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The light was on in Buffy’s room.
The rest of the house, the rest of the block, slept soundly in the bug-chirping, moon-glowing darkness. It would be child’s play to keep to the shadows and scale the height to Buffy’s window undetected. He’d done it a hundred times before.
But Angel vacillated, hugging the night around him like a cloak. In recent weeks, the line that he and Buffy always walked had become more of a smudge, its boundaries unclear. She asked for a break after his horrible little act with Faith, then she sought him out; she wanted distance, then she wanted reassurance. Now her college acceptance letters were trickling in, and she might need more space while she contemplated her future.
It was only when Angel realized Joyce’s usual parking spot was empty that he gave into his impulse and stole across the dew-soaked grass. The Jeep’s absence wasn’t a foolproof sign that Joyce wasn’t home — she loaned it to a friend occasionally. But Angel didn’t like the idea of Buffy alone in the house just days after he’d fed her a demon-heart frappé.
Someone needed to check on her. It was the same argument he’d used to justify keeping tabs on her ever since Faith revealed the extent of her walk on the wicked side.
Buffy’s window was already open to admit the mild spring air. Angel knocked on the frame, making sure he caught Buffy’s attention, before slipping through himself.
“This still okay?” he asked.
“Of course.” Buffy clutched a hairbrush against her chest; she’d been mid-stroke when he interrupted.
Angel had intended merely to ascertain her well-being, but the sight of her doubled in the mirror, wrapped in a robe of silky midnight blue, pulled him in like moth to flame, with all the attendant peril.
He doffed his duster, tossed it aside, and held out his hand for the brush. “Let me?”
Buffy’s face filled with surprise and her pulse accelerated. But she relinquished the brush into his palm, and adjusted to accommodate the position he took up behind her.
Angel made a first, tentative stroke near the bottom of Buffy’s hair, testing for tangles, but the bristles slid through smoothly. He was bolder with his next stroke, traveling from scalp to ends, making Buffy shiver.
It was clear that she’d already conquered any knots, and further brushing was probably unnecessary, but Angel didn’t stop. He’d had so few opportunities to offer Buffy care lately outside the confines of a crisis.
“So… should I be bracing for bad news?” Buffy asked.
Angel stilled. “No. I wanted to check on you."
"Any particular reason?"
"I think it’s customary to make a housecall after feeding someone the heart of a demon. Just to make sure the patient is okay.”
“Fit as a fiddle.” Buffy’s forehead wrinkled. “Or any other instrument, I guess. Not sure why we single out fiddles as fit. Seems a little judgy.” She shrugged. “My mom’s the one who’s still wigging. As soon as she was sure I was cured, she practically made a beeline for L.A. She says it’s for the gallery, like I’m not going to clock the Giles of it all.”
Buffy’s expression twisted with a mischievous distaste, and Angel thanked the heavens yet again that he hadn’t swallowed any of that cursed chocolate.
He resumed his work, noticing the way Buffy’s eyes followed the brush’s disembodied movements in the mirror.
“That is truly trippy,” she said.
“I can stop.”
Buffy closed her eyes. “No. There’s nothing I need to see anyway. Same old boring view.”
The slight edge to her voice snagged his concern, but he kept his tone light. “Are you kidding? Best view I’ve ever seen.”
One of her eyes opened. “You mean that?”
“Of course I do.”
Her eyes squeezed closed again. “You don’t really say things like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, about how I look. That you think I’m…”
“Gorgeous?”
Both eyes popped open. “Is that the word you’d use?”
“One of the many.”
She bit her lip, taking in her reflection. “It’s just… when I look in the mirror, I don’t see a bombshell like… you-know-who. Not even a homecoming queen anymore. I’m just me.”
The vulnerability in Buffy’s voice brought to mind her recent attempt to read his. He remembered her words then: You’re not exactly Joe-here’s-what-I’m-thinking.
And Angel wondered just how many things he’d never said out loud.
He put the brush down and wrapped his arms around Buffy from behind, holding her in place. “It seemed like, in the past, maybe people tended to value you mostly for your looks. You said it was a shallow life. So if I haven’t focused on that part, it’s because I want you to know that it’s so much more than that for me. When I look at you, I don’t see a beautiful young woman—”
“Hey!”
“I mean, I don’t just see how beautiful you look. I see all the beauty that you are. All the beauty that you make.”
Buffy smiled softly, her gaze cast down toward the floor. Angel took the opportunity.
“Look at these,” he said, cupping her hands in his much larger ones and holding them out for inspection. Her palms were lightly calloused from handling stakes, but if he flipped them over, he knew he’d see pastel-painted nails, too. “What they do is incredible.”
“Kill demons?”
“Yes, but more than that. They reach out to your friends. They make waffles with your mom. They braid Willow’s hair.”
Angel could’ve stopped there. He’d made his point, and everything so far had been innocent. Chaste. Well on the proper side of the line, whether smudgy or defined. But being close to her like this stirred something inside him that couldn’t be denied.
“And these hands give pleasure, Buffy,” he murmured. “So much. Touching you like this, it’s like a circuit connects.”
She turned her hands over and threaded their fingers together. “I…I feel it too.”
Buffy relaxed against his chest, crossing their clasped hands over her middle, and he nuzzled his cheek against the golden silk of her hair. Her breath was coming quicker, her pounding heart amplifying the intoxicating scent of her blood.
Angel never wanted to let go. An alarm sounded in his head, one he should probably heed, but he muffled it.
“Anything else you’re thinking?” Buffy asked, less uncertain and more playful now.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “I was thinking about your arms.”
“My arms?”
Again, he moved their joined hands away from her torso, bringing her arms into view. “I was lying in these arms in the happiest moments of my life.”
Buffy inhaled raggedly.
“I regret…the way things went,” he said. “But you have to understand. Before I knew you, I didn’t know that kind of happiness even existed.”
He lifted one hand to his lips, kissing her wrist, her forearm, as the blue silk of her sleeve slipped down. He’d never seen this robe before, but he liked it.
And it hit him. The movie. The blue kimono. Had Buffy bought this because it reminded her of—?
The scenes flashed through his head. So many things he wanted but couldn’t have playing out on the screen, with Buffy sitting right beside him, responding to his touch in a way that only emphasized all ways they couldn’t touch.
Entranced by what this robe might mean, he let one hand drift over it, over the slippery curve of her waist. He followed the path of the belt to the tie and grasped one end, cool silk crushed in his fist.
The mirror reflected Buffy’s startled expression and Angel froze. One tug and her robe would open. The alarm in his head sounded again, louder this time. But then Buffy’s hand wrapped around his. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she pulled slowly until the knot came loose.
Angel knew he shouldn’t let this happen. He knew he was flirting with fire. But he stayed rooted to the spot.
Buffy rippled her body subtly so the two sides of the robe parted, revealing the bare skin and the black cotton panties beneath.
And Angel was weak. He no longer had the power to tamp down his reaction to her. He too shifted his body subtly, not wanting to make her overly aware of that fact. An ache reverberated in every part of him, his entire being throbbed.
Buffy’s eyes in the mirror had grown critical again. She zeroed in on the pale swell of her breasts, an image Angel took in greedily, his mouth watering for her.
“They’re kind of small,” Buffy said, like a dare, and Angel was grateful for the game, grateful to have an excuse to keep looking, grateful to have a focus other than devouring her.
“You think I care about that?” he said. “Plus, it’s not even true.”
He guided her own hands to cup her breasts, and didn’t let go. Even with the barrier, he could conjure the precise sensation of her softness filling his palms.
“You can’t tell me that doesn’t feel amazing,” he said.
Buffy breathed a laugh.
“But even if they disappeared tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter.”
“That would be pretty weird, though. Some kind of boob-be-gone spell?”
She was flustered. Angel’s lips curved up. He loved when she was flustered.
“What matters, Buffy, is this.” He took one hand from hers and traced his finger over heart.
Buffy rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
But now Angel had touched her skin somewhere other than her hand, her wrist, somewhere other than the carefully approved places. He ran his fingers down the center of her chest, captivated by her petal-smoothness, but knowing he needed to be careful. He spanned his hand over the plane of her abdomen and marveled at how much territory he could cover. So much power coiled into every square inch of her.
“Is there something profound about my tummy too?” Buffy asked.
“No, it’s just cute.” He circled with his fingertips. “Look at that belly button.”
Buffy smiled, and he smiled, but the desire boiling within him soon melted the last of their pretext away. It was too much now, seeing her, touching her. The rich smell of her arousal overwhelmed him, and his posture grew more possessive, his body enveloping hers.
“If I could put my mouth on you right now, I’d kiss you here,” he said urgently, touching right above her waistband. “And I’d keep kissing you, down and down, until I could taste you where you’re hottest.”
At the borderline of the elastic, he paused. He lingered.
“I wish you could,” Buffy whispered.
He yanked himself away. The motion induced the glossy robe to slip from her shoulders, and Buffy didn’t prevent it from fluttering to the floor.
“I can’t.” Angel closed his eyes against the beguiling contours of her bare back. “I could lose myself in you. I could forget.” He swallowed, regaining a few degrees of mastery over his lust. “But…”
“But?”
He should have known better than to touch. But he couldn’t stop looking. Not yet.
“I want…I want to remember your face,” he said, “the way it changes when you feel pleasure.”
He had to stop at that elastic barrier, but she didn’t.
Angel guided her hand one last time. “Buffy, please.”
“You want me to…?” Her fingers were already sneaking beneath the cotton.
“Yes,” he groaned.
Buffy touched herself tentatively, her eyes sliding closed. Angel cataloged every second, storing away every crinkle of her skin, every twitch of her muscles, every gasp and sigh. And when she bit down on her lip, hard, he went from mesmerized to wild.
He spared not even a second for caution, for rational thought, before encircling her wrist and bringing her hand up to meet his descending mouth. He licked hungrily at slick fingertips until his brain caught up and he released her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, relishing the silken smear left behind on his lips. “Don’t stop.”
Buffy’s renewed pace was faster, and her head tipped back to loll against his chest. When his hands gripped her hips, he told himself it was only to keep her steady. But he held on tight.
“Angel,” she said, her voice more air than sound, “you should know…every time I do this, I think about you. What we could do. Maybe—maybe I’m not a bad girl, but I’d do anything with you.”
The pure erotic electricity that was Buffy jolted through him — his body crackled with it painfully — and he didn’t mean to do it, and it was only for a moment — but he rubbed himself against her. And the friction was primal, and Buffy was making little strangled sounds of climax, and—
“Oh God. Fuck.” He pulled his hips back sharply, still holding hers so she wouldn’t lose her balance.
“Angel?” Buffy stutter-breathed like she’d just surfaced from being underwater too long.
“This is a little embarrassing,” he said.
She whirled around, finally facing him. “Oh,” she said, realizing. “You…?”
“Do you understand what you do to me now, Buffy? We barely even have to touch.” Her cheeks flushed even brighter. He remembered her like this, love-drunk and radiant. The tenderness that flooded him was mixed with panic. “I should—”
“You know where the bathroom is.”
He nodded. “But then I should—it’s safer if I go.”
Buffy’s eyes glittered, her pink lips parted. If he kissed her now, if she held him…
“I understand,” she said.
He swept up his coat. He paused at the door, without turning around. “Thank you—for letting me see you.”
“Thank you…for seeing me. All of me.”
And then, with so much love pumping through his dead demon heart that even another minute courted disaster, he closed the door behind him, so he couldn’t see her anymore.