She was soft and sweet and safe, this girl. His girl.

Because beneath the guilt and the logic, the knowledge that this was wrong, that she was the Slayer, and he was one of the worst vampires to have terrorized the earth, there was the primal knowledge that Buffy was His.

Part of Angel didn't care about what was right and wrong, only what he wanted. And he had never wanted anything as much as he had wanted Buffy. She loved him, which was good. And he loved her, which he was sure she knew. But sometimes he wondered if she read into his behavior and saw just how obsessed with her he was.

He adored her, worshipped her, and wanted nothing more than to take his sweet, sweet girl and make tender passionate love to her.

He followed her, dreamt of her, and wanted nothing more than to kiss her until her lips bled and fuck her until she screamed.

The duality of his nature had little to do with Angelus, though the demon was always present, always watching. He simply was not a saint. He was a man, a vampire, and a carnal one at that. For centuries he had indulged in sex more often than death, and considering the score of dead he had racked up, that was considerable.

As pure and shining as his love for her was, the lust he had for the luminescent innocent was omnipresent. And it doubled the guilt.

Buffy was at this moment pressed trustingly into his side, as they snuggled on her couch. Joyce was left for the evening, foolishly leaving her sixteen year old daughter behind.

"Angel?" Buffy asked, turning green eyes up to meet his. He met her gaze, slightly ashamed.

"Yes love?" he replied, breaking eye contact, ducking his head down to brush his lips across her forehead.

"What are you thinking?" You had to ask, didn't you my love?

I could lie. I'm good at it. But Buffy can always tell.

"You," I say. Not a lie, not the whole truth. She knows this, my clever girl. Her lips twist wryly.

Buffy glances at the clock, and I see that it is late.

"It's late," we both say, and she laughs. Free, and lovely.

"I should…" I say.

"Yeah," she agrees. "Goodnight Angel."

"Goodnight Buffy," I say. I move to the door, and she moves to the stairs. She pauses halfway up.

"Angel?" she asks.

"Yes?"

"I think it too, you know?" She smiles at me and goes up to her room. I am stunned. And then I smile, locking the door on my way out.

For all her innocence and inexperience, Buffy is a predator too.