FIC: Ghosts 4/5 (Buffy/Angel, R)

[carlyinrome]

TITLE: Ghosts
RATING: R
FANDOMS: BtVS/AtS
PAIRING: Buffy/Angel
SPOILERS: Post “NFA.” There are some aspects of the S8 comics-namely, location-but this story contains none of the comics’ original characters or plotlines. The sequel to If You Drive Me Back, though it isn’t really a prerequisite.
SUMMARY: I married my lieutenant.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: For ba4ever, who requested post-NFA with dom Buffy, and for clevermonikerr, for her love of the first one. And it must be said: my beta reader, myhappyface, really went to the mat for me on this one, and I am endlessly, wordlessly grateful. Every little thing she does is magic.

( Part One ) ( Part Two ) ( Part Three )
“If it’s a key,” Angel said, “I want to see what it unlocks.”

Dawn frowned. “Maybe you don’t. Just, you know, the voice of experience talking.”

“I bet we can track the spell,” Willow said. “Like, kind of like how the police find people off their cell phones? We just track the magical essence coming off your tattoo, and it’ll lead us to whatever the key unlocks.”

“It’s probably their base of operations,” Angel said. “How fast can we do that?”

Willow frowned. “I’m not sure. I can set up the spell in half an hour, but there’s no telling how long it’ll take to complete-I mean, if it’s a complicated, protected spell, then-”

“Whoa,” Buffy said. “Angel, no. I don’t like the idea of you walking into the bad guy’s clubhouse. You could get hurt. Or, you know, dead.”

“You should take a Slayer entourage,” Kennedy said. “I’d love a crack at the Black Thorn.”

“That sounds really subtle,” Angel said. “Me walking in with an army of prepubescent girls.”

“Hey!” Kennedy said. “I’m post-pubescent!”

“I can’t hear this,” Xander said.

“I have the key,” Angel said. “Just me. I should be fine if I go alone.” He caught Buffy’s expression, and amended, “I should be fine if I go alone, under the radar.”

Angel met Buffy’s eyes. That was a look Buffy knew: the you can trust me, my kind is your kind look.

“I think you’re being needlessly rash, Angel,” Giles said. “You’ll tip our hand, and we’ll lose the element of surprise, our only advantage, currently.”

“I think you underestimate my capacity for discretion,” Angel said.

“I have a clear understanding of your capacities,” Giles said.

“Whoa!” Willow said. “Let’s, just, everybody simmer down.” She looked to her friend. “Buffy? What do you think?”

Buffy squirmed. “Maybe he has a point. Angel, I mean.” Giles just stared at her. “I mean . . . Angel has, no offense, more experience in this kind of situation . . . I mean, Giles, you’re great in, like, a theory kind of way, but Angel’s . . . he’s a good leader . . .”

Giles laughed. “Oh, yes, forgive me. Let’s let the shining example of Angel’s last leadership role guide us, shall we? No survivors is always the goal I aim for.”

Buffy hadn’t realized Angel was still capable of such speed. Before she could even think up a reply to Giles, Angel was on his feet and across the room, his hands driving into Giles’ shoulders, lifting the man from his feet and crashing into the wall. The wall shook, raining books and weapons and knickknacks onto the carpet. Giles swung wildly at Angel, and Angel swung back; and soon the two of them were scrambling on top of one another; throwing wild, furiously angry punches back and forth. As soon as the shock had faded enough for her to move, Buffy was between them, holding them each at arm’s end. Giles relaxed immediately, realizing the futility of trying to get to Angel when he’d have to go through Buffy first, but Angel strained with all his might against Buffy’s intervening hand, lunging for Giles. Buffy spun around to face him squarely, meeting his chest firmly with both hands. Angel stumbled, but was just as quickly on his feet again and pouncing at Giles. Anger flared within Buffy, and she hit him, her fist connecting squarely with his brow bone, hard enough to knock him to the ground. Angel stayed down, looking up at her with blood trickling into his eye.

“I know you guys have . . . differing opinions, and emotional baggage, or whatever,” Buffy said. “But you’ve got to pack it away-or check it, or . . . stow it, or . . . something-because we cannot afford to have our mission derailed by infighting. I mean, fight: yes, but just . . . save it to fight the actual bad guys that-hey!”

They hey was in response to Angel’s getting up and leaving in the middle of her rallying and really awesome speech. Buffy glared after him.

“Xander, can you finish up here?” Buffy asked.

She didn’t wait for a response before stalking off after Angel.

She found him in the kitchen, leaning against the island, holding a damp washcloth to his bleeding eye. She cleared her throat as she walked into the room; Angel turned slightly to face her. He dropped his compress to the counter like he no longer had need of it, and then returned to facing obstinately away from her.

“Mature,” Buffy said.

Angel didn’t answer.

Buffy sighed. She snuck a look at his eye, already beginning to swell and color. The bleeding had stopped, at least.

“Did I hurt you?”

“I can hold my own.”

Buffy frowned, but didn’t push. He hadn’t answered her question, but after what she’d done to his face, she figured it wouldn’t exactly be sporting to bruise his ego. She edged closer to him, leaning her back against the counter in a mirror of his pose, and then sliding along the slick tile surface until they were mere inches apart. Angel watched her passively, neither moving to accommodate her nor fending her off. They had returned to stasis; no reactions but those required to maintain equilibrium. Really, it was a step forward, better than Angel’s violent reaction against Giles and his blatant antagonism of Buffy herself, but it still stung Buffy. She hated when he became complacent; by nature, she preferred motion, and although what she really wanted with Angel was progress, she would have taken him fighting and backpedaling rather than just waiting. She hated to see the fight go out of anyone, even if it was for her own benefit.

“Look, Angel,” she said finally. “I know that all this has been hard on you . . .”

“Due respect,” he said, “but you have no idea how all this has been on me.”

“Fine. Fine. I don’t know anything; what I did to you, I was one-hundred-percent in the wrong. But it’s not about us! It can’t-it has to be about the whole world, and yeah, that sucks, but you need to get on board because I need you for this.”

Angel didn’t say anything, but she could tell, by his expression, his posture, that he was listening.

“I need your help,” Buffy continued, gentling her tone. “You’re-bar none, you have the most experience, the best tactical mind, of anyone on my team-”

Angel’s eyes were on the floor. “But not the strength.”

“Yeah, well, that’ll come. And it’s not the most important thing now, anyway. I mean . . . you’re just out of practice, a little out of shape. You just need to get back into it. And anyway, I’ve got plenty of muscle. All kinds of green, eager muscle. What I need is someone with a military mind, someone who can help me aim all that green, eager muscle.”

Angel’s eyes lit on her, hesitantly. “Last time . . .”

“You were outmatched,” Buffy said. “And you’re smart enough to learn from your mistakes.”

“Maybe not,” Angel said. His mouth twisted, an expression like a Glasgow smile. “I keep coming back to you.”

Buffy didn’t mean to, not really. Before she even felt the anger, her body was moving, and Angel was sprawled against the counter, blood was dripping onto the counter. The anger hit, followed by a dull panic, as Angel turned around to face her, his palm pressed against his eye, freshly bleeding again.

“Angel,” she said.

He sneered, blood smearing. “Right,” he said. “Irony.”

He took up the compress from the counter, pressed it to his eye. They stood together, in ridiculous silence, as Angel staunched the bleeding. Angel wanted to leave, and Buffy wanted to speak, but neither seemed possible while there was still blood. Some things just bound them together, always.

Finally, Angel set the compress back on the counter. The wound was enraged, his eye slightly sleepy, but there was no more blood. Buffy’s hand circled his jaw, directing his movement; she held him still as the fingers of her other hand tested his flesh for soundness.

“It looks okay,” she said. “Angel, I-”

Angel pulled away from her. “Forget it.”

He started to turn away, but she couldn’t let him. He had to hear her. She grabbed him by the arms and spun him around to face her.

“Look, I’m sorry. I just . . . I lost my temper, and I-it’s not an excuse, but I-”

Angel’s face was an empty room, impassive and featureless. “I said forget it.”

Buffy stopped herself right before she hit him again. Anger erupted within her, a sudden, hungry fire.

“Stop being such a baby!” she said. “I know I’ve messed up, but I love you, and I know you love me, and we need to just . . . we need to just fix it, because we can’t-we can’t afford to . . . to not . . . Angel, we can fix this.”

Angel shook his head. “I don’t know if we can.”

And he started to walk away again. Panic thrummed through Buffy’s veins. This wasn’t high school anymore. They were the same species now, and they were married, and there had to be a way to fix it.

Buffy took Angel’s wrist, pulled him back. He spun around to face her, surprised, and she kissed him. Angel pulled back, but he was panting, and his pupils were dilated. Buffy dug her fingers into the joint of his jaw, held him still while she kissed him again. She pulled Angel close; his flesh was hot, and she could feel his erection pressing against her. He resisted the kiss, but he wanted her, she could feel it, and she was strong enough to hold him in place. Buffy slid her free hand around Angel’s hip, used the leverage to spin him around, to drive him against the counter. It hit him just below the small of his back, and he made a small noise of protest, or pain. Buffy left his mouth to press kisses to his face, throat, chest. Her hands slipped through his clothing, loosing buttons, his belt buckle. Angel squirmed, bringing up his hands to block hers. Buffy took his right hand in her left, arrested its motion. She was the Slayer, and he was human, and he’d grown soft, untrained, in the past four years. She was much stronger. Buffy held his arm tight, both keeping his hand from intercepting hers, and further pinning him against the counter. His left hand, the weaker hand, she brushed absently away whenever it flew into her path.

For a moment, he caught her eye. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning darkly. But he didn’t say anything.

Half of his shirt buttons were undone, baring bits of his torso. But with his arm pinned, she wouldn’t be able to remove his shirt, so she moved on. One-handed, clumsy, Buffy struggled with his belt buckle, then his zipper. Angel writhed away from her, a growl percolating deep in his chest. Buffy was surprised; she hadn’t heard him make a noise like that in four years. She’d supposed that he couldn’t, but apparently it was just part of the vampire language he’d forgotten. Her hand slid against his cock; he was hard, anxious for her. She pushed his jeans down past his hips, just baring him enough to be practical.

Angel yanked against her hold on his arm, tried to pull away, but she had him boxed in and anchored against the counter at the spine; even if he’d been strong enough to get his arm back, he still would have been trapped.

Buffy kissed him desperately, over and over. He was tight all over; he couldn’t relax.

“Please,” she said. “Just . . . I can fix this. Please. I love you; I can fix this.”

Angel didn’t say anything. Buffy struggled for a moment to bare herself, and then to mount him; she used the counter to pull herself up, but with one hand it was hard, and she was clumsy, and she hurt them both. With one arm, she braced herself on the counter, so Angel didn’t have to bear all the weight; with the other, she held his arm at the wrist, the tendons iron-hard beneath her grasp.

***

Angel was absorbed in his garden, on his hands and knees as he tilled the dark earth. He had been thinking about dormant bulbs blooming into bright flowers, about how the earth gives, and nothing sleeps forever, and he had missed the lethal shine of buried glass. And Buffy was in the kitchen tidying up after lunch, and the next thing she knew, out of nowhere, Angel was tripping into the kitchen, his arm clutched to his chest, and there was so much blood, dark blood, and he was having trouble standing. And Buffy could never remember being so frightened in her life, which was ridiculous because he died once, and once she was there while he was dying, but she had never before seen that expression on his face, abject fear and absolutely no plan. He just looked to her, and Buffy had to quell her fear and take him in her hands and tell him that everything was going to be all right, don’t worry, she could fix it.

***

She released him, collapsing against the counter herself, weak with sated lust. Angel turned away from her, walked away from her, and silently righted his clothing. Buffy’s world shimmered, and it seemed, in her drugged state, that it took him ages to turn around.

“Angel,” she said.

He glanced at her, but didn’t really look. He was flushed, and he wiped fitfully at a sheen of wetness on his cheek. His bottom lip was swollen. Buffy’s first thought was maybe it was bruised, but she didn’t recall it being bruised before. She’d hit him higher than that, she thought. But perception was wavering, just now.

“I’m going to have Dawn drive me back to Faith’s,” he said softly.

Buffy pushed herself off the counter, to her feet, and found it slightly difficult to bear her own weight.

“I’ll drive you.”

Angel’s gaze focused on her. “I don’t want you to.”

Buffy was stung, and didn’t know what to say. She walked toward him, but he evaded her, walking just out of her grasp.

“Just call, maybe, the next time you need me for something,” he said, and then, a skip in time, and Buffy found herself alone.

***

Angel entered Faith’s home as quietly as he could, but he needn’t have bothered. Kaya was not in evidence, and Faith was on the couch watching an eighties action movie on grainy basic cable.

“Hey,” she said, rolling a handful of microwave popcorn into her mouth.

“Hey,” he said. “Where’s Kaya?”

“I put the brat in my room,” Faith said. “She’s sleeping.”

Angel checked on his daughter. She was curled up on the bed under her blankets from home, sleeping soundly. Angel smoothed her blankets, pressed a kiss to her forehead. He sat beside her for a long moment, watching her sleep. He remembered sleeping beside Buffy, her stomach swollen with life, sleeping with his hands curled over the bump to feel his child moving, his child’s heartbeat. He remembered, too, the night he’d taken Buffy’s virginity-kissed her, and bared her, and laid her down beneath him. And the night she’d taken his virginity-how scared he’d been, how excited, how she had taken him in her hands and taken charge. Years apart. These things, they’d happened years apart. How insane to have mutually exclusive life experiences.

Angel brought a hand to his bruised face. She’d broken his lip open, kissing him. Or he’d done it. It was so difficult to assign blame, sometimes. On the whole, they were equally at fault.

“I could have said no,” Angel said.

The waiting darkness was unable to hold his words, and they slipped away to nothing, just another diaphanous aspect of the night. Just as well. If lives of experience taught you anything, it was that the conditional has no real bearing upon history. Your life is the things you do, or don’t. The things you prevent, or withstand.

Angel sat beside his daughter, watched her sleep.

“Try not to fall in love, sweetie,” he said. “Just a bit of fatherly advice.”

When he was able to leave her, Angel closed his daughter carefully inside the dark chamber and went to sit with Faith on the couch.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Thanks, nothing. You’re the one’s gonna be sharing the bed with her.” She tipped the popcorn bag in his direction. He shook his head. “Saved you some pizza,” she said, and nodded toward the kitchen, where a grease-stained pizza box sat waiting for him.

Angel slouched into the couch cushions. “Not hungry.”

Faith shrugged, and munched her popcorn, eyes on the television. Angel watched, too, and for a while they just sat together in silence, watching the corny, outdated violence.

“What happened to your face?” Faith asked finally.

“Nothing.”

“Little woman popped you one, huh?”

“Two,” Angel said.

Faith snorted. “Figures.”

She angled the popcorn towards him again. This time, he took some, letting the salty butteriness bathe his tongue.

“We slept together,” he said.

For the first time since Angel had come in, Faith’s eyes left the TV. “You and B?”

He nodded.

“Before or after she beat you up?”

“After. During. I’m not sure.”

“Well, she is your wife,” Faith said. When that failed to provoke a response, she tried, “How was it?”

“I don’t know. Complicated.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get for insisting on having a relationship with the woman you’re boning.” Angel didn’t say anything. Faith said, “Was it worth it?”

“I don’t know. No. Probably not. These things usually aren’t.”

Faith caught his gaze. “But it was, right? Before? The first time?”

Angel’s muscles ached, and he let himself slide further into the couch cushions.

“The first time,” he said. “Yes. It was worth it.”

“So, lemme get this straight,” Faith said. “It was worth your soul, hell, a big pile of dead people . . . and now you don’t know if it’s worth a little complication?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t think we’re the same, anymore. I mean-not the same as people, not the same together . . .”

“That sounds like a load of crap to me, Angel.”

Angel sighed. “You’re right. It probably is.”

They fell back to silence, watching the flickering of explosions and car chases emanating from the television’s small screen. Organically, without cause or explanation, Faith rested her arm across Angel’s shoulder, let his weary weight fall against her.

“This is not a hug,” she said.

Angel had to fight to keep the smile off his face. “Of course not.”

***

Angel had said to call. But if she called, he could just avoid her, and avoidance was not going to make things better between them. And so Buffy showed up, without calling, at Faith’s the next morning.

Faith, hair mussed, eyes bleary, answered the door.

“B,” she said.

Buffy gave her the once over. “Late start this morning?”

Faith stretched irritably. “Your husband? Not as comfy as I’d like. Plus he steals the covers.”

Buffy went ashen, and Faith had to fight to keep the smile from her face.

“I-is he here?” Buffy asked weakly.

“Hold on,” Faith said. “Lemme check.”

She slammed the door before Buffy had a chance to respond.

Angel was in the living room, mere feet behind the conversation at the door, helping Kaya get dressed. He frowned.

“I do not steal the covers.”

Faith shrugged. “I had to make sure she got the picture. Blondes are notoriously slow.”

“You sure it’s a good idea? Pulling her tail?”

“Probably not,” Faith said. “But I’ve never been one for the good idea. Plus, after what she did to you last night? I figure she deserves a little return serve.”

Angel didn’t say anything.

“So,” Faith said. “Do you wanna see her, or should I just leave her standing out there?”

“I don’t want to see her,” he said. “But I’ll-let her in.”

Faith let Buffy in. She navigated the apartment like a mother visiting her son’s dorm room for the first time.

“Um, nice . . . blinds,” Buffy said.

Faith looked around a moment before finally landing on what Buffy was talking about. “Oh, yeah. I think they came with the place.” She looked at Angel. “You didn’t put those up, did you?”

He shook his head.

“Yeah,” Faith said. “They came with the place.”

Kaya squirmed impatiently until her father had finished tying her shoes, and then she burst across the room to her mother.

“Mommy!” she said, fastening herself around Buffy’s knees.

There was a pain in Buffy’s chest. “Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

“We had waffles!”

“That’s great.” She looked to Angel. “Can I talk to you?”

Angel didn’t move. “I told you to call.”

“I didn’t want to give you the option of hanging up on me. Can we talk?”

Angel crossed the room to her. He angled a look back at Faith. “Do you mind . . . ?”

“Well, yeah,” Faith said. Angel just stared stonily at her, and she relented. “Fine. Come on, kid. Let’s give Mommy and Daddy some privacy.”

Kaya went bouncing after Aunt Faith as she left the room.

“She looks really good,” Buffy said. “Kaya. You two are getting along here?”

“She’s fine,” Angel said. “She’s a small child; they pretty much exist in a state of fine. You said you wanted to talk to me?”

Buffy fidgeted. “I-yeah. Yes. I thought maybe-that is, I came to invite you . . . I thought maybe you’d want to come train. With me.” Angel crossed his arms over his chest. Buffy babbled on. “I mean, I need to train, because, you know, big evil, and you were saying how-how you wanted to get back into shape. I mean, like, top fighter shape, not, like, you’re fat now or anything . . .”

She drifted off, search his face hopelessly for clues.

“Kaya,” he said finally.

“Oh, um, Faith could watch her-” She caught Angel’s expression and changed course. “Or, or Dawn. Dawn would love to watch her.”

Angel considered for a few moments. Buffy’s ribcage was assaulted by butterflies. Really big ones. Mothras.

Finally, Angel said, “Okay.”

***

She worked him out slow, at first. Stretching, a run through the glen surrounding the house. Angel was soft for a fighter, yes, but he wasn’t in bad shape for a human-he was used, pre-the restoration of his memories, to taking long hikes through the uncultivated wilderness surrounding the house; to chasing after a hyper two-year-old-and he had no problem keeping up with Buffy. Properly warm, she started with some hand-to-hand. Mistake. Angel was skilled, but he was out of practice and lacked the vampire strength he usually relied on in these situations. The end result was frustration, which translated to reckless bursts of no brakes muscle. He got his ass kicked, and he hated every minute of it.

Buffy, disappointed, stopped them much sooner than she would have liked for a water break.

“I’m fine to keep going,” Angel said, panting.

“Humans need water to survive, Angel. When you exercise, you-”

“I’m human,” Angel snapped. “Not brain damaged. Don’t patronize me.”

Buffy kept her mouth shut.

Angel, grimly determined, was ready for more hand-to-hand, but Buffy decided to change gears. He was punishing himself, not enjoying any of it. And training together used to be their best time: they both enjoyed and excelled in it, and they could be physical without anxiety. Buffy decided to try something that was less a match of might than a battle of brain.

“You remember how to use one of these, don’t you?”

Angel let his hand work around the hilt, feeling for perfect grip. “I seem to remember which end to hold.”

“Well, that’s half the battle, there.”

Buffy picked up her own sword, and squared off with him. They began like a fencing match: polite, useless touches. Buffy grew a little flustered by Angel’s intense focus on her; she’d forgotten how much of his game tended to be reading his opponent, forgotten how deeply and easily he was able to read her. For the first time, she worried about Angel overtaking her, and she struck out more offensively, forcing Angel to take a few steps back. To her surprise, he countered cleverly, gracefully, and immediately, and soon she found herself out of breath.

Angel was breathing hard, too, but he was also smiling.

“What’s so funny?” Buffy asked.

“I never noticed before,” Angel said. “No frame of reference, I guess. But I see it now. You’ve gotten soft.”

Buffy’s cheeks burned. “I have not.”

“Yeah, you have. You’re so used to teaching all these little girls the basics that you’re not used to upper-level thinking anymore. You’re more a Watcher than a warrior, these days.”

“That isn’t true! Take it back!”

In her fury, Buffy made a move that was all force, no forethought. Angel used her momentum and her momentary blindness to knock her sword from her hand.

“For all intents and purposes,” Angel said, retrieving her sword, “my warrior’s been in a coma for four years. And I’m still kicking your ass. What does that say about you?”

He held her sword out to her. Buffy just stared at the dim gleam of the metal, her distorted reflection.

***

Buffy slept fitfully, Angel smoldering under her skin like infection. “I am not soft,” she muttered, over and over again, into the empty night. Angel’s smile, that damn bulletproof quirk of his mouth, the one that Angelus had, too. I never noticed before. No frame of reference, I guess. Buffy’s flesh burned with fever, beads of sweat pooling at her clavicle, her navel, the dent at the top of her lips.

When morning came, Buffy stumbled out of bed with sleep dragging from her ankles, her mouth dry. How smart could her body possibly be if it would steal all her body’s moisture for icky sweat?

Buffy had about five seconds to ponder this before her world swirled into a blur of color and light. Suddenly, a jolt of pain, a jolt in perspective; suddenly, she was on her knees, the tile incredibly cold against her overheated flesh. Her mouth was so dry, and she was aware of little tears of perspiration running down her back. A pull at her stomach, and a sudden spasm like choking. Buffy’s shaking fingers fumbled to raise the toilet seat. When she was finished, Buffy lay her poor febrile body down on the painfully cold tiles, bile burning the back of her throat.

***

Buffy worked hard not to think of Angel. Angel was making her sick; obviously, she had some kind of Angel allergy, and she just needed to get over it. She needed to get her head in the game.

Buffy took a long shower, took her time getting ready. Her stomach was still weak when she reached the kitchen, so she skipped breakfast and went right to her training session. She concentrated on the routine, concentrated on not thinking about Angel. One-two-kick-no Angel. Pivot-step-kick-no Angel.

Everything was going fine until Yael stepped out of formation and came to the head of the class.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asked.

Buffy was about to ask her what she meant, but then her head was swimming, and her world blurred again. Color and light. Falling.

***

Buffy woke up on the living room couch, the looming faces of Kennedy, Willow, and Dawn enormous in her view. She started, and they backed off, dissolved into a din of chattering.

“Oh my God,” Willow said. “Buffy, you scared us! Are you okay?”

“You should probably keep better hydrated,” Dawn said. “It’s getting hot out there.”

“Geez,” Kennedy said. “Are you succumbing to old age already? What are you, thirty?”

Buffy glared, struggled into a sitting position. “No. And I’m fine.”

“Except for your barf fest this morning?” Dawn said. “Yeah, I heard that. Or-you’re not bulimic, are you? Should I be being more sensitive? Maybe organizing an intervention?”

“I’m fine,” Buffy said. “It’s just a bug, or something. Not life-threatening.”

“You should still maybe go to the doctor,” Willow said.

Buffy was about to explain how she didn’t have time for that, and besides, she was the Slayer, like there was a virus that could kill her when the legions of hell couldn’t, but then Kennedy said, “Yeah, I hear the elderly require frequent doctor’s visits,” and she changed her mind.

“I guess you could help an old woman out,” Buffy said, smiling sweetly, “by taking over my classes until I’m a hundred percent again, huh, Ken?”

Kennedy frowned, but Willow was already assuring Buffy that of course, Kennedy would be glad to, and so of course now Buffy had to go to the doctor.

***

Buffy swung her legs, but that was only amusing for a second. She considered getting up and rifling through some of the drawers tongue depressors and cotton balls were always popping out of, but she wasn’t sure how much the back of her gown left exposed. Gah. You were in the waiting room forever, and then once you got back to the exam room, there was only more waiting.

“I’m really fine,” Buffy said as the door opened, not even waiting until the doctor had passed into sight, “Just a little worn down. But I don’t have time to lay off work, so if you could just give me a vitamin shot or something, that’d be great.”

Dr. Morgan looked up from Buffy’s chart. “Still no love lost between you and the medical profession, I see.”

“Well, you know, I’m busy. And you people are always stabbing me.” Buffy rubbed the pit of her elbow, the pinprick bruise marking the spot the nurse had taken blood from.

“You’ll be happy to know that you aren’t sick,” Dr. Morgan said. “Have you and Angel been trying?”

“Trying to wh-oh no.” Dr. Morgan was looking at her oddly; Buffy had to force her way through the quagmire of emotions and say something. “Um, yeah, we were-we were kind of trying, but then-now might not be the best time for that. Are you sure I’m pregnant? It’s not, like, something I ate?”

Dr. Morgan smiled wryly. “Very sure. On the plus side, I’m going to grant your wish.”

“Huh?”

The doctor handed her a bottle of prenatal vitamins. “I’m going to give you some vitamins, and send you back to work.”

***

Buffy considered going to Faith’s to talk to Angel, but then chickened out. Walking into the kitchen, however, she found the choice had been made for her.

“Mommy!”

Kaya and Dawn were at the kitchen table, coloring.

“Hey,” Dawn said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re looking kind of worse now that you’ve been to the doctor. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

Buffy set her purse and the vitamins on the island, and went over to hug her daughter. She breathed in the girl’s sweet, familiar scent.

“He’s here?” she asked Dawn.

Dawn’s eyes were glued to the prenatal vitamins her sister had just set down. “Whoa, Buffy-”

Buffy’s eyes flashed. “Not now. Is he here, or not?”

Dawn’s mouth pinched, and for a moment she held Buffy in an unpitying stare. Finally, she relented, though her expression suggested this wasn’t over.

“Angel?” Dawn said. “Yeah, he came over to do some training. He’s in the barn, I think.”

They had converted the property’s barn into a training facility-weapons, equipment, padded floors, the works. Buffy found Angel there alone, going a few rounds with the punching bag.

“Hey,” he said. “You okay? Dawn said you were at the doctor . . .”

“Complete disclosure,” Buffy said. “That’s what you want, right? I don’t think of your feelings, I don’t think of repercussions or how you’ll react, I just-I just tell you everything. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Angel turned from the punching bag, turned to face her. “It is.”

“I’m pregnant.”

At first, before he could steel himself, Angel smiled enormously. His face animated; his eyes lit up. But soon he’d reined himself in, and he looked concerned, wary.

“Are you sure?”

“I went to the doctor,” she said.

“Now . . . now isn’t . . .”

“Yeah, the timing could be better,” Buffy said. “But I thought-do you still want it?”

That shocked Angel from his stupor. He met her eyes. “What? Of course I do.”

“Even if-” She hated saying it. For days it had been an ever present thought, a disease she carried inside her constantly. But saying it made it real. “Even if you and I can’t work things out?”

“Of course I do,” Angel said again.

Buffy tried to be cool, but she could feel herself doing the stupid teenage girl thing: the big, glistening anime eyes; the parted, breathless mouth. She took a step toward Angel, reached out for him.

Angel turned back to the bag, squared up. His fist touched the bag so softly there was no movement; there was no sound.

“Buffy,” Angel said, “about us . . . ?”

When she’d first seen him, in his tuxedo, coming to take her to the prom. Her heart expanding, her breath stolen. A world of comforting lies and possibility.

“I want to be with you,” Angel said. “But I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Buffy, when I was-before-I trusted you. Absolutely. I didn’t know any better. And you took advantage of my trust. I realize-I do-that you thought you were acting in my best interests. But that isn’t a partnership. It’s-it’s something else, and I can’t go back to that. I know better, now. I want more than that.”

Angel drew back his arm again, but his motion was arrested before he could come in contact with the bag again. Buffy wanted to tell him all the reasons she’d done what she’d done, all the reasons he should forgive and love her again. Instead, she walked up behind Angel at the punching bag, placed her hands on his shoulders. With her hands, she gently guided him into position.

“You’re dropping your shoulder,” she said.

Left, right, right. Perfect, unpunctuated punches. The bag swayed like a hanged man, and Angel let his hands fall to his sides. Buffy rested her palm at the nape of his neck, feathered her fingers through his hair. Angel bowed his head, bore her touch.

“I have a doctor’s appointment on Thursday,” she said. “You know, the-for the baby. Do you-I thought maybe you’d want to come.”

“I’ll be there.”

Buffy went to leave. Angel turned after her.

“Do you-do you maybe want Kaya tonight?” he said.

She smiled. “Sure. I’d love that.”

“Maybe we should wait. To tell her, you know, about the baby. Maybe . . . maybe until you’re showing. It’ll be easier for her to understand that way. If there’s a change she can see.”

“Okay. Whatever you think.”

Buffy turned to go again. She was steps from leaving the barn, from stepping into the sun, when Angel’s hand encircled her wrist, tugged her back. She looked at him questioningly, but before she could open her mouth to speak, Angel had drawn her against him and was kissing her, softy, hesitantly. Buffy was shocked, too shocked to move, and before she could come around, Angel had released her. He stepped back, flushed and flustered.

“So,” he said. “I’ll, uh-I’ll just . . . come by. Tomorrow. For Kaya.”

“Okay.”

Angel tripped on his way out of the barn, righted himself awkwardly. Buffy watched him go, the taste of him still in her mouth.

***

“Buffy’s pregnant.”

“Yeah?” Faith said. “Is it yours?”

Angel jumped. “What? Yes. I mean-of course it is. Yes.”

Faith fanned her hands in surrender. “Just checking. Well, good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah, good. I support anything that results in more people with your DNA running around.”

Angel smiled. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” Faith said. “So. Does this mean you and the little woman have patched things up, or . . . ?”

“No. I don’t know. I guess . . . I guess I figured, all along, that we were going to fix things eventually, but . . . all this does is give us a deadline, I guess.”

“You don’t have to get married to the mother of your kid, you know.” Faith frowned. “Well, I guess you’re already married, but what I’m saying is-”

“But I want to be,” Angel said. “I want to be a family and her husband and I don’t want to feel this anger and resentment and fear every time I see her, because I love her and I want to be with her. But she took this enormous thing, my life, and she didn’t even ask me, and I just-any second she could take something from me again, and I might not even know.”

“That’s why I don’t go in for all this long-term shit,” Faith said.

“I think our case is . . . unique.”

“I don’t think so. Sounds like the same problem I’ve had in every relationship I’ve ever been in. That whole tree falling in the woods thing.”

Angel frowned. “What?”

“You know, ‘if he cheats on me, and I don’t know about it, is it still cheating?’ Knowing everything? Generally doesn’t make you happy.”

***

Given their recent history, Buffy would have preferred to have more clothes on. Angel, though, seemed to notice neither her near nakedness, nor her tension. Buffy clung the little paper robe against her bare breasts-and it would have to be cold in here-and watched her husband’s passive inspection of the room. His eyes rested on the foreign implements, on the posters on the wall-tiny-fonted treatises on fetal alcohol syndrome and how to give yourself a breast exam-but Buffy could tell by his relaxed expression that he wasn’t really reading them. Angel got invested in reading, drawn in; the concentration was always apparent in his expression, his posture.

“I don’t really like the idea of you having a male doctor,” Angel said, pretending to read a poster on Kegels exercises.

“You never minded before.”

Angel looked at her humorlessly, proprietarily.

“He’s the only OB/GYN in fifty miles,” Buffy said. “And he was good before, with Kaya. Don’t you think?”

After a beat, Angel nodded. Buffy tried to decide whether this was a step forward, his being jealous, or not. Before she could press him, Dr. Keene entered. Buffy couldn’t imagine what Angel could possibly be jealous about; Dr. Keene was over seventy, and completely unthreatening in a grandfatherly sort of way.

“Well, well,” he said. “Congratulations are in order.”

Buffy smiled. “Thank you.”

“And how’s that beautiful baby girl I delivered?”

“She’s good,” Buffy said. “She’s two now.”

Angel produced a photograph from his wallet.

“Two years old, my goodness,” Dr. Keene said. “And my, what a beauty. I hope you’re prepared, young man; she’s going to be a heartbreaker.”

Angel took the picture back.

“I expect so,” he said. “It runs in the family.”

***

After her doctor’s appointment, Buffy drove Angel back to the manor. He’d wanted her to take him home, but she’d asked for some time to rest, and he had immediately acquiesced. But Buffy had no sooner rested her head on her pillow than her bedroom door had burst open.

“Five minutes,” Buffy said, without opening her eyes. “That’s all I’m asking for, guys. Seriously.”

“We’ve got the results from Willow’s spell tracker thing,” Kennedy said. “Thought you’d want to know.”

Buffy cracked one eye opened. “We have a location?”

“We do. And you’re gonna love it.”

***

Buffy frowned at the map. “I don’t get it. Tell me what I’m looking at.”

Willow smoothed the map over the kitchen table, illustrated points with her hands.

“Okay,” she said. “So this is us, here. And this, over here, this is downtown. And this is the demon part of town. And this,” she indicated the area lit up by her spell, “is the really posh part of town with all the McMansions.”

“Angel’s key opens a McMansion?” Buffy asked.

“Not all that surprising,” Angel said. “Members of the Black Thorn get a lot of power from their evil; that tends to translate to big money.”

“I say we get the team ready,” Kennedy said. “Full on ambush.”

“Full on stupid, you mean,” Angel said. “All muscle and no recon? That sounds like a really great way to get a lot of people killed.”

“You’d know,” Kennedy said.

Buffy stepped between them before there was blood.

“Angel’s right,” she said. “We need to approach this cautiously.”

“I have the key,” Angel said. “I’ll go in, alone, and see what we’re dealing with.”

“You’ll get killed,” Kennedy said.

“I’ll be careful.”

Angel met Buffy’s eyes. She squirmed.

“It’s going to be dangerous,” she said weakly.

“I can do dangerous,” he said. “Buffy, we need to know what we’re dealing with; sending me in to do recon is the best option. I’m the only one who won’t trigger their spell; it has to be me. Just me.”

I love you. I’m not sure if I trust you. Buffy sighed. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

***

Buffy sat, nervously watching, as Angel strapped on weapons beneath his clothes.

“I’m not going to need them,” he said. “Just a precaution.”

“I should go with you,” she said.

Angel zeroed an unpitying look at her. “We’ve been through this. You can’t.”

“I know! I know. But I’m scared, and it’s your fault, so you have to deal with my histrionics.”

Angel looked at her gravely for a long second before cracking the tiniest shadow of a smile. “Okay.”

Buffy got up, approached him. “You have to come back here when you’re finished. So I know you’re okay.” Angel’s face began to soften, and Buffy hastily added, “And, you know, so I can pump you for information.”

“Okay,” Angel said. “But you have to do something for me.”

“Okay.”

“My solo mission? Is really going to be solo. After I leave, you just go to sleep, and don’t worry about me. You don’t tail me, magically or vicariously, or anything.”

Buffy bit into the flesh of her lip. That wasn’t really how she operated; she was at her best when she was in control.

“Or else,” Angel said, “no deal.”

Buffy sighed. “Okay. Fine. You’re on your own. But you have to do one more thing for me.”

Angel cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

Before she could stop herself, she had her arms around him. “Don’t die.”

***

Buffy had promised Angel that she’d go to bed, go to sleep, let him complete his mission on his own, with no interference or worrying. No interference she could do-though it was a challenge-but no worrying was off the menu. Buffy lay awake, watching the moonlight constellations on her ceiling, each Rorshach moonblot devolving into an atrocity that could be befalling Angel. Right this moment, while she was tethered by forced trust to their bed.

Marriage was hard.

And so, though it was very late, Buffy was not sleeping when Angel got home. He tripped into the room and headed straight to the bathroom. The silhouette of his normally graceful frame jerking in the dim light sent a thrill of fear up Buffy’s spine, and in an instant she was crowding the bathroom door, crowding Angel’s personal space. He was bent over the sink, his back to her, the water running dark.

“Are you okay?”

“I have news.”

The words were unpleasantly long and round, and Buffy turned on the light so she could see the damage to his mouth. Angel flinched at the light, then returned to rinsing the blood from his mouth, as raw and dripping as the first bite of a plum.

“I don’t care,” Buffy said. “I mean, I care, but not right now. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll care. Right now, I only need to know you’re okay.”

Angel turned the water off, turned to look at his wife.

“Yeah,” he said, softly. “I’m okay.”

Buffy relaxed, but not a lot. He didn’t look okay. His face was a nest of bruises, and he was holding his right arm tight against his ribs.

“Okay,” Buffy said. “Good. I . . . I guess you didn’t just get in, get out, huh?”

Angel shook his head. Buffy got the first aid kit out from under the sink.

“Here,” she said, and gently guided Angel against the sink, the tile at the small of his back. “I’m just going to take a look, okay?”

Angel nodded, and Buffy got gauze and cotton and alcohol from the kit, and began gently tending to the bruises and cuts on his face.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “I mean-do you want something for pain? We have morphine . . .”

Angel shook his head. “I’m okay.”

Buffy’s fingers on the strange new territory of Angel’s face. Like walking into your kitchen and finding a car parked there. She tried to be gentle and he tried to be stoic, but her touch rent sighs and moans from him. Disinfecting an angry gash just breaths from his eye, and Angel cried out. Buffy held the alcohol firmly to the wound, but threaded her other hand through his hair, her palm cradling the nape of his neck, steadying him. Holding him fast.

Angel looked much better with the blood washed off, with the wounds bandaged and sutured. Buffy let her fingers rest on Angel’s hurt arm.

“I need to take a look,” she said.

Angel gave her a pound animal’s look, but then extended his arm. Buffy tried pushing Angel’s sleeve up to the elbow so she could have a better look, but Angel flinched so hard that she cut the fabric away, instead. The flesh was mottled with bruising, the contour slightly unsymmetrical. Buffy let her fingers rest at the epicenter of the bruising, and the flesh spasmed; Angel took in a breath sufficient for undersea diving.

“It’s broken,” she said. “You need a doctor. I can take you to the emergency room-”

Angel shook his head. “No.”

“Angel-”

“I’m not saying ‘never,’” Angel said. “Tomorrow. You can take me to see Dr. Morgan tomorrow.”

Buffy hesitated. She took in Angel’s drawn, ashen face; he probably just wanted to lie down and sleep through the worst of the pain. That was a feeling she was familiar with.

“Okay,” she said. “But it needs to be wrapped, at least.”

Angel nodded. He allowed her to sit him down and bind his injured arm with bandages, sat still except through the involuntary shaking of his muscles. Buffy asked again about morphine, and again he said no. When she’d finished with his arm, Buffy helped Angel to his feet, packed away the first aid kit, and switched off the light. Angel tucked the wounded arm against his side again, walked with her into their bedroom.

“Will you help me undress?” he asked.

Inside her chest, Buffy’s breath turned to stone. She was unable to speak, so she just nodded. Angel was still as she stripped him, her fingers clumsy; she was overly conscious of his injuries, overly conscious of the last time she had undressed him in this room. That had been a different lifetime; how strange to have memories from a different lifetime.

Buffy felt awkward, needled, so she labored over carefully folding Angel’s discarded clothing, even the shirt, which she’d ruined with the tiny scissors from the first aid kit, and would have to be thrown away. Angel studied her movements, his brow creased with concern.

“It is okay if I sleep here tonight, isn’t it?”

Buffy started. “Of course it is. It’s-I mean, it’s your bed.”

The covers were already mussed from Buffy’s pretending not to be worried bit. Angel and his broken arm didn’t bother with pajamas; he just slipped naked beneath the sheets, gingerly worked to find the most comfortable position. Buffy stared after him for so long that he opened his eyes, slanted a look at her.

“You’re sure it’s okay?”

Buffy started. “What? Yes. Don’t be silly. Yes. Totally okay.”

She didn’t have a choice now. Buffy padded the gallows route to her side of the bed. Angel’s back was to her; her eyes wandered the familiar broad slope of his shoulders, and she thought of the panic of virgin brides. But that wasn’t her fear. Sex was easy, now that they no longer had that curse thing to contend with. It was the other stuff that was hard.

Buffy thought of his first days with her in Scotland, his body broken, his memory gone. How he needed her to fall asleep. Buffy lay down beside her husband, rested her hand in the valley between his shoulders. The thrum of his heartbeat pulsed into her palm. Angel moaned quietly, but beneath her, his body relaxed.

***

Dr. Morgan gave Angel a shot of Demerol before setting his arm. Angel, who was big but didn’t even like taking Tylenol, had to be helped to the car, and fell asleep before Buffy had him buckled in. The house was remote, and they had a good long drive; Angel slept through it all, and Buffy drove nervously in the resulting silence, constantly looking over to make sure he was okay.

Back home, Buffy woke Angel-groggy, confused-and half-carried him into the house. The foyer was mostly empty; Dawn was curled up with a book in the armchair by the window, and a few ex-Potentials were lounging about the couch. Buffy shooed the junior Slayers away and deposited Angel’s large, drugged body on the vacated sofa. He slipped down into the cushions, his spine liquid.

“Dawn,” Buffy said. “Come sit with him a minute, would you? I need to grab his prescriptions from the car.”

Dawn abandoned her book and came to sit by Angel. He looked up at her with vague, nearsighted interest.

“Dawnie,” he slurred. “I remember before you were here.”

“Like, before I was born? ’Cuz you’re really old, so.”

Angel frowned. “No. I remember before-before they made you. When it was just Buffy. I’m not sure why that is.”

Dawn studied him curiously. “Most people don’t remember that, you know.”

“I’m selfish, though,” Angel said. “I kept all the memories I had of her. Even the ones they tried to take away.”

Buffy returned, letting the door swing carelessly, noisily shut behind her; she was distracted by the papers in her hand.

“Dawn, I forget which of these is for what . . .”

“I’m sure they’ll tell you at the pharmacy.”

Buffy looked sheepishly up at her sister. “I was hoping maybe they could tell you at the pharmacy . . .”

Dawn sighed. She hopped off the sofa and snatched the scripts from Buffy.

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m taking your car. And. I’m doing this for Angel, not for you.”

“Fine,” Buffy said, relinquishing the keys.

Dawn left, screeching out of the driveway on Buffy’s tires. Buffy sighed, and went to tend to Angel. She knelt beside him.

“Come on, sweetie. Let’s go upstairs and lay down until our drugs wear off.”

Angel squinted at her.

“Buffy,” he said.

“That’s right. I’m Buffy. And we’re leaving.”

Angel reached up to touch her, his fingers tracing the contours of her cheek, smoothing back her hair.

“You’re pretty,” he said.

“And you’re stoned,” Buffy said, rolling her eyes. “Come on.”

She slipped an arm around him, hauled him to his feet. She dragged him up the stairs, into their bedroom, where she let him collapse on the mattress. She took of his shoes, helped him under the covers. Angel squirmed into a comfortable position, his eyes drifting closed. Buffy was on her way out when Angel moaned softly into his pillow; she stopped, came to sit by him on the bed.

“Are you okay? Dawn’ll be back soon with your medicine; there’s one for pain, I think.”

Angel shifted fitfully, searching painfully for sleep.

“Buffy,” he said.

Buffy placed her hand on Angel’s shoulder, trying to still him.

“We have to-there’s things I need to tell you,” Angel said.

“About the Black Thorn? No, that can wait. Right now, you need to rest.”

Angel twisted uncomfortably against his pillow.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Honey, it’s okay. Your health is more important than-”

“No, I just-love you. I’m sorry and I love you.”

Buffy could feel her pulse at every inch of her body, a dizzying throb. For a moment, her entire body was alive with this one thought.

“I love you, too.”

Beneath her hand, Angel’s chest rose and fell with long, even breaths.