1.
The library is not always this quiet. From morning to late afternoon, young voices run from one end to the other: Willow tutoring the others, Xander chatting the idlest hours away, Buffy and Giles discussing weapons. But it’s almost midnight, and the other kids never stay until this late unless the world is in peril. Thankfully, tonight is not one of those nights.
He and Buffy have just finished debriefing after their first patrol. Obviouslt, Giles has commited the information to memory and now is busy with the newest entry to his Diary. Only a Hellmouth opening could drag the Watcher out of his office, and Buffy taking Angel’s hand and leading him into the stacks does never register in Giles’ radar.
Angel follows her obediently, dark shelves around them and only silence as their surroundings. Almost like a cemetery, except that here no vampire would interrupt them.
Buffy smiles up eagerly once they arrive to her chosen destination, the darkest, most hidden corner in the depths of the library. She murmurs something about research being too boring and doesn’t let him answer.
He can’t complain. He likes her like this. He likes even better that she’s such a quick student. Now she knows to nip his lips just so when she wants him to lean closer to her, or maybe he’s learned to move closer when she nips his lips. Anyway, soon he has her pressed against a random shelf; his hand brushes the back of several books as he caresses her back. Buffy mewls under his touch and it’d be so easy…. She presses harder against him and it’s hell to remember that she’s sixteen and they are in a library. He isn’t Xander; she isn’t Cordelia – as if they could hide from a vampire’s sense of smell – and the stacks at midnight, with Giles only meters away, is a crazy place for these thoughts.
He welcomes her kiss one last time, whispers close to her ear, “Giles will worry.”
Buffy halts and looks at him quizzically, eyebrows knit together. But then she blinks, as if just noticing their positions with a clear mind, and blushes brightly.
Angel steps back to let her pass, gives her a moment to compose herself before joining her on the way back to the main room. Even in the dark, he can still see her flushed cheeks, the nervous tug of her teeth on her lower lip.
But then her hand searches him, and it’s alright.
2.
Angel isn’t sure how they ended up here, lost in each other while they sit at the edge of her bed. He fuzzily remembers something about a lost lipstick. Yes, he came to pick her up but Buffy wouldn’t come out until she’d found her favourite strawberry lip gloss. She tastes of nothing to him, but he’s not fool enough to remind her. She wants normality, and he’ll give her normality for as long as he can. Finally, he’d sat on her bed out of boredom, watching her as she searched through drawers and under her furniture fruitlessly.
Then, suddenly, she’d plopped down next to him, crossing her arms over her chest and muttering darkly of little brat sisters and wanting a new lock, now!
Angel had smiled. “You look pretty anyway,” and leaned to kiss her pout away with a light caress.
That had been ten minutes ago.
That kiss stopped being a kiss soon afterwards.
Now her tongue moves down the column of his neck, and he feels her hands shyly moving underneath his jacket, braving new territory as they palm his chest over his shirt. It’s so slow, so tenderly timid, so much. He wants her to stop. He wants her to go on forever. He wants to tell her to undo the buttons, to let him do the same.
But he doesn’t say a word.
It’d be too fast. Even if the temptation is great in the knowledge that she’d follow his indications. A quick student, yes, but this is not a lesson to hold here, in her bedroom. Not here. Not now. Not with Joyce somewhere downstairs and the threat of a curious ten-year-old sleeping in the next room.
He brings both hands between them, placing them at her shoulders and pushing her slightly away. Then he takes the hands that are still discovering his body, puts them gently on her lap.
Buffy stares at her empty hands, takes a moment to catch his meaning. "We're late for patrol?" she asks even as she is blushing a little. She still doesn't look up.
He caresses her chin, but avoids a chuckle. 'Late for patrol' has become a handy euphemism for situations like this. For them coming too close and still not being prepared. He stands, offers his hand to help her up. "Yes, we are," he tells her before following her through the window.
3.
Their hands never brush together.
(Subconscious. Conscious. Fate and Chance and Touch. God, how he missed just touching her.)
He never feels her again pressed tightly against his body, her breasts tempting him, her lips moving along his as she shifts to her tiptoes for a deeper kiss.
(Conscious. Definitely conscious. He wants to devour her. Have her. Inhale her. He wants and he can and he’ll have a conscience when he wakes up.)
He never pushes her back against his fridge. She never gasps at the cold of the metal at her back, never feels that he is the warmer end this time, never buries her hand in his hair and says his name in welcome.
(Angel. Angel. Angel. A prayer he’s been torn to answer for weeks and months, and how did he think he could live without her?)
He never murmurs her name back against her neck, her pulse only a sign of life and not a siren call anymore. He almost misses that, terribly so, but he’s already doing things, saying things that have been stored away, stored deep inside, for too long. He is allowed to say her name and mean it. He could weep from joy.
(He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t want to waste time.
He is too busy lifting her in his arms, focusing on the nearest surface available, carrying her and pushing her top up and her pants down. He is too busy for tears, too busy for anything that isn’t Buffy. Buffy. Buffy….)
He never does that.
Never.
They never make love on his kitchen table.
4.
Angel didn’t want to think of everything he'd done to get them this table. Influences he’d been barely aware of while at Wolfram & Hart had been grasped like a lifeline. Threatening had been useful, of course, as well as acting on some of those threats. Money he no longer had at his sole disposition had been invested into the right pockets, and he didn’t want to think of Buffy’s expression when she found out about the dent he’d made to the A.I. account.
But it was worth it, Angel thought as they were led to their place. He looked at the woman walking at his side and couldn’t help but grin. Buffy looked positively delicious tonight, and his plans included making their time here live to that adjective.
Nothing new, even if this time it held an admittedly selfish note. Months ago, Angel had been surprised to discover in Buffy a liking for public places. Surprise, but not displeased; as long as he didn’t stop to think of who’d given her that kink, he could enjoy the benefits.
He licked his lips, barely paying attention to the waiter guiding them. Their booked place was in a secluded corner, the darkest within the local, where the ambience music barely made its way to their ears. Beautiful view, too.
He’d not only managed to secure a reservation at the most exclusive restaurant in the city, but he’d also gotten a hold of its very best table. After taking a second to admire Paris at night, Angel turned to smile at his girlfriend. Frowned.
The smile she’d been wearing minutes ago was gone and instead she was fidgeting nervously with her napkin.
“Buffy?”
She looked up, eyes round, and it took her a second too many to smooth her expression. “It’s a lovely place, Angel.”
But something about her eyes told him that wasn’t everything. Something about her voice...Something beyond nerves. Worry? Tension? Guilt?
Guilt.
Angel suddenly deflated. “You’ve been here before.”
“The service is superb.” Buffy offered a shaky grin.
Angel didn’t care about the service. There was only one person with enough influence to have brought Buffy here, the same person Angel knew to have this particular spot as a favourite. The same person he’d meant to leave a reminder for, because years were nothing between immortals and wasn’t revenge a dish best served cold?
The joke was on him, though. Har har. Irony was still a merciless mistress in his life, and he had to stand up and leave as it dawned on him that this place wasn’t new to Buffy – in any way. “Let’s go.”
She didn’t protest. Mutely, she grabbed her purse and rose to walk at his side. They met the waiter on their way out, and Angel almost knocked the surprised expression out of his face. Just because.
“Are you mad?” Buffy asked once they were inside the car.
Angel shook his head and started the ignition.
He wasn’t mad. He just felt like a fool.
5.
It was Giles’ own fault, really. If he hadn’t called Buffy for a supposed Apocalypse, Angel wouldn’t have tagged along – He seldomly came visiting with her unless, of course, Ends of the World were on the menu.
See? If Giles hadn’t been wrong about that Hyr cult, he and Buffy would be in their apartment, enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon.
And finally, if Giles had at least remembered to prepare a room for them, in time, he and Buffy would be there. Not here. Not tumbling through the Head Watcher’s office door and locking it hastily behind them.
“We shouldn’t have gone on patrol,” Buffy giggled, then forgot her mirth as he caressed the skin right above her waistline.
“I like patrolling with you,” he whispered back, “Really, really like it,” and he engaged her in another deep kiss.
Truthfully, he liked most these after-effects of patrolling together. He’d glimpsed them back in Sunnydale: Strong stubborn fingers working on his shirt buttons when they still hadn’t left the graveyard, an eager mouth finding his to hush his protests – as if he’d have protested, and those small sounds she made when he responded in kind, his hands slipping under her shirt, under her skirt…. For years, he’d been amazed that they’d made it to her birthday when every night together was an inner debate on why they shouldn’t go further.
A debate that had been barely won by sensibility because, how could sensibility have overridden this? Buffy used to kiss him as if her life depended on it, grabbed the lapels of his jackets, pulled him closer until she wasn't sure what came next, and then she'd look up at him for help.... Okay, she didn't do that anymore. She certainly did not need any of his help.
Their lips parted only she could pull his undershirt over his head and out of the way. That was when he noticed that he'd guided her to the big, sturdy desk in the middle of the room. Buffy had already sat at the edge, legs holding his with their arch, and she wore a wicked smile as she let her hands travel over his chest. "It's Giles' own fault," she echoed his earlier thoughts. The smile grew before it disappeared against his skin and became an open-mouthed kiss.
Angel was about to nod - words had escaped him - when he noticed a familiar a word among the paper sheets he'd just been thinking to push aside. Placing his hands on Buffy's shoulders, he pulled her slightly to a side so he could concentrate on the sentence that followed that familiar word. Then he went through the next sentence, and the next,-
"Are you reading behind my back?"
He guiltily brought his attention back to the woman in his arms. Said woman had her eyes narrowed and the turn of her mouth suggested that he found an excuse, a good one and quick! Angel wetted his lips, "It's about the Shanshu."
Buffy raised an eyebrow. They'd had this discussion so many times that the next thing she did was to roll her eyes. "You mean that human thing that may not happen until the next millennium?"
That was the one argument he couldn't fight, and for the thousandth time he cursed that prophecies came without a clear schedule. "It's still important."
Buffy sighed.
He caressed a loose strand of blonde hair as he spoke. "Maybe what I signed wasn't.... I need to know."
Another sigh, louder this time. "Fine." Lips tight together, she uncurled her legs from around him and hopped off the desk.
Angel murmured a thank you before he immersed himself in the documentation. First he re-read the translation - no change there - and then he carefully went through Giles' notes. He still heard Buffy in the background, of course, and after some minutes she hmphed and Angel could feel her pacing at his back. He didn't turn around. He’d make it up for her later, but right now he wanted this information. Giles had ideas that neither he nor Wesley had thought about.
"You know, when I told Giles to do some research on the Shanshu, I never thought the idea would bite my ass."
He blinked. Buffy had what? She never liked to talk about it, or about the possibilities if the prophecy came true. She said it was no use to dream when reality was so good to them for once. Again, another argument Angel couldn't fight.
"But enough is enough!"
To punctuate that statement, something landed on the page he was reading.
Something light.
Something lacy.
Something that commanded him to turn around.
Sensing his weakness, Buffy hooked her fingers on the belt loops at his waist...and tugged. "You done?"
Angel nodded.
Buffy smirked to herself. "Nice to see I can still beat a prophecy," she commented in a whisper.
Angel nodded again, unaware of her words and with his eyes fixed on her. Her chest was bare, her bra abandoned somewhere on Giles' desk. He licked his lips even as he advanced towards her willingly, then thought to repeat that motion on her skin. Her hands moved up his back appreciatively as he did it.
"Better than drowning," Buffy purred.
He wasn't even pretending to listen this time.
The desk was out; he didn't want to mess with those paper sheets.
...but the carpeting looked empty enough.
The End