I am naked
Before you;
Look at me.
You came for me.
I pray to you.
You are in me . . .

You are my religion.
You are my religion.
I'm loving you;
You're loving me.
You are my religion.
You are my religion.
I'm touching you.
You're touching me . . .

You keep me real.
You lift me up.
Prayer soft,
I am in love.
Devotee of your immortal love.

You are my religion.

- Bif Naked, "Religion"

1. Divinity

If she hadn't been at a club, it probably wouldn't have happened. This particular club had a great dance floor, and a great DJ, and they made these great little pink cocktails to cool you off after dancing to the great DJ on the great dance floor . . . and Buffy may have had several. So many, in fact, that it was becoming difficult to see life as anything but . . . great.

"Modern day bacchanal."

Buffy turned to the rough voice behind her left shoulder. There was a grim-faced little man in a lumpy overcoat perched awkwardly on the stool beside her.

"Come?" she asked cautiously, dusting off one of her few Italian phrases.

"What I said, that was in English. So your response should be in English, particularly given the state of your Italian."

Buffy frowned. "Oh. So-huh?"

He gestured to the frenetic club bustling around them. "A bacchanal. A religious festival circa 200 B.C., held in honor of the god Bacchus. Drink, dance, and sex."

Buffy narrowed her eyes as best she could. "Is this a come on?"

The little man scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

Buffy frowned. "Then what-"

"You're the most radiant being in here, Buffy. This could be your bacchanal."

"This is a come on."

"Absolutely not. Let me buy you another drink."

He signaled the bartender and she accepted the crimson concoction warily, watching him over the rim as she took the first sip.

"Have you ever considered becoming a god?" he asked.

"All the time," she answered breezily. She fished the maraschino cherry out of her flamingo-pink drink and placed it, sticky-sweet and sensually smooth, onto her tongue.

"I can make you a god," he whispered.

Buffy closed her eyes just as her teeth closed down on the cherry's supple flesh, releasing a gush of unnatural sweetness into her waiting mouth. She felt flushed, with red, with sweat, and when she opened her eyes to the dazzling lights of the club, for a moment she saw it: bodies thrown away to ecstasy, worshipping pleasure, heady with common drugs and one another. She blinked, awed, and looked back to the strange little man beside her. She was shocked to see him changed too, no longer rumpled and graying but red-cheeked, glistening, huge and laughing.

"Whoa," she murmured. She reeled, overtaken with vertigo, and closed her eyes to recover. When she opened them again, the world was dark and her companion was small and hoary in his oversized overcoat again.

"I could be a god?" she asked, feeling around clumsily for her jacket. "Why not?"

What the hell, it was that kind of night. What was the worst that could happen?

†

Buffy woke in a strange room with the sun shining. Right in her face. She moaned and rolled out of its path to try and go back to sleep; it was then that her attention moved from Oh my God, sun in my face, why? to Crap. Strange hotel room. I didn't really go home with that little troll man, did I? She jumped out of bed and briefly gave herself the once over. She didn't feel violated. Maybe she'd just slept over and he'd been a perfect gentleman . . . yeah, right, that happened all the time.

But she felt fine. Her head didn't even hurt. Shouldn't she be hung over? And she was dressed still. That boded well.

There was noise coming from next door, and the connecting door was open; Buffy walked through, feeling not really great about it but taking it as her best bet. She wished she had a weapon. Yeah, a weapon would be really nice right now. A weapon, and, you know, not being in these kind-of-slutty leather pants, halter, and wobbly platform heels, and - oh yeah - not being here to begin with! That would be awesome.

The room next door looked a lot like the one she'd woken up in - really nice, for a hotel room, with creamy walls, picture windows, and a big bed - only backwards. The little troll guy from the club was sitting on the bed watching Italian television.

"Hey," Buffy said from the doorway.

He looked over at her. "Look who's awake."

She felt immensely uncomfortable, and wrapped her arms around herself. Memory check. She'd left the club, and they'd gotten into his - fairly nice; color her shocked, although if he could make her a god, then he could probably afford German engineering - car, and then . . . nothing. Blank, blank, blank. Bad. Very, very bad.

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked, not moving from her spot in the double doorway.

"A little over a month," he said, and looked back at the television. "Do you watch this? La Fattoria? They put all these rich people on a farm and make them do chores and things-"

"Yeah, Green Acres is the place to be." No comprehension dawned on his face and she frowned. "You don't dip into pop culture much, do you?"

"Not really, no."

She stepped into the room far enough to take the remote off the nightstand; she switched off the television so that he wouldn't be distracted from the issue at hand.

"What do you mean, I've been asleep for a month? That's a coma."

"That's a matter of opinion."

"You're playing with me. Tell me what happened."

He smiled. "I fulfilled your potential."

Buffy took another few steps towards him. "If you don't cut the cryptic really soon, I'm going to fulfill your-well, I'm going to hurt you. A lot."

"I made you a god. Just like I said I would."

Buffy stopped her progression.

"I'm a god," she said dully, her brow rising.

"That's right."

She broke into an ironic smile. "Of course! You didn't bring me back to your place to do dirty things to me while I was passed out; you did it to make me a god. Well, honest mistake; my apologies."

He was still smiling his unshakable smile; Buffy wanted to beat it off his face.

"What is a god?"

Buffy started to answer before she realized it was a rhetorical question; she snapped her mouth shut and bore the soliloquy with her arms crossed over her chest.

"A being of power. A being that is loved, worshipped . . . and feared. Are you not all these things?"

"I'm not worshipped," she mumbled, but she kind of liked the sound of it. She was powerful. And loved. And feared. To tell the truth, she was kind of awesome . . .

"Aren't you?" the little man asked encouragingly, rising from the bed and sidling up to her. "Don't the young new Slayers hold you in a special, revered regard, the oldest, most accomplished Slayer in history? And what about your lovers? Certainly you've been worshipped there-"

Buffy blushed. "That's none of your business."

She thought immediately, before she could help herself, of Angel bowing his head over her body, pressing kisses to her throat and chest like leaving offerings at an altar, looking up at her from his knees. Her name a litany on his tongue, her hair curled around his fingers like rosary beads. I love you I love you I love you blessmeforIhavesinned . . .

She blushed some more. "It's really none of your business."

The little man nailed her with a knowing look. "I believe I've made my point, though."

"Yeah, okay," Buffy relented. "You sold the theory. But you didn't sell me. Prove to me that I'm a god and not a date rape victim."

His snake smile widened. "You prove it."

She blinked. "Huh?"

"You're a god; you have power now. Power of influence, power of will. Make something happen."

"Like . . . a wish?"

"You're not a genie. You're not a fairy. You're not Barbara Eden in that little belly-baring number-"

Buffy raised an eyebrow. "I thought you weren't into pop culture."

"That one I liked. But my point is, you can't just wish for something to happen, or bob your head, and expect the world to change. You have to will it."

Buffy wrinkled her brow. "I don't get it."

He sighed. "You want something to happen? You have to want it to happen. You have to urge it to happen with all your mental might."

"Okay. I get it, kind of."

The little man looked very relieved. "Good. Want to give it a go?"

"Sure. What should I do?"

He smiled and gestured broadly. "Whatever you want. You're a god."

Buffy thought for a long moment. Then she closed her eyes and concentrated with all her might; she envisioned what she wanted in her head, a perfect, Technicolor, surround-sound picture.

She opened her eyes.

"You wished for clothes?" the little man asked skeptically.

Buffy grinned. "It worked!"

"Of course it worked; you're a god and that wasn't exactly moving the earth. You willed yourself new clothes?"

Buffy skipped happily to the bathroom so she could see herself in the mirror. It had worked! Her rumpled, slightly-less-than-demure club clothes were gone; she had a new - designer, how kick was that? - outfit that fully covered her. Yay!

"I can't believe that worked!" she said happily, preening in the mirror, as the little man's reflection joined hers.

"I still can't believe that, with incredible new power, you wished for a sundress."

Buffy shrugged him off. "My other outfit was kind of slutty, plus, the sleeping in it for weeks on end thing? Ew." She studied her reflection in the mirror. "Look, my hair looks all fresh, too! No split ends or anything! This is awesome!"

He sighed. "Has anyone ever called you vexing before?"

She tossed her hair to watch it move in the reflection. "All the time. Why?"

"No reason. Do you believe me now?"

She turned to him. Oh yeah, he was convincing her that she was a god now . . .

"Oh yeah, I totally forgot about that! This is so cool." She paused, studied his diminutive personage. "Are you a god, too? Cuz, you know, you could use some moisturizing-"

He frowned. "It doesn't really seem that important after the first thousand years."

Buffy's eyes widened. "Oh my God. Am I immortal?"

"Comes with the territory."

"That's-I don't know if I want to be immortal! You should have told me this before."

"You didn't ask."

"I was drunk! You took advantage of me!"

He shot her a look. She frowned.

"Well, okay," she said. "I guess immortality isn't the biggest suck. Can I be killed?"

"Yeah. But it takes a lot."

"Like . . . a silver bullet a lot, or-"

"No. Like, the Slayer healing thing?"

"Yeah?"

"Child's play."

She grinned. "Cool."

"You're stronger now, too. I think you'll have fun with this."

"Me too. Especially with the wishing thing-"

"It's not wishing," he insisted. "It's willing. And there are some restrictions."

She frowned. "Restrictions? Like, I'll get a time out if I-"

"No, like things it's physically impossible to do, so don't blow your brain out trying."

"Oh."

"You can mostly do little stuff; new clothes, make someone fall in love with you, change the weather, that kind of thing."

Buffy grinned. "I can change the weather?"

"Don't do it too much or people will get . . . spooked. But yeah, you can."

"That is so cool."

"You can't do big stuff, like-oh, say, moving a continent or raising the dead. Definitely no dead raising."

She nodded. "Yeah, already learned that lesson. But thanks for the tip."

"Any time."

"Really any time? Are you, like, my life coach?"

He frowned. "No. In fact, princess, our time together's pretty much over; I'm about to get off."

He collected his coat and headed for the door.

"Now? But I just . . . I just started! I don't know how to-but . . . but what do I do?"

He leveled a significant look at her. "Whatever you want."

He opened the door and started into the hallway. Buffy followed him.

"What do I do if I need help?"

"Whistle," he said dully.

"No, really-"

He sighed. "Just-you know how you willed those clothes on?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, will me to be there. Concentrate really hard on my name, and I'll hear you, and I'll come if I can."

Buffy's bottom lip plumped into a pout. "I don't know your name."

"You can call me Dione. All right? Now go out and make your mark on the world, kid. Have some fun."

He left her standing in the hallway, incredibly powerful and all alone, hugging herself like an abandoned child.

†

After Buffy got over the oh, poor me aspect of everything, she realized that she'd been gone for over a month and that everyone, including Dawn, probably thought she was dead. She panicked, then forced herself to calm down, then panicked again, then went to the hotel telephone and called Dawn's dorm room. No answer. Dawn's cell phone. No answer.

Panicked again, Buffy ran out of the hotel and into the street on her way to Dawn's dorm before she realized there was probably an easier way. She ducked into an alleyway and closed her eyes.

Dawn, she thought. I want to be where Dawn is.

She concentrated on this thought, rolled it over and over in her head like a rosary bead, until finally she saw it: Dawn's laughing face, the bright sun, the great stone faces of the buildings on the lush, Italian campus she didn't have to pay for because Dawn was bright enough for scholarships out the wazoo. And then, as soon as she saw it, there was a tug somewhere below her navel and all the breath went out of her, she couldn't breathe; she felt herself being pulled below the undertow, only too fast and too hard, the jerk of a shark, but for miles.

And then it was over, in a second. Buffy blinked and the sun was shining on her face, and the world was green with leaves dripping from twisted trees, and she turned from the trees and a wall of old, old stone to see her little sister's eyes widen like she was seeing a ghost.

"Buffy?" she asked, her voice thin. The girl, who looked more grown up every day, Buffy could see changes just in the weeks since she'd last seen her, stood up and left her friends, came toward her sister. "Buffy, is that you?"

Buffy took Dawn in her arms before she could help herself. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me."

Dawn pushed her away. Her eyes were angry; her jaw was tight.

"Where have you been? We thought you were-" Her voice caught, and Buffy's heart ached.

"I'm sorry," Buffy said, and she was. God, she was. "It's a really long, really weird story-and I'll tell you the whole thing, right now if you want. Is there someplace we can talk?"

†

Buffy wondered if she should be worried by how easily Dawn accepted her story. She'd hardly accepted it that easily.

"Well, obviously it would be that," Dawn said breezily, murdering a gelato. "Either you were dead, or you ran off to elope, or you got turned into a god."

Buffy eyed her slyly, sipping her aranciata. "I can't tell whether you're making fun of me."

"No, totally not."

"So you've heard of this happening before."

"No, never."

Buffy sighed. "I thought it was . . . you know, insane, and then I saw I could do stuff. And then that made it kind of more real."

Dawn perked, grinning like she was twelve instead of - oh, god, almost twenty . . . well, in a year and a half, but still, how terrifying was that?

"What kind of stuff?"

Buffy played with her straw. "God stuff."

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Well, duh, Buffy. Tell me about your cool new god stuff!"

Buffy felt a smile tugging at her lips in response to her sister's enthusiasm. "Like . . . powers."

"Yeah? What kind of powers?"

Buffy thought maybe an illustration would be better than a hypothetical at this juncture. Dawn's gelato suddenly regenerated itself.

The girl grinned.

"That is awesome. How did you do that?"

"I dunno. I just . . . I just kind of-you know, want it to happen, and it does."

"That is so cool. What else can you do?"

"Well, I found you, and then I was . . . there. Where you were, just like that." She frowned. "But . . . I don't really know. I don't know what I can do." Buffy studied her sister seriously. "You've really never heard of anything like this before?"

"Nope. But we tend to study demons, not deities."

The recently anointed deity sighed. "True." She ruminated unhappily for a moment, then decided to change tacks. "I'm so sorry for leaving you, Dawnie. I wouldn't have, but I was-"

"Incapacitated. You said. Forget about it; I can take care of-"

"Yourself," Buffy finished dryly. "I know. But I still worry."

"And I worry, too," Dawn said. "About you. And I knew you'd be really cranky at me in the event that you weren't dead, so Xander came up to stay with me. He's been worried about you too, by the way, and since he came all the way up here from Africa to worry about you, you'll probably have some 'splain' to do when we get home."

Buffy smiled.

†

Buffy hugged Xander before she even spoke. He looked shocked to see her, but he managed to look relieved before she started explaining. Then he looked shocked again.

"I see," he said lamely when she'd finished.

"About that," she said, grinning, holding his hands in hers. "There's been something . . . well, I have these god powers now, and there's something . . . well, there's something you really deserve, that I-well . . ."

She couldn't finish talking, so she just did it.

Xander looked a lot more shocked and was absolutely speechless as he removed his eye patch.

"Buffy," he whispered finally. "What happened to you?"

She laughed and hugged him.

†

The three of them cooked dinner in the apartment Buffy really didn't feel weeks gone from. It felt like home even with a yawning absence and a shuffle of family members, and she ate and listened to Dawn talk about boys and school and Xander talk about girls and Africa, and it was almost like nothing had changed. Except after dinner, while Xander did the dishes and Dawn cleaned up the table, she had to call Giles and Willow and a whole long list of other people that she loved and tell them that she wasn't dead.

"Are you going to go home soon?" Dawn asked Xander once Buffy had finished her oh-so-creepy task.

The three of them settled on the balcony, watching the sky get black, and Xander and Buffy had wine and Dawn complained about not being old enough, even though oh my God, that is so American, in Italy she was totally old enough to drink. Buffy wasn't feeling good anymore, even though everyone she'd talked to had been overjoyed to hear her voice.

"I'll probably head back in a couple days, yeah," Xander said, watching the night get inky, narrowing both eyes in an attempt to pick out stars as they appeared. He had twenty-twenty vision again. "Unless you ladies need me here for anything."

"I've really liked having you here, but I think we'll be fine," Dawn said. "Right, Buffy?"

Buffy was sitting on the cool deck of the balcony, staring at the red tide of her wine. It felt warm in her chest and cheeks, but she didn't feel warm anywhere else. She felt leaden, difficult, like an object.

"Yeah," she said, forcing her plastic mouth to form the gummy, human words. "We'll be fine, Xand. You should get back to your Slayer and your African women. We'll be fine."

It was Xander's ears, not his sharp eyes, that picked up that his friend might not be telling the truth, but he looked anyway.

"You get a hold of everyone today, Buff?" he asked in lieu of asking how she was.

"Yeah, I think so," she said numbly. "Willow, Giles, you're pretty much told, Faith, Ang-" She stopped, a chill rising through her body. "I forgot to call Angel."

She looked to Dawn. "Has he-I mean, he hasn't . . . he hasn't called or anything, right? And have you . . . would he have heard all the way over there, have the demons of Rome been getting wise and why have the two of you gotten all Tin Man-y?"

Xander looked into the dark sea of his wine like he was scrying for answers in there, and Dawn studied her fingernails intently. Immediately, Buffy felt warm and human again as an inferno of fear burned through her like a burst of backfire exploding through a building.

"What happened?" she asked quietly, coming to her feet.

She hadn't meant to ask quietly. She'd meant to demand, but her voice had been lost in the fire.

"There was-there was a . . . a thing . . . a couple weeks ago . . . right about the same time you disappeared. A battle," Dawn said quietly, her hands folding in her lap. Her head bowed, her long hair falling obscuring her face, she looked like a little girl again. "We thought-at first we thought that maybe you'd gone to LA to . . . to help him. But the timing was a little off; the thing in LA started a couple days before you disappeared, although it was . . . it was later that we started to hear about it; we didn't hear about it until you'd been gone a few days, but . . . but we were sure . . . we were sure you would have told us-" Dawn's big eyes implored her sister. "You would have, wouldn't you; you wouldn't have just run off?"

"Of course not, Dawnie," Buffy reassured her, forcing her voice to be calm and soothing, even though her insides were screaming for release, for an answer.

"A bunch of people died, and it took out, like, a whole city block," Xander filled in. "It was on the news, even here."

"It was Angel?"

Xander's face was grim. "Wolfram and Hart wasn't near the main site of the damage, but they got taken out, too, so we're all thinking yeah. And we tried to contact him, and we haven't been able to get anything. From him or any of his people. Faith went out there and combed the wreckage the first couple days after, but she didn't find anything-"

Buffy could hear Dawn saying something about how that didn't mean anything, about how he could still be alive, and then the girl's voice faded into a blur. She should be listening. She was the big sister, and maybe Dawn needed to be comforted, but she couldn't. There was nothing but the pain in her chest and the noise in her head, the insistent refrain: He's dead, he's dead, he'sdeadhe'sdeadHE'SDEAD

Buffy didn't realize she was falling until she felt the cool deck of the balcony again, until she felt the cool tiles slick under her palms and face, slick with her tears. Somewhere, she heard Dawn cry out, felt Xander's strong arms curling around her to bring her up from her knees, but it was all periphery.

He's dead.

2. Caution Do Not Enter

"I have to go out there."

Apparently, Xander would never forget that Buffy, what do you see in that guy? expression.

"You have got to be kidding me. He's dead, Buffy."

Buffy recoiled as though he'd hit her, and she could see the apology on his face, almost immediately.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But you just got back; you can't leave Dawn-"

"Of course she can," Dawn said. "This is important, and I can take care of myself."

"Besides, you're here to take care of her," Buffy said, pulling in the penance chip while Xander was still feeling guilty.

He sighed. "So you're just going to go out there, not knowing what you'll find-"

"Yes. Because it's worth it. He's worth it."

†

Buffy desperately wanted to just throw her being to the phenomenal newfound power of her will and go to where Angel was the way she had found Dawn. But she forced herself to think rationally, and realized, a clawing inevitable terror like drowning, that he might be dead, and that willing herself to follow him in that instance would be a mortal mistake at best and a terrifying nightmare if her immortality preserved her. So instead, she willed herself to Los Angeles, to the battleground that had left a crater in the earth.

Buffy felt the strange pull, the nameless power tugging at her strings and flinging her across time and space, a god now, but still a tiny marionette to someone out there. After the rush of color and vertigo, she came to, reeling slightly, in a junkyard of concrete. She could hear car engines growling, horns howling, the usual background disquiet of any thriving modern cityscape, but the scene before her more closely resembled a third world disaster site. The asphalt was depressed in a great crater almost a block long, with huge slabs and small boulders jutting out along the edges. Buffy squinted, and she could almost make out the shape of a great fallen beast. From nowhere, a word crystallized whispersoft in her ear: Dragon. Buffy shook her head, shook the unbidden utterance off. She was feeling strange, weak . . . maybe from her trip? Because it was so much further than Dawnie's school? Maybe this god stuff wasn't as easy as she'd thought. . . . This divine super powers stuff really should come with a handbook; stupid Dione. Anyway, having weird words popping into her head from nowhere wasn't helping her get back to good.

Several of the surrounding buildings had taken severe hits, and bricks spilled out over the street, which glittered with broken glass, shards large as blades and small as diamonds. It had been a month, they'd told her, and all this was still here. The city was keeping it as . . . what? A reminder? A warning? A testament? Maybe the city workers were just backed up, on other important jobs; she spied some yellow Caution Do Not Enter tape looped haphazardly around the perimeter of the wreckage, but it didn't look as if anything else had been done. Buffy's chest ached. She spied, with the keen sense of a hunter, without even looking for it, without looking hard, that there was still blood anointing the ground. She saw roses of it blooming hidden beneath scatterings of bricks, looming broken slabs of asphalt.

It must have rained, she thought, and washed the rest away.

†

After almost a decade as a Slayer, Buffy knew how to find demons. She almost gravitated towards them, and they seemed attracted to her, too. It was perverse but true. So she didn't have to look for a demon-infested neighborhood near the battleground: her feet naturally led her there, like the ground was sloped in that direction, like she was being pulled by a magnetic attraction.

Weasely little snitches who hemorrhaged information before they'd suffer actual blood to be spilt, she was great at scaring them up, too. It was like a sixth sense.

She found her pigeon in a shady little magic-and-pawn shop in her demon barrio. She knew before entering the establishment that it would be ripe for the picking - any place that had "Yes, we pay cash for your entrails!" on the window was rife with desperate - but when she saw the guy manning the counter inside, her day got a little happier. He was a half-human demon-hybrid - a Byasa, if she wasn't mistaken . . . but she got mistaken all the time, and maybe that was that herbal drink that was supposed to cure prostate cancer . . . okay, Buffy, focus - and scrawny, definitely the runt of the litter. Definitely the kind of guy she wanted for her patsy.

"Help you?" the little Byasa asked.

Buffy smiled and strolled confidently up to the counter. It was a standard pawnshop setup: a long glass counter that ran almost the entire length of the room, with only a small opening for the clerk to pass through. It allowed optimal viewing of merchandise - which was somewhat different from that found in a standard pawnshop; Buffy saw a glass jar full of eyeballs and . . . well, some fake Rolex's; that was probably pretty standard - and would also be really, really effective for proving her point should the clerk be less than cooperative come interrogation time.

"I need some information."

The clerk shuffled nervously to a far end of the counter and started to look busy by polishing the glass with a rag so dingy it defeated the purpose.

"One thing we don't deal in."

"Luckily, I wasn't planning on paying for it," Buffy said cheerfully.

The Byasa looked up at her strangely. "Then why would I want to tell you anything?"

Buffy skipped happily over to his new location. "So I don't have to beat the skinny out of you. See how that works?"

He stopped his useless task, froze slowly. As a natural victim, he was uneasy by nature. But maybe not stupid.

"You?" he asked finally, studying her. "But you're-"

"The Slayer," she finished for him seamlessly. "Would you like a demonstration?"

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "What do you want?"

She beamed. "That was easy! No pummeling even. This is turning out to be a nice day, um-what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. And it's Percival."

"Bummer. Okay, Percy, first thing's first: what's the deal with the mini-disaster zone you guys have got going a few blocks over? Why hasn't the city covered that up yet?"

He eyed her. "You know what-"

"Yeah, I know what happened. But why are the cops and the mayor and everybody just letting it sit there?"

"They're claiming it's a terrorist attack. Some citizens - human citizens - were killed, and enough people noticed that they can't shut it up. They saw the bodies - the non-human bodies, so the local powers are claiming that more people died in a terrorist attack on the city. And they're leaving it up-"

"As a shrine." Buffy closed her eyes. "That's perfect. Just great."

Percival grinned. "I think it's brilliant."

She sighed. "Demons. Fine. Okay, the other thing . . . it'll be harder, but it's also more important, and - just warning you - when I get testy, I get violent, so let's be quick and concise with our answers, okay, Percy? One of the guys involved in the so-not-a-terrorist-attack . . . ? He's a . . . well, I need to . . . I need to find him. Or . . . if he's dead, I need to know that, I just need-"

"You need a lot," Percival said dryly.

Buffy glared. "Did I not mention the violence?"

He held up his hands in self-defense. "Sorry. Got a name?"

She folded her arms around herself.

"Angel," she said softly.

"The vampire?" he asked in disbelief. "That guy?"

"Yeah. You know who he is?"

"Yeah. Everyone knows who he is; it's kind of his town."

She sighed. "Of course it is. Do you know-"

"Where he is? I'm not his mother-" He must have caught the look on Buffy's face, because he began to amend his statement with amazing celerity. "-but I can probably find out for you. I'll call some people. Now. Right now."

He dashed off to the back of the shop, leaving Buffy alone with the unnerving merchandise and her brooding. Since she wanted to take her mind off the latter, she walked along the case, trying to distract herself with pawned jewelry (so fake) and monkey heads (ew). And then she came across something that made her stop. Something that made her whole body lurch.

"What is this?" she asked quietly when Percival came back out to the front from his phone calls.

"So I-what?"

"What is it?" she demanded. She was staring down at the object in the case, her body rioting, her nails gripping into her arms hard enough to send spikes of pain through the flesh . . . but it was necessary, so she didn't smash through the glass and liberate the object, claim it.

Percival unlocked the back of the case she was standing before.

"Which-" He stopped. "Oh. Hey, look at that."

He removed the item she was looking at, and placed it on top of the counter in front of her. Close enough for her to touch. She looked down at the faded mat and felt coils of pain twist through her stomach; it was hard to breathe.

"What is it?" she asked for the third time. She was fairly certain she was going to go mad if she didn't receive an answer soon.

Percival flipped the mat up and removed a card from the back of it. He squinted reading it.

"From the Order of the Black Thorn - they're, um, big bad guys around here - headquarters . . . we cleaned them out after your friend killed them all, got all sorts of cool stuff . . . Shanshu Prophecy. Don't accept less than $5000."

"Why does it have Angel's name on it?" she demanded, unable to take her eyes off the red scrawl, unable to breathe. "In his handwriting?"

Percival shrugged. "I dunno-um, we always have new stuff appraised when we bring good stuff in from estates like that, but my boss deals with all that stuff; I just work the counter-"

"Find out," she growled, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"Oooookay," the little Byasa said, and dashed back to the phone before Buffy could toss him through the display case.

He'd left the prophecy lying on top of the glass, right within Buffy's reach. Buffy let her hands hover over it, her fingertips dusting across the elegant bloody swirl of characters that meant Angel. He'd touched this. He'd been here, this had been, maybe, the last thing he'd ever written. His name. Not, "Dear Buffy, by the way: I'm going on a suicide mission without telling you or asking you for backup, because I'm a stupid, stupid ass, and I just thought you should know."

His name. I am.

Maybe it was kind of appropriate.

"Boss man says that this prophecy thing tells about a whole bunch of, you know-"

"Prophecies?" Buffy guessed dryly.

"Yeah. But the Shanshu one is about Angel," Percival said, and then continued with the stilted, stiff pace of a schoolboy reciting figures. "It says that after the Apocalypse he's supposed to become human-"

Buffy's heart stopped beating. She was sure it did. Human. Angel was going to be human. He could go out in the sun and make love without worrying about going on a murderous rampage and he would be warm and be able to taste things and-

"-but the shaman guys who appraise this stuff for us, they said that . . . that there was some spell put on it, sealed with his signature there, that . . . um, what's the-oh, negated it. I mean, I totally get it; being a vampire is much cooler than being a lame human. Demons kind of rock." Percival puffed out his concave chest a little. "If I do say so myself."

Buffy stared at Angel's signature, the new crimson swirl glaring out from among the ancient, faded text. He'd given it away? He couldn't have . . . she didn't understand.

She felt weak.

"Anyway," he continued, "My friend Raj down at the Lotus Blossom Pleasure Salon-"

Buffy's lip curled; she managed to be disgusted even through her shock. "Nice."

"Hey, it's a reputable business! Anyway, Raj has connections, and he called a few people for me, and he says this guy Ixchel-"

Buffy raised her brow. "Guy?"

"Okay. Demon. But anyway, he's seen your friend."

The weight on Buffy's heart lifted. A little. "He has? Angel's alive?"

"If this guy's to be trusted, and most people don't lie to Raj, because he controls their sn-"

"You don't need to expand on that; I get it. Where is he?"

Percival grinned. "That's really hot; I've never met such a sexy les-"

Buffy slammed both hands on the counter; it shook a little, but didn't break. Percival jumped back half a foot.

"Not the pimp. Angel."

"Oh. Um, well, Ixchel works graveyard at this drugstore in South Central, right, and he said the vampire's come in a couple times. Bought bandages and stuff. Says he looks not good."

"But he's alive," Buffy repeated.

"Yeah," the little demon said, his voice softening.

Buffy nodded. "Okay. I'll need an address. I'm going to see your friend."

"Okay," Percival said agreeably, visibly glad that she was going somewhere else.

Buffy scooped up the Shanshu Prophecy. It was so light in her hand; she felt like it should weigh more.

"I'm taking this."

The Byasa was somewhat less agreeable about this.

"Whoa," he said, coming around the other side of the counter, facing Buffy off without a barrier. "I can't just let you walk out of here with that; my boss'll kill me-"

"I'll kill you if you try to stop me," Buffy said dispassionately. "And I don't mean that in the way where I'll yell at you and maybe dock your paycheck. I mean that in the way where, at the end of our confrontation, you're on the floor not alive anymore, and I walk out of here with this prophecy."

Percival sighed. "Man . . ."

Buffy smiled thinly. "Good decision. That address?"

†

Buffy thought briefly about willing herself to Angel's locale, now that she knew he was actually on this plane of existence, but then she realized she didn't want to. She didn't want to just appear there . . . and she needed some time to . . . mull. She decided on taking a cab to Percy's pimp's friend's drugstore; that would give her time to think. Brood. Whatever.

Buffy sank down in her seat and spread the Shanshu Prophecy out in her lap. She studied the strange, ancient markings for a while, but her eyes kept drifting back to Angel's signature. Over and over again. How could he have given it up? She closed her eyes and imagined seeing him in the sunlight, imagined wrapping her arms around a warm, human Angel and getting drunk on a kiss that she could allow herself to get lost in. She thought she'd lost these dreams, but apparently some things never changed. She hadn't realized how badly she still wanted it until she'd heard that he would never be human, but she realized now that some part of her had always had a stupid, childish hope that one day Angel would get tapped by a fairy's magic wand and turn into a real boy, and the two of them could live happily ever after.

Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She pushed them away angrily, opening her eyes, then got her compact out of her purse and hurriedly attempted to fix her makeup. Stupid. This was stupid. This whole thing was stupid. She was not a little girl anymore, and those dreams were as dead as her ex-lover. If Angel didn't want to be human, he obviously didn't want her. She was not going to see him to . . . to kiss him, or fall into his arms, or . . . or any of that. She was not some lovesick little girl. She was a god, for Christ's sake; she was better than these games. She would just go and see if he was all right, and then she would leave, for good leave, and go out and get the things she wanted. Just like Dione had said.

†

In South Central, in the cleanest motel room a hundred dollars a week could rent, Angel woke up gasping. His body was alive with pain as air was forced into lungs still scorched with the smoke of dragon's breath, as his long-dormant heart started pumping blood through bruised veins. His empty stomach churned; he ran to the bathroom to wretch into the toilet. Nothing came up, and he went to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face to try and calm his body, to still the pain.

On the way up for a towel, he caught his reflection in the mirror.

He didn't move for a long time.

†

It was hours before the graveyard shift started when Buffy found the address Percival had given her, but she showed up expecting information anyway. She really doubted that the dark, sullen, thoroughly human kid manning the register was Ixchel, but he might know something about Angel, and that was all she cared about.

"I need some information," she said, sidling up to the counter. The store was dismal, the lighting dim and flickering, the wares sparse and possibly from shipments leftover from the sixties. Buffy was a little concerned about Angel buying first aid supplies here . . . and then she wasn't. She wasn't caring. She was actively not caring.

The kid just stared dourly back at her, and, when she failed to lay down any merchandise for him to dutifully ring up, thus satisfying his job requirements, he went back to ignoring her. Buffy was slightly perplexed by his utter muteness until she realized he had antennae dripping from his ears.

"Oh," she said dumbly, and indelicately yanked the trailing white cords out.

"Damn!" the kid said, roused to passion by the sudden pain and the fact that he was no longer distracted by his iPod. "What the hell, bitch!"

"Do I have your attention now?" she asked pleasantly.

The kid rubbed his ears resentfully. "Damn. Yeah, fine! Damn!"

"I need some information," she repeated. "There's a guy that lives around here, comes in here sometimes. He's about six feet tall, well-built, good-looking . . . well, you know, not that I care . . . because I don't . . . it's not that I'm really thinking of him that way, because I am so over that-his name is Angel. Someone told me he's been buying bandages and stuff like that here. Seen him?"

The kid raised his brow interestedly. "You gonna make it worth my while?"

Buffy smiled sweetly. "Would you like to see what else I can do with that iPod?"

He sighed. "I ain't seen him, anyway."

Buffy raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Like I keep my eyes peeled for good-looking white guys."

She stuck her hand on her hip. "When does Ixchel come in?"

"That freak? Fuck, bad enough working with the rollers and all them we get in here, without having to deal with that kinda shit, scales and shit-"

"I didn't ask for a social commentary. If you can't tell me anything about Angel, you'd better tell me something about Ixchel, or I'm going to get violent. And creative."

The kid frowned. "Eleven, ai'ight? Damn, you one pushy, testy bitch."

"I get things done."

He didn't look impressed by her assessment.

"Eleven's too long to wait," Buffy mused. "As you said, I'm pushy and testy; I don't like standing around not doing anything. Where's Ixchel live?"

"Bitch, I don't know; I'm not up in his business-"

"Well, get in his business, or I'll spend the long hours until his shift starts getting in yours. I'm sure his address is here somewhere, in his employee file or something."

The kid sighed and shuffled off. Buffy felt rather pleased with herself; the afternoon was progressing smoothly.

†

Angel had finally regained enough presence of mind to move before the mirror. When he moved, the reflection moved. Tentatively, he brought his fingers to the glass; the identical image did the same, forming an infinite loop of Angel.

Angel's heart fluttered wildly - it fluttered. It fluttered because it was beating and he was alarmed and it was beating - and then he was finally, abruptly sick.

Shocked by the violent sensation of his body's revolt, of the taste of the acidic bile erupting up his throat - the taste - Angel stayed for a long moment bent over the sink, breathing in harsh, long breaths before righting himself and rinsing the watery bile down the pipes.

He was before the mirror again.

"What the-I-fuc-what . . . ?"

He felt weak, too weak to stand, and he slowly lowered himself to the tile floor, tearing himself away from his reflection. The tiles were cool against his skin. They were always cool - vampires could register temperature - but now he was burning up and they felt freezing against his febrile flesh.

"This is insane," he said out loud, and then realized that it was more insane to be talking aloud to himself.

He - at first fleetingly, to check to make sure it was true, and then longer, indulgently - rested his hand over his heart, felt his pulse pound through his palm. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, felled.

"There is no reward," he whispered. "There is nothing. I don't understand."

†

"Are you a Girl Scout or something?" the scaly, couldn't-pass-for-human-if-his-life-depended-on-it Sber-Rossii demon asked as he opened the door to Buffy's smiling face. "It's a little early for cookies, I think. Anyway, I never buy any; I'm trying that new South Beach diet, you know, no carbs-"

"Luckily, for you, I'm looking for information, not peddling pastries. You Ixchel?"

He nodded warily. Buffy blocked the door with a Manolo before he could shut her out.

"Good!" she said chipperly, as though she hadn't noticed his attempt to slam the door in her face. "I have a few questions for you."

He frowned, but didn't try closing the door again.

"You work at that skeevy drugstore by Crazy Dave's Liquor Emporium, right? I noticed the name because, you know, how would you forget a name like that-"

"Yeah, I work there. And as for ‘skeevy,' where else am I going to find a job above ground with a face like this?"

Buffy gave him the once over. "Good point. You're blessed. Anyway, this guy Percy at a similarly skeevy pawn shop, he says you've seen a guy named Angel around during your shift."

"The vampire. Sure. He a friend of yours, or are you hunting him down? Because that guy's serious bad news, lady-"

"He's . . . a friend. Or-well, he used to be. I need to get in touch with him. Do you know where he lives?"

"We did some deliveries for him, a few weeks ago when he was in really bad shape, so his address is at the store."

Buffy swore.

"He's at - I didn't make the delivery; I mean . . . look at me; I couldn't - but he's at some hotel near Crenshaw, under the name Manny Balestrero."

Buffy's brow rose. "You remember the name he was staying under?"

Ixchel laughed. "You're not a Hitchcock fan."

"Huh?"

"Manny Balestrero was Henry Fonda's character in The Wrong Man. I thought it was funny, him picking that. Like an actress staying under Holly Golightly . . . which you're not going to get either, so let me just go inside and call the store, and I'll get you Mr. Balestrero's address."

Buffy waited impatiently on the porch. Stupid Angel and his stupid old movies. Stupid random demon for understanding Angel's reference well when she didn't. Stupid-he wouldn't have the balls to leave like that, would he? No, he totally wouldn't. He was coming back with an address, or she was kicking the door down and doing a little late afternoon slaying.

Stupid, stupid Angel, causing all this trouble.

She was going to cause him some trouble.

†

After about twenty minutes grounded on the cold tile floor, Angel was able to stand up again. Shakily, but his body found stability. He used the sink for balance, which brought him in front of the mirror again.

Reflection. For another long moment, he just stared at the foreign image of his face in the dirty glass. He brought his fingers to his face, and by touch he knew the country, but by sight it was completely new to him. It was strange and terrifying and wonderful, and he felt short of breath.

Short of breath.

He had to sit down on the floor for another few minutes.

When he was finally able to get up again, he skipped the mirror and walked out into the cramped main body of his motel room. He had hurt his left leg very badly in the fight Wolfram and Hart had sent for him, and he still limped terribly, but he walked as fast as he could to the small windows his room offered. As soon as he reached the windows, he pushed aside the blackout curtains he kept over them day and night and opened the glass to the city outside.

The sun. The sun was shining. He could feel it on his skin and he could . . . he swore he could smell it, gold and butter.

Angel closed his eyes and smiled.

†

The motel Ixchel sent her to was shitty. There was no way in getting around it; it reminded Buffy of a rape/homicide. She wondered why in God's name Angel would stay there, until she reminded herself that Angel was able to live on blood and air and that not having cable probably didn't faze him.

She folded her arms around herself as she walked through the hallways; being the Slayer, never mind being a god, never got you past the way you felt being a girl walking through a place like this. They're going to find me on the evening news, I know they are . . . She supposed it was all the things her mother had said to her about walking alone at night, and the way that the men she saw looked at her, like she was walking naked, or like she should have been; like, because of her sex and because of theirs, she was supposed to open her coat up and let them have a nice look in deference as she passed.

God, she was going to punish Angel for making her go through this.

She made it to his room without being raped or murdered, which should have been the hard part. But it wasn't. She couldn't seem to move another step further: she just stood there, staring at the faded numbers tacked onto the door face, trying to summon the strength to raise her hand to knock.

She was about to turn away in cowardice when the door opened from in front of her and she was met with Angel's beautiful, sudden visage.

This was stupid. Why had she thought this was a good idea, showing up on his doorstep the way she was always furious at him for showing up on hers? And why didn't he ever get any worse looking-though, God, he looked hurt; Ixchel and Percy had not been kidding. His shirt was open and she could see a loop of bandages hugging his middle, the shadows of bruises kissing his face like smudged lover's lipstick. He was quite obviously keeping the weight off his left leg.

But Christ, he looked good.

"Buffy," he said, and he sounded good, too. His voice, his beautiful velvet voice that haunted her dreams, ran fleet fingers across her spine, all the way down to her . . . other places. Other places may have been affected.

And then he laughed, and it wasn't a happy laugh, and something ugly and pained flickered across his lovely dark eyes, and she snapped out of her spell.

"Of course," he said. "You would show up today."

She was stung, and it helped her along in her decision to keep the gloves off.

"Well, I was just doing my normal survey of lying idiots who don't send me an update for a year, go on a suicide mission without telling me, and then let me think they're lying in a crater dead, and your name popped up. I'll be gone in a minute."

Angel's cheeks hollowed dramatically.

"You wanna watch yourself," he warned.

"I don't think I need to take orders from you, General Kamikaze. I've been moving up in the world while you've been out here killing your troops-"

Angel hit her. It was immediate: a quick, open-handed smack across the face, the way a man will hit a woman, but never another man. He hit her once and then watched her stumble slightly on her impractical heels. His hand was shaking slightly and he was breathing a little bit too fast, but there was so much pressure on his chest, weighing down on his heart, that he felt like he couldn't breathe at all.

Buffy's face throbbed. She forced back tears; she was a warrior and she was thrown around, hit constantly, but it was a different thing entirely to be punched by an enemy than slapped by the man you used to love. She stayed doubled over for much longer than she actually needed to, under the premise of finding her balance but actually searching for her composure.

When she straightened, she expected him to apologize, but he didn't. He just stared at her, drawn, his dark eyes holding so much betrayal that for a moment she wondered if she'd gotten things turned around, if she'd hit him.

"You hit me," she said, and then she felt stupid for saying it.

"Asshole," she added, but she didn't feel any better about that.

"You should probably leave," Angel said softly. He lowered his eyes; that was it, there. There was the apology.

"Maybe-maybe you should leave," Buffy said weakly, thus skipping over all chances at being the mature party.

"I live here," Angel replied quietly.

"Well-shut up," she said. She looked around the dank hallway. "Why do you live here, Angel? I wouldn't be murdered here."

He looked up. "I wouldn't have you murdered anywhere."

She frowned. "You can't smack me and then be sweet to me, Angel. Also, you didn't answer my question."

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "Why don't you come in, and I'll get you something for your cheek."

"That's also you avoiding my question."

"I don't need much. And this isn't much. Are you coming in?"

Buffy was almost certain she shouldn't, but she let Angel shepherd her into his motel room anyway.

She took a seat on his bed - not the safest place, historically, but there were only two rooms, the bedroom and the bathroom, and the only other piece of furniture was the nightstand, so bed it was - while he fooled around in the bathroom.

"You mean this place has running water?" she called. "Color me stunned."

He came out of the bathroom frowning. "Your wit's improved."

He handed her a washcloth damp with cool water. She took it and placed it awkwardly to her burning face. It stung, and she flinched.

"I can't believe you hit me," she muttered darkly.

"You deserved it," he said, coming to sit beside her on the bed.

She raised her brow. "Like some womenfolk deserve to be hit sometimes? Good attitude you've cultivated."

Angel was unflappable. "You'll notice that's not what I said. What I said was, ‘You deserved to be hit right then.'"

She glowered. Angel sighed.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said. "Not that I hit you, because I still believe you deserved that, but that we have to have a bad start . . . pretty much every single time we ever see one another."

Buffy relaxed, and brought the washcloth down from her face, let her hands fall to her lap.

"I'm sorry, too." She looked up to Angel's serious, sad face. "So what did happen during that whole Let's Put a Hole in LA thing?"

Angel looked away. "With the exception of my son, everyone I love was killed."

A stab of nausea ice-picked through her. "Oh, Angel, I'm so sorr-your son?"

He turned back to her. "We've been apart a long time, huh? A lot's changed."

She nodded remorsefully. "Yeah. Speaking of, Angel-"

"There's something I need to tell you," he interrupted, the precedents for which she could count on one hand.

She sat and listened, but he couldn't seem to get any words out. Finally, he took one of the hands from her lap and brought it to his breastbone.

Angel wished he knew how to do CPR, because he was afraid Buffy was going to need it soon.

"What . . . how . . . I-what?" she squeaked.

"I don't know," he said excitedly. He dropped his hands from hers, but she just let her palm stay there in the dip of his sternum, drinking in the music of his pulse. But how . . . ? "I just woke up earlier this afternoon and I was alive, like-you know, human alive-"

Buffy paled.

"This afternoon?" she repeated wanly.

Angel was talking a mile a minute, which, under normal circumstances, would have been very disconcerting. This year, however, it lost the title to the insistent throb under Buffy's hand.

"Yeah, just a few hours before you showed up, which is why I wasn't really all that surprised to see you, because I figure, one weird turn deserves another-"

Buffy pouted. "You think I'm weird?"

"Huh? No, that's not what I meant. I just meant, it was weird to wake up human; it's weird to see you out of nowhere-"

Buffy was unable to keep a leash on her incredibly guilty look. "I don't think it's weird. I think it's . . . not even a coincidence. I think it's my fault."

Angel didn't understand. "What's your fault?"

"Your-your humanity. I think I did it."

Angel's brow rose. "You made me human."

"I think so."

He stared at her incredulously.

"Well, here's the thing," Buffy said earnestly. "You know how we have a lot to tell each other?"

"Uh-huh," Angel said slowly.

"I'm kind of a god."

"A god," Angel repeated skeptically.

"Well, yeah!" Buffy defended herself, coming to her feet so that she could be a little more commanding. "I mean, lately I am. It was-well, it was kind of a mistake and I may have been a little drunk, but now I'm a god."

"You're a god," he repeated.

She frowned. "Stop doing that! Here, I'll prove it."

She looked at the only other piece of furniture in the room, the bedside table. There was a novel and a sad little lamp on it. Angel was probably fond of the novel.

"You're not . . . attached to that lamp, right?"

Angel regarded her without comprehension. "What?"

"That lamp. You don't really-"

"It doesn't work," he said dully.

She wrinkled her brow. "How do you read in here?"

He smiled. "I can see in the dark." Something struck him and he smiled bigger. "Well, I could. Before."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay. Well, a broken lamp should be easy enough. Okay, check this out."

Buffy willed the lamp to turn on. After a second - come on, willing a stupid light bulb to light was so beneath her - the lamp flickered to life.

Angel sat up very straight.

"How did you-"

"Hello, god," she said.

He stared at her.

"So, anyway, I'm a god now, and I may have accidentally willed you to become human."

Angel stared at her.

"Say again," he asked quietly after a long moment.

She squirmed. "Well . . . I was on the way over here, and . . . well, the way I make things happen is by thinking about them really hard, and kind of . . . kind of wishing really hard that they'd happen? And I was sitting in the cab on the way to your place thinking about how much I used to wish you were human, and I . . . I may have accidentally . . ."

She bit her bottom lip, silencing herself.

Angel stared at her.

Buffy began to feel flustered with his eyes on her. When she was flustered, something horrible happened to her: she babbled. "Anyway, I'm sorry, because I know you didn't really want to be human-"

Angel straightened. "Excuse me?"

Buffy wondered what would happen if she willed herself to disappear.

"Well . . . you signed that shoeshine thing so that you wouldn't have to become human . . ."

She ran and got it out of her purse so that she would have a respite from his eyes on her.

She really, really wished she hadn't, as soon as she saw his face the moment he laid eyes on the Shanshu Prophecy.

"Where did you get that?" he asked. His voice was quiet, deadly, a stealthy asp.

She trembled. "I-"

He rose and walked toward her. "Buffy, where did you get it?"

"A pawnshop. Nowhere."

His eyes fell to it. His whole body fell, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

"The Powers were supposed to make me human," he said softly. "If they forgave me . . . when I'd done enough to be forgiven . . . they were supposed to make me human. I had to sign away that chance to infiltrate the Black Thorn." He laughed bitterly. "To murder my family." Buffy could almost see the reflection of the prophecy in his sad, sad eyes. "And if you gave me this . . . ? Then I'll never be forgiven."

"Angel-"

She reached out to him, to soothe some of the pain from his face. He looked up abruptly before she reached him, grabbed her harshly by the wrist.

For a brief moment, Buffy felt a thrill of fear, and thought that Angel would hit her again.

And then she took another second to read the look in his eyes and the hold of his jaw and knew, before he moved, before he breathed, that she was very, very wrong.

Angel took her wrist and used it to pull her body against his. He wrapped his other arm around her waist and crushed his mouth to hers. His mouth was hot. She was used to icy kisses from him, but now his mouth scorched hers, and she was shocked, confused, unsure of how to adjust to this new climate. His whole body was different. She knew this man - they'd only made love once, but she'd traveled his body a million times in her dreams - but he was so warm, and she found the novelties of his pulse and his breathing almost distracting. She got bewildered, dizzy, just from the kiss, and the Shanshu Prophecy fell from her hand. She heard it fall to the floor; she could hear the muffled noise as it hit the carpet, but insulated, like it was coming from the next room. The only real, concentrated sensations were with Angel, and they felt almost too bright, Technicolor.

She thought, somewhere, Why is he doing this? He's mad at me, but at the same time she found herself sliding his shirt from his shoulders and fumbling with his belt, struggling out of her jacket, her tank top. Angel was twisting her like the leads always seem to do to dancers in children's movies, just round and round the floor in concentric circles, and before she could realize the steps, she was back on the bed with his mouth buried in her throat, her breasts, pressing to hers like he needed oxygen.

Buffy remembered once, when she was in high school, getting into what she'd thought then was dangerous territory with him one night, and Angel folding against her and whispering, "God, you're so warm." And that was all she could think now, how warm he was, how hot he was everywhere, his breath on her skin, his febrile flesh against hers, his scorching mouth everywhere. She couldn't imagine how hot she must have been to a vampire, because he was burning her up. She had been with human men before, but this was different, because it was Angel, and it was insane for him to be warm like this. God, he was so warm, and the tattoo of his pulse was beating at a tempo that was vibrating right through to her cunt, she swore it was. Every time he rested against her long enough for his heartbeat to echo through her, she cried out; she had never, ever been this turned on, not in her entire life. She didn't care if it was weird: that was just how she felt. If she could have fucked him while he was hooked up to a goddamn EKG, she would have done it.

Meanwhile, there were practical matters. She didn't know how hurt his leg was, but she wanted him out of those pants immediately. The belt was already far, far away; she'd heard it dent the wall when she'd thrown it in her haste to stop it from hindering her access to his slim hips. She decided trial-and-error was probably the best approach; she groped with the button and zipper of his jeans until she managed to get them undone - it was hard to do these things one-handed and blind, damn it! - and then shoved the denim down until Angel complained. He made a pain noise in the back of his throat right above the knee, and one of his hands intercepted hers, and he finished removing his pants. She was fine with that, because now he was naked below the waist; Buffy was pleased to discover that he did not wear underwear.

"Can the bandages come off?" she whispered, her fingers testing the corset of gauze and tape. She wanted access to every inch of him; she wanted to run her hands over his broad, bare chest, wanted to stake claim. Plant flags.

"Not a good idea," he muttered, and she dropped it. She wondered what was underneath, though; what was so bad that it took a vampire a month to heal?

Angel was naked except for the bandages, and he had her in just her panties. She tried to take them off, and he growled. He growled. He was human and he growled. Buffy flushed, equal parts fear and arousal rampaging through her, and moved her hands aside. She'd just have to lie there, squirming, getting wetter and wetter and more desperate, until her decided he was ready to take her properly.

She wished there wasn't a part of her that found that really, really sexy, but there was.

A not small part.

One of Angel's big, capable hands pinned her to the bed, and the other shoved roughly between her legs, thrilling her sensitive sex even through her panties. She moaned, thrusting up against him, begging for more friction. She wanted to beg him to finish undressing her . . . but maybe that would make him mad. Oh . . . what would he do to her if he was mad . . . ?

His fingers worked against her beaded, eager clitoris, and she gyrated fervently against him, meeting every stroke. She felt her eyes drifting closed but she forced herself to keep them open; she wanted to watch Angel's intent face as he made her come. He was so beautiful, his dark eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, his mouth parted just a bit . . . oh god, oh god, oh Angel, thank you . . . she felt herself going lightheaded as his work paid off, and she finally allowed her eyes to drift closed as she crested the peak of her pleasure. The last thing she saw was Angel's mouth quirked in amusement, his eyes sparked with triumph. Damn him. He thought he was hot shit? She'd show him skill.

Buffy forgot completely about being careful of Angel's hurt leg, or any of his other hurt parts, as she flipped him to his back and came to a sitting position astride him. She wriggled out of her panties and slowly slid over him, slid him inside her. Angel breathed a long, harsh breath and Buffy forgot about keeping her eyes open to watch his face for one moment as Angel's thick, hard length filled her. God, but he went all the way to her core and she felt dizzy; she reeled slightly atop him before she remembered that she was teaching him a lesson. She stabilized herself and opened her eyes, smiled at him, a slow seductive grin.

And then she realized that while she was playing Angel, he wasn't playing her at all. His dark eyes watched her, just drinking her in, and his hands curled around her, steadying her and holding her atop him.

And she felt clean, and pure, and safe.

Buffy closed her eyes and let herself go to abandon.

3. Big Life Changes

Afterwards, Buffy lay in the wrecked motel sheets breathing in the warm, masculine scent of Angel perfumed with the musk of their shared sex, feeling sated, drunk. And so, so warm.

Buffy stretched like a cat on a sunny windowsill among the surf of the covers. She felt a little drugged, and a part of her wanted to just curl up in the nest of tremendous warmth they'd made here in this bed that Angel had imbued with his sexy, comforting smell, but she didn't want to close her eyes on his face. She'd thought he'd looked good, standing there in the doorway looking not-so-happy-to-see-her, but that didn't compare with now. Not at all. He was lying on his back - she wondered, suddenly, if it hurt him to lie on his side - all sex-damaged, flushed and mussed and . . . gorgeous and . . . well, strangely human.

No. Couldn't ignore this loveliness.

She rested her hand gently on his arm and he turned to look at her, dispassionate. She thought of the sting that had vibrated through her cheek when he'd slapped her, of the look on his face when he'd done it, and wondered if he'd let all his anger out in their lovemaking.

"Can I ask you something?" she inquired gently.

"Sure."

His voice was so soft, so low. She felt it caress her, all the way down, and had to ride out the sensation before she could continue.

"So . . . what was all that about? 'Cuz I thought you were pissed."

Angel looked sheepish. "Oh. That was . . . it was kind of a . . . I realized I-I mean, we could, and I couldn't help myself anymore . . . thing." The sheepish kept on coming. "I'm sorry."

Buffy's heart sank a little. "You are?"

Angel straightened. "What? No! I mean, not for-" He grinned awkwardly. "Not for . . . you know, that. I just . . . I just thought you were mad . . ."

Buffy smiled self-consciously. "No. No, definitely not mad."

He smiled. "Good."

Buffy traced the contour of his face with her index finger. "You should definitely do that more often."

"Jump you-?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Smile. You're very handsome when you smile." She kissed him. "Although the jumping me thing, that we can work out-"

He pressed her to the bed, smothering her with kisses, and only let up when she giggled.

"So . . . are you hungry?" Angel asked after Buffy's laughter had subsided, looking around the spartan room. "Because, I . . . have absolutely no food here whatsoever."

She laughed again. "I could eat." She snuggled against him. "What do you do for food, then, huh? Living the high life, eating out of the classy eateries that surround this fine establishment, like Joe's Two-for-One Burger Shack?"

Angel frowned. "You forget that until a few hours ago, I was pretty much on an all-liquid diet."

"Oh. That's right. But you-"

"Just went down to the butcher's a few times a week."

"Oh. Right. Stupid Buffy."

He kissed her forehead.

"What about you?" she asked. "Is your newly human stomach hungry?"

"I think so," he said slowly.

She raised her brow. "You don't know?"

"That might nausea. From the dehydration that accompanies absolute physical exhaustion."

She laughed.

†

Angel was so overwhelmed by the menu that Buffy ended up ordering for him.

"I could have done that," he protested numbly as the waitress shuffled away.

"You've been staring at the menu for twenty minutes. We would have starved to death."

"You say that like we had IHOP's the last time I ate," he sulked. "I don't-I don't remember how anything tastes, so I don't know how to . . ."

He looked so lost that Buffy felt bad for making fun of him, and she laid her hand over his.

"You just have to jump right in," she encouraged. "Just . . . you know, you can't be afraid. You have to let go of all your inhibitions and uncertainties and just let yourself experience everything. There's this whole new world open to you, and I think you'd do yourself a disservice if you didn't just go for it."

Angel smiled wryly. "You have a lot of experience becoming human after years of being a vampire?"

She shot him a look. "No, Mister Smartypants. But I'm kind of Big Life Changes Girl. I was a normal girl, and then I got tapped for this mystical, save-the-world-nightly deal. Then I fell in love with this guy I really shouldn't have-" She became acutely aware of Angel's eyes on her, and she blushed. "-and then I had to raise my little sister, and then I had to become mother to, like, every Slayer in the world, and now I'm a god. So I know what I'm talking about."

Angel smiled. "So maybe I should subscribe to your philosophy."

"At least about pancakes," Buffy said as the waitress returned with their food.

Angel looked uncomfortable, not quite sure how to approach his breakfast. Buffy scooted over in the vinyl-upholstered booth until she was snug beside him, and wove her arms between Angel's, collecting his silverware. Angel watched her, dazed, as she sectioned his pancakes. She brought a small piece - dripping with blueberry syrup; Buffy was fairly certain it was mostly sugar, but that it would be good for him - up to Angel's lips. He looked unsure for a minute, then opened his mouth and let Buffy feed him. He closed his eyes as he closed his lips over the first taste.

"Well?" she asked, searching his face.

"Sweet," he said slowly, opening his eyes to her expectant face.

"That's all?"

"It's good," he said, and went to work on his plate.

Buffy was amazingly content to watch him, but she managed to capture his mouth for a moment for a rescue-breath kiss.

He tasted sweet.

†

After breakfast, Buffy took Angel back to his hotel room and made love to him again. Angel laid beside her, lazy with sex and food, indolently exploring her newly holy body with his big, strong hands.

Buffy felt strangely awake.

"We need to get out of this motel room," she said, staring up at the ceiling's pattern of crackling plaster. "We should be someplace nice."

She wanted to go right now. She wanted to get out. Run. Run the gamut of the universe.

"Whatever you want," Angel murmured agreeably against her neck. He was nuzzled comfortably there, in what would have been very dangerous territory for him only a few hours ago, and she could feel his fingers idly tracing the outline of her breasts, her stomach. He was so warm.

Buffy didn't know if Angel could run. On the way to breakfast, she had seen how badly his injured leg caused him to limp, and when they'd come back to the room, she'd been careless and forced him to put all his weight on his bad knee in driving him to the mattress, and the color had drained from his face.

Just for a second, but it had been a long second.

Something should probably be done about that, she thought. Maybe she could fix that.

Buffy let her hand wander through the cheap sheets until she found Angel's thigh, his knee. He tensed slightly, so she knew without dropping her eyes from the broken ceiling that it was the wrecked one.

"What happened to your leg, Angel?" she asked, running her thumb lightly around his knee. He had stopped moving, she noticed.

"It got broken in the fight. A couple inches above the knee."

Buffy rested her palm above Angel's knee, to see if she could feel the imperfection. She couldn't feel anything wrong at all. Why did it hurt him so badly?

She dropped her eyes from the cracked ceiling to Angel's tense face. "Is it not healed all the way?"

He frowned. "I don't know. It should be. It's been long enough, but . . . it doesn't feel right."

Buffy was going to find words, about how she could heal him or about how it was going to be okay, or about how everyone he loved dying wasn't his fault, but Angel turned his face against her and made it clear that what he needed from her at the moment was silence.

†

Buffy's restlessness carried over to the next morning. She forced Angel out of bed early - despite his attempts to pull her back into bed with aphrodisiac kisses and very attractive promises - to go find a new place for them to stay. He was reluctant only until he saw how bright the new morning sun was outside, and then he grinned and ran out into the street to look at the spectacle properly, and it was all Buffy could do to swallow her laughter. She bought him breakfast - she would never tire of watching him eat - and then took him apartment shopping. He was not unlike taking a small child on an errand: he was generally nonchalant about the entire ordeal, but mostly he wanted it to be over so he could go outside and play. She considered leaving him at a park or something to be outside in the sun and not dragging behind her and the realtor looking longingly out all the windows, but then she was afraid he'd wander off and get into trouble, so she axed that idea. He stayed with her, and she signed papers on the seventh apartment of the day in self-defense and because it had huge windows and came furnished.

She bought Angel Japanese for dinner - for someone who never ate, he was surprisingly dexterous with chopsticks, but he made the mistake of eating a dime-sized glob of wasabi before Buffy could warn him and nearly choked - and then checked him out of the motel. Then the two of them moved Angel's few possessions into the new apartment.

"What about you?" he asked. "You don't have anything."

"Huh," Buffy said. "I'll just have to Jeanie it to Rome and get my stuff."

He frowned. "You can do that?"

She thought on it, her little brow furrowing. "I dunno. I mean, I know I can move from one place to another with no problem, just a little head rush, but I don't know if I can move stuff with me."

After a few trial-and-error practice runs, Buffy had several suitcases lying about the apartment, and Angel properly disconcerted.

"Oh, it's just a little time-and-space travel," she said dismissively. "Stop worrying."

"I'm not worried," Angel said nervously.

"Uh-huh."

Angel was still unhappy as they got ready for bed.

"You need to stop worrying, Angel," Buffy said to his slightly scowling countenance. "It's no big deal; I'm a god, I can totally handle it. That's just a tiny god trick, really."

"I can still worry about you, god or not," Angel said tightly. "I think I'm more worried about you now that you're a god; there's a lot we don't know about this. Who made you a god, and why-"

She frowned. "You're being paranoid. I mean, why was I chosen to be the One True Slayer? And who made that choice-"

Angel sighed. "You've made your point. I'm just worried about you."

"Yeah, I get it. Don't be a fraidy cat, though, okay? This should be a good thing. It should be fun."

He sulked. "I am not a fraidy cat."

She sent him a long, significant look. "You sure are. Fraaaidyyy cat. Meow."

Angel frowned and flipped her onto her back, settling overtop her with the sheets twisted around them. She grinned up at him, flushed, her hair spilling around her naked shoulders like a beached mermaid.

"Feeling better?"

"You need to be taught a lesson, regardless of how I feel."

Angel uncoiled the corset of sheets away from Buffy's tiny ribcage. With the same purposefulness and ease, he pulled her nightgown from her body and tossed it to the floor, baring her to him. Her golden skin was opalescent with pearls of perspiration, and her dusky nipples were beaded hard for his attention. Angel breathed a soft breath onto her febrile skin and she moaned and arched her back into the sensation, her entire body ultra-sensitive, raw.

Angel set his hands on Buffy's small shoulders to ground her to the mattress, and lowered his mouth to her breasts. He knew that she possessed easily enough strength to flip him onto his back and spend hours doing whatever she wanted to him, but he knew also that just the gentle pressure of his palms weighting her to the bed would be enough to dominate her, for the time being at least.

He pressed his lips to the curve of her breast. The flesh was firm and warm and soft, and Buffy moaned and arched against him, into his touch. He let himself drift further south to her nipple; he breathed softly against the sensitive area, didn't touch her at all but just let his warm breath arouse the flesh. Buffy keened quietly and tossed her head fitfully, closing her eyes tightly. Angel pursed his lips and blew a tight stream of cool air onto Buffy's hardened nipple; Buffy cried out, bucking her hips gently.

Angel smiled.

"You're sure you're not the goddess of sex?" he asked innocently.

Buffy glared one eye half-opened.

"You are horrible," she moaned.

"What about the goddess of sarcasm?" he inquired. "Or impatience?"

"I'm going to smite you," she whined.

Angel chuckled and pressed fond, soft kisses her breast, to the area around her nipple. Buffy whimpered.

"Angel!"

"Did anyone ever tell you patience was a virtue?"

"No!"

"Buffy, patience-"

"Angel!"

Angel chuckled and descended on her nipple. He laved it languorously with his skilled tongue before taking it leisurely into his mouth. Buffy relaxed . . . in the manner one relaxes in this instance.

"Happy?" he asked after a moment, freeing his mouth for a moment to blow cool air onto Buffy's finally attended-to nipple.

She squirmed. "No . . ."

Angel raised his brow, stopping his worship of Buffy's breasts. "No?"

"I want . . . you know . . ." Angel just stared at her and she blushed. "Are you really going to make me say it?"

"Am I psychic?"

"About me you usually are."

He didn't blink. "Then maybe I just like to hear this kind of thing come out of your pretty mouth."

Buffy blushed past crimson. "I want you . . . down there."

Angel leveled a look at her. "Down there?"

Her bottom lip plumped into a pout. "You're gonna make me say . . . it? But . . . I'm a god!"

Angel did not look amused. "And I love you; I do not worship you. So let's hear it, your holiness."

Buffy was insulted, but she wanted him way, way too much to argue.

"Angel, pleasewouldyouuseyourmouthonmebetweenmylegs?"

Angel managed to contain his amusement, and slid gracefully between her knees.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Yes," she stewed.

"Now be a good girl, or I'll spank you instead," he warned seriously, looking up at her from between her legs.

Buffy's blush flared violently. "You would spank me-"

"-even though you're a god; you bet your gorgeous, divine ass I would," Angel answered passively.

And then his able mouth fell upon her open sex, and Buffy absolutely and completely forgot every single reason she was angry with him.

†

"Do you have followers?" Angel asked quietly hours later, suddenly but not abruptly. His voice came from nowhere sometimes, but it rarely seemed hasty; it built up silently, invisibly, like storm clouds, like dew.

He was somewhere around her waist. Buffy was, a few hours ago, intensely aware of his exact location, but by now she'd been pleasured to a sort of throbbing numbness, and she only knew that he was somewhere southerly that made her feel omigodsogood, paying her delicate, sweet attention even after all these hours.

Buffy didn't know where he got the stamina. She was a god and she was felled to beached, sweating and writhing prettily against the bank of pillows, and Angel was only human now.

"I, um . . . he said I had followers already," Buffy murmured contentedly, raising her hips to Angel's warm, perfect mouth. "That's why he chose me to . . . to become a god."

Angel stopped what he was doing, and Buffy frowned and opened her eyes to see what the goshdarned hold up was, mister.

"Angel-"

"What do you mean?" he asked, and met her eyes with a purposeful gaze.

Buffy's frown deepened. She could pretty much kiss lazy petting goodbye until Angel's resolve had been assuaged.

"He, um, said that I . . . that, like, demons feared me and stuff, and that the new - you know, the used-to-be-Potentials-but-now-ex-Potential - Slayers revered me, so . . ."

Angel did not look assuaged. "But those aren't acolytes."

"What's and acolyte?"

"Someone who subscribes to your teachings. A follower."

Buffy wilted. "You don't know. They could be. The Slayers especially; some of them hang on my every word." She brightened, remembering what Dione had said about her ‘past lovers.' "Are you-"

Angel regarded her gravely. "No, Buffy. I am not an acolyte."

Buffy deflated into the pillows. Luckily for her, though, Angel was a multi-tasker, and as he mulled over this new information, he began pressing kisses to her hips and thighs. Buffy, becoming pleasantly agitated again, closed her eyes and relaxed beneath the much-sought-after attention.

"I'm just . . . this worries me," he said, and this time his words did border on abrupt, struck sharp by the note of concern running them through. "The whole . . . the whole god thing. I worry about things that happen to you, and I worry about the not knowing, and . . . and I've only ever known two gods, so I'm not an expert . . . but it doesn't seem like a very stable state of being to me. So I worry."

Angel's admission that he'd known a god was enough to distract Buffy even from the very pleasant consideration she was receiving, and she opened her eyes and sat up a little, making her less prone beneath Angel's touch and more an adult having an adult conversation.

"You know gods?" she asked.

"Yeah. In one case ‘knew,' but yeah. They . . . well, they were kind of enormous pains in the ass, but of more importance to your case, I think-I think that a normal human body couldn't . . . it wasn't enough to contain them. But you don't have a normal human body; maybe a Slayer body's enough?"

Buffy frowned, looking down at her divine body. It looked fine to her.

"I don't know," she said weakly.

"And where does the power come from? I was led to believe godhood was just a higher realm of being, but that makes the question of transubstantiation kind of an interesting one . . . although I guess vampires would make an argument that it's the same thing as taking a human body and making it a demon-"

Buffy felt herself becoming a bit dizzy. "-or do you need worshippers to generate power? But you're not even sure you have acolytes, or what the definition even is, so-" "Angel," Buffy said firmly. "I don't know. I didn't get a handbook when I signed up, okay? I just know that one day I woke up like this, and it was kind of an accident, but now it's my life and I have to make the most of it. And no, it's not really a bad thing; I can do a lot of good stuff with this, I think. And I know there's lots of stuff we have to know, but I need you to chill."

Angel was stunned.

"Okay," he said finally.

"Okay," she repeated, and kissed him thoroughly.

She smiled. "I think that's the most I've ever heard you speak at one time."

Angel looked a little sheepish. "I was worried. When I get nervous, I babble. Apparently."

"It's cute."

"Make me nervous more often," he challenged.

Buffy giggled and pulled him close. "I'm positive that can be arranged."

†

Buffy got Angel out of bed early again the next morning. Car shopping, this time.

"Everyone drives in Los Angeles, Angel, or haven't you heard?" she explained brightly to his grumbling back as he headed into the bathroom.

While Angel was in the shower, Buffy willed herself a current edition of the local paper and started looking through the Classifieds for likely suspects. She had several prospective rides - several stops for herself and her reluctant charge - circled by the time Angel joined her again, dripping slightly but squeaky clean in his post-shower towel ensemble.

"What took you?" she demanded, scooting over to make room for him on the bed.

He had been a long time, but he didn't answer her. She looked up at him and realized what had happened: he'd changed the bandages round his middle, and that must have taken a while.

"Oh," she said.

Angel looked down at her bemarked paper.

"You've got my whole day planned, huh?" he asked glumly.

"Yeah. But if you can stop brooding long enough, I'll buy you breakfast first. Ever have eggs Benedict?"

Angel, pacified by the promise of exotic new breakfast, amenably stopped brooding long enough to haul himself off the bed and begin dressing. Buffy tried not to stare when he dropped his towel, but . . . well, that plan didn't work out so well. God, he was so beautiful, and he-he was everything she wanted. And he was hers. At least right now he was.

She just had to figure out how to keep him. For good this time.

Buffy was distracted from this thought, even from the swelling in her chest at her lover's beauty, when Angel's fluid movements jerked. It was just a small jump in the track, but it was there. He stopped, tensed, and his face contorted briefly in pain. He kept going after that, almost immediately, but Buffy frowned. It hurt him just to get dressed. A month after the battle, and still . . . and she'd made him human, and it would take him much longer to heal now.

Buffy rose from the bed and closed the distance between herself and her lover, kissed him softly while taking his belt from him. She kissed him, tender, dulcet kisses, while she carefully brought his trousers up around his slim hips, worked the button through the eye, and ran up the zipper. God, she was so, so careful, but she still felt him wince, felt him fold against her in pain.

"Angel," she started, but he cut her off, his voice quiet, slightly desperate.

"It'll get better."

His eyes met hers, and they were desperate, too.

Buffy couldn't find words to take that look from his eyes, so she just shut her mouth and retrieved the shirt he'd gotten out of their closet. The linen was expensive and it felt light and crisp in her hands, sound, the way she thought it should feel.

She came up behind Angel, approached his broad shoulders, the dark stain of the ancient, mysterious bird marking him, and he allowed her to finish dressing him. As she helped Angel into his shirt, Buffy's fingers brushed the dressings round his ribs.

"I could heal you. No more bandages," she whispered, pressing her lips against the nape of his neck, pressing her body against his.

He stiffened. "No."

She drew away from him, enough to look him in the face, a little taken aback by his sharp tone.

"Why not?"

He frowned slightly. "I just . . . I don't want you . . . customizing me."

Buffy laughed and pulled close against him again, her breasts and belly flush against his broad back.

"Don't be silly," she murmured against his ear, running her hands over his stomach, his hips. "You're perfect. You're all I want. I just don't like to see you hurting, and I could fix it-"

Angel allowed himself to relax against her. "The pain's not too bad, now. And it'll heal on its own, given time-"

"But I-"

"Buffy, no. It makes me nervous. There's something we're missing."

She wanted to press, but she knew that there was a huge chunk that he'd left out of that sentence, I'm scared for you since you came back to me like this, and it made her ache in a deep part of her, so she just held him closer and let it go.

"At least let me take you to a doctor, okay? For your leg, to make sure it's healing right? You're still limping pretty bad."

Under different circumstances he might have fought, but she'd ceded a lot of ground and just then she rested her hand on his bad leg and the pain was indeed so raw still that he bowed his head. She withdrew her hand; she hadn't meant to hurt him. Angel nodded.

"Okay."

She kissed and petted him until the wince relaxed from his face, and then she said, "Maybe it would be a good idea to take you to all the regular doctors, just for checkups. I mean, you're like a baby; you've never been to any kind of doctor, and it's like-"

"Like you're adopting a puppy?" Angel asked wryly.

She smacked his shoulder playfully. "No. Puppies are fun and cute and you're just . . . big and annoying."

Angel turned his large, brown - not at all puppyish, Buffy tried to convince herself, fighting to keep a grin from surfacing on her face - eyes on her.

"You wouldn't want me for your puppy?"

The grin popped up, sudden and bright as the first daisy of spring. Buffy's hands snaked below Angel's waistline.

"Don't make me take you to the special doctor to get you fixed."

Angel grinned, too, and twisted within her grasp, tried to writhe away from her. She was mindful of his injuries, and she didn't want to hurt him, but she wanted to win; she locked her hands behind him and, once he'd turned full circle, she pulled him back flush against her so they were face-to-face and breaths apart.

"If I recall, you rather like that part you're threatening to have removed," Angel said sagely, regarding her with slightly narrowed eyes and a quirked mouth.

She was still grinning, due in no small part to the fact that she could feel that part pressing insistently against her.

"Okay. I cede your point," she bargained solemnly. "We'll just send you to obedience school."

Angel's retaliation was ruthless and immediate. Buffy didn't know where he'd learned, but he knew all of her most ticklish spots, and he hit them all within thirty seconds. She squealed and tried to get away from him, but he was just so big, and human or not, he was quick. She wasn't going anywhere. Soon she was laughing so hard she was crying, and Angel was gently guiding her trembling body to the floor even as he ignored her pleas for him to stop. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed this hard, the last time she'd abandoned control of her body like this, but the last time she'd felt this young and free had probably been with Angel, too. People forgot - they always remembered how much he made her cry - but no one made her so happy, either. No one ever had, and no one ever would again.

He finally stopped his assault on her and left her lying trembling and weak with laughter on the floor. He lay down beside her and kissed her soundly on her quivering mouth.

"I firmly believe you deserved that," he said.

Buffy punched him on the shoulder - incredibly weakly, all her strength sapped by Angel's punishment - and they collapsed on each other in a fit of laughter.

†

The next morning, Buffy got up before Angel even stirred and snuck out of the room with the phonebook. She sat in the hall with the book in her lap, flipping the Yellow Pages from Dock Repair to Dog Boarding looking for a suitable physician.

She rejected two who wanted her to leave a message on their voicemail for an appointment, successfully booked with a third for later that afternoon, snuck back into the room, and replaced the book without waking Angel. She slipped back into bed beside him and pressed a kiss to his sleep-mussed hair.

It would be super-fun actually getting him to go, since he'd only agreed to the appointment in a moment of weakness, but it would be good for him.

†

It quickly became apparent that an active imagination was going to be paramount in getting Angel through his new patient information packet.

The first stumbling block came on the first line, which asked for his name. It might have been okay, except it wanted last name first.

"Uh-oh," Buffy said.

Angel frowned. "Why do I have to do this? This is stupid. In my day, when you needed to see a doctor, you called for one and they came to you, and when they wanted to know something, they asked. And the things they wanted to know were generally along the lines of, ‘What seems to be the trouble today? Does it hurt when I do this?' And you could have a bone set for a chicken or a baby delivered for a bushel of apples-"

Buffy patted his hand reassuringly. "I know it's stupid, sweetie. But it's part of normal, boring human life today, and you have to do it."

Angel scowled at his clipboard.

"Just put down your old last name," she said encouragingly. "From when you were human the first time."

He averted his eyes. "I can't."

"Why not? Is it embarrassing, like . . . I dunno, Whitehead, or . . . or Hickinbottom?"

"Because I don't remember what it is," he said softly.

"Oh," Buffy murmured. "Okay, well . . ."

Angel was so still and he looked so sad that the words froze in her throat.

"We'll just come back to that one, okay?" she finished gently as soon as she could force a thaw.

His height and weight were easy to approximate. He didn't know his blood type - he asked what it was, and Buffy had to use every ounce of strength she possessed to keep from laughing - and they made up an age and birth date. (Buffy hoped her math was right; what an embarrassing way to get found out.)

His medical history was almost complete fabrication, since the last time he'd been sick he'd had scarlet fever, and in between now and then he'd been skewered on swords and scorched by dragons on a fairly regular basis.

"Have you broken that leg before? Or, you know, any other bones?"

Angel gave her a look.

"Okay, let's go back to making stuff up," she said hurriedly. "How about chicken pox? Everyone's had chicken pox."

"I haven't. We didn't get that when we were kids."

"What did you get?"

"Measles. Whooping cough-"

"Things that there are vaccines for now, and that nobody gets unless they live in a third world country, and the doctor will think you are crazy if you say you had-"

"I didn't actually have whooping cough, just measles-"

"You're not allowed to help anymore."

Towards the end, they got a little less detail-oriented, and started haphazardly throwing things around.

"How did you mom die?"

"Well . . . when I was turned-"

"Hang-gliding accident," Buffy decided.

"Hang-gliding?"

"Very hip. God, why do they make these things so long?"

Angel was dismayed to discover that, once they were finally called out of the waiting room, there was more waiting.

"What was the point of making an appointment?" he asked with genuine bewilderment.

"Mirth," Buffy answered, pawing through the drawers and cabinets in Angel's exam room. Shouldn't these be locked? There was some cool stuff in here! "For the office staff."

Angel sat on the exam table scowling, uncomfortable and embarrassed on the noisy, unwieldy paper covering. Buffy found some cool sticky electric probe thingies on long tentacles, and - delighted - began the search for whatever shock box of doom they were connected to.

The door opened suddenly and Buffy stuffed her electrodes back into the drawer and slammed it closed, placing her body guiltily between it and the figure in the doorway. Angel looked up lethargically.

The doorway was shadowed by a grimly smiling nurse with a severe hairdo and frighteningly cheerful scrubs.

"All right, dear," she said to Buffy. "The doctor'll be with you in a minute-"

"Him," Buffy said, pointing to Angel.

The nurse wheeled around, pivoting smoothly on the heel of her white sneaker. "Angel?"

He nodded numbly and she continued her spiel robotically. "All right, dear, the doctor'll be with you in a minute. You need to strip down to your socks and underwear-"

Angel blinked. "What?"

"The doctor has to look at your leg, sweetheart," Buffy intervened smoothly, slipping between Angel and the nurse. "I'll help you."

The nurse shuffled off, shutting the door efficiently behind her. Buffy shot Angel a triumphant look.

"Aren't you glad I made you wear underwear today?"

†

Angel was half-naked and he'd been waiting over an hour, and he'd had to fill out paperwork. (Also, his leg hurt; Buffy could tell. He had it stretched out, which he only stooped to do when it was causing him particular pain.) So he was not the happiest camper when the doctor finally showed.

In fact, he was in growly showdown mode when the doctor finally showed. Buffy had stopped fooling around in the drawers and cabinets and come to sit with him on the exam table, half to comfort him and half to protect the doctor on his entrance. Angel was human now, but he was still a very big man.

The doctor, who appeared an hour and twenty-two minutes after their scheduled appointment time, was not. He was short and neat and wore a tidy moustache. His white coat was recently pressed and his stethoscope gleamed.

The doctor looked down at a manila folder in his small, clean hands: Angel's file. (Angel had a file! Buffy was tickled. He was people!)

"All right, Mr.-" he frowned. "Table-"

Angel shifted uncomfortably, shooting a look at Buffy, who had picked his surname in a hurry as the last field before setting down the pen.

"It's a strong, uh . . . Dutch name," he explained.

"I see," the doctor said, sending the reluctant Mr. Table a suspicious glance over his file. "I'm Dr. Kyle-"

Buffy waited a brief beat for him to finish and then asked, brow creased, "Dr. Kyle what?"

She was met with silence and colored rapidly.

"Sorry," she muttered, and studied her manicure.

Dr. Kyle What? continued. "So you're having some musculoskeletal pain in your left leg."

"I know," Angel said blankly.

"Angel," Buffy chided softly.

He regarded her without comprehension. "What?"

"Tell me about your leg," the doctor said, ignoring their exchange. "Is there anything you can think of that could have caused the pain-"

"I broke it, a few weeks ago. I'm not sure it set correctly; the knit doesn't feel quite right."

"And he's limping," Buffy added.

"Okay," Dr. Kyle said absently. "I'll have you walk in a minute; for now, let's have you move it."

He set his hand around Angel's knee, fingers curling underneath, thumb on top. Angel frowned, but flexed obediently.

"You don't have a previous doctor listed on your patient information form. It would be helpful to have that information, and your records."

"We're new in town," Angel answered seamlessly.

Buffy was a little impressed by how quick-thinking Angel was, but mostly she was aglow at being included in his pronoun. We are new in town. Like they'd just moved there from someplace else, and had picked out a house and spent forever arguing over furniture and paint colors and china-

"I see," Dr. Kyle murmured. "Well, I can't feel any problem, and it looks okay, but neither one of those means that a problem isn't there. I'd like to take an x-ray to be sure nothing's wrong."

Angel looked intrigued. "A what?"

†

There was an x-ray on-site, and Dr. Kyle met them there once Angel had put his clothes back on.

"This . . . this'll show you my bones?" Angel asked, curiously examining the table in the middle of the room, the white sheets at the side, and the lighting boards on the wall that, dormant, slept the milky blue of veins beneath the skin. He circled the arm hanging above the table like a monstrous, twenty-first century pendulum, all wires and cords and horrible glass eye. Buffy watched him, amused yet apprehensive, feeling like a mother who should collect her child before he breaks something or harms himself.

Dr. Kyle studied his patient carefully. "You've never had an x-ray before?"

"No," Angel said, distracted, ducking his head between the table and the arm to see just what was under there. "How does it work?"

The doctor spoke slowly, still scrutinizing Angel in his clean, clinical way. "The name ‘x-ray' comes from what makes the pictures work: ‘x-ray' radiation. The machine excites x-rays, making them travel from one place to another - in this case, from the x-ray source, which is on one side of you, to a photographic plate, on the other. X-rays are able to pass through soft tissue - your skin, muscles, organs - and on those places, the film turns black. Everywhere else - your bones - lights up."

Angel grinned at Buffy. "That's amazing. Someone just thought that up. Isn't that amazing?"

Buffy couldn't smile, even at Angel's naive joy, because Dr. Kyle didn't look happy. He was still looking at Angel, and he looked like he knew something was up.

"You didn't have an x-ray when your bone was set the first time?" he asked quietly.

Angel opened his mouth to say something, but then couldn't find a convincing lie and gave it up.

"No."

"I see," said the doctor, and then he didn't say anything else, just helped Angel position himself for his very first x-ray ever.

†

As awed as Angel had been by seeing the x-ray machinery, he was even more blown away by seeing x-rays of his own bones.

"That's a picture of inside me," he told Buffy. "Right now! Can you believe that?"

Buffy, smiling, assured him that it was pretty unbelievable, all right.

"Right here," Dr. Kyle told Angel, pointing to a slight seam just above the knee on the picture of inside of Angel, right now, "at the inferior extremity. Your break didn't heal all the way. If you'd had it professionally set, it should have healed together; there shouldn't be that gap there. Do you see what I'm talking about?"

Angel nodded. "Yeah."

Buffy clung nervously to Angel's hand. "So what do we do?"

"Well, surgery's probably your most expedient option. I can put a pin in it-" He paused. "I know what you're thinking; you think, like, a sewing pin, a bobby pin. No." He went to the drawers Buffy had been digging through and returned with an exemplar, a steel rod two inches long and half an inch in circumference. "Something like this, to sew them together."

Buffy couldn't stop looking at it. It was so big, to have inside you . . .

Angel frowned. "What else?"

"Well, you can just leave it alone and hope for the best. You're not completely done healing, and it might come together a little more, though I doubt it'll make it more than a few hairs' breadths. What I'd really like for you to do - in either case - is go to physical therapy. They'll show you how to walk on it, what exercises you can do to acclimate your muscles to the change, and it'll help a whole lot with the pain and with future problems - putting stress on it while you walk, etc. - if not actually addressing the cause. It's a palliative treatment, but I'd like to see you do it."

Angel was quiet for a long moment. Finally, Buffy nudged him gently. "Sweetie?"

He looked up. "Do I have to decide right away?"

"Absolutely not. Take some time." Dr. Kyle leveled a grave look at Angel. "I know that you're not afraid of risk, and that you're not afraid of pain. But I want you to understand that if you leave this untreated, it could very well cause you problems later in life, and I'd hate to see that. You won't be a young man forever."

4. I Love You, Buffy

Angel, despite his ruffling and his puppy remark, was like a newborn baby in many ways. There was so much he didn't know, and the simplest things could fill him with wonder. He liked to go places - outdoor places, public places, places he hadn't been able to visit the past two hundred odd years - and just experience them. Feel the sun on his skin, smell the fresh air and food - Buffy was really, really tickled by his wonderment concerning such a mundane activity as eating; the look on his face when he put something new into his mouth was enough that she was determined to learn how to cook - be around people without being a predator. He just liked to go places and just feel how they were different now, and Buffy enjoyed taking him; she watched him from not-too-far, like a mother watching a toddler endeavor on its shaky first steps.

Angel was so quiet in the car after visiting the doctor that Buffy felt she should do something to try and cheer him up, so she took him to a bookstore as a treat. It was somewhere new, and she knew how he loved books-not like Giles, who clung to information as a religion, but like a lonely old man who knows where he can always find a familiar friend.

It wasn't one of the old, secluded, privately owned shops he usually frequented. She took him to Barnes and Noble and let him loose under the fluorescent lights, watching with great amusement as he wandered, slightly dazed, through the stacks of crisp, glossy manuscripts.

She wondered if he'd be okay if he found out the bookstore café served cookies.

When Angel had recovered from the bright lights and the bigness and shininess of it all enough to start browsing, Buffy dropped her shadow past noon so she could aimlessly poke through the stacks herself. She couldn't find anything interesting in Beauty, refrained from picking up some Chick Lit and Harlequin Romance novels only because she'd be embarrassed for Angel to see them, and then just floated aimlessly several feet behind her charge, his nervous parent or Secret Service tail, until she snagged on something interesting.

World Religions. Buffy stopped, a spike of curiosity chilling through her. This could be helpful, right? Maybe Angel was right; there was a lot they didn't know.

Browsing, however, soon left her frustrated. This was all boring general information stuff for-you know, not deities. What had she been expecting, an illustrated pamphlet, So You Woke Up a God?

She sighed over a copy of The Complete Compendium of Syro-Palestinian Deities (Unabridged) and was about to go find Angel for a mocha and something sweet from the café when a water-light voice broke through her brood.

"He's gorgeous, your boy."

Buffy turned quickly, her muscles tautening, her blood coursing with adrenalin. Her Slayer senses weren't riled at all, but she was battle-ready anyway.

But why? The speaker was a woman, not much older than she was, and deeply beautiful. She was milky white and smooth-skinned, dressed in pale green silk. Tumbles of blonde hair fell around her face like waves. Her large, placid blue-green eyes were focused, unblinking, on Buffy.

She didn't look like much of a threat, but Buffy's heart was beating fast, and it was hard for her to relax from let's-get-ready-to-rumble pose.

"What?" Buffy asked after a ten second delay.

The woman blinked slowly, the way princesses and animals do in Disney movies.

"Your boy," she repeated precisely. "He's beautiful."

Her voice was a hypnotic, soothing, deeply inviting noise. Buffy felt herself grow a little breathless; listening to her speak was like being caressed. She blushed a little; she'd never thought anything like that about anyone but Angel before.

"Angel?" she asked weakly. Had this woman been watching them? She felt her cheeks grow hotter.

The woman's full, coral lips quirked in a small, enigmatic smile. "What a sweet name."

Buffy was still feeling cornered, hunted. "What do you want?"

The calm sea eyes rested on her. "He's a beautiful boy, and I would hate to see him hurt, snatched away. He ought to bear your mark."

Buffy frowned. "Huh?"

The woman smiled. "I recognize you. I know what you are. And you should protect your property."

Buffy went numb. "You know what I am?"

The woman inclined her head slightly, and in that instant Buffy saw a flicker of pale sand and blue, blue water, a blonde woman waking on the beach sticky with pearls . . .

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm kind of new at this."

"I'm not," the woman said simply.

"I-I know." Buffy frowned. "I don't know how I know, but I . . . I know." She paused, tried to remember what was said. "What . . . what was that, about Angel? My mark?"

"You're young; you haven't gotten your bearings yet. Someone might try-"

"To take him from me?" Buffy thought she remembered. "Someone like you?"

The woman laughed, tossing her hair. Buffy swore she smelled sea foam.

"I'm a lover, not a fighter." Her face turned solemn. "But there are others who are not well-intentioned, and I believe they would hurt you. For pleasure, for a purpose-of this I am not sure, but I do know that the simplest way would be to hurt your mortal friend."

Buffy felt a stone of worry settle in her belly. "But . . . but you said there was something I could do. Something to protect him."

The woman smiled. "Inscribe him with your mark."

Buffy shook her head. "I don't understand. What mark? I don't have a mark-"

"It is a symbol to denote you. All beings have this. All beings of worth."

Desperately, Buffy grabbed the woman's perfect, seashell-pale arm. "But I don't know what it is!"

The woman slipped silkily from her grasp. "This is not my concern. I am not your ally, Buffy Slayer Goddess. I simply have consideration for you because you are in love, and because he has such love for you - and he is so beautiful - and these things interest me more than the wanton enmity of those opposing you."

Buffy was struck speechless, and simply watched the woman walk away.

†

Buffy found Angel in the clearance section, poking through coffee table picture books.

"Where's Paris, Hilton?" he asked when she came up and wrapped her arms around his waist, buried her face between his shoulder blades. She felt an intense need to be as close to him as was physically possible. "I saw it in a book, and it seems to be a popular tourist destination, but I've never heard of it before."

She couldn't help but laugh, though. "Paris Hilton is a person, sweetheart. Well, technically."

He frowned. "Oh. I guess that explains a few things." He flipped through a coffee table book on castles; Buffy looked out from his sweater to the large, glossy photographs of crumbling towers rising up from green countrysides.

"It doesn't smell like books in here," he continued, disconcerted. "It smells . . . plasticky. And new. It isn't . . . right."

"You think it doesn't smell like books because it doesn't smell like dust. Books smell like paper."

She collapsed into his sweater again.

Angel rested his hand on her head, stroked her hair. "Are you okay?"

"Can we go?"

"Yeah," he said softly, and put the castle book down. "Of course."

He didn't press her, and she could have kissed him for it.

So she did.

†

Angel came home with three books, all of which, after short interrogation by Buffy, it turned out he had read before.

"But I missed them," he protested.

She wasn't sure what to say to that - it aroused the same feelings as when he asked her didn't she think about the future, or when he said something really smart or beautiful that totally went over her head, like he had feelings that were bigger than hers - so she just went through his purchases.

She wrinkled her brow. "What's a seine Brüder?"

He sat beside her on the couch. "‘Seine' is the possessive; ‘brüder' is ‘brother'-"

She frowned. "You bought a book in . . ." She hazarded a guess, "Russian?"

He smiled. "German."

"You bought a book in German? This is like homework."

"No! It's . . . fun."

She eyed him strangely. "You have a strange definition of fun, mister."

She picked up his other books. "La Nausée. That's not English either, huh?"

"I'm afraid not."

She cocked her head to the side. "Still . . . it sounds pretty. What's it mean?"

"Nausea."

She wrinkled her nose. "Ew. Is it like a medical drama or something?"

He laughed. "Not quite."

She set that one down on the coffee table, leaving only the third book in her hands. She burst into a radiant smile. "Oh, Angel! Charlotte's Web!" She looked up at him hopefully. "Read to me?"

He smiled. "I'd love to."

Buffy sat back against the cushions so Angel could rest against her and stretch out his bad leg; he wasn't quite ready to bear her weight comfortably yet. She held him in her lap like a pet and ran her fingers through his hair, traced the contours of the muscles in his chest and arms as he read to her about the good-hearted Arable girl, the amazing Charlotte A. Cavatica, and Some Pig!

Buffy tried to get lost in the story and Angel's soft voice, a sensory cue that was normally sufficient to make her weak in the knees. She tried to get lost in the meditative activity of casually touching her lover, something that years before would have been forbidden, enough to drive them both half mad, something she should be sweating over.

But none of these things worked. All she could think about is what the beautiful woman in the bookstore - not woman. She was a god - had said: that people wanted to hurt her, and that they'd do it through Angel.

And she found herself close to tears.

Angel had stopped reading.

"What's wrong?"

"I . . ."

How could she tell him? How could she tell him that what he'd wanted more than anything left him vulnerable to attack, that it might get him killed? Because of her?

"It's just the story," she whispered finally. "It's so sad."

†

He found her the next day furiously scribbling over a piece of paper. The floor was littered with a blizzard of crumpled rejects, jagged white snowballs cut dark with harsh, unfamiliar runes.

"What are you doing?" he asked cautiously, stepping carefully through the wreckage.

Buffy was so involved in her task that she hadn't heard him coming, and his voice startled her; she jumped and covered her work guiltily.

"What? Me? I . . . nothing."

Angel's brow rose. "That's amazingly convincing."

She sighed. It was no use. Stupid Angel was stupidly psychic about everything in her life. He always had been; apparently, he always would be.

"Fine. Something happened yesterday, at the bookstore."

He joined her at the table. "I thought so."

"I didn't want to tell you, because I didn't want you to worry-"

"See how well that plan worked."

She frowned. "Well, fine. But I didn't-shut up. Anyway, while you were buying your difficult foreign books, I ran into this woman-not a woman. A goddess. And I didn't actually run into her; she came up to me. And she knew me. Like . . ."

"Takes one to know one," Angel surmised.

"Yeah, I guess," Buffy agreed uncomfortably. "Anyway, she said that maybe someone might try to hurt me, and if they did, they'd probably do it through you."

He frowned. "This sounds like a lot of summarizing on your part."

"I didn't have a stenographer-"

"But if you have enemies, specifics become important-!"

"I couldn't agree more. But she wasn't naming names or anything like that. You two would have gotten along; she made big with the cryptic."

He sighed. "Okay. So what's with Buffy's Craft Corner?"

"Huh?"

He nodded to the litter of reject sketches. Buffy sighed.

"Oh. That. Okay, this is the part I love the least. She says that to keep you safe, I need to ‘inscribe you with my mark,' and that part I remember word-for-word, because I kind of panicked because I had no idea what she was talking about. I don't have a mark! And then when I said that, she said that ‘All beings have a symbol to denote them' or whatever, and I-"

Angel laughed, and Buffy stopped cold, stunned and hurt.

"I'm not seeing the funny."

"Give me your pencil."

Buffy handed him her pencil and slid her paper over to him. Angel poised his hand to draw-and then stopped short.

"You were going to brand me with that?" he asked of a particularly inappropriate stick figure, quirking an eyebrow.

"Huh? Oh, no, that's a doodle; I was getting frustrated . . . like now, when you won't tell me what's funny . . ."

Angel turned her paper to the clean back and set the lead to the page. In a few short strokes he'd finished his illustration; he pushed the paper back to Buffy so she could get the joke.

She stared blankly at what he'd written.

"That's my name," she said dully.

"It is."

She continued to stare at the graphite letters as though she expected them to transform into something else, into something that would help her.

"It's my name," she said again.

Angel sighed.

"What is a symbol?" he asked.

Buffy frowned. "So not in the mood for Q&A."

"Then let's make it a lesson. A symbol is something that stands for something else. The most basic symbols are letters; they stand for speech sounds-"

She sighed. "I get it. Names are symbols, too, because they stand for people, or things? There's no such thing as ‘tree;' a tree's a . . . tree . . . thing. With . . . bark and . . ." She frowned. "You know what I mean."

He smiled. "I know what you mean. And you're right."

She looked down at Angel's elegant rendition of her simple name. "So that's my mark? You're sure?"

"No, I'm not sure. But if I was a betting man . . ."

She looked up at him seriously. "Well, right now, you are. We both are."

†

Buffy looked through the phonebook for tattoo parlors. She didn't know how to choose one, so she just looked through the list, hoping inspiration would strike her; halfway down the page, it did. Idol Images. When she first became a god, she looked up the definition in the dictionary, and one of the definitions was "an image of a supernatural being, an idol." So this had to be a sign, right? Or, you know, a huge coincidence.

Buffy wrote down the address and went to find Angel. She hadn't actually asked him, "Hey, can I tattoo my name on you?" Normally this would be a big deal in a relationship, but right now it was possibly a matter of life and death, so the circumstances were different . . .

But there were still butterflies in her stomach. Not just the nervous kind, but the girly kind, too.

Angel was in the living room, sitting by the door. Waiting for her. He even had his coat on. Apparently they didn't need to talk.

They didn't talk in the car, either, except Buffy drove and Angel gave her directions every once in a while, because he had been prowling these streets for five years and could probably walk the whole of Los Angeles - or at least the bad neighborhoods and the demon-infested bits - with his eyes closed. But when they finally pulled up in front of the shop, which just happened to be in a bad neighborhood that very likely teemed with vamps the moment the sun went down every night, Angel spoke as soon as the purr of the engine died.

"You can never leave me now," he said softly. He wasn't looking at her. "It's bad enough not having you when I've got your name carved on my heart, but if I have to look at it on my body, too . . . ?"

Buffy felt as though she just drank barium. When she was finally able to swallow the incredibly heavy words he had just put into the air, she managed, "I wasn't planning on it. You left me, remember?"

Angel's cheeks sunk in a little. "I left the last time. But you've run from me plenty."

"Angel-"

He looked up suddenly, his eyes slightly spooked like a horse's or a deer's.

"It's not about this," he said, the end of his voice breaking to raw. "I mean . . . all that, what I said, it's true, but I-I'm going to die. My body, right now . . . it's broken, and it hurts, and one day it's just going to stop working, and I'm old, Buffy, and I know with more certainty than I've ever known anything that there is never going to be a single moment in my life I won't want to share with you, but if you're going to get up and leave me when you start outpacing me by too much, then-"

Buffy put her fingers to his lips, gently, to stop him, to still him.

"I am never going to leave you," she said, meeting his eyes. "I am never going to leave you."

†

The shop was empty except for a skinny kid with a great deal of hair and a collection of piercings, a combination Buffy considered fairly foolish. He was sitting on a stool behind the counter reading a magazine with a cover so explicit that Buffy blushed when she figured out exactly what the people pictured were doing; he looked up when they walked in.

"What up," he said in way of greeting.

"Um, I-is that a question?" Buffy asked Angel. She was already walking holding his hand, but she scooted a little closer to him. She was beginning to regret her choice of shops.

"I don't think so," he muttered. "Hi."

"Hey. Pierce something for you today? I always do ladies half off if they show me their-"

"Not today, thanks," Buffy said quickly, before Angel could reach across the counter and start removing piercings. "Actually, he's your customer, and he's not a big flasher."

"I'm shy," Angel added in a monotone, eyes narrowed in on the boy, in case he were stupid enough to make another lewd comment to Buffy while he was within arm's reach.

The boy put down his magazine, which let Buffy see his nametag (on crooked); it said ‘Zeke.' Zeke all but fell off his stool and clambered around the counter to converse with them on a more salesmanly level.

"Getting a hole or some ink, dude?"

"He wants a tattoo," Buffy said, eyeing the kid nervously. She counted the holes in his face mentally and the nervous just kept on coming. "Are you the only one here . . . ?"

"Yeah, but no worries, I'm good at it. What are you thinking, dude, like a skull or a naked lady or something?"

Angel regarded him completely bereft of humor. "If she draws something on me, can you trace over it?"

"Sure," Zeke said amiably, eager to please his only customers. "But that's boring, unless it's a skull-"

"-or a naked lady or something. Duly noted," Angel said. "Do you have a pen?"

Zeke trudged back behind the counter.

Buffy looked uncertainly at Angel. "You want me to write it?"

Angel shrugged. "Your mystery goddess said that you should inscribe me with your symbol, right? So it should boost the magic, even though I doubt it's a needed ingredient." He cupped her cheek in his palm. "Plus, I'd just . . . I'd like it."

She blushed and stepped forward to kiss him; Zeke returned and thrust a pen at her and nipped that right in the bud. She blushed more and broke away from Angel, and the two of them followed the boy to the back of the shop where the actual tattoo parlor was.

"Where do you want it?" Angel asked.

Buffy didn't know. "I hadn't thought about it. Um, I don't know if it needs to be someplace people can see-"

Angel extended his arm.

"I-okay. I guess . . . is that okay?"

"Whatever you want."

Zeke herded Angel into a chair like at the dentist's, or the barber's - plush, vinyl, and adjustable - and Angel rested his left arm on the armrest, wrist up, for Buffy. She came and sat on the chair with him, nearly on his lap, and poised the pen right above his pulse point.

"You're sure you want to do this?" she asked.

Angel rolled his eyes heavenward. "Buffy."

"Okay! Right, I know-I'm just nervous."

She steadied his arm with her left hand and slowly, carefully, pressed the pen into his flesh with her right.

"Don't know why you're nervous," Zeke said. "He's the one getting inked for you."

Angel ignored him. His eyes were on Buffy, her little brow furrowed in concentration, her teeth worrying her bottom lip, her deliberate cursive curls. He rested his right hand on the back of her neck, stroked her smooth skin with his thumb; he felt her shiver, briefly, and then relax against his hand.

The sensation of the pen was strange, almost a tease, a middle ground between tickle and irritation. And Buffy was applying it with such diligence, and she looked possessed with such intensity doing it, and she was almost in his lap . . . Angel realized, suddenly, that he wished they were somewhere else, and he tried very hard to think about other things. Things other than what Buffy's strong hands and soft mouth would feel like on him, but God, that was all he could look at, and-damn it.

"All done!" Buffy declared brightly, turning and bestowing a radiant smile on him.

Angel let out a harsh pant of air. "Great."

She looked a little concerned. "Are you okay? You look-"