AUTHOR: Eliz
EMAIL: ealutz@earthlink.net
DISCLAIMER: Hey all - I don't own any 'Buffy' characters at all...sadly... :( . Ah well, at any rate, this takes place in a universe where all those unhappy, nasty Surprise/Innocence/Becoming BAD things never happened. Hurrah!
Angel paced across his livingroom floor - easily the thousandth time - with a growl. Where the hell was she? Running his fingers through his already disarrayed hair, he paused in his pacing to glare at the silent telephone. It did not respond.
*****
Angel's afternoon had gone sour surprisingly quickly. He'd awakened around noon - early for him - eager to get a bit of research done before Buffy came to his apartment after school. He was in the middle of a puzzle that the Watcher had asked him to decipher. The work was interesting. It freed his mind while his body was trapped inside the walls of this place - under siege by the sun. He enjoyed digging through the old texts for minute clues that may unlock prophecies or secrets written ages ago. He didn't find it quite as stimulating as Giles seemed to - but that was natural. The Watcher had practically been born to do this sort of thing - for Angel, it was only a hobby to pass the time. He did like it - but the real bounce in his step around twelve thirty came from the knowledge that Buffy was coming.
Their relationship was budding quickly under his careful, hopeful ministrations, and the thought of her arrival brought a spontaneous smile to his face. Buffy - here. In his apartment... in his arms ... in his bed...
The first time they'd made love, he'd been tentative, scared. She'd been inexperienced, but eager. She feared the unknown - a loss of control over herself - and surrender.
He feared murdering her.
He grinned, remembering how she'd practically had to knock him over the head and drag him into bed by his hair to get him to even considered physically loving her. He'd been content to adore her from afar - initially, at least. Then, when neither of them could stand to be apart, he resigned himself to loving her openly from self-imposed isolation. She hadn't been content or resigned about either scenario - and let him know it. He remembered perfectly - with aching clarity - the moment that she'd walked gingerly out of the bathroom of his apartment.
They'd been watching a movie - his TV- and VCR-less life having ending pretty much right after they started dating. Three quarters of the way through, she'd jumped up from the couch with a muffled, indecipherable mumble, and bolted into the bathroom. Suppressing momentary concern, he'd assumed that she simply needed to use the facilities. Setting the VCR on 'pause', he sank back against the cushions to wait. When the bathroom door opened, he hadn't turned to look. When she didn't immediately appear back at his side to resume the movie-viewing, he twisted his upper body around so he could look at her.
If he'd had breath - she'd have taken it away.
She stood uncertainly in the doorframe of the darkened bathroom, the dim light of lamp across the room catching the silken hills and valleys of the very abbreviated nightgown she was wearing. She'd caught her hair up in a neck-baring style that secretly drove him wild, and her eyes were huge in her white face.
He vaguely remembered his mouth dropping open in heated awe - his body responding quickly and effectively to his fantasies come to life. In that husky voice of hers that poured down his spine like honey, she whispered his name.
He'd tried to stop himself... to stop her. His desperate, choppy protests fell on resolute ears. Her tiny hands had moved over his shirt - and later, his skin - with a determined energy that he could not suppress. He'd ignited with love and lust - taking what she offered with hungry eagerness, her silky, golden hair; her soft skin; her lush mouth; her beautiful body. When they both lay on his bed - where he'd lain so many, lonely nights, not even daring to imagine this - he'd tried once more.
Her maddening, inflaming hands stroked down his bare back, his own hands reveling in the softness of her breasts... her hips... "Buffy," he'd gasped desperately against her throat, their nude bodies pushing erotically against each other - but not joined - not yet...
"Angel... yes... Angel..." she'd moaned, desire having erased her earlier fears.
He'd jerked his face from the crook of her neck then - fear and shame as brilliant in his yellow eyes as desire and love had been when his eyes were a soft hazel. Her eyes, solemnent with arousal, scanned his face then - taking in the heavy, ridged forehead and the razor-sharp fangs. The steady rocking of her young body against his arousal faltered for only the barest moment - then her fingers were twining in his hair, dragging his mouth down to hers - the intensity of their kiss hardly hampered by his fangs. When she'd drawn back, slowly, the raging desire was back in his eyes - though they remained golden. The movements of their bodies changed subtly - then suddenly her body was tensed underneath him... and he was inside her - sweet god - and it was more incredible that anything he could have dreamt in two hundred more years.
The pain he'd unwillingly bestowed on her seemed to pass quickly - their lovemaking spiraling upwards with frightening speed. Beneath the love and desire that were pounding through his system, he could sense his face changing, morphing from human to vampire with seeming randomness. His lover either didn't notice - or didn't care. Gasping his name, her tiny frame shuddering beneath him... around him... she'd burned in his arms. His hands desperately grasped soft flesh as he'd shouted into the scented, damp hollow of her throat - emptying himself into her endlessly.
The memory of their first joining still had more than enough power to tie Angel into knots. The needle-sharp spray of a freezing shower had taken the edge off, but he was still undeniably looking forward to Buffy's arrival on several levels. After grabbing a quick snack, he'd settled down with a text only about fifty years older than himself. The piece to the puzzle Giles was working on was conveniently in that very book. Upon discovering it, Angel called the Watcher at the high school library - the man's day job - only to have the revelation somewhat over-shadowed by the fact that the Slayer's Watcher had no idea where she was.
"She's not in class, Angel. She's been missing for hours - Willow and Xander are getting quite agitated. She's not... ah... with you, by any chance?"
So much for Buffy's attempt to hide the nature of their more intimate relationship from the Watcher. "No. She's supposed to come by later. Should I...?"
"Let me know if she shows up at your apartment, fair enough? I'll have Willow and Xander search the school grounds once more - there's no telling what she might have gotten herself into." Rupert Giles' voice was undeniably worried.
"Of course. What else can I..."
"Dammit." There was the frantic sound of papers being shuffled, then the man hissed, "Snyder just came into the library. I've got to go. I'll call when I know anything."
*****
So here he was, pacing his apartment like an animal in a cage several sizes too small. Where was she? Nameless fear was shaking him by the throat - its jaws far stronger than anything he'd fought before. The urge to go out and look for her was almost unbearable. The sun glared down on the earth outside his dim, cool apartment with a fiery eye, promising a quick, though messy, death to him if he followed that particular impulse. He could always use the complex network of tunnels that snaked their way underneath Sunnydale - but it took forever to get anywhere using them during the daylight hours. Not only did he have to be wary of any vents or shafts that the sun might be peeking in through, but other vampires lurked there during the day - no less vulnerable to sunlight than he. He had to avoid them, as well. If they feared the Slayer, they despised her lover, and wouldn't pass up any opportunity to rid themselves of him.
No - the tunnels were no good to him in this instance. If Buffy came to his apartment while he was gone... it might be hours before he could return... what if she needed his help? As much as he loathed the idea, Giles was right. He had to stay put. He grew increasingly agitated as the minutes ticked by slower and slower. When the sound of water dripping from the kitchen faucet caught his attention, he responded out of all proportion. With a vicious grimace, he ripped the faucet off.
This proved to be a mistake, he realized, as water fountained out of the decapitated sink. Stopping the water by reattaching the abused piece of metal was difficult, and managed to distract him from his worry momentarily. When the mess was finally cleaned up, he resumed pacing, his clothing now drenched. With another savage growl, he shredded his shirt, annoyed at the clammy feel against his skin. This also proved to be a mistake. He regarded the remains of the shirt sadly for a brief moment, then tossed it into the trash. One of his favorite shirts. Dammit.
Glaring resentfully at the telephone once more, he varied his routine by shooting an equally hostile look towards the wooden clock on the wall above his desk. Four o'clock. School had ended almost two hours ago for everyone else, but on a normal day, the Slayer would be in the library until four or five. On this day, however, Buffy had planned to be at his apartment immediately after school - just to spend time with him. To talk, to laugh, to make love... all before the sun set and she had to patrol the town. He had been looking forward to it. Greatly.
Shit. He couldn't take it any longer. Where the hell was she? Ditching class, or fighting a demon? Illicitly shopping, or barely alive? He felt his face shifting, changing, and made no effort to stop it. Barely restrained violence shuddered through his tall frame, tightening every muscle. Pacing switched imperceptibly to prowling - annoyance to anger. She was always doing this kind of thing. Being in danger, that is. She'd probably heard about something and run off to slay it without consulting her Watcher. Yeah, probably. Or maybe the trouble had found her - taken her by surprise, perhaps - and right now his reason for going on was lying lifeless somewhere. No. No.
He raged at the sun in the sky - resented its power over him. The power to turn his body into fluttering ash - to burn him until nothing was left but a smoking pile of cinders. It trapped him. He didn't _like_ to feel trapped.
His mood changed slightly, and now he expressed his hate for Darla - that she had turned him into this... this _thing_ . This unspeakable creature that couldn't withstand sunlight. Then he wondered at his rage - for if she hadn't changed him, he'd have died two centuries earlier, and never had a chance to love Buffy. Confusion over this issue led to more anger - more resentment - and now it seethed just below the surface of his cool skin - ready for a target... any target.
When he heard a light knock on the door, he almost came unglued. Holding onto reason by a thread, he rushed to the door, ripping it open violently.
Buffy.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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