to display four thin, jagged scars. “She did that, scratched me with her nails. I broke her nose. I didn’t mean to break her nose. I lost my temper and I hit her, harder then I intended to.”

            Lindsey shakes his head and sits back in his chair. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Son, where I come from you don’t hit a woman, ever. I don’t care if she swings a bat at your head,” he says.

            “Darla and I didn’t exactly have the healthiest of relationships. Neither one of us were in the best frame of mind at the time. When Darla and I were together, we were both stoned out of our minds,” Angel says.

            “It doesn’t matter. The court won’t care. Now tell me exactly what happened that night in the alley, don’t edit, don’t delete, don’t sugar coat it,” Lindsey says.

*

            “Hello, Lover,” Darla purrs.

            Angel sits up in bed, trying to shove Darla off him.

            “I can take it all away, Angelus. Play house with me and it all goes away,” she says.

            Angel shakes his head. “No, I love Buffy. That’s not going to change,” he says.

            “Will she still love you when you’re in prison? Will she wait for you? Think about this, Lover. I’ve seen the worst parts of you, and I still want you. Can you say the same for your cheerleader?” She asks. She nips at his neck and places a soft kiss there.

            Angel flips Darla roughly on her back. She growls low in her throat.

            “You didn’t forget I like it rough,” she growls.

            Angel wraps his fingers around her throat, soft, milky white skin, and squeezes.

*

            He wakes up to tiny fists pounding on his bare chest. Fingers wrapped around the soft, milky white column of her throat. Her body is pinned underneath his, only her arms are free and the more oxygen she loses the less fight she has. His eyes are hard, pitiless pools of black. They take in her hair, the color of sunshine and her eyes, the color of the sky. He blinks and swallows hard. Her eyes, mossy green eyes, are filled with fear.

            “Oh, God, Buffy!” Angel shoves himself off the bed, scampering into a corner. He stares down at his hands and then at Buffy sitting up on the bed coughing.  He crawls back on to the bed hesitantly and touches Buffy’s shoulder. She glances up at him, gasping for breath. Her eyes are red rimmed and glossed with tears.

            “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was dreaming, choking Darla and I’m so sorry, Buffy,” Angel apologizes over and over again.

            It takes Buffy a minute to catch her breath, when she does she can only stare at Angel.

            “Did you choke her?” She finally asks.

            Angel shakes his head. “No, I grabbed her by the throat, but I didn’t choke her. I didn’t strangle her, Buffy,” he says. He reaches out to touch her, to graze his fingers over the livid bruises blooming on Buffy’s throat. Tears fill his eyes. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

            Buffy jerks away from his touch, stumbling to her feet. She looks at him like a rabbit caught in a trap. She pulls the blankets tighter around her body and stares at him in horror before fleeing to the bathroom. She locks the door behind her and crumbles to the floor.

            He pounds on the door. “Buffy, please, please let me in. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’d never hurt you. Please, baby just let me in.”

            She eventually comes out of the bathroom and takes a suitcase out of the closet. She tosses clothes into it, not paying attention to what she’s throwing in there.

            “Buffy, please don’t leave me. Baby, you’re my everything, don’t leave me. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Angel says, following closely on her heels.

            Buffy turns to him, her cheeks stained with her tears. She swallows hard and her hand goes to her sore throat. “I know that. It’s not even a question of that. It’s just, after…I need a little bit of break. Please,” she says.

            Angel watches as his world shatters, as she walks out the door, and then falls to his knees. His sobs echo through the still, empty apartment.

*

            Lindsey opens the door without asking who it is. His attention is diverted to the papers in his hand. He doesn’t glance up until the door is all the way open. Buffy stands there, suit case in hand, tears in her eyes, livid black and blue bruises on her neck. She collapses into Lindsey’s arms and his papers scatter across the floor.

            “Oh, Darlin, it’s okay. I’ll make it okay,” he promises. He draws her further into the apartment and kicks the door shut. “Tell me what happened, Sweetheart.”

            She is crying so hard she can’t talk.

            “I’ll kill him. He won’t have to worry about a lawyer, I’m gonna kill him,” Lindsey says.

            Buffy shakes her head and sniffles. “No, he didn’t mean-he didn’t mean to. He was dreaming. He didn’t mean to hurt me,” she sobs.

            Lindsey glances at his watch. It’s one in the morning. “Come on, Darlin, let’s get you in bed. We can talk about it in the morning,” he says.

            Buffy changes into pajamas while Lindsey makes her a cup of tea. She is snuggled into her old bed when he comes in with the tea.  Lindsey sits down on the edge of the bed and hands her the mug. She takes a few sips of the sweet, hot liquid.

            “Wanna tell me what happened?” Lindsey asks.

            Buffy takes a deep breath. “He was dreaming, about Darla. He was dreaming that he was choking her, when he woke up-he-he was choking me. He was sorry, he didn’t mean to and he-he was as upset as I was. He didn’t mean to hurt me, Lindsey,” she says.

            “Then what are you doing here, Darlin?” He asks.

            She looks up at him, her gray green eyes haunted. “I was scared, not that he’d hurt me intentionally, because he’d never but…I was scared.”

Chapter Seventeen

Angel ignores the knocking on the door. Whoever it is, they’ll go away and it’s not Buffy because she has a key. If it’s not Buffy, he doesn’t care who it is. He’s dealing with her leaving the only way he knows how, he’s painting.

            “Well, we can advertise it as your dark period, I guess,” Cordelia says.

            “How did you get in here?” Angel growls.

            “I sweet talked your land lord, like he’s not going to let Miss Cordelia Chase in. I was worried,” she says.

            “As you can see, I’m alive now leave me alone,” he says.

            “Alive yes, but if your painting is any indication, you’re not okay. You don’t have any faith in my boyfriend?” Cordelia says, sitting down in a chair next to Angel’s canvas.

            Angel glances over at her. Buffy used to sit in that chair and watch him paint for hours on end.

            “Since I choked his sister and she moved back in with him, not really,” he says.

            “Oh, that. He hasn’t been by with a sledgehammer to kill you, so I’m guessing neither of them are holding a grudge,” Cordelia says.

            Angel cocks and eyebrow at her and then resumes painting.

            “Look, Lindsey mentioned to me that you missed a meeting at the firm with him. He’s worried about you, Buffy is worried about you and when Buffy’s not happy, trust me Lindsey’s not happy and that makes me unhappy. Have you sent flowers?” She asks.

            Angel makes one angry streak across his painting. He turns to Cordelia, his face a mask of rage. “I tried to choke her to death! I don’t think flowers are going to fix this, Cordelia,” he says.

            Cordelia sighs dramatically. “Fine, don’t trust me. I’m a girl, I know a thing or two about girls but whatever don’t pay any attention to me.” She takes a second look at the canvas Angel is working on and the three leaning against the walls. “Let me know when you’re ready to display those and don’t miss your next appointment with Lindsey, tonight at his apartment 7:30. Buffy is working the late shift at the shelter,” she says and turns on her high heel.

            Angel picks up the canvas he is working on and throws it across the room with a howl of rage. It’s been a week since he saw her, a week since he touched her, smelled her. He craves her touch, the sound of her voice. He aches for her smile. He grabs his black leather jacket out of the closet, the jacket Buffy picked out for him, and storms out of the apartment.

            He’s not thinking, merely moving on instinct and feeling. The only thing he sees is Buffy’s face, the look of fear in her eyes, fear he put there, fear of him. He can still feel the texture of her skin, silken soft, underneath his fingers, the way her pulse had pounded erratically against his skin. He howls and takes off running, trying to put that memory behind him.

            Angel stops and leans up against a brick wall, his breath is coming in harsh pants. He leans over, placing his head in his hands. He squeezes his skull between his hands, tries to squeeze the memory of Buffy’s eyes out of his head.  He wheels on his heel in frustration and punches the wall he was leaning against.  The brick wall breaks the skin on his knuckles, pain shoots down his hand and into his wrist. He punches it again and then stops, realizing where he is, where instinct and feeling led him.

            He’s standing in front of the warehouse that he lived in with Fred, Gunn and Oz. He knows what would wash that look of fear out of his mind; crack, just one small rock would wash away the memory, as least for a little while and a little while is all he needs to keep his sanity, to quiet the screaming in his head.

            He steps past the curtain they hung over the broken door so long ago.  He pauses, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. He’s forgotten how dark it is here, even in the daytime. Buffy has made sure his life is so awash in sunlight that the shadows bother him now. They shouldn’t, it’s where he belongs, where he’s always belonged. Angel walks across the warehouse to the corner where his bed still lies. Someone else has been sleeping there. He runs his hands through the blankets, perhaps there is a rock or a fragment of a rock hiding there somewhere.

            The shakes seize his body and the nausea soon follows. He pulls the blankets around himself.  He doesn’t know how long he’s huddled there in the corner, craving the crack, a hit of anything.

            “Hey.”

            Angel is jerked out of his thoughts. He glances up, frantic eyes landing on Oz. he wonders if he looked like that, corpse gray and stick thin.

            “Been a while since I’ve seen you,” Oz says.

            Angel nods and swallows, trying to coat his dry throat with saliva. Oz walks toward him, much the way you approach a rabid dog.

            “Heard ‘bout Darla,” Oz says.

            “I didn’t do it,” Angel chokes out.

            “Kay,” Oz says.

            Angel wraps his arms tighter around his body, trying to control the shakes, to fend off the cold sweat that breaks across his forehead.  Oz crouches down by the nest of blankets and lets his eyes roam over Angel.

            “You want a hit?” Oz asks.

            “Yeah,” Angel says.

            Oz fumbles in his pocket and comes up with a rock, a lighter, a piece of foil and a piece of glass tubing. He hands them over to Angel. It’s still like second nature to him, coming back as easily as if he’d never stopped.

            And he was right, it washes away the memory of Buffy’s eyes filled with fear he’d put there, just for a moment.

*

            He wakes up to Lindsey grabbing him up by the shirt. He lands in a heap on the floor.

            “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Lindsey yells at him.

            Angel looks up, bleary eyed, at Lindsey standing over him.

            “I am trying to save your ass and you’re here getting stoned out of your mind!” Lindsey shouts. His words reverberate off the warehouse walls. He leans over and grabs Angel by the shirt again, jerking him to his feet.

            “Ruin your life if you want to, but you do not ruin my sister’s life,” Lindsey says.

            “She left me, not responsible for her life anymore,” Angel mumbles.

            “She loves you, dumbass. Yeah you scared the shit out of her, but she loves you and if she finds out about this it will break her heart. Do not break Buffy’s heart. Now get up and get your ass home. We’ve got a case to work on,” Lindsey says. He shoves Angel toward the entrance to the warehouse.

            Lindsey takes him back to his apartment.

            “Get cleaned up. We’ve got a case to discuss and I have every intention of getting you off. It’ll break my sister’s heart if I don’t,” Lindsey says.

            Angel showers and changes into clean clothes.  Lindsey has a pot of coffee waiting. He’s standing in front of some of Angel’s paintings sipping a mug when Angel comes into the living room.

            “Delia told me the new ones were good. I’m not much of an art critic but she’s right. Do you paint anything but my sister?” Lindsey asks.

            Angel grins just slightly. “Occasionally I paint me and your sister together,” he says.

            Lindsey shakes his head and takes a sip of coffee. “To use one of Cordelia’s phrases obsessed much?”

            “Entirely,” Angel says.

            “Sit down. The police dug up something new,” Lindsey says.

            “Yeah?” Angel asks.

            “They dug up some dirt on a Mr. Leon Harding. Turns out he’s not just Leon Harding. At one time he was Lennie Hardaway, a small time thug from New York. He was suspected in a dozen things no one could ever prove and then convicted of half a dozen small time crimes, including assault and battery. He did a small stint in jail for drug trafficking. He got out, changed his name a few years back and came to Los Angeles, supposedly to make a fresh start. He got into photography, set up a modeling agency which is what he does now,” Lindsey says.

            Angel shakes his head. “He’s Darla’s pimp. He’s running an escort service. She left me because he offered her a job making three times what she made on the street.”

            “Yeah, we kind of suspect that but every time the police try to catch him, he comes up clean as a whistle, except for one thing. Last month another one of his models ended up dead, found her body in the river. It was ruled a suicide. He claims she was depressed, she wasn’t getting gigs like she had. Problem was that wasn’t exactly true. His records showed she had been working pretty steadily and she’d just gotten engaged, they were looking at new apartments, bigger, nicer ones. It doesn’t sound to me like she had a lot to be depressed over,” Lindsey says.

            “He killed her,” Angel says.

            Lindsey shrugs. “Maybe she wanted out, wanted to get her own fresh start.”

            “Okay, when Darla was talking to me, I don’t think she wanted me back that badly. I think she saw an escape. I’d cleaned up my life, had a new apartment, the newspapers were talking about my paintings, maybe she thought I could get her out of that life,” Angel says.

            “It’s something to consider,” Lindsey says.

            “You believe me, don’t you? You believe I didn’t kill her,” Angel asks.

            “I believe you. We’ve just got to prove it,” Lindsey says.

            Angel nods. He looks down at his hands. They tremble just slightly and he knows it’s a side effect of the crack. “About earlier, you’re not going to tell Buffy, are you?” He asks.

            “As long as it doesn’t happen again, she doesn’t need to know but I swear to God, if I catch you using anything again I will kick your ass from here to Texas,” Lindsey says.

            “How is she?” Angel asks.

            Lindsey sighs and puts down his coffee cup. “She’s heart broken, she’s scared and confused. Buffy has lived most of her life very sheltered and that’s my fault. After our parents died, I wanted to lock her up in a box where she would never get hurt again. I was pretty damn successful. She’s paid a price for it though. She doesn’t know how to react when she’s been hurt; she runs to me and expects me to make things better for her. I can’t make this better for her, not this time.”

            “I don’t know if I can either,” Angel confesses.

            “Only one way to find out,” Lindsey says.

            “Cordelia thinks I should send her flowers.”

            “Thing about Delia, she’s pretty smart. She tries to hide it under the Prada and Gucci clothes, but she’s a bright girl,” Lindsey says with a grin. He stands up and shoves his chair back from the table. “I’m headed over there right now, probably won’t make it back to my apartment until tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Bring on the pain,” Buffy whispers to the quiet, dimness of the apartment. She opens the carton of Ben and Jerry’s New York Super Fudge.  She presses play on the DVD player, tucks Mr. Gordo the stuffed pig in the crook of her arm and wraps herself in the softest blanket she can find. It’s time for the traditional sob fest that is more commonly known as Steel Magnolias.

            She’s interrupted shortly after Julia Roberts has her baby by a knocking on the door. She sighs and pauses the movie. Buffy stands up, wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and swipes at her moist eyes with the edges of the blanket. She knows she looks like crap. She’s still wearing her pajamas, her hair is a wreck and her eyes are red and puffy from crying. She swings open the door with a sour expression.

            “Go away, leave me alone, I don’t want to talk-“ she starts. Her hands goes to her mouth at the sight of Angel standing there holding a big bouquet of white lilies.  “Angel,” she whispers.

            “Buffy.” It is all he can manage.

            “What are you doing here?” She asks.

            “I miss you. I just wanted to see you,” he says.

            She hesitates and then steps aside. She couldn’t resist Angel when he wasn’t trying to apologize. She’s not sure why she would think she could ever resist Angel when he was. “Come on in. I’m watching a movie,” she says.

            “These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers toward her. He feels like an idiot, as if she didn’t realize the flowers were for her. Angel isn’t sure how to do this. The girlfriends he’a had in the past really haven’t prepared him for having a real girlfriend, one that didn’t use drugs or whore herself out.

            “Thank you,” Buffy says and takes the flowers from him. She flinches slightly as his fingers brush hers.  It causes Angel to step back from her and she acutely regrets the instinctive flinch. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

            Angel shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says. She has every right to be uncomfortable with him. “Maybe I should go,” he starts.

            “I’d really like it if you didn’t,” Buffy says. She dashes into the kitchen to get a vase and fill it with water. She takes her time, stalling, arranging the flowers. She sets them on the bar.

            “Do you want something to drink?” Buffy asks.

            Angel shakes his head. “No, thanks I’m okay.”

            Buffy nods. She bows her head a moment and grips the edge of the counter. Screw it, she needs a beer. She grabs one of Lindsey’s out of the fridge and twists the top off. She takes one long drink and tries not to make a face at the slightly bitter taste.

            Angel watches her and can’t help grinning at her reaction. He ducks his head, hiding the grin before she sees it. He’s missed just this, watching her. He’s spent so much of the past eight months watching her that not watching her is like missing the sun.

            Buffy walks around the bar and sits down on the couch, clutching her beer much the way she was clutching Mr. Gordo earlier. She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders and starts the movie.

            “I know I look like crap,” she says a few minutes later.

            “No you look fine,” he assures her.

            She ruffles her hair self consciously with her fingers. “I wasn’t expecting company,” she says.

            “You look fine, Buffy,” he says again.

            “You’re sweet, a terrible liar but sweet,” she says.

            “What movie is this?” Angel asks.

            “Steel Magnolias, you have about ten or fifteen minutes before I start sobbing like a girl, so if you wanna run, now would be the time,” she says.

            He looks at her long and hard for a moment, taking in everything about her. “I’m not running,” he says. They both realize they aren’t talking about the movie.

            She bites her bottom lip and tears fill her eyes.  “Maybe I’m sorry I did,” she says.

            “Maybe?” He asks.

            She sighs and sets her beer down. She grabs Mr. Gordo up, this is less alcohol time more girl comfort time.  “I got spooked. I know you didn’t mean to, but it was scary. I don’t do this relationship thing very well. I mean I think you’re only my second serious boyfriend. I don’t know how to handle this kind of thing and so I’m kind of flying blind and I don’t do very well blind so I know I’m screwing up and I don’t know how to fix it and I don’t know how I’m supposed to not screw up, but I don’t want to lose you because I love you and if I lose you I know I’ll never feel this way again,” she rambles.

            “Okay, I wanna hold you and I don’t want you flinch so if it’s not okay for me to hold you, say something. I promise I’m not gonna hurt you, Buffy,” Angel says. He hesitates but scoots slightly closer to her.

            “I’d really like it if you held me,” Buffy says.

            Angel pulls her into his arms slowly, tentatively at first and then more confidently. “I’m not the same person I was when Darla and I were together. I couldn’t control my temper then.  I was more violent, I was a lot of things that I’m not anymore. I still have that in me though. It will always be me, but I can control it now. I knew what I was doing that night in the alley when I fought with Darla. She doesn’t understand normal reasoning. You can’t talk to Darla, but I would never treat you like that. As far as the dream, I can’t even tell you how sorry I am. It kills me to know that I hurt you, the one thing in this world I love the most,” Angel says.

            “I’ve talked to Lindsey and I know it was just stress and-“ Buffy stops.

            “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself. I know why you moved out and I understand. I’m not gonna say I don’t miss you because I ache for you every single second, but as long as you’re not leaving me you can live anywhere you want,” he says.

            Buffy nods. “Okay, lets just get this whole trial thing and murder thing taken care of, then we can take of us.”

            “Anything you want, Buffy, anything you want.”

*

            Buffy yawns and stretches. Angel pushes a lock of hair behind her ear.  “I should go, it’s late,” he says.

            Buffy nods. “Yeah, I kind of lost track of time.”

            “Do I get to see you tomorrow?” Angel asks.

            “Do you want to?” Buffy asks.

            “Without you, I don’t function. I need you like I need air,” he says.

            “I-I need you too,” she confesses.

            “Okay, then I’ll go home and maybe I can pick you up at the shelter tomorrow,” he says.

            She nods. “That’d be good. I get off at six.”

            “I’ll see you then,” he says standing up. Buffy clings to his hand, unwilling to let go.

            “We’re okay?” She asks.

            “We’re beautiful,” he says.

            She nods and walks him to the door.  He leans toward her, dying to kiss her, draw strength and air from her lips. He pulls his mouth into a tight line and forces himself to step away. He opens the door and steps backwards out into the hallway. Their arms stretch, fingers staying entwined as long as possible.

            “You still my girl?” He asks as their hands break apart.

            “Always,” she says.

Chapter Nineteen

He can smell the alcohol, the sweat and eventually the blood. It’s been almost ten years and he can still smell it. He can feel the man’s bones break under his fist, the warm blood on his hands.  His memory has always been entirely too long and detailed for his liking.  What he told Lindsey was true, the man had provoked it but Angel had been high and angry with the world, he’d nearly beat a man to death with his bare hands. He’d been very lucky that the man had lived.

            Angel turns on his side and curls around a pillow. He buries his nose in it, trying to recapture the smell of Buffy. She used this pillow a couple of nights ago when they were lying on the couch watching a movie. He’s slept with it every night since then, he smell of vanilla and Buffy rolls over him, washing away the scent memory of blood, sweat and alcohol.

            He’s got two weeks until he goes to trial. Darla has been dead for three months. Lindsey has turned up a lot of suspicious things, but nothing worthy of getting the case dismissed.

            Cordelia had been very worried about how it would affect his work. He can’t deny that has. He paints darker things now and generally silhouettes of Buffy by herself. Occasionally a partial silhouette of him will appear in the corner, draped in shadows.  That’s where his life is right now, on the edge of Buffy’s, in the shadows.

*

            Buffy unlocks and opens the apartment door with a sigh.  Since she and Angel have been in the sort off again part of their relationship she’s gone back to working sixty hours a week. It keeps her mind off what’s going on. She’s barely in the door when Cordelia attacks.

            “I don’t know what you have done to Angel but fix it now,” Cordelia says.

            Buffy arches an eyebrow at her. “Where’s Lindsey?” She asks.

            “He went to get us some Thai food. Go over to Angel’s right now, take your suitcase, don’t come back,” Cordelia says.

            “Excuse me? This is my apartment,” Buffy says.

            “No, it’s Lindsey’s. You share it. You used to share with Angel and he painted these beautiful pictures of lovers in love. Now you share with Lindsey and he paints these beautiful pictures of you and only you, or maybe with him watching you from the shadows. I have a client who wants to give her husband an Angel original of lovers. She can’t buy something he won’t paint,” Cordelia says.

            “Oh, so this isn’t about me and Angel, this about your art gallery,” Buffy confirms.

            “Well duh,” Cordelia rolls her eyes.

            “Cordelia, stay out of my love life,” Buffy says. She sighs and turns to go into her room, maybe if she shuts the door Cordelia will get the hint.

            “He’s crazy about you, Buffy. I know Lindsey loves me and I know he’s probably going to marry me but I’d give my eye teeth and probably a lot more to have him look at me the way Angel looks at you.”

            Buffy stops in her tracks. Her shoulders sag with the weight of not talking to someone about this. “I know Angel loves me, that’s not even a question and I love him, again not a question. It’s just…” she trails off.

            “If you both love each, what’s the problem? You can’t honestly think he killed Darla,” Cordelia says.

            “No, no I don’t think he killed Darla. That thought never even crossed my mind. It’s just…so intense,” Buffy says with a sigh. She turns around to face Cordelia.

            “Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? Intense, out of control?” Cordelia asks.

            Buffy shrugs. “Yeah, I guess but...I didn’t leave because I woke up to Angel choking me, although that did scare me to death. He could break my heart, and not the way Parker broke it when he left me. He could shatter my heart into so many pieces that no one will ever be able to put it back together again. That scares me more then the choking or Angel’s past or anything,” she says.

            “So the leaving when Angel choked you was just a way out, a way to keep your heart from being broken?” Cordelia says.

            Buffy shrugs.

            Cordelia shakes her head. “You know, Buffy Summers I figured you for a lot of things, trailer trash, not so bright, not so sociable, freak-“

            Buffy holds up a hand. “You can stop any time,” she says.

            “But the one thing I never figured you for was a coward, a yellow bellied coward,” Cordelia says.

            “You have no damn idea what you’re talking about. Do you even have a heart to break?” Buffy snaps.

            “Okay, listen I didn’t come here to fight with you. I just came here to tell you you’re making a mistake. What Angel has for you goes beyond love; it’s kind of a scary obsession. If you feel even half that for him, you need to make things right with him, really right not we’re kind of dating but I don’t know if you can touch me right,” Cordelia says.

            Lindsey walks in at that moment. He glances back and forth between the women, the tension thick enough to suffocate.  He pecks Cordelia on the cheek and places the food on the bar.

            “Hello, Ladies, interrupt something? ‘Cause I can go run get dessert,” Lindsey says.

            Buffy shakes her head. “No, I’m tired. I’m just gonna go to bed, get some sleep.”

            “Alright Darlin, I’m staying here tonight if you need anything,” Lindsey says.

            Buffy smiles weakly. “Thanks Linds,” she says. She’s been having nightmares, nightmares where Angel kills her. Lindsey always wakes up when she starts screaming. He’s always there to wake her up from the nightmares.

            Buffy crawls in bed with her stuffed pig and thinks about what Cordelia said. Yeah she had selfish reasons for saying them but that didn’t mean they weren’t true. And she still sees Angel nearly every day but they barely touch, they don’t kiss and she doesn’t stay the night.  Things aren’t completely wrong between them, but they aren’t right either and she knows it’s her fault.

            Tears trickle down her cheeks, pooling on Mr. Gordo and making his pink fur wet. She swipes at her eyes with the stuffed pig’s ears and sniffles. Mr. Gordo is used to the treatment; he got a lot of it when her parents died.  Buffy bites her bottom lip and blows her nose.

            There’s a knock on the door.

            “Come in,” Buffy says.

            Lindsey walks in quietly and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Cordelia told me about ya’ll’s conversation.”

            Buffy nods. “Yeah, I bet that was fun.”

            “Cordelia rarely says anything right. She thinks it; she says it exactly the way she thought it. She’d be a nightmare on the witness stand, but you know she always tells the truth. You can count on her for that,” Lindsey says.

            “So you’re on the Pro-Angel Move-out Buffy bandwagon now?” Buffy asks.

            “Oh Darlin, I never want you to move out. Truth is when you’re not here, I spend a lot of time at Cordelia’s but I do want you happy and you’re not now. You’ve got a broken smile and I don’t like seeing it. Be brave, trust your heart and dive in,” Lindsey says.

            Buffy swallows hard and looks up at him from under a fringe of eyelashes. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

            Lindsey chuckles and brushes Buffy’s cheek with his fingertips. “Darlin, it’s not brave if you’re not scared.”

            Buffy throws her arms around him and hugs him. “I’m telling you, best brother ever.”

            “I know, I know. Now I’m going back out there before Delia decides that the apartment needs an interior decorator. Give the girl too much time alone and you never know what she’s going to come up with,” Lindsey says. He gets up, chucks Buffy under the chin lightly and walks out of the room.

            Buffy sits and stares at the phone for a few moments. After an eternity of staring at it, she picks it up and dials a number she knows better then her own. At first she doesn’t think he’s going to pick up; when he finally does his voice is scratchy, rough like he’s been sleeping or crying or maybe both.

            “Hello,” he says.

            “Angel, can I come home?”

Chapter Twenty

Angel shoves open the doors to the shelter and ducks into the kitchen.  He grins at the sight of Buffy finishing up dishes. She’s listening to the radio and singing along, very badly.  He sneaks up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and places a kiss on the curve of her neck. She leans back against him and laughs. The sound tickles his skin. He loves Buffy’s laugh.

            “Did you hear my really awful singing?” She asks sheepishly.

            He grins. “It wasn’t that awful,” he says.

            She grins. “I do have talents, but singing isn’t one of them. Admit it, it was awful.”

            “Okay, so it was awful. How are you?”

            “Better now,” she purrs and turns in his arms. “Oh! Before I forget, Oz is in the common room. He wanted to talk to you.”

            Angel’s brow furrows. “Gunn and Fred…” he trails off.

            “Are fine. I asked because I knew that’d be your first question. He was pretty cryptic about it,” Buffy says.

            Angel shakes his head. “Must be serious if Oz wants to talk. He’s pretty monosyllabic most of the time,” he says.

            “Go talk, I’ve got things to finish up here before I can head home,” Buffy says and shoos him out of the kitchen with a towel.

            Angel finds the red head in the large room easily. He’s tucked away in a corner listening intently to something Giles is saying. He catches sight of Angel and nods. Oz leans forward, says something to Giles and gets nimbly to his feet. He walks over to Angel.

            “Hey,” Oz greets.

            “Buffy said you wanted to talk to me about something,” Angel says.

            “Yeah, there somewhere quieter we can go?” Oz says glancing around nervously at the throng of people in the common room.

            Angel draws his brows together and nods. Oz has him very concerned now, not only does the taciturn man want to talk; he wants to talk somewhere quiet. From his experience, Angel knows it’s either very good news or very bad news. He’s not sure how much more bad news he can take. He beckons the shorter man up the stairs to the room he and Buffy had once spent hours talking.

            “Okay Oz, spill. You’ve got me concerned now,” Angel says.

            “I found some interesting things on the last crack run I made,” Oz says. He slips his backpack off his shoulder and rummages inside. He pulls out a brown paper bag and hands it to Angel.

            Angel cocks an eyebrow at Oz. The red head nods. Angel lifts the edge of the sack up a bit and peers inside, like whatever lies there might bite. Finally he upends the sack and spills the items on to the small table. There’s a surveillance photo of Darla, Angel’s mug shot, a slip of paper with his apartment address on it and the date Darla was murdered.

            “Fuck,” Angel hisses under his breath.

            “Yeah, that was kind of my thought when I saw it,” Oz says.

            “Where did you find this?” Angel asks.

            “Crack house on 4^th,” Oz says.

            “I gotta call Lindsey,” Angel says.

            “I’m just gonna get going then,” Oz says and starts to turn.

            “No, I need you to talk to him, tell him everything you can about this place,” Angel says.

            Oz shakes his head. “Sorry man but I’m not going down for B & E on a crack house,” he says.

            “Lindsey isn’t like that. He’s Buffy’s brother and he’s pretty cool for a lawyer. He won’t care how you found it or what you were doing there,” Angel says.

            Oz quirks an eyebrow at him doubtfully.

            “I wouldn’t ask you to stay if I thought it’d get you in any kind of trouble,” Angel says.

            Oz hesitates, considering it a moment. “Alright, call him.”

*

            “Where did you find this?” Lindsey asks.

            The pressure in the room is suffocating. Buffy alternates between sitting on the bed and pacing the room. Angel is making a short track in the rug pacing back and forth in front of the table. Lindsey is crouched beside the table studying the photos and the scrap of paper like they hold the meaning to life and Oz glances around wildly, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here.

            “There’s this old house on 4^th and Grant. Guy runs crack out of the basement,” Oz says.

            “Do you know the guy’s name?” Lindsey asks.

            “Yeah, he’s a junkie named Diesel,” Oz says.

            “Okay, what else can you tell us about Diesel?” Lindsey asks.

            Oz shakes his head. “Look I gotta get out of here.”

            “Oz, Angel goes to trial in less then a week for a murder he did not commit. This is the first solid bit of evidence we’ve got. I need you here so I can find out everything I can about this,” Lindsey says.

            Oz twitches and glances wildly around the room again. He rakes his fingers through his hair and claws absently at his arm. Angel swallows hard and walks over to Buffy.

            “Buffy, go down stairs and check on things,” Angel says.

            Buffy arches an eyebrow at him. “What? Why? Anne is down there. I’m sure everything is fine,” she says.

            “No. Buffy go downstairs and talk to Anne. I don’t care about what, give us fifteen minutes,” Angel says.

            “I’m not leaving. Part of the agreement when I moved back in was full disclosure in this matter. If you’re trying to hide something from me for my own protection, just let it out now because you know it will end up biting one of us in the butt,” Buffy says.

            Angel growls low in his throat. He clenches his fists. “I’m not hiding anything. Oz needs a hit. You work here. Now go downstairs, give us fifteen minutes and make sure Anne doesn’t come up here,” he says.

            “Oh,” Buffy says and glances at Oz and Lindsey. She lets her gaze linger on Lindsey.

            “Don’t look at me. I don’t work here and I’m not the cops. If Oz wants to fry his brain, that’s his business not mine,” Lindsey says with his hands up in a surrender position.

            “Okay. Uhm-I’ll-I’ll be back in a little while,” Buffy says.

            The men watch as Buffy leaves the room. Oz digs in his backpack for his paraphernalia. He glances at Angel and raises his eyebrows in askance. Angel shakes his head and walks over to the balcony.  He white-knuckles the railing and tries to ignore the smell of crack cooking, the way his skin jumps at the thought of it and the way his bones ache.  Stressful situations make it worse and his fall off the sobriety wagon isn’t helping.

            Lindsey joins him on the balcony, leaving Oz in the room. He leans on the railing and glances over at Angel.

            “You know what this looks like, don’t you?” Lindsey says.

            Angel nods. “I know what it looks like but that doesn’t mean anything.”

            “He’s got her picture, yours, your apartment building address and the date Darla was murdered. It’s a hit. I don’t know what Darla was told to make her cooperate but this guy knew she was going to be there and he wanted it to look like you killed her,” Lindsey says.

            “Is this enough to get me off?” Angel asks.

            Lindsey shakes his head. “It’s all circumstantial, but it gives us a place to look for hard evidence,” Lindsey says.

            “Can you get a search warrant?” Angel asks.

            “Not gonna try,” Lindsey says.

            Angel cocks an eyebrow at Lindsey in askance. Lindsey straightens up and beckons him.

            “Come on. I’ll explain while we’re talking to your friend,” he says.

Chapter Twenty One

“There he goes,” Lindsey says as a black Hummer drives down the street. “Your information was good.” He glances at Oz.

            Oz shrugs and quirks one corner of his mouth up in a sort of smile.

            “Okay, let’s get in there and get out. You sure you can do this?” Lindsey asks.

            “I’ve never seen a lock Oz can’t pick. He can do it,” Angel says.

            “You heard the man,” Oz says.

            The three men dash across the alley.  Oz pushes aside the rotten boards in the fence and crawls through the hole. Lindsey and Angel follow, with quite a bit more trouble then the smaller man.

            “Stay back,” Oz whispers. He creeps up to the back porch and slips the wallet of lock picks out of his back pocket. He fiddles with them a moment and then beckons to the others. He grins and pushes open the door. “Open sesame,” he says.

            “Damn. If my clients were this good, I’d be out of a job,” Lindsey whispers.

            “Ergo the reason I’m not one of your clients. I like to stay squeaky clean,” Oz whispers.

            Oz leads them through a dirty kitchen and into the living room of the house. There is an ancient, filthy couch, an equally ancient chair and a big screen TV with all the entertainment accessories

            “Guess we know where his priorities lie,” Angel whispers.

            Lindsey grins and they follow Oz across the living room into a large room that serves as an office.  A cheap wooden desk scattered with papers takes up most of the far wall. There’s a chair behind the desk leaning to one side and a penthouse calendar from 2000 hanging on the wall.

            “Okay, we’re looking for a contact’s name, bank receipts, absolutely anything that could tie him to Darla, Leon Harding or that night,” Lindsey says.

            The three men are quiet as they shuffle through papers and shift through drawers. Oz speaks first.

            “Uhm, I’ve got a Lennie Hardaway in his address book,” he says.

            A slow grin spreads across Lindsey’s face. “Also known as Mr. Leon Harding,” he says.

            “Angelus Maher, you know my friends. It’s only fair that I know yours,” a man says.

            They jerk their eyes to the door. There’s a man standing there, tall, skinny and covered in tattoos. He’s got grizzled, dirty blond hair and at least three day’s stubble. He’s wearing designer jeans and a tee shirt. He is also holding a gun.

            “Diesel,” Oz says.

            “Now see, that’s not fair at all. Your friends know me,” Diesel says. His eyes are still fixed on Angel.

            “Funny, I can’t seem to place you. Maybe it’s the gun in my face,” Angel says.

            “Seems like that’s all I’ve got. I’ve heard stories about you, Angelus. You were a pretty tough guy at one time, ‘course now you’ve gone soft but I’m not taking my chances, especially when I’m outnumbered,” Diesel says.

            “Just put the gun down and we’ll go on about our business,” Lindsey says.

            Diesel chuckles. “So you can run to the police with your new ‘evidence’? I’m not a fucking moron,” he says.

            “No one said you were,” Oz says.

            Diesel pins Oz with a flat, dead stare. “You the little bastard that’s been sneaking in here and stealing shit from me?”

            “This isn’t about him,” Angel says.

            Diesel turns his attention back to Angel. “Wonder if I can still collect that extra G after I shoot you,” he muses.

            Oz leaps, trying for a tackle. The gun goes off winging him in the shoulder and lodging a bullet in the floor. Diesel kicks Oz in the ribs, sending him across the floor a couple of feet. He swings around and locks the gun on Angel, who’s creeping toward him.

            “Don’t even think about it,” he says.

            Angel swallows hard and glances at Oz. There’s blood soaking into the dark brown carpet. Lindsey slowly crouches, keeping his eyes on Diesel.  He holds one hand over the wound on Oz’s shoulder and glances at Angel.

            “He’s okay. It just clipped his shoulder,” Lindsey says.

            “Okay, why don’t we talk about this before someone gets seriously hurt,” Angel says.

            “Gonna be kind of hard since I’m planning on killing you all,” Diesel says.

            Silence spreads over the office. Diesel stands on the threshold, holding the gun sideways. His gaze flicks between the three of them.

            “He’s a lawyer. Someone will come looking for him,” Oz says pointing to Lindsey.

            “Maybe I should start by killing him first then,” Diesel says.

            Oz winces and looks up at Lindsey. “Sorry, not what I was going for.”

            Diesel raises his gun slightly and aims at Lindsey’s head. The moment seems to slow down for Angel. He knows Lindsey is the only family Buffy has left in the world.  He darts across the room. Diesel turns and fires haphazardly. Angel stumbles and falls, rolling into a fetal position. It’s not the opening Lindsey was hoping for, but it’s an opening. He takes Diesel out at the knees with a tackle. The gun is knocked out of Diesel’s hand and slides across the room. Oz snatches it up. He holds it in his left hand and inches close to Diesel.  Oz holds the gun steady and Lindsey wrenches Diesel’s arms up behind his back.

            “You won’t do it. You don’t wanna go to jail for murder,” he hisses.

            “Haven’t you heard? I’m a sneaky little bastard. I don’t have a record. I’m not even a blip on the police’s radar,” Oz says.

            “And you’re a junkie dealer. Face it Diesel, no one is gonna look real hard for your murderer. Besides if they do catch him, he’s got one of the best lawyers in LA,” Lindsey says.

            The whine of the police sirens cuts through the air. A few minutes later the house is covered in cops. They rush into the office with their guns and Oz lays his gun on the floor. Lindsey releases Diesel.

            “We need an ambulance,” Lindsey says. He glances down at Angel. “Hey, how you doing?” Angel is still curled up, his hands over the bleeding stomach wound.

            The police radio for an ambulance. One of them stands close guard over Oz, whose shoulder is still bleeding a bit.

            Angel shakes his head. “Hurts,” he says.

            Lindsey nods. “You’re gonna be okay. The ambulance is on the way,” he says.

            “Buffy,” Angel starts. A wave of pain hits him and he grits his teeth.

            “Don’t worry about Buffy. She’ll be at the hospital,” Lindsey says. The brown carpet is squishy with blood, most of it Angel’s.  He steps forward to speak to the police.

            “I’m Lindsey McDonald, a lawyer for Wolfram and Hart. I’ve got reason to believe this man killed a woman named Darla McPherson. He also intended to kill all three of us, as you can see he wounded two of us and if you’ll look in the basement I think you’ll find a drug operation,” he says.

            The police take Diesel away and back off Lindsey and Oz. Lindsey crouches down next to Angel. He’s pale and his eyes are beginning to look glassy.

            “Hey Angel, look at me,” Lindsey says.

            Angel struggles, his brow furrowing, and finally catches Lindsey’s eyes.

            “There you go. Keep looking at me,” Lindsey says.

            “Tell Buffy-“ Angel starts.

            “I’m not telling my sister anything. You’re gonna tell her,” Lindsey says.

            Angel shakes his head. “I love her, tell her,” he struggles. Blood bubbles between his lips.

            “Where is the ambulance?” Lindsey screams. He stands up and looks around wildly for it. “I need a damn ambulance now!”

            “It’s okay, just too late.” The words die on Angel’s bloodied lips.

Chapter Twenty Two

Angel had flat lined by the time they got to the hospital. Lindsey watches through the glass window as they shock him with paddles. He knows he should call Buffy but he remembers being the one to tell her their parents died, the one to tell her Xander was dead. He hates always being the one to deliver bad news. He’s hoping if he waits just a little while longer he’ll have something good to tell her or something not quite as bad as Angel is dead.

            The doctor inside shakes his head and Lindsey waits, holding his breath to see if they charge the paddles again. He breathes out as the doctor shocks Angel again. A laugh of pure relief escapes as the doctor turns to the window and gives him a thumbs up. They got him back. He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and calls Buffy.

*

            Buffy shivers. Lindsey puts his arm around her and pulls her closer but his body warmth does little to chase away the icy numbness in her bones.

            “He’s going to be okay,” Lindsey says.

            “He didn’t have a heartbeat for a while,” Buffy says.

            “Yeah, but they got it back. He’s going to be fine,” he says.

            Buffy nods.

            “Come on, let’s get you some coffee and we’ll go see Oz,” Lindsey says.

            “What if the doctor comes looking for us?” Buffy asks.

            “I’ll tell the nurse where we’re headed,” he says.

            Buffy nods and allows Lindsey to lead her to the vending machines. He fixes her a cup of truly awful coffee with cream and sugar. She wraps her fingers around the Styrofoam cup, grateful for the warmth that seeps into her bones. Lindsey gets his own coffee and walks Buffy down the hall to the room Oz is in.

            The red head is sitting up in bed watching Cops on TV. He nods as they walk in.

            “Hey,” he says.

            “Oz, how are you feeling?” Lindsey asks and indicates the sling on his right arm.

            “Surprisingly okay. I think I just saw my brother on the TV,” Oz says.

            Lindsey chuckles. “I’m assuming he’s not a cop.”

            “Nah, but he looked pretty good. How’s Angel?” Oz asks.

            Buffy shrugs. “We don’t know anything yet. He’s still in surgery,” she says.

            Oz nods. “He’s tough. He’ll make it.”

            Buffy nods.

            “I keep telling her that. How long are you gonna be in here?” Lindsey asks.

            “Just over night, I think they want to keep me in here more to keep me off the crack then anything. Might not be so happy about that decision when I start going through withdrawals in a few hours,” Oz says.

            “It’d be a good time to clean up. Wolfram and Hart are always looking for people to work in the mail room,” Lindsey says.

            “Yeah?” Oz asks.

            “Yup and I know an inside guy with a room to rent in his apartment,” Lindsey says with a grin.

*

            Buffy smiles in her sleep and then almost laughs, it’s the almost laughing that wakes her up. She jerks upright.

            “Angel!” She shouts out, fear grabbing hold of her once again.

            “Right here, watching you sleep,” he says. His voice is a little groggy.

            “You’re awake. Oh God, you’re awake. Are you okay? I mean that’s a stupid question. How do you feel? Wait, no stupid shot in the gut probably not feeling okay. I’m sorry I’m bad at this bedside manner stuff and why are you watching me sleep? You should be sleeping,” Buffy rambles.

            Angel grins. “What were you dreaming about? You were smiling and laughing,” he says.

            “Us someplace warm like Tahiti,” Buffy confesses.

            She uncurls from the chair she’s in and perches lightly on the edge of Angel’s bed. “Is this okay? Am I hurting you?” She asks, her eyes searching his for any signs of pain. He’s good at masking it but she can see it flit across his face every now and then.

            “Do you want me to call the nurse? I can get you some pain medication,” she says.

            Angel shakes his head. “They won’t let me have very much, prior drug addiction and all,” he says.

            Buffy wrinkles her nose and runs her fingers over his knuckles. She picks his hand up and kisses it lightly.

            “There, see when you do that, nothing hurts,” Angel says with a smile.

            “No hanky panky for a while, Mister. You just got out of surgery,” Buffy teases. Her eyes fill up with sudden tears.

            “Hey, don’t do that,” Angel says, reaching out to catch a tear.

            “You almost went away today,” she whispers brokenly.

            “I know, but I didn’t and I’m not going anywhere now,” he says.

            A sharp knock on the door interrupts. Buffy swipes at her eyes and pastes on a bright smile, it turns to concern when Lindsey walks in the room.

            “How you feeling?” Lindsey asks.

            “Okay, considering. What’s the verdict?” Angel asks.

            “You’re off. Diesel, also known as Riley Finn, is singing like a canary. Leon Harding was arrested this morning as an accessory and they will probably also charge him for running a prostitution ring,” Lindsey says.

            Buffy impulsively throws her arms around Angel, forgetting the gaping wound in his belly. He winces and she pulls away.

            “Oh God, I’m such a doof. I completely forgot. I’m sorry. Are you okay?” She says.

            Angel nods. “I’m good. I’m off? I don’t have to go to trial in three days?” Angel asks Lindsey.

            “Nope, charges were completely dropped,” Lindsey confirms.

            “And the B & E last night?” Angel asks.

            “They caught a murderer and drug dealer who shot two people, how we got in there is the last thing on their minds,” Lindsey says.

            Lindsey grins at Angel and nods slightly. Buffy glances between the two of them.

            “Would you go get me a coke? If you’ll ask at the nurse’s station, they’ll grab one,” Angel asks Buffy.

            Buffy glances at him hesitantly for a moment. “Sure,” she says standing up and pausing again. There’s something going on but she doesn’t know what and she’s not willing to fight with Angel over it at the moment.

            “Did you get it?” Angel asks as soon as Buffy leaves the room.

            “Yeah, I picked it up and they’re going to send you a bill,” Lindsey says. He tosses a bag to Angel who tucks it underneath the blankets.

            “How’d you manage that?” Angel asks.

            “Miss Cordelia Chase is a very good customer. I took her with me,” Lindsey says with a grin.

            “Oh yeah? Did you two look at anything?” Angel asks.

            Lindsey chuckles and shrugs. “Delia has very rigorous ideas about what she wants but we looked,” he says with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

            “Good,” Angel says.

            “What’s good?” Buffy asks, walking back into the room with a coke.

            “That Oz is actually staying in recovery for a couple of days. He’s signed up for a program,” Lindsey says.

            “Yeah? Look what you started,” Buffy says teasingly to Angel.

            “I’m going to head back to work. Angel, get better. Buffy, take care of him,” Lindsey says.

            “I will. Thank you,” Buffy says. She hugs Lindsey quickly and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “I love you and you’re still the best brother ever.”

            “Not telling me anything I don’t know, Darlin,” Lindsey says with that slow, drawling grin of his.

            Buffy sits back down on the edge of the bed with Angel. She lets out a big sigh.

            “I can’t believe this is over. It seems like it has consumed our lives for three months and then in one night, it’s gone,” she says.

            “Yeah, it’ll be nice to get on with our lives though,” Angel says.

            Buffy smiles and carefully sidles up closer to Angel. “Yeah, our lives, as in lives together,” she says.

            Angel smiles the crooked little half smile that first made Buffy’s heart flip. He reaches over and pushes a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You know when I was lying in that ambulance dying there was only one thing I could think of, your eyes and how I didn’t want to die without marrying you first,” he says.

            Buffy swallows hard. “Marrying me?” She echoes.

            Angel nods. “Yeah. There are a lot of things I haven’t done but the most important one is, I haven’t married you,” he says.

            Buffy’s eyes fill with tears. Angel slips a small, square, blue, velvet box from under the blankets. He opens it to reveal a three half caret diamonds set in platinum. “Because you are all that matters of my past, my present and my future, Buffy Summers, will you marry me?”

            Buffy laughs. The sound ripples through the room and dances over Angel’s skin. “How can I say no to a man’s dying wish,” she says.

            “That’d be a yes then?” He asks hopefully.

            “Yes, Angel, I will marry you.”

END.