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The Violence of Existing	By : Maren Category: AtS/BtVS Crossovers > Het - Male/Female > Angel(us)/Buffy > Angel(us)/Buffy Views: 3497 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own AtS or BtVS. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
He could feel the bass pounding in waves inside his body,
each beat accentuated by the rumble and ripple of dead tissue, and he realized
why these kinds of clubs were popular with the undead crowd. If he closed his eyes and pretended, he just
might be able to believe that the vibrating movements deep inside his chest
cavity were from the beating of his own heart.
The fantasy was tempting, but he couldn�t forget why he was here.

Buffy.

Angel quickly scanned the interior, trying to catch a
glimpse of her in the crowded club where the sea of undulating bodies moved in
riotous synchronicity-- flesh pressed up against flesh, groin grinding against
groin, hands exploring bodies that were slick with perspiration and want. The pulsating white light that illuminated
the room in waves and bursts of shocking brilliance did more to obscure his
vampiric vision than enhance it and he didn�t see her.

It didn�t matter�not yet anyway. He could feel her.

The knowledge of her presence was thrumming along his spine,
pulsing just a little faster than the beat of the music. It was intoxicating and he wondered at the
seductive fingers of unreality that tinged the edges of this night. For a few seconds he considered the
possibility that this wasn�t real, that he hadn�t actually found her after a
week of searching every dive and alt club in the city, after a week of giving
up and waiting for her at her apartment until the dawn was coming and he�d had
to admit she wasn�t.

The night after he�d found out she was alive, the night
after she�d closed her door in his face with a sneer on her beautiful mouth and
a blank look in her usually-expressive eyes, he�d gone to see Wes. He had meant to find out everything he could
about Buffy�s resurrection and then do what he should have done over a year
ago�kill him.

When the door to Wesley�s apartment opened, Angel was
confronted by a man who bore little resemblance to the person he had
known. Gone was the man who looked like
he was born with glasses perched on his nose and a book in his hand. In his place was a being who exuded a level
of dangerous threat of which Angel hadn�t thought Wesley capable.

~~~~~~~

�I�d ask what you
want, but somehow I can�t quite bring myself to care,� Wesley said as he opened
his door to see the glowering vampire filling the frame. Angel tried to push forward into the
apartment, but was stopped by the invisible barrier.

�Let me in,� he growled,
his eyes burning into the man who had betrayed him on even more levels than he
had thought just two days ago. Angel
stood in rigid stillness, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He radiated a powerful violence that made it
seem like he was vibrating with an unseen energy.

Wesley made a short,
barking sound that grated harshly in the stagnant air and only vaguely
resembled the laugh it was meant to be.
�Why, so you can finish what you started the last time I saw you? I don�t believe I�m interested.�

�Actually, first you�re going to tell me what
the hell you�ve been doing with Buffy, and *then* I�m going to finish what I
started�whether you�re interested or not,� Angel returned, glaring dangerously
at the other man. He noticed the guilt
that quickly flashed through Wesley�s eyes at the mention of Buffy before it
was gone and replaced by cool indifference.
They stood on opposite sides of the doorway, eyes clashing in silent
battle, for several long minutes. Then
Wesley turned and disappeared from his line of sight, and Angel struggled
against his urge to throw himself against the barrier, despite the knowledge
that it would get him nowhere.

When Wesley returned
to the open door, he carried a crossbow in one hand and a drink in the
other. He took a slow drink of the
amber-colored liquid in the glass as he contemplated his former friend. Angel waited, silent and glowering, and
watched as Wesley took another drink, shrugged, and sat the glass down on an
end table. He swung the crossbow up with
a fluid, practiced motion and pointed it at Angel�s chest.

�Old friends are
always welcome to come in,� he said.

Angel�s jaw clenched
in renewed anger at the words, but he stepped inside the apartment with the
grace and speed of the predator he was, not stopping until the tip of the arrow
in the crossbow was just inches from his heart.
His nose flared slightly at the smell of alcohol that spilled off Wes in
waves. He didn�t know how he�d missed
the scent of stale liquor before, but it was obvious that the man had spent the
hours since he left Buffy�s drinking.

�You�re drunk,� Angel
said with more than a touch of derision.

�Not so drunk I�ll
miss,� Wes replied, and Angel could see the truth of that statement in the hard glare in
Wesley�s eyes and the steady hand that held the crossbow.

Backing off, Angel
turned to shut the door behind him and then moved to the living room window
that overlooked the street. His eyes
roamed over the room as he looked for signs of Buffy. He didn�t see anything that looked like it
might belong to her, and gauging from the trace amounts of her scent present in
the apartment, he didn�t think she had spent much time here. Sighing, he closed his eyes for a moment and
tried to will the jealous tension out of the way. Now was not the time for jealousy�he had to
find out how the hell she was alive before he could give in to his urges to
seriously hurt the man who used to be one of his closest friends.

�So I guess you know
the Slayer�s alive.� Wes�s statement was quickly followed by the sound of
tinkling ice and a long swallow. Angel
slowly turned around to find him sitting in a chair by the door, the crossbow
lowered but not forgotten.

�What. . .� Angel
stopped and swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. His mind had been churning violently over the
past day as he waited until night fall came again, running over the potential
explanations for Buffy�s return to life and trying to deal with the fact that
she hadn�t told him, that no one in Sunnydale had called to tell him. Part of him dreaded learning the answers to
these questions, but he knew he must ask anyway. Out of habit, he took a long deep breath
before continuing. �How? Was it Wolfram
and Hart?�

At the mention of the
law firm, Wesley raised his glass and emptied its contents, his eyes hard and
distant. Focusing once again on Angel,
he shrugged. �I don�t know if they had
anything to do with her resurrection, but I don�t think so.� He picked up the
bottle of whiskey on the end table and refilled his glass. �She died.
She came back. I�m not sure what
else you�d like for me to say, and besides, it�s not my story to tell,� he
finished.

Angel scowled at the
lack of information. �When did this
happen? When did you find her?� he
continued, pushing to get something out of Wes that might help explain this
miracle.

�She was resurrected
about 2 years ago . . . we became . . . reacquainted almost a year ago,� Wesley
intoned.

The words hit Angel
like a hard punch to the gut. He fought
against the urge to take a deep, gasping breath in response. He couldn�t stop himself from slowly shaking
his head, trying to make sense of all the warring thoughts and protestations
pounding inside it. In the day he�d
known she was alive, he never once imagined that it had happened so long
ago. Struggling to hide the combined
pain and shock, he addressed the other man again.

�You�ve known Buffy
was alive for a year and you didn�t tell me?� he said, the anger in his voice
still present, but softened by a confusion he couldn�t manage to completely
hide.

Wesley shot him an
incredulous look. �We haven�t exactly
been on speaking terms.�

The gut-wrenching pain
turned into pure anger as Angel was reminded of why Wes wasn�t in his life
anymore. The memories of hearing Buffy�s
cries of pleasure and pain with Wesley the night before surged into his mind,
despite his desperate attempts to suppress them. The thread of control he had managed to
maintain thus far snapped, and he lashed out.

�I was there last
night. I know what you did to Buffy and
I will kill you for it. What�s the
matter, Wes? Kidnapping children isn�t
enough for you�you have to beat up women to get your jollies now too? You
disgust me,� Angel seethed, his eyes flashing gold as he advanced on
Wesley. He heard the man�s heartbeat
quicken, but there was no outward sign that Wes was frightened. Instead of fear, it was guilt and
self-loathing that flashed across his face and settled his mouth into a grim
line.

Wesley pointed the
crossbow at Angel with a speed that belied his drunken state. �The Slayer is not the same woman you used to
know, Angel. You�d do well to remember
that. As for last night, well, I�m
equally disgusted with myself but in my defense, I didn�t do anything she didn�t
want,� he said in a soft, measured rhythm.

A tiny fraction of
Angel�s rage eased. �Buffy deserves
better than that . . . how could you do that to her?� He hated the plaintive note in his tone, but
he couldn�t help it any more than he could help the urge to kill his former
friend.

Another mirthless laugh erupted from Wesley�s lips before they settled in a
smirk. �It�s not always about holding hands, Angel. I would think that someone with your . . .
romantic history. . . would recognize that.�

Angel didn�t struggle
against the change as his anger pushed the demon forward. His face morphed and he welcomed the sharp
prick of his fangs and the surge of bloodlust that accompanied it.

�You�re not going to
live to touch her again,� he warned.

Standing up, Wesley
pushed the chair he had been sitting in back with his foot and moved to the
side, keeping the crossbow trained on the snarling vampire. �No doubt,� he drawled, �but it�s not going
to happen tonight. I do think it�s time
for you to be leaving, old friend.�

A quick assessment of
the situation told Angel that if he advanced on Wes, he could very well end up
a pile of dust before ever getting to see Buffy again. Forcing himself to back up a step, he
struggled to regain his human features as he slowly angled toward the
door.

�Where can I find
her?� he asked, his voice rasping with his effort not to yell.

Wesley kept his eyes
trained on Angel, tracking him as he backed toward to door, refusing to give
him an opening to attack. He sighed,
shaking his head slightly before answering.
�You won�t find her unless she wants to be found.�

�That doesn�t answer
my question,� Angel grit out.

A sigh and quick shake
of the head preceded Wesley�s answer.
�The Slayer spends her nights in any number of garish clubs around her
neighborhood. If it�s loud and not too
trendy, she�s likely a regular,� he supplied.

Reaching the door, Angel
turned his back on Wes and opened it, preparing to leave.

�Oh, and Angel?�

He turned around and
glared at Wes.

�Don�t presume to
think I won�t revoke your invitation the second you leave. I won�t make my murder easy on you.�

The glare faded from
his face and was replaced with a slow, menacing smile that did not touch the
hard darkness of his eyes. �I always
enjoy a challenge,� Angel said. Then he
turned and retreated, eager to find Buffy, see her again, feel her and make
sure she was real and not a figment of his imagination.

~~~~~~~

And so he had scoured the city for her, visiting each of the
clubs in her neighborhood and then circling outward in an ever-larger search
area. Night after night he looked for
her, sometimes finding people who said they�d seen a woman fitting her
description, but she was never there and she didn�t return to her loft during
the night. Angel�s frustration increased
each night, his worry that she didn�t actually exist outside his own mind
blooming as the days ticked by.

But now he knew he had found her. His eyes continued to search the blinking
interior, skimming over the sea of bodies draped in black, the intermittent
strobes of light illuminating the inhabitants with their pierced faces and
black-lined eyes. Angel scanned the bar,
table, and dance areas and found no sign of Buffy. Pushing his way through the crowd, he moved
toward the dance floor, sure that�s where he would find her. A woman with bright pink hair and a tight
black vinyl dress moved in front of his path, flashing him a seductive smile as
she held up a little baggie of blue pills.
Pressing up against him, her breasts crushing into his arm, she spoke
close to his ear.

�You look a little tense.
I could take care of that for you . . . in more ways than one,� she
promised, pushing the hand that held the baggie under his leather duster and
trailing it over his chest. Angel
ignored her, still searching the interior.
Finally, his eyes tracked up a staircase in the far corner to a balcony
that overlooked the main floor.

And there she was.

He drank in the sight of her, not wanting to miss a single
detail. Buffy was facing the iron railing of the balcony, her back pressed up
against a man as she danced with an abandon he�d only seen in her once before. His eyes narrowed as he saw the man�s hand
snake out to wrap around the bare expanse of waist that was exposed between her
tiny, pleated red-and-black plaid mini and the tight white tank top that was
cut off so short that he caught glimpses of her black bra as she moved her arms
over her head. Her hair was longer than
he remembered and ran over her shoulders and back in tousled waves. She wore a winding silver band around one of
her upper arms and a silver cross around her neck that reminded him of the one
he�d given her all those years ago. Then
his eyes were sliding up to rest on the face that had haunted his dreams for
years.

Her eyes were trained on him, and she smirked as their gazes
clashed.

�Hmmm, feels like someone�s more interested than he�s
acting.� At the sound of her voice,
Angel�s attention was drawn back to the woman pressed up against him. He hadn�t noticed that her hand had moved
down his chest and stomach, and was now resting over the outline of the bulge beginning
to form in his black pants.

�Not in you,� he bit out, removing her hand and stepping
away from her. Angel ignored her pout
and looked back to the balcony, only to find Buffy gone. Moving quickly forward, he pushed through the
crowd, determined not to lose her now that he�d finally found her. He continued to scan the mass of people above
as he approached the stairs, his hands absently pushing anyone who got in his
way aside. As he reached the bottom
step, Angel saw her slowly and coolly descending them, her eyes never leaving
him.

She stopped two steps above him, the added height making her
gaze level with his. Angel itched to
reach out and touch her, pull her close and assure himself
that his rioting senses weren�t playing any tricks on him. This felt unreal, time moving so slowly he
felt like his body and brain were surrounded and suspended in honey. Everything that he had felt when he saw Darla
after she was brought back from the dead was magnified a thousand-fold and
punctuated by the intensity of feelings he had for the woman who stood in front
of him.

�Stalker, much?�

Angel saw her glossy lips moving, knew that she had said
something sarcastic, but it was gone before his memory could process it. All he could concentrate on was the sound of
her voice, the scent of her sweat, and the sight of her so close to him again .
. . within touching distance. He reached
out tentatively, his fingers grazing the flesh of her cheek before sweeping
down to make contact with her slightly parted lips. He felt her breath catch and saw her eyes
flash with the same electric awareness he was feeling at the touch.

�Buffy. . .� he murmured, so softly that there was no way
she could have heard him in the loud club.
Still, he saw her eyes harden once again as she stepped back up a stair,
out of his reach. Then she was planting
her hands on the stair railing and vaulting over it to the floor below,
circumventing the need to brush past him and come within his reach again. Angel spun around and moved swiftly after her
retreating form. She was moving fast,
nimbly weaving her small body through the crowd, and he couldn�t catch up with
her until they were almost off the dance floor on the far side of the club. Reaching out, he grasped her roughly around
the upper arm and spun her around to face him.

�Buffy, stop. . .� he tried again, his warring emotions of
anger and longing sounding in his voice.

She glared at him for a split second before grabbing the arm
that held her with her free hand and twisting her body. Angel felt his feet leave the floor as she
spun him around, felt his grip loosen as his back rushed to meet the
ground. In the next moment he found
himself staring up at her booted foot planted on his chest. The crowd immediately surrounding them
stilled their movements and looked at the small blonde overpowering the large,
muscled man.

When she spoke, her voice was low and controlled, meant only
for him with his vampire hearing. �Don�t
touch me, Angel. I�m not the person you
think I am. You really don�t want to fuck with me.�

Angel�s anger won out as he pushed her foot off his chest
and gracefully leapt to his feet. He
moved close, allowing only a sliver of air to separate them, but he didn�t
touch her.

�Do you really want to do this here?� he hissed in her ear. Angel watched through narrowed eyes as she
glanced at the audience surrounding them before giving an almost imperceptible
shake of her head. He felt her hair
brush against his face and he breathed in the scent. Even in his state of anger, he rejoiced in
the tangible signs that she was alive.

�Come on,� she ordered as she moved toward the exit, not
bothering to look back to see if he was following. There was no need. Angel wasn�t going to let her out of his
sight if he could help it. He silently
stalked behind her, glaring darkly at anyone who dared to look at him
wrong. Soon they were stepping out into
the cooler night air and the bright street lights. Angel took in the sight of Buffy as she
walked confidently in front of him, leading him to whatever destination she had
in mind. The impressions he had gained
from his brief glimpse of her a week ago were confirmed as he noted her more
tightly defined biceps that led into feminine but muscular shoulders. His gaze traveled further down her body and
everywhere he looked he saw a woman who was strong and lean. Buffy had always been thin and she had always
been strong, but she had managed to maintain a deceptively small and
dainty-looking build. Now no one with a
trained eye could look at her and not see the athletic fighting machine she had
become.

Once again, he wondered what in the hell had happened to
her.

*****

Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod

The refrain had been sounding on a continuous loop through
her head since the moment she had seen him in the club.

Felt him, really. Damn slayer senses only seemed to work on
Him.

Knowing that he would be looking for her and not wanting to
be found, she�d spent the last week staying a step ahead of him. She�d needed time to think about what she was
going to do without having her head clouded by his presence and his
questions. Unfortunately, he didn�t have
to actually be present to throw her off�she�d been fighting off the feelings
that had suddenly hit her at his hotel ever since. No matter how much alcohol or drugs she
consumed, she was in a state of turmoil that she didn�t know quite how to deal
with. Even her fighting technique was a
little off�a regular vamp had been able to get close enough to leave bruises
the night before and she honestly couldn�t remember the last time that had
happened. Slayer didn�t know what the
hell was happening to her, but she did know whose fault it was.

His.

Slayer shook her head and shot a glance at him out of the
corner of her eye. He was still staring
at her�hadn�t moved his eyes off her since they�d gotten into her car. At first he�d tried to ask her questions,
calling her that name. When she continued to studiously ignore him
as she concentrated on the road and feigned indifference, he sighed in
frustration.

�Buffy, please. . .�
he said, and shook his head when she continued to ignore him.

Now he was just staring and her skin was crawling with
awareness and she just wanted to. . .

Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod

**********

Angel followed her up the stairs to her loft, fighting the
urge to grab her and shake her until she talked
to him. His senses were rioting
after being so close to her after so long apart, the car ride over here a blur
of frustration, confusion and longing that set his already frazzled nerves on
edge and his temper even closer to the surface.
He couldn�t help but notice that she avoided the elevator in favor of
the stairs and wondered if she was feeling the same intense itch being confined
with him as he was with her. They reached
the heavy steel door, and she unlocked it, entered, and punched a security code
into the box next to the door before turning to look at him. It was the first time she�d looked directly
at him since leaving the club.

�Come in and make yourself at home. I�m going to take a shower,� she said with a
sigh, waving him in absently before turning her back on him and heading further
into the apartment. He was only able to
look into her eyes for a moment, but it was long enough to see the dilated
pupils and slightly dazed look that softened them just enough to explain the
rapid heart beat and increased body temperature he�d noticed in the confines of
her car.

He snarled and grabbed her waist, his hand making contact
with her bare skin and sending a jolt of awareness through his body. He ignored it as he spun her around to face
him again. �What the hell is going on
here Buffy? What happened to you?�

In an instant the dazed look in her eyes was replaced by a
hard glitter as she planted a hand in his chest and pushed him back out of her
personal space. Something flickered and
then, just as quickly, her hard look melted into one of tired resignation.

�Look, shower first, then talk. I�m sweaty and I smell, and frankly, as much
as you seem to be enjoying the naughtier version of Darla�s school-girl outfit
here,� she looked down at the fly of his pants before continuing, �I�d rather
not have this conversation with you while you look like you�re going to make me
your next meal.�

Angel cursed his body�s lack of control, and decided not to
mention the signs of her own arousal that coursed through the air even as she
spoke. It was true, though, that he had
been struggling with his body�s response to her since he first saw her in the
club, moving like that in the tiny
skirt and tinier shirt. He�d managed to
regain some modicum of control on the ride here, but touching her bare skin had
evoked another reaction in his lower regions.
He couldn�t remember the last time he�d felt this uncontrolled without
the influence of magic. Taking a step
back, he nodded, neither his face nor body betraying that he was anything but
calm.

�Fine, take a shower.
But Buffy? Then you talk.�

Something dark and dangerous flashed across her face and he
suddenly felt very much the vampire to her slayer. Then it was gone and she was turning toward
the enclosed room in the middle of the loft.
He watched her glide away, the pleats of her skirt barely covering her
from his prying eyes and long expanses of bare legs ending in black lace-up
combat boots. Her hair lay in long messy
waves down her back, like she�d simply finger-combed it after a long, hard day
in bed. . .

Gritting his teeth, Angel turned abruptly away and cursed
himself for the direction of his thoughts.
Buffy was miraculously alive, but something was clearly wrong with her
and he couldn�t seem to get a grip on his lust.
He knew he needed to pull himself together so he could find out what had
happened to her and what had caused her to change so much.

He couldn�t quite believe how much she had changed. Of
course there was the way she looked�a little more Faith than the Buffy he
remembered, more muscular, paler, edgier.
But there were other things, too.
The way she had downed him in the club, fast and efficient, had surprised
him. She�d always been a little stronger
than him, but the differences were miniscule and it had taken much more thrust
and parry for either to gain any real advantage. Angel hadn�t been taken down that fast in
centuries.

Then there was the expert way that she handled her very
expensive sports car, a definite change from the girl who once claimed that she
and cars were �un-mixy things�. Not to
mention the car itself. Unless she was
stealing them these days, it had to have set her back enough money to
completely support several middle-class families for a year. He refused to think about the other things
that had changed. During his waking
hours, he studiously avoided the memory of the sounds she made when Wesley
struck her flesh. He couldn�t quite
manage to keep them out of his dreams.

Hearing the sound of the shower starting, Angel took the
opportunity to take a good look around her loft. It was large and spacious, with ceilings at
least 20 feet high and a smooth polished concrete floor. There wasn�t a lot of furniture on this side
of the open space�just a large steel dining table with matching chairs, and a
glass and steel drink cart in addition to the stainless steel kitchen
appliances. The counters were covered in
expensive black marble and were bare of the touches that usually adorned and
personalized kitchens�no pictures, no overfilled bread baskets, no candles, no canisters
or cookbooks. In fact, with the
exception of a single piece of art that graced the interior wall, there were no
decorations of any kind. The space
seemed cold and impersonal to him, despite the clearly expensive items that
made up its bones.

Walking over to the refrigerator, he opened it, feeling
slightly guilty about intruding on Buffy�s privacy but needing to know
everything he could about her current existence. Angel frowned, his brow furrowing together in
displeasure as he saw that the only contents were two dozen bottles of water,
two jars of peanut butter, and several plastic containers of some colorless food. Taking one of the containers out, he opened
it to find spirals of plain cooked pasta.
A quick perusal of her freezer and cabinets revealed empty space that
belied the fact that a human being lived here.

Angel�s displeasure deepened and the worry that had been
eating at him bloomed into near panic.

Something was seriously wrong.

Pacing over to the other side of the space, Angel saw two
black leather chairs and a steel console holding a clearly expensive
stereo. In the opposite corner, he saw the
first signs of warmth and comfort in the loft.
Her bed was large and covered in a white down comforter and a multitude
of fluffy pillows. A wide window seat in
one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and a small enclosed space that he guessed
to be a closet were the only other structures in the huge apartment.

Running one hand absently through his hair, Angel turned
around to face the bathroom and the sound of running water that was still
filling the air. The sight that met his
eyes made the blood that had been teasing his cock all night rush in and
tighten him to nearly painful fullness.
This side of the bathroom was enclosed only with glass blocks that muted
but did not hide the woman standing under the spray of water that was so hot
the steam billowed out of the open ceiling of the room into the larger loft
space. Buffy stood facing the spray, her
arms spread in front of her and braced against the shower wall, her head bowed. He could see the lush curve of her breast and
a hint of the shadow between her legs through the dense glass and he swallowed
back the moan that threatened to rend the air.
As he watched, unable to look away, she slowly stood up and turned off
the faucets.

The movement jolted Angel back to reality and he moved
quickly to the other side of the loft, not wanting her to catch him devouring
her with his eyes. He stopped in front
of the painting on the wall and stared forward without seeing it, concentrating
instead on taking deep breathes that, out of habit, often served to help him
relax and regain his composure on the rare instances when he lost it.

He was still standing there, taking deep, measured breaths
when he felt her approach. Turning
slightly to the side, he watched as she glanced at him out of the corner of her
eye on her way past him to the refrigerator.
Opening it, she took out a bottle of water and a container of cold pasta
before grabbing a fork and coming back to perch on the edge of the table.

�I�d offer you something, but I�m fresh out of blood,� she
said, smirking at him before lifting a forkful of the bland looking food to her
mouth.

Angel grunted and turned back to the painting in front of
him, not quite ready to look at her despite her more modest attire of black
yoga pants and baby-tee. He studied the
abstract painting for the first time since noticing it gracing the wall. Angel didn�t consider himself an expert on
modern art, but one real look at this piece and he knew what it was. The only adornment in her sterile space was
Kandinsky�s Composition V, an abstract representation of the Resurrection of
the Dead, and it wasn�t a reproduction.
Angel was disturbed by the morbidity of her choice at the same time his fears
about the source of her obvious extravagant wealth grew.

�Nice painting,� he commented, looking over his
shoulder. �Seems kind of out of the
price range of a Vampire Slayer, though.�

Her eyes met his, unflinching, as she brought the bottle of
water to her lips, took a deep drink and then shrugged.

Angel stalked slowly towards her, refusing to look away from
her intense, challenging stare. There
was a hard, aching knot in his chest caused by her seeming indifference and the
knowledge that she had been here for well over a year without letting him know
she was alive. He tried his best to suppress it, somehow knowing that
sentimentality would not get him the information he wanted, needed from
her.

�In fact, it seems
like you�ve been doing fairly well for yourself. For a dead girl.� Angel used all of his
control to suppress the wince that threatened to accompany his harsh
words. He wanted more than anything to
pull her into his arms and whisper his joy at seeing her again in her ear, but
it was clear that, as always was the case with her, his wishes were futile
exercises of his soul. So instead he
matched her hardness with his own.

A shadow passed over her face so swiftly that he couldn�t be
sure he had seen anything but the cool mirth that now shone in her eyes and was
matched by the languid upturn of her lips.

�Angel, Angel, Angel. You haven�t seen me in years and the first
thing you want to talk about is my income? That�s a little tacky, don�t you
think?� she drawled, tilting her head to the side, her shower-damp hair swinging
and grazing over her the flesh of her forearm.
He could see a fading ring of bruises around her wrist and anger flared
in him at the thought of someone hurting her.
If Wesley had touched her again. . .

Angel closed the distance between them in the space of a
heartbeat, not stopping until he was standing between her swinging legs. Unthinking, he pulled the bottle of water out
of her hand and set it down before gently lifting her wrist and running his
thumb gently over the bruises. She sat
perfectly still, her breath coming in shallow, fast puffs as she let him touch
her. Angel�s eyes glittered with anger
and concern as he took in the sight of the finger-shaped stains that marred her
skin. Raising her wrist to his lips, he
felt her harsh intake of breath disturb the still air around them as he pressed
them gently to her flesh for a split second.

�Did Wes do this to you?� he grit out, his lips moving
against her skin with each syllable spoken.

His words broke the temporary spell that had held her still
as he touched her, and she ripped her arm away from his hand and mouth.

�It�s sweet of you to worry, Angel, but don�t. Wes doesn�t do anything to me I don�t want
him to,� she bit out, planting her hands on the table and sliding back until
Angel was no longer standing between her thighs.

�That doesn�t answer my question,� he growled, glaring at
her as the anger and emptiness at the loss of her touch warred for dominance in
him.

�It�s none of your business,� she countered, hopping off the
table, and grabbing the now-empty pasta container and fork. Buffy stalked to the sink and rinsed the
dishes, ignoring the seething vampire behind her.

Angel clenched his fists in an effort to stop himself from
punching the nearest wall, and struggled against the anger that was quickly
consuming him. Then, just as suddenly,
it was gone and he sagged under the invisible weight of his thoughts and
emotions and the feelings of being with her, in the place she lived. Pulling out a chair from the table, he sunk
down and stared out the bank of windows that made up the outer wall in front of
him at the L.A. skyline. The multitude of thoughts and feelings that
had been inundating him with constant stimulus over the past week faded and he
was left with a deep, empty ache in their wake.

A minute, perhaps two, passed as he stared silently out the
window and then she was in his line of vision, standing in front of the windows
and looking out as though trying to see what held his attention. Standing, he slowly made his way next to her,
making sure he kept some distance between them in spite of his urge to ease the
ache by touching her again.

The silence was almost companionable as they continued to
take in the sites of the city, and Angel was loathe to disrupt it, but he had
to. He had to know how she was here.

�How . . . how did this happen? Did Wolfram & Hart do this? Did they bring you back?� He hated the plaintive note that crept into
his voice, but he couldn�t control it any better than he had been able to
control anything in her presence this night.

Angel felt, more than saw, her flinch at the mention of the
law firm. He spun to face her, sure she
was going to tell him that they had brought her back to life to torment him,
that they were the ones who were financing her extravagant, if empty,
lifestyle. The thought that they would
do this to her, after all of their failures with Darla, made the rage begin to
bubble to the surface once again.

�No, it wasn�t Wolfram & Hart,� she answered, her voice
low and almost touched with an emotion other than anger for the first time. . .
something he might have identified as shame if it made any sense to him to do
so. He studied her face carefully, could
see that she was telling the truth.

�Then . . . what? How
Buffy? Please. I need to know,� Angel
prompted, unable to care any longer that he was betraying his confusion and
longing in every sound that left his throat.

She glanced away, studying the night for another moment and
he watched her in the glass, wondering if he was imagining things or if he
could actually see her eyes cloud in the reflection.

�I don�t know what you want me to say, Angel. It happened.
I was dead, then I was alive. I
dug my way out of my grave, �cause coffins?
Pretty satin interior but not too much in the way of oxygen. Now I�m here.
End of story.�

�Oh, god. Buffy,� he
breathed, his pain at hearing how she woke up buried alive more poignant
because he himself knew how that felt.
He tensed to reach out to her, but she sensed his movement, and turned
to face him with her palm held out to stop him.
Angel watched the emotions play across her face� terror, agony, and
confusion that nearly crushed him with their intensity. For the first time since she had emerged from
the shower, scrubbed free of makeup and without the mask of indifference she
seemed to wear with ease, he saw just how drained and tired she looked. Dark circles ringed her eyes, making them
stand out in sharp relief against her beautiful face and he wondered when the
last time she got any sleep was.

�Buffy. . .� he murmured again, the quiet invitation for comfort
evident in the timbre of his voice.

Her eyes flew to his, naked longing on her face and he
opened his arms as she took a step toward him.
Then, just as quickly, her body went rigid and the longing was replaced with
panic. His heart wrenched as she backed
away from him, the hard mask that he barely recognized as belonging to the
woman who held his heart settling back onto her face.

�Buffy. Is. Dead,� she grit out, emphasizing each word as it
slid past her fury-clenched lips. �I�ve
been cutting you some slack because I realize this must be difficult for you,
seeing a walking ghost, but I don�t answer to that name. Don�t ever
call me that again. You can call me
Slayer, or Diana if you absolutely insist, but never call me Buffy.�

Angel stared at her, his thoughts whirling as he tried to
understand what she was telling him.

�What the hell are you talking about?� he choked out.

She made a face and backed up further until she had cleared
the table and made her way over to a kitchen drawer that, he knew from
snooping, held a jumble of papers and mail.
She wasn�t talking, though, and he was desperate to know what she
meant. Slayer? Buffy dead?

�What do you mean, you�re dead?� he repeated.

Turning back toward him with a large manila envelope in her
hand, she rolled her eyes and held it out to him.

�No, I�m
alive. Buffy�s dead,� she said again, as though speaking to a child who
was willfully misunderstanding a perfectly logical statement. �And really, Angel, you�re spending way too
much time asking the wrong questions.
What you should be asking is what I was doing lurking outside your hotel
that night.� Handing him the envelope,
she continued. �What you should be
asking is if Wolfram & Hart isn�t paying my bills, who is?�

He opened the envelope and read the single sheet of paper
inside:

Target: Vampire

Home Location:
Hyperion Hotel, Los
Angeles

Deadline: 11-21

Angel�s eyes flew back to hers, darkening with the
burgeoning understanding of the answers to all of his questions about her and
the life she was leading.

�What you should be asking, Angel, is how we�re going to
stay alive when the government agency I work for comes after you and your
friendly assassin when I don�t meet my deadline in a week.�

The crinkling of the paper as Angel balled the hand he held
it in into a fist was the only sound that disturbed the silence in the wake of
her revelations.

Oh Buffy, no.
- 5
- 6
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The Violence of Existing