Artist: Artist
by Chelle
A/N: Thanks to my lovely beta Carlyinrome. Check out her stuff, she rocketh the writing mightily. Also, this story wouldn't have a title if it weren't for her. Go make with the worship. :-)

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"Where do you want me?"

"I'm afraid to say."

"Here okay?"

Buffy sat on the edge of the bed, a sheet gathered around her, folded, tucked and nearly skintight. Her eyes like big hazel saucers looked up at him through feathered lashes. She shifted slightly in the silk sheet; almost inaudible rustling came from the friction of her smooth, supple legs against the soft material.

"Stand up." She obeyed. More rustling as the sheet dropped from her form, puddling at her feet. She stood naked, her curves silhouetted in front of flickering, vanilla scented candles. "Come closer."

She climbed onto the bed and crawled toward him, her breasts hanging attractively, bouncing lightly with each slow movement. She stopped in front of him, just past arm's length, and leaned back, sitting on her calves. Her hands rested gently on her thighs, her back arched slightly accentuating her chest. She waited for her next instruction.

"Lie down." She placed one hand on the bed, and slid her legs from under her. Her hand slid outstretched against the bed, bringing her down to the mattress. She propped her head on her arm and looked up at him.

"How's this?" she asked.

"Move your leg . . ." he began.

"Show me," she whispered. He set his pencil down and crawled toward her. His rough hand grazed the smooth skin of her calf, and traveled up to the bend of her knee. Her skin radiated under his hand, causing him to gasp. The tips of his fingers warmed as they absorbed her glow. Grasping her knee, he pushed it to a bend and crossed it over the other outstretched leg. His hand traveled up her thigh and into the dip between her waist and hips.His hand lingered there, stroking the curve over and over, then turning his hand over, he lightly tickled her skin. She shivered and stretched, nearly purring. She licked her lips.

He glided his hand over her again, up the back of her neck to her hairline. He dipped two fingers into her hair and pulled out a pin. Setting it down behind her, he reached in and pulled out a few more. Making a neat pile in the nest of sheets, he ran his fingers through her now loose hair. It glided through his hands like silk threads. He pulled his fingers through her untangled hair again. It fanned out in strands of honey.

"Don't move," he told her, crawling back to his place at the head of the bed. He picked up his pencil again. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out small pocketknife. With one flick, he opened it, the three-inch blade catching the light from the candles. Her eyes opened wide as she watched the blade shimmer in the light. He raised the blade to the edge of the pencil and gently shaved away the wood, leaving a sharp point of dark gray graphite. Flipping the blade back into the handle, he put it back in his pocket. She relaxed back into the bed. He pressed the point to the paper.

"I have to sneeze."

"As long as you can do it without moving."

She held her breath until the tickling in her nose stopped. He looked over the edge of the paper at her scrunched nose and smiled. She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off with a raising of his hand. She relaxed her face again.

Lightly passing the pencil over the white surface, he sketched the outline of her body while following each curve with his eyes. He rubbed the tip of his finger over the lines, spreading the color, muting it, and giving the lines the illusion of more than two dimensions. With each pass of his finger, he could feel his fingertips warm as if he were still touching her. She lay perfectly still.

Stopping the fevered movement of his hands, he looked at the candles, studying the light they cast on her frame, the dark tones that pooled in the space behind her collarbone, the shadow cast by her nose, and the dark folds of the sheets she lay on. He pressed hard with the pencil.

Looking into her eyes, he began the small shades and flecks of light that danced around her pupils. He colored the dark circles over and over until they reached the deepest shade of black. Using the corner of his eraser, he lifted out highlights in the pupil. He scraped the tip of his finger underneath the eyes, giving it a smooth skin appearance.

He stopped and looked at her.

"How did it turn out?" she asked.

He looked back down at the drawing. Looking back up at him from the paper was Buffy, her face smiling sweetly, her eyes vibrant and seeing. The curve of her hips and the length of her legs, a perfect match for the real thing. Even though the lead of the pencil was a matte gray, her skin still took on the luminosity of her peaches and cream complexion. She looked alive again staring back at him, like she could open her mouth and speak his name.

Looking back over the edge of the paper, he looked around the room; no candles burned, no light flickered. The only reprieve from the swallowing darkness came from around the edges of the closed door. He leaned over and clicked on the lamp.

Angel brushed his fingers across the paper, his fingers coming back wet from the tear drops that blotted the paper, pulling colors up from the inside of the paper and making flower patterns in her flawlessly drawn skin. He touched his face and found the same wetness. He leaned down and kissed the paper.

He leaned over and clicked the lamp again, bringing the shroud back over the room, and freeing his mind from ghosts that were never there in the first place. For a brief second, he cursed himself for being able to see as well in the dark as in the light. He put the sketchbook underneath his mattress, as if it were something dirty, and smoothed the sheets back over the edge. He stood and left the dark of his bedroom.

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