He could smell her.
Throwing open the velvet curtains, he jumped back, startled at her, though he had heard her soft footfall and caught her scent long before she came. She was... Buffy. He had remembered her name long after all traces of memory had escaped him.
"It's... just me," she said softly. She extended the bag she was carrying to him, hardly masking the pain in her eyes. "Here."
She stood there for a moment as he paced back across the room, carrying the bag of blood that made his mouth water at the mere thought. He opened it, lifting the plastic jar to his nose and sniffing. Blood. He felt his veins widen, his head throb. Blood.. everything else was distant, he just wanted -
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
With a small, animalistic movement his attention is brought back to now, and her. How am I feeling, he asks himself. I feel not real. I feel less human. I feel like a predator. I feel your body, your heat, your heartbeat pounding in my brain. I feel anguish for causing you pain, and I wish that I wasn't here where I have to face the questions I know you want to ask.
She waited expectantly for his answer, her concern mounting.
"It hurts ... less.." he trailed off, not knowing what to say to take her stare off him. He couldn't face her questions. They hurt, and he hurt, and as much as the love for her he felt was certain, he knew that he couldn't handle any more of the pain that the conversation she seemed reluctant to bring up would inevitably bring.
"Good," she said. He felt her uncerainty, mirrored in his own silence. How were they to talk now, knowing what he had done to her.. what she had done to him? Were they lovers, friends, enemies? Or strangers. The word seemed far more appropriate than any of the others. Strangers. The woman he loved relegated to delivery girl. And he thought his grief would end once he had been thrown carelessly back into this world.
"I haven't ... told Giles and the others that ... you're back," she said haltingly, stumbling over the words as if they were a painful reminder that he was still here, messing with her life. He was, and he knew it, but more than that he knew that he needed her now, tomorrow, forever, because he felt with an otherworldly certainty that if he left her again, it would be with a finality he couldn't handle. Not now, when her blood was running high and he was quelling the shakiness that threatening to show itself after merely being in her presence.
"Giles.." he breathed softly.
He heard her hesitate, felt the quick intake of breath she couldn't help at the sound of his voice. Then she continued, speaking quickly to cover the fact that her heart was racing. "And I'm not going to. They wouldn't understand that you're..." She gave him a quick glance, which seemed to reinforce what she was saying, because she hurried on, "better. And I'm gonna keep helping you get better. It's just that everything's different now. I'm a senior. I'm really working harder in school." She paused to smirk. "I'm even thinking about college. And and I'm involved with someone."
Her breath caught in her throat as Angel whipped around to look at her. Oh, the pain, he thought miserably as he looked at her flushed face. My god, I can't be spared anything here. The shaking threatened to return, and he wanted to choke down the blood she had brought, for him, or perhaps tear into her mouth. She was his. He saw it in the way that she flicked her eyes from his bruised body whenever he stared at her with intensity he couldn't mask. Never leaving from her eyes, he let his hand move to the lapel of her jacket. Oh, yes, the shaking was almost uncontrollable now. Holding his breath, nonbreath, whatever, he smoothed it. He could tell, by the look of guarded fear in her eyes, and the panic with which she moves it from his grasp that she isn't ready for this, she can't handle this. But it is all he can do to restrain himself from assaulting her with the agonizing mixture of pain, love, and angst that is his existence at the moment. She doesn't know, he thinks laboriously, how much I can't be near her, and how much I can't let her leave my sight. He lets his hand go, breaking her gaze.
He turns back to blood, his blood, and for a moment he wishes it were her blood. He can sense the pounding of her heart as it steadies and she regains some control of herself, some command on her emotions. God, he wants her, in so many ways. She electrifies him. She killed him, and he begs for her touch, for her grace, for her love once again.
There is a small, unseen wince as he feels the physical pain spasm through his body, protesting the quick movements he made. He needs to feed, needs to heal. He doesn't know whether she is a healer or the cause of all this pain. He doesn't want to think about her being anything other than his love, his Buffy.
She continues. "His name is Scott. He's a nice, solid guy. He makes me happy.." She breaks off here, but determined to finish, she continues, "and that's what I need. Someone I can count on."
Lifting the lid of the container of blood, he is determined to hide how much those words stab at his heart. She knows how to stake even without Mr. Pointy, he thinks. Someone she can count on. I used to be that person.
"Anyway..." she says, searching for words that will not come, at a loss in the presence of her silent angel, "I...I guess I'll be going. I'll come back later, to check on you." She pauses, as if his back could tell her of the tumult of emotions that are wreaking havoc in his mind. "G'bye, Angel," she said soft enough for him to think it was a breeze wafting through the mansion. And she leaves, and the air escapes him.
Lifting the container to his lips, he drinks deep. He escapes in the rush of emotion and power and sustenance that is this blood. All thought leaves him, and his visage morphs, and he forgets for the moment her scent.
words © SA. characters, show, and people not mine. no infringement is intended.