The Penny Series

Ficlet 26) Brown Penny
Summary: I am looped in the loops of her hair.

He hurtled through the air for a few seconds and landed with a plop in the middle of the kitchen in the mansion. A dejected Buffy looked up from absently stirring her soup before shrieking with delight. She launched herself away from the table and into his arms, causing him to grunt with suppressed pain.

“Angel,” Buffy laughed, peppering his face with kisses, her hands running over his shoulders and neck. “You're back!” she cried happily, hugging him even tighter.

He stiffened in her embrace. “Ow,” he grunted against her lips as he leaned up to capture them.

She quickly broke off the kiss and looked down at his battered and bruised body. “You're hurt!” Buffy exclaimed, cingcing fearfully into his eyes. “How?”

“I'll tell you after a bath, lots of blood, and some sleep,” he said, assuring her. “Can you help me climb the stairs before I pass out?”

“It'd better be good, Mister,” Buffy told him sternly, but her eyes misted in grief. “I thought you'd left me. That you were gone for good.”

“Never,” he denied swiftly.

Buffy continued tearfully, “No word from you, Angel; you didn't even tell me you were going!”

“I loved you too much to stay. I couldn't, Buffy, I couldn't.” He closed his eyes, and shook his head. “Please, blood,” he begged, his strength rapidly fading under the barrage of questions.

“Oh!” Buffy exclaimed as she got up quickly, looking over her shoulder repeatedly to check that he was still there.

He gave her a wan smile, which turned into a thin compressed line the moment she turned her back. Black spots swam in front of his eyes, and he closed him. A moment of dizziness swept over him and he braced himself with a hand to the floor. He jerked himself upright, blinking furiously, but the heavy lidded feeling came back and tried to lure him into the dreamless sleep his body needed to heal.

“Angel, what made the runnels in your flesh?” Buffy asked as she stared at the empty shelf in the refrigerator. “Oh. No blood. You've been gone for months, Angel! I don't have any blood. Will you be okay while I run out and get some?“

He licked his lips and pried his eyes open again. For a few seconds he stared at her blankly, trying to remember what it was that she had asked him, but he couldn't. “Hm?” he asked fuzzily.

“Angel?” Buffy murmured softly, squatting down before him. “Are you alright?”

He shook his head and croaked, “I told you so,” before slumping forward passed out on her shoulder.

****

He woke up sputtering at the vile taste of plasma as it was spooned down his throat.

“Easy,” Buffy said gently, pushing him back into the pillows, before telling him firmly, “Just a bit more for now. I know you don't like it, but after stealing it from the hospital an hour ago, I'm not letting you spit it up, do you hear me?”

He glared at her with yellow eyes, curling his lips back to reveal ivory fangs, but he sighed and wilted under her stern glare. Obediently he drank the disgusting substance to the last drop and shuddered uncontrollably afterwards. The heat of it raced down his spine in bursts of tingling sensation.

“Yugh,” he spluttered.

“Yes, I know.” Buffy smiled sweetly and pointed at his bare chest. “But it seems to be doing the trick, ‘cause they‘re not so deep anymore and the ones on your face are almost gone.”

He grunted in complaint and flopped back against the pillows. Pain shot up his spine, and he gritted his teeth. After ingesting the most potent part of human blood, he was going to have to endure the agony of his skin and ligaments rapidly regrowing. Buffy touched his cheek in sympathy, and he opened his eyes.

She was biting her lower lip, worry dotting her forehead. “Just another minute and it'll be over. Promise.” She gave him what she hoped to be a teasing smile, but it came out tentative and watery.

The sharp sting that accompanied the mending of tissues and muscles made him miserable, but Buffy was right; it would be better soon. It didn't mean he had to like it. When it was over he lay still, staring up at the ceiling for many minutes before slipping out of his vampiric features.

“Angel?” Buffy said questioningly.

He made a noncommittal sound and lowered his gaze to hers. A wry smile tugged at his lips, and he held his arms out to her. Buffy crawled into his embrace and snuggled down as far as she could get without being pressed against him in the most intimate of fashions. She sighed softly, her hot breath tickling his newly healed skin. Well skin in much healthier condition anyhow.

“I missed you so much,” Buffy sniffled, hugging him tighter to her.

Pressing a soft kiss to her hair, he concurred, “Not a day went by where I didn't think of you, love.”

She burrowed her nose against his throat, and her voice came out muffled when she asked quietly, “What happened to you?”

“Long story,” he mumbled, rubbing his cheek against the crown of her head.

Buffy grinned against his throat. “You're not going anywhere.”

“Why, Miss Summers, you keeping me prisoner?” he teased.

“A nurse has to keep an eye on her patient,” she retorted, before softening, “and yes, you're my bed bound prisoner.”

“In that case,” he said, continuing their repartee, “I'd like to see your qualifications, Nurse Summers, and then you could take my temperature.”

She huffed disdainfully, smacking his shoulder lightly. “You're incorrigible Mr.-” Buffy lifted her head up off his shoulder and looked into his eyes. “What is your last name by the way?”

“O'Connor,” he told her without preamble.

“Well, Mr. O'Connor, you're beating around the bush. Where did you go?”

He sighed longingly. “Does that mean you're not taking my temperature?”

Buffy glared at him from under her lashes.

“I went to Los Angeles at first,” he started, shifting her weight a little in the hope that his sore body wouldn't protest too much. “I had to get away from perfect happiness before I hurt her-”

“That's me, right?” Buffy asked anxiously, tilting her head up to look him in the eyes.

He nodded once and went back to telling her where he'd been and what he'd done while he'd been there. “You see, she meant everything to me and a curse kept me from treating her how she deserved, so I left. It was too painful to say goodbye, and truthfully I doubt we ever will because our ‘us' will never be over. I had a hell of a time in LA; my experience there was pretty awful, but opportunity knocked on my door one day. He led me through the sewers, just like the time another white hat had done so to show me my destiny. Anyway, I was told to go up through this sewer entrance, and I ended up under a parked car. I overheard half of a conversation between two of my destiny's nearest and dearest and knew then and there I had to find a way back to her.”

“Who was this ‘white hat?'” Buffy interjected, her fingers tracing lightly in the shallow grooves of his re-knitted skin.

“The first one was Whistler and the second one goes by the name of Doyle when he‘s sober. Why?”

Buffy ignored his question and continued, “Does he have visions?”

“Doyle? Well- I- uh- yeah… why?”

“We met in Willy's bar about eight months ago, 16 days after you'd just up and disappeared-”

“Buffy, you know that-”

“I don't know anything anymore, Angel. Right now Doyle's holed up with Giles. He's been really handy to have around… what are you chuckling at?” she demanded hotly.

He told her in between loud sniggering. “Just that when Doyle came to me in LA he'd been rambling on about the differences between an Irishman's booze stock and an Englishman's milk proof.”

Buffy sat up and crossed her arms. “Back to your story,” she said shortly, her lips compressed into a thin line.

“Sit back down,” he commanded, patting the mattress beside him, and he frowned when she shook her head. “I traveled seven and a half months by freighter and ended up deciding once again that if I never see another rat it will be too soon. The weather was accommodating; however, the endless rocking gets tedious and even sickening at times. We stopped in many ports, which is why it took so long to get to my destination in the island nation of Seychelles. Once there I met with a local wise woman, and she told me that evil would be conquered and pointed up this small dirt trail that wound up the sparsely shaded mountains. So despite my better judgment and desperate need for something of more nutritional value than rat blood, I wandered up that giant hill in blistering heat with only a black tarp over me to protect me from the sun.”

Licking his lips, he looked at her and couldn't believe that he had survived and was still able to come back to someone like her. Come home to her. He drank in her visage; it had been close to nine months since he'd last seen her face, and all he wanted to do was kiss her hello. But she'd be having none of that until her bone was picked and picked clean. What a gluttonous indulgence he'd have then. “Can I have blood? Please, Buffy?” he asked, his voice scratchy, but the twinkle in his eyes glinted mischievously. “Nurse Buffy.”

“Stop it, Angel,” Buffy hissed, her cheeks flaming. She gathered the bowl and spoon from the plathatthat she'd started to force feed him in his recuperative sleep. “I'll be back in a few after I've microwaved a blood bag for you. O pos?”

“Hot or cold, it doesn't make a difference to me.”

When she had left the room he sagged against the pillows, suddenly tired. Closing his eyes, he drifted in and out of a light sleep until he felt a slight weight dip the end of the mattress. A dream flowed through his consciousness and he was transported back to the tasks. This time, however, Buffy was trapped and dying and everything had gotten harder, more impossible to complete.

During the few moments he had to rest he could hear her crying, and those were the times he feared the most, worked the most to get to. Just a few minutes of reprieve and he could listen to her screams and know that she was still alive. A few seconds respite when he knew there was a reason for the torture he was putting himself through. Buffy was crying hoarsely, damning his very existence, and he supposed that he deserved it.

She was in pain because of him. He'd do anything to help get rid of it, even go through all this again. To go through this torment forever if need be. Doubling over in grief he looked up to see that damnable sock leering at him and pointing the way to the next task. The next task… all he wanted to do was get to her, be with her, hold her hand, and wipe her brow, but there was a reason he was here… to save he
A
A light touch crept onto his brow and waited for a few seconds before slipping away.

“Are you awake, Angel?” Buffy asked worriedly. “You don't look so good. Can you sit up?”

With a heartfelt groan he pried his eyes open and pulled himself into a sitting position. The remnants of the bizarre dream clung to him like a premonition. A lump of protective fear lodged in his throat, choking him. He shook his head adamantly at her and raised an entreating hand toward her face before letting it flop back onto the bed.

Buffy's concerned face shimmered before him, and he fought to shake off the drug-like sleep. He felt her hands raising him upright, petting his hair, forcing his mouth open and placing the mug against his lips, stroking his throat to make him swallow the enriching brew. Instinct took over and he drank greedily of the human blood. Involuntarily his fangs slid out and his features changed as he gulped the warm contents of the cup down.

When she reached to take the glass away he let it go and grunted contentedly before the effects of the blood bowed his back in ill-repressed agony. Small hands held him down against the mattress, and he knew Buffy was there, helping him. It was soon over, and he looked down at his bare stomach and saw that nothing but a few faint markings remained. One more packet of human blood and he'd be done. Truthfully at the moment he'd prefer to get it over and done with, but he didn't know how much Buffy had stolen.

As if reading his thoughts, Buffy told him, “I've got one more bag of plasma and three more of various types of blood. I can get you more.”

The blood had been too powerful to be mere human blood. Especially because it had packed more of a punch than the plasma. He glanced at Buffy suspiciously, and his suspicions were confirmed when she looked sharply away from him.

“Buffy,” he said slowly, “what type of blood did you just give me?”

He thought he knew. He could hear it calling to him in her veins. She had given him slayer b… he… her blood. It was really the only explanation for what had happened. Her blood was the most powerful, delicious, and addictive blood in the world… there was more to hunting slayers than the prestige of killing a great fighter … there was also the craving after the first taste just to see if the next girl had the same flavor… she doesn't- she's better- his mate the best.

Worriedly, he licked his lips, picking up the droplet of pooled blood in the corner of his mouth. The blood in her veins called to him, making his demon dizzy with need, for there was a difference in guessing a slayer's taste and knowing it. He shut his eyes in the hope of stopping the madness of his thoughts, but he knew it wouldn't work. Hungry. He was hungry.

“Buffy?” he whispered, the emphasis on her name a hint of his inner turmoil. “Was it your blood?”

Her hands trembled slightly under his heated gaze, and she noticed, clasping her hands together and nodding mutely. Buffy looked up from under her eyelashes, studying him, perplexed by his reaction to the quick healing. A regular bag of blood would make all the remaining traces of the scars fade away into smooth and perfect skin.

In denial, he looked away, focusing on the landscape by Monet on the wall. Then, sighing, he told her in a pained voice, “I'm going to crave you for weeks now, if not months. That wasn't smart, Buffy; you should have told me first.”

“Well how was I supposed to know?” Buffy huffed, jerking away from the bed and starting to collect things from the bedside. “It's not like I had a frigging slayer handbook to read that would tell me these things, Angel.”

“Your blood will sing to me Buffy,” he told her seriously, forcing himself to remain calm. “When I think of sustenance it will be the taste of you that fills my mouth and lingers on my tongue. I'll be thinking about one more taste, just one more taste all the time now. It‘ll be worse then desiring to sink into your body to claim you as mine, worse than-”

Buffy's head dipped forward, her hand paused in the middle of moving to pick up the empty cup… sadly, she finished it for him, “Knowing that you can't have me? Maybe that's a good thing, you know?” Buffy shrugged, still not looking at him. “‘Cause now you'll want to stay for another taste. I mean,” she looked at him then, “you haven't even told me you love me, loved, yes, but in love? Are you?”

Anguished, he reached out to take her hand, but she snatched it back, her lower lip trembling, her eyes once again diverted. “Buffy,” he pleaded, begging her to look at him. “I do love you! How could you even ask me that? You're my match in every way. I left because being with you made me too happy.”

“What changed?” Buffy whispered, her voice thick with tears, the coffee mug clenched in her hands. He could almost hear her think, ‘Do I not make you happy anymore?' and knew he had to refute her unspoken question.

“I successfully beat four incredibly, insanely hard tasks and got what I wanted most in all the world,” he told her with an adoring smile. He slipped a blond strand of hair behind her ear, tilted her chin up, and lowered her face to his. His words caressed her skin as he lifted up for the first gentle kiss. “I have my soul, Buffy. No more threats of Angelus. No more hesitating. I love you-”

Surprised, she pulled back. “You have your soul?” When he nodded, she laughed and launched herself into his embrace, peppering kisses on every available inch of skin, before sinking into a long sweet mingling of lips and tongues.

“Wait,” Buffy said pushing away from him, “you're still hurt, we can-”

Not surprisingly, he knew the best way to distract her was with kissing.

His slipped his tongue decisively into her luscious mouth, tasting the sweet spice of her tongue and the sugary seam of her lips as they parted easily beneath his loving assault. He pulled her head lower and continued the pursuit of her passionate kisses. Gently cupping her jaw, he nuzzled his way from her pleasantly swollen lips up to her perfectly shell shaped ear, where he murmured sultry promises of pleasures to come.

Buffy moaned, her nose seeking the sensitive spot underneath his chin as her lips caressed the rough skin. Grimacing, she pulled back, her cute nose wrinkling. “You smell.”

“All the better to seduce you with the lure of soapy hands, my dear,” he said laughingly and sat up.

Pushing her gently off the bed, he got up as well. Grinning engagingly, he lunged after her lithely petite form, chasing her into the bathroom, where he immediately grabbed her up and kissed her, avidly searching her delectable secrets. The difference in their heights was noticeable as her feet nudged against his calves when he lifted her up in his arms. The length of her body pressed against him caused his stomach muscles to jump in anticipation and her nipples to tighten enticingly against his chest.

His hands clutched her hips when Buffy leapt up, wrapping her feet around him to rest against the small of his back. His teeth scraped softly on the tender flesh of her bottom lip. She mewled, scratching his back, arching high up against him as if trying to claw her way inside his skin. He grunted and sat her on the countertop, slapping her butt softly as he pulled away.

“Really hot or mildly so?” he asked as he twisted the knobs for the showerhead, concerned about the all too real worry of the hot water running out and them being sprayed with icy shards.

“Mmm, in the middle please,” Buffy requested, hopping off the counter and sidling over to him, her fingers sliding the buttons slowly out of their holes one by one until the last one popped free.

Slowly she slithered the blouse off of her small shoulders, tempting him to follow the retreating cloth with his palms just to skim the soft, creamy flesh. But he stayed where he was, enthralled by the sight of her disrobing before him. Buffy smiled sinfully up at him, and his erection quickened beneath the royal blue silk boxers. Grasping the waistband, he shoved them down and they fell around his ankles.

Buffy gasped, her eyes widening as she looked on at his engorged cock standing proudly. She bit her lip and fumbled hastily at the drawstring of her sweatpants before he took pity on her and gently pulled her hands away to replace them with his own. He swept them off, adjusted the water quickly, and scooped her small supple body into his arms.

He stepped into the shower, and under the dousing spray, he caught one of her taut nipples between his teeth and tugged on the turgid peak, stretching it before letting go and soothing the bite. Buffy cried out softly, her thighs squeezing his hips as he nudged against her wet folds. Her head tossed back, leaning into the cool tile, her body arching into him, her hands burning trails of fire along the skin of his back.

He moaned appreciatively before pressing one last kiss to her lavishly moist crest and pulling back. Glng ang around for the shampoo, he grabbed one of Buffy's scented shampoos and popped open the lid, immediately enveloped with the fresh scent of pears. When he turned back, Buffy had one of his bars of Lever 2000 sudsing in her hands.

His cock quivered at the sight, his thoughts racing, his mind full of the images of her soft womanly body as he sank into her. Eyes closing, he gave into the physical sensations of his desire for her entirely. Flashes of her glorious hazel eyes outd byd by her sheer lashes blinked lustily at him, while her soapy hands massaged his tightly wound muscles before she shaped her hand around his turgid penis.

“So hard,” Buffy murmured approvingly, squeezing him once.

His body sank into her hands at the first touch against his skin. Teasingly, Buffy skimmed her hands up before slipping away to rub soap onto his belly and chest, pausing to tweak his flat copper nipples. She bent her head to lick his bellybutton and twirl her tongue inside for a brief moment. Her small hands worked the lather down his legs, plucking lightly at the sparse, wiry hairs before carefully scrubbing his feet and in between the crevices of his toes.

She glanced up through her lashes, whispering seductively, “Almost clean, I have one spot left to wash.”

A groan escaped him when she looked up to gauge his every reaction as she took his cock into her mouth. With a few passing teasing licks, Buffy sent sizzling tendrils of heat to tighten his loins. Cradling her head in his hands, he moved forward slightly, entering further into that moist heat until his erection hit the back of her throat. Buffy made an appreciative sound in the back of her throat, suckled once, and drew back, rising to her feet.

She maneuvered with difficulty because of his size around him to face his back. With slippery hands, Buffy ran her palms over his corded body, savoring every play of his muscles. Her fingers dug experimentally into his firm butt, causing him to growl. Quickly he turned around and took the offered bar of soap from her.

“My turn,” he whispered sinfully, seducing her with his enamored gaze.

He slowly ran his large hands over her smooth satin skin, the rough texture of his skin catching slightly now and then. He caressed her neck with the frothy bubbles, placing a featherlike kiss on her rapid pulse. Her breath hitched and held until the pads of his thumbs encircled her areoles, when she let it out with a husky mewl of delight.

“So soft,” he murmured, pinching the hard crests of her nipples.

He bent to lave the dusky peaks with his tongue. Buffy shivered in his arms, her fingers delving into his hair to hold him at her breast. He lapped and nipped and suckled roughly, making her moan and cry out with arousal. Her body shuddered with every caress and squeeze until she moaned her displeasure when he abandoned her breasts to travel downward.

“Shush, love,” he instructed gruffly, his fingers following every curve and hollow of her figure, leaving behind a trail of soap in his effort to cover all of her two thousand body parts.

“Angel,” Buffy whimpered when his fingers covered her golden curls and continued onward, tantalizing her with his deliberate slowness.

He breathed in the musky ambrosia escaping her slick folds, which parted easily under his questing hand. He teased her clit with a firm raking of his thumbnail. Buffy cried out then, wrapping a leg around his shoulder to hold him there. She wanted him, he thought with a smile as he slowly pushed two long fingers inside her warm satin sheath.

Slowly gliding in and out of her slick passage, he rubbed her inner walls until they started to flutter and her whimpers turned to mewling cries. Then he removed his fingers, watching her with a hooded expression as he licked them clean. He grinned as she groaned and tugged desperately on his hair, trying to yank him up. He went willingly, kissing her hungrily on her lips as she grabbed his back, his hair, his ass, pulling him closer.

“I need you,” he growled, fighting the urge to shift features and take her now.

Buffy giggled and hugged him to her, whispering frantically, “Yes, yes, yes.”

His palms slipped back up to cover her breasts, squeezing lovingly as she cupped his erection in her tiny hand and brought him to her dripping core. Nudging her thighs open with his legs, he angled himself at her entrance and paused. His gaze roved to hers, and he stared into her eyes deeply, searching them for any fear. When he found none, he pistoned his hips and thrust inside her silken depths.

“Home,” he purred, licking a bead of water off of her neck. “I love you, my beautiful, beautiful, Buffy.”

Buffy grunted and pulled a sweaty strand of hair off her neck, arching her back to meet his every lunge. Stroking wildly, he sank deeply into her, his speed and power varying erratically as he drove them toward bliss. The water beat down upon them, steadily growing cooler as it washed the soap from their bodies. The slippery suds made his grip on her hips unsteady and slowed him down in his search for purchase.

But Buffy solved it for him, tightening her legs around his waist and hoisting herself up, her arms winding around his neck. Flashing her a cheeky grin, he pounded into her with a new abandon, going deeper, harder than before. Buffy gasped, wiggling against him, leaving open-mouthed kisses on his shoulder.

Suddenly her nails dug into the flesh of his back, her heels dug into his butt, and she shuddered uncontrollably as her orgasm raked over her. “I love you,” she cried out, her walls fluttering rapidly around him, and his balls tightened. He growled as the first wave of his release washed through him.

Vamping out, he shook his head, watching her through amber eyes as he drove into her. He bared his fangs and grunted as he topped the final cresting wave of pleasure, crying out hoarsely at the end. They stood there in the cooling water, sweaty and drained. He laughed first, retreating back into his human features before twisting to turn the shower off. Buffy chuckled once, breathless, her chest heaving in an effort to get air.

“Cold air coming through,” he warned her, before opening the shower doors to retrieve their towels.

With a less than casual air, he patted her shivering form down. Carefully he dried every nook and cranny, collecting the beaded water on the terry cloth. He paused at her magnificent breasts, then oh so reverently dried them with soft swipes of his hands. Unable to resist one last taste, he drew her overly sensitized peaks between his lips licking away the gathered water from the tip.

“Hmm, Angel,” Buffy mumbled tiredly, swaying into him.

He wrapped her in the towel and slung another around his hips and shuffled her out of the bathroom.

Awake and aware, he declared happily, “I feel rejuvenated!”

“I'm exhausted,” she yawned, stretching, “but pleasantly so.”

“Well, it's way past your bedtime, let me tuck you in,” he offered with an engagingly brazen wink.

“Not going to bed,” Buffy exclaimed harshly, watching him go over to their drawers and pull out one of his silk shirts for her to use as a nightie. “Can't make me,” she finished with a petulant pout.

Bewildered by the fierceness in her tone and the hurt in her voice, he turned around with the black shirt still in his hands. “What's wrong, Buffy?”

“I'm not going to sleep,” she stated firmly, tucking the towel ends in more securely as she looked down.

Crossing over to her, he unwrapped the terry cloth deliberately and watched her pose stiffen. “Damn,” he cursed hotly and flung himself away from her to sit on the bed.

He covered his cheeks with his hands, dragging them tiredly along his jaw. “Why won't you go to sleep, Buffy?” he asked, looking up at her. “Why are you suddenly angry and uncomfortable around me?”

Buffy reached for his shirt, jerking it roughly over her shoulders before hastily buttoning the front. Tossing her wet hair back, she squared up and looked at him for a moment. Her proud stance vanished at the look in his eyes, and she started crying, covering her face.

His arms encircled her immediately. He didn't even remember standing up and walking to her side, but he was there, holding her. He rested his chin on her head and rubbed her back in soothing circles. “What's wrong, love, what's wrong?”

Sobbing wretchedly against his shoulder, Buffy hugged him violently. “Can't go to sleep!”

“Why?”

“Because,” Buffy wept, “what if I'm dreaming you're back again? It's too real, too surreal, too good to be true… I can't lose you! I can't!”

“It's not a dream, Buffy,” he murmured, picking her up and carrying her to their bed. “It's real and I am here. Always. I won't disappear. I promise. I love you.”

For hours he spoke softly, comforting her as she fell asleep, hiding his own sadness at her fears. He would find a way to make it up to her. He had to kill her terror at waking up alone, and her panic of him leaving her sight. There could be no road to bliss with this sense of dread hovering over them. She would know it was all right to close her eyes again and not be alarmed at waking up to an empty bed. He would erase the worry in her and rebuild the trusting love once more.

****

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, dancing up the chimney erratically with the caress of the swirling draft in the mansion. Hot air puffed out into the room, wrapping around his cool skin and warming it. In the week that he'd been back, he had not set foot outside the mansion.

Some nights ago he had pressed going out with her on patrol, but Buffy had expl in in an emotional fit, raging that he wasn't well enough or in good enough shape to help on patrols. She had made a catty comment on him getting dusted or hurt while she was occupied with another threat. She didn't want to watch out for him and frankly, he hadn't wanted her to. He had yelled at her to stop the overprotecting act because he was, after all, a grown up who wasn't throwing tantrums.

Buffy had stomped out of the mansion and slammed the door behind her. All evening he had worried and fretted, forgiving her immediately for her unshakeable fright at losing him. He had cooked her macaroni and cheese with a couple of added cut up hotdogs. She had come home with bags of his favorite type of blood from the butcher's. They had laughed at it, but that same bitter tension still hung between them.

Tonight he could literally feel her presence like an irritation. His neck tingled every time she passed the doorway. He knew she was checking up on him, as if she suspected him of leaving without a word. Determined not to let it distract him, he flipped the page on one of his favorite poetry books and read.

But soon he was counting her every pacing walk-by. When he got to thirty-nine, he shut the book and hung his head. Staying within her sight was making them both edgy, and it wasn't helping. No matter what he said or did, he wasn't convincing Buffy that he was here to stay. It wasn't working out.

He rose to his feet and went to the doorway, leaning against its frame and counted aloud softly the number forty. “Buffy, we need to talk.”

“Angel?” she asked nervously, stopping short.

“You can't keep doing this,” he said, motioning to the hallway.

Buffy bit her lip. “Oh, sorry, I'll stop.”

He sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. “It's not just that, Buffy, it's other things too. I'm not going to sit here in the mansion forever, you know. At the end of the week I'm claiming my freedom from Nurse Buffy.”

“But Angel! What about-”

He held up his hand. “No buts. I'm fine; physically, mentally, but emotionally, Buffy, you're ripping my heart to shreds. I made a mistake. I see that now, but hindsight is always twenty-twenty. I'm not going to sit here waiting for you to see that I won't abandon you or us.

“I did what I did to protect you from me, and along the way I was offered a chance to fix that which kept me from you. I took it, and I won -- by sheer dumb luck, but I won, and I'm back. I'm not leaving, not anytime soon, or for any long periods.

“I love you, Buffy, and either you love me enough, trust me enough, not to dog my every move with the fear of me hightailing it out of here, or you don't. Love is or it ain't, Buffy; I won't let you hover between being with me without fear or hesitation and all the love we could stand or with me with those worried apprehensions and this unbearable tension that stands between us.”

“Are you telling me to move out?” Buffy whispered anxiously, her eyes welling up with tears.

“No,” he growled in frustration, denying himself from reassuring her with his embrace, his body. Raking a hand through his hair again, he bit out, “I'm asking you to trust me to be here. To be here when you need me. Just like I trust that you'll be there when I need you. To be here through all tides, the good and the bad, the tough and the easy-going… just like I trust you to do the same. Trust me, Buffy, to not break your heart more than I already have. Trust me to love you with everything I am, no holding back, no fears, no secrets, and no shutting you out.”

Silence lay thickly between them, as he waited, tension eating him alive.

Oh God… come on, love, trust me… please…

But she stood there looking quite speechless, and he felt he had his answer. Dejected, he turned away from her and walked back to the chair and picked up the book of poems once again. He flipped up the dog ear on the page and stood there reading William Butler Yeats' words.

No, he would not leave even if he didn't have her trust. He'd broken it and had not earned the right to have it back. Even if he had lost it forever, he had not lost her love. He wouldn't let her see how it hurt him to not have all of her… he would make the most of the years to come. Nothing, not even she, could stop him from loving her, trusting her, being with her.

The words blurred before him as tears lined his eyelids. He didn't so much as move a muscle until he heard her retreat down the hall.

I Whispered, “I am too young,”
And then, “I am old enough”;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
"Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair."
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

He shut the book and hung his head. His fingers dug into his eyes, his body racked with silent sobs.

****

Everyone knew he was back by now, both Scoobies and demons. It had been a month since his return so it was kind of hard not to know, he thought wryly, walking through the door. Dropping the bags from the butcher inside the door, he whistled and walked back to the car. After several trips he had everything the mansion could possibly need for the next week or two inside by the door.

He took one last trip to the car and locked it, before sprinting up the stone steps and into the house. The floor was littered with two dozen paper bags, a dozen plastic bags, and a couple of gallon paint cans in the colors of lilac and ivory.

He had remembered Buffy talking about painting the master bedroom and had thought about surprising her with paint in the colors she wanted. It had been the night before the night he'd decided would be the last night he'd stay in from dusk to dawn. They hadn't made ‘love' again since that first reunion together, only a cheap imitation of it.

He had tried to initiate it on the same night he'd ended up calling her out of the hallway, but she had spurned his touch. At first, he had shrunk back, intent on not reaching out again lest she snub him a second time, but that hadn't washed. He had been shocked when she had kissed him, albeit desperately in her attempt to reassure herself that he was still safe and out of harm's way.

That night, before his looming threat of traversing Sunnydale with or without her consent, they had made love, at least a semblance of it, and every night since. But it wasn't the same. He could almost feel her keep a part of herself locked away where he could not touch, not warm, not love. His throat constricted every time they coupled, with the desire to cleanse them both of this whole ordeal.

Instead, when they were through or before they started, he left to go off somewhere on his own. He had also tried to go patrolling with her, but she had rebuffed him, so he patrolled alone on the other side of town. Some nights were better than others, and others worse.

He was hoping tonight would be a good night. Maybe a little paint war upstairs as he and Buffy coated the walls in lilac with ivory trimmings. Fifteen minutes later he was putting away the last mansion necessities, tampons and pads, in the bathroom. She was getting close. He could tell because of her higher body temperature and the stronger call of her blood to him. It was best to stock up.

His plans became utterly useless at the shrill ringing of his cellular. Fumbling for it in his pocket, he opened the lid and barked out a terse hello.

“Angel? It's Giles. Buffy's in the hospital. Come quick.”

The phone went dead as his heart leapt in his throat. Thirty seconds later he was out the door, tearing down the driveway to Sunnydale General.

****

A nurse called after him, but he ignored her. Running flat out down the hallways, he careened headlong into Oz, and they both fell backwards onto the highly polished floor.

“Ouch, man,” Oz said calmly, sitting up, head in hand.

“Sorry,” he grunted, dazed.

Oz helped pull him to his feet, and immediately he barraged the poor guy with questions. Finally holding up his hands to ward off the onslaught, Oz said neutrally, “Nobody knows what happened exactly. She just kind of moaned and flopped over at Giles' place. The doctor hasn't come back yet.”

“Where is she?” he asked anxiously, pacing beside the shorter man on their way to meet the others.

“ER.”

Giles stood up to greet him, pulling him aside, away from the others. The watcher cast one eye on themore ore turning to whisper to him. “Buffy had been complaining about an ache in her stomach. I hope it's just a severe case of food poisoning,” he murmured gruffly.

Nodding, he looked over at the hallway leading away from the lobby. “Could it be slaying related?”

“No, she hadn't gone out yet tonight. I was talking to her about her sloppiness in the field. Buffy doesn't seem to be focusing very well lately; it's as if she's being distracted by something… or someone?”

“I'm not privy to what you're implying, Giles. I didn't realize that Buffy was experiencing difficulty on patrol. I'll talk to her.”

“I know you left to get your soul, but why didn't you leave a note?” Giles asked suddenly, whipping off his glasses to clean them.

“I couldn't have hope.”

Giles nodded and turned away, taking his seat beside Willow and leaving him to pace up and down the halls like a rabid beast. He prowled to the nurses' desk and then back to the gang, where he stopped briefly. Then, out to the double doors that led to the treatment areas and back. Except for a few terse questions, he said nothing, sweeping through the corridor like an agitated force of nature.

When a doctor emerged an hour later, there was a collective sigh of relief among the on duty nurses. The young man held up his hand to thwart any talk from the group before him, which included a fellow to be reckoned with. After asking for the patient's family, he spoke to the tall dark haired man, informing him, and all of them, of Miss Summers' condition.

“Miss Summers is suffering from viral gastroenteritis, which is a virus that causes inflammation of the stomach and intestines. We replaced the fluids lost- electrolyte solutions. She will be just fine with rest.”

“Can I see her?” he demanded, getting the doctor's attention.

“Yes, she's awake, though a bit grumpy.”

“She hates hospitals,” he remarked dryly. “Giles, could you please see that Buffy gets papers to release her as soon as possible?” He motioned for the doctor to lead the way before following closely on his heels.

****

“Nurse Angel,” Buffy groused grumpily in greeting as he entered their bedroom.

Flashing her a good-humored smirk, he pointed to his sticker nametag. “No, Doctor O'Connor, but you can call me Angel if you like.”

“More like Prison Guard Angel,” she snorted disdainfully.

He watched as she kicked the sheets off of her and flopped back. “Tsk. Tsk. Miss Summers, if you keep that up, I'll have to see that you're put under another week of enforced vacation. Can't have you up and about until I sign those release forms permitting your dismissal from Crawford Mansion Master Bedroom Private Health Care Facility.”

“I'm going stir crazy, Angel!” Buffy whined, giving him a pitiful look.

“See?” he teased lightly, handing her a cup of raspberry tea with a bendy straw in it, before lounging on the bed beside her. “Now you how it feels. Besides, tell me you're not loving the free vacation Giles is giving you from patrolling. No lies.”

Buffy bit her lip, before sticking it out in that adorable fashion of hers. “At least let me get out of bed!”

“Now why on earth would I do a thing like that?” he asked in a pseudo quizzical manner, a leering grin on his face.

Her lower lip trembled in response.

Knowing when he'd been beaten, he asked, “Can I trust you to be careful and take it easy?”

The quivering lip, ceased and suddenly she was all seriousness. “Angel?” she started hesitantly, and he stilled waiting, hoping…

“Angel?” he prompted, when she paused.

Her hands twisted, and he focused on them, watching her fingers turn the Claddagh ring around in nervous circles for a second before flitting his gaze back to hers. “Angel, I-” she paused, licking her lips. “I do trust you. Please believe me.”

His hand covered both of hers, stilling their restless motion. Her eyes bled to dark green as she flashed him a small, tremulous smile. “I'm so sorry, Angel. I knew deep down all along that you wouldn't leave me, but I guess, I guess I wanted you to hurt, to feel the same worry I had gone through. It was wrong, and I'm sorry, please forgive me.”

“I already have, Buffy,” he murmured softly, bringing her hands to his face and holding them there as he held her luminous gaze.

“I love you,” Buffy said equally as softly, her lips a hair's breadth away from his when she stopped moving closer to him.

He smiled, grabbing a handful of her hair and kissing her joyfully. “And I you, my Penny Lady, forever…”

“Forever,” she murmured dreamily against his lips, “my Penny Maestro.”

Laughing, he tumbled her backwards into the sheets, whereupon landing he made passionate love to her. Afterwards he loved her slowly again and again even as the night waned into the new day.

-The End.-

(Epilogue left to go)