A/N: Written for the 2010 IWRY Ficathon. Thanks to my amazing beta taaroko, for bringing light and order to my messed-up phrasing and grammar and bawling me out when I stole from Harry Potter without realising it.

Warning: character death

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this and I am not Joss. Although, judging from how mean I am to Buffy and Angel, I might as well be.

It is late, so he walks her home. It is a quiet night, patrol has been uneventful (a single fledgling vampire in the graveyard - he hadn't even begun to understand the power that was now his, and she had driven the stake through his heart before he could make any progress) and they don't talk much on the way, but they hold hands and silences with him usually beat the best talks with anyone else, anyway. When they reach her house, he makes a move to help her up the roof so she can climb back into her bedroom, the way he usually does, but something makes her shake her head. She turns around to face him, her hand never leaving his.

"Not yet," she pleads softly, and he sighs.

"You need to get some rest. It's after two already."

She doesn't know where it comes from, but she can't bear to leave him tonight. The thought of climbing through her window and going to bed alone, even with the prospect of a tender but chaste kiss goodnight under the tree, is too much.

"Please?"

She knows he can never deny her anything, and normally she tries to play fair and not to manipulate him like that, but tonight, she doesn't care. She feels a profound need to keep him close as long as possible, as if to savour everything one last time, and, predictably, he gives in. She smiles cautiously, holding her arms up to him. He smiles back, if somewhat resignedly, and snakes strong arms around her waist, his cheek soft against hers. She lets out a deep sigh, feeling like she hasn't exhaled properly in days. She nudges her face into the crook of his neck and breathes him in, eyes closed. How easy it is, to pretend that she could just stay, that it is going to be like this forever.

"Don't go", she whispers against his chest.

"You know I have to", he replies, his breath stirring the downy little hairs at the nape of her neck. She shivers, and awakes with a start.

A few nights later, the same scenario, only this time she walks him home. He doesn't want her to, but she is stubbornly insistent, and he isn't up for a fight (he never is), so he lets her take his hand and lead the way to the mansion. She opens the door (no lock; he figures it wouldn't keep out anyone who really wants to enter anyway) and strides inside without invitation like she owns the place, and he follows her like he doesn't question that she really does. He shrugs off his jacket and she is momentarily mesmerised by the way his soft grey cashmere sweater clings to his body. Is it possible to be jealous of a piece of fabric? Apparently so, because the temptation is too much, she can't bear to be separated from him for another second. She crosses the room with two long strides and roughly pulls him into her arms, pressing her face into his chest so hard that it is probably hurting him.

"I love you", she says fiercely, gripping the material of his sweater. Where does this sudden need come from? "I love you, I love you, I love you."

He hugs her to him tightly. "What's wrong?"

She chokes. "Where are you? I miss you so much."

Sunlight hits her face, with a brightness that is sharp as knives. She is clutching her sheets and when she realises where she is, and where he is, she howls like an animal in pain.

Next time she sees him, she is unprepared. He hasn't shown for a while, and she knows him well enough to be aware that he probably won't as long as she is waiting for him. She is walking down Revello Drive after evening patrol, stopping by her mom's car to check her hair for twigs and slimy demon residue in the wing mirror. Even though her mom knows the lore now, she still gets twitchy every time she sees her daughter sporting evidence from a fight, so Buffy makes sure she looks presentable in case Joyce is still up when she slips in quietly through the front door. When she turns around, she is startled to find Angel leaning against the rear of the car, watching her calmly. "Hey."

"Angel." Her heartbeat picks up, he is looking so good in his dark shirt and coat.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you." Would he blush if he could? Somehow she thinks not.

"It's okay. I mean you didn't." She combs through her hair with her fingers and puts it up in a ponytail. "What's up? I haven't seen you in a while." She tries to sound casual but doesn't quite manage to keep her voice steady.

"You didn't need me", he replies evenly.

"How would you know?" she shoots back. "You weren't there, I didn't - I didn't see you." Blushing furiously now. Crap. Like he needs reminding that she can feel him when he is close, regardless if she sees him or not.

He has stopped smiling now. "I would have known", he says. Stepping closer. "I would have had your back."

"But..." She feels something momentous coming on, doesn't quite know how to say it but blurts it out anyway: "You couldn't have."

He is standing in front of her now, his face within inches from hers. His expression is pained. "Don't say that."

"But it's true." She still doesn't want to say it, because saying it makes it true and it can't be. "How did you get here, anyway?"

He looks confused. "What do you mean? I walked."

She sighs because he doesn't get it, and she has only just remembered herself.

"Angel, you can't just walk here. You're dead."