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Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story. They belong to Joss Whedon, the WB, Fox, Mutant Enemy, etc. etc.
Author's Note: This takes place the day after "Beauty and the Beasts."
The light streamed into the dark house; Buffy followed it inside. Angel started up, growling, his game face one, then stopped when he saw her. Slowly, the beast faded away, leaving only Angel.
“Buffy,” he rasped. They’d done something to his voice. It had lost it’s melody, it’s beauty, had become as beastlike as his mind. Except when it said her name.
“Angel,” she said softly. “I came to . . . to make sure you are all right.” There was silence. “Are you all right?”
“F-fine,” he rasped after thinking for a moment, as if he couldn’t remember the word.
“I-I brought you some food-er, blood-you know, your food,” Buffy stammered, pulling a blood bag from her purse. The feral light came into his eyes again and he sprang at her. Buffy drew back, but he only snatched the blood, tearing into it like a wild animal. And then he stopped, and looked up at her, losing his wild look but not the blood on his mouth.
“Go ahead. Eat. It’s for you,” Buffy said gently. His eyes still on her, he lowered his head again and began to eat. Buffy took a deep breath and willed herself to watch. She wanted to turn away, to deny it, but she couldn’t. Because if she denied what he was he would be that forever. She couldn’t do that to him. He needed her. She had sent him to Hell and she owed it to him to bring him back. Angel was in there somewhere, she knew he was. She just had to find him and bring him out.
Angel finished the blood and looked at her expectantly. She drew a cloth napkin from her purse and took a step towards him. He didn’t move. Gently she reached out and took hold of the empty blood bag. He let it go and she placed it aside. She took another step closer and his game face began to fade. She started to talk, soothing him with her voice.
“It’s all right Angel. I’ll make it all right. You’re home now. You’ll be fine. I’ll protect you. You know me. Buffy. Remember? You recognize me. I love you. You love me. I’ll take care of you.” She kept saying the same thing in different words. He had to know her, to feel she was safe. Except she was the one that sent him to Hell in the first place.
“Buffy,” he echoed. She nodded and stepped closer. Slowly she raised her hand . . . ever so slowly brought the napkin to his face to wipe away the blood. He flinched away when she touched him, but held himself still after that. She gently wiped the blood away.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, looking up to meet his dark eyes. Her own green ones filled with tears that overflowed down her cheeks. He knew what she meant. He had been waiting three hundred years to hear the words. To ask his question.
“Why?” he asked.
“I had to. To save the world. Oh, Angel, I’m so sorry!” she cried.
“Shh,” he whispered, gathering her close to him. “I’m back. I love you.” And then, “Close your eyes.” She was suprised by so many words, but more suprised by what they were. What would he do to her? Nothing could be worse than what she had done to him. Or even comparable. Buffy closed her eyes and waited.
“I love you Angel,” she whispered, so now matter what he did he would know. His hand-rough and scarred-was nevertheless gentle beneath her chin. He tilted her head back and she swallowed, wondering how far the beast had gone, really.
He made a little sound and she steeled herself, but all that came were his lips, softly brushing hers. She made a soft cry-of despair, joy, even she didn’t know-and he deeped the kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck and waited for there to be more. To be pain, to be anger, but there was nothing until the tears began.
She could feel them, taste them in the joining of their lips. Salty, sweet bitterness. Pain, but joy that they were there, together, to share the pain.
When the kiss ended the tears continued. Buffy stroked Angel’s face-the beast was there, but so was love, and tears from his dark eyes.
“I don’t know how to be human again,” he rasped. She shook her head, unable to speakthrough the tears for a moment.
“You don’t have to,” she said finally. “Just be Angel.” And the beast was gone and he was Angel, and they were together. Buffy tightened her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. He bent his head, breathign in the scent of her. His tears wet her hair. Hers wet his shoulder. And they just stood there, giving and receiving comfort. They had a long way to go, but they’d taken the first step like they would take all the others. Together.