Angelus Unbound

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Mutant Enemy does. All hail Joss
Whedon.

Spoilers/Ships: This is AU. Angelus/Buffy.

Distribution: Sure, just let me know.

Feedback: Is always nice. DarkRhiannon@aol.com

Rating: R for violence and sex.

Author's Note: I wrote this after the 1/29/03 Angel ep and it
contains spoilers thereto. This one will be Jossed into kingdom come
by next week. In the meantime…enter my dream… -Rhi

*

The last word out of the souled-one's mouth was the first thought in
the demon's mind.

"Buffy?"

The soul had uttered it as a question. He hadn't even dared dream
the expression of it. The shaman had tried everything to make the
soul lose its grip on its unnatural undead body. Nothing had
worked. Reconciliation with Wesley, the first thing he'd tried, had
failed to make the soul more than merely happy. Next, he'd added the
friends into the mix, given the soul its due as leader and champion.
Still nothing.

Cordelia's assurances of love and heartfelt apologies garnered little
more than a happy smile. Even the fight and reconciliation with the
son had yielded only transitory joy…nothing permanent or soul-
threatening. Conquering the demon and restoring sun to the City of
Angels provided wistful contemplation rather than bliss, so the
shaman had, at last, resorted to the oldest method on earth.
Imagined sex with Cordelia was powerful…in a physical sense. The
soul enjoyed the voluptuous embrace of the lovely, dark-haired
beauty, as well as her bounteous charms. He was, after all, male.
But even that powerful sexual release failed to lose the soul until
the shaman found, deep with the most cherished memories guarded in
the soul's heart and mind, a name.

It was, the shaman thought, a silly name, and he didn't quite
understand the impassioned significance that it held for the soul.
But power was power, and so, the shaman loosed the name within the
heart of both demon and soul.

And they responded.

The soul, still basking in the fake physical aftermath of a
successful, if vanilla, coupling, gasped in remembered bliss. The
demon reared its head and screamed in mixed rage and triumph. And
the soul uttered that oddly beloved, fearsome name once more before
releasing its hold on the body both shared.

"Buffy."

She was all Angelus could think about and he laughed with glee at the
thought of seeing her glowing face, feeling her pain, controlling
her, besting her, taking her, and possessing her. She was all he
thought about…all he could think about, and he nearly wept with joy
at possessing the soul's body once more so that he could finally
claim his mate forever.

The cage posed little problem. He laughed some more looking out at
the frightened faces of the soul's "family." They were sheep…easily
manipulated and just as easily disposed of. He hushed his laughter
and examined the bonds which held him. They were easily snapped,
should he wish to do so, and he plotted his escape quietly while he
tugged surreptitiously at them.

*

Buffy was exhausted. After counseling at school from 10 till 2,
she'd rushed home, checked on the SITs, changed and headed for the
DMP. She hurried through her shift there, ever conscious of the
growing twilight and her need to be home, protecting everyone, by
dusk. The paltry wages that the school provided were accompanied by
health and dental benefits that she rarely required, but Dawn was
another matter. Dawn, Key though she might have been, was now a
human teen, and she had the cavities to prove it. Buffy groaned at
the thought of fillings and scraped harder at the grill.

At last her shift was done and she headed home to shower and scrub
the grease from her tired body before changing into patrol clothes.
Tonight she was taking Spike and the SITs on patrol together to try
to train them in strategy. She knew, before even setting out, that
it was likely doomed to failure. No matter how she tried to impress
upon them that Spike was dangerous, she knew that her own intimacy
with him and more importantly the intimacy that she'd shared once
with Angel, showed, no matter how she tried to hide it.

Spike was now family to her, one more responsibility on the endless
list that encompassed Dawn, the Scoobies, the SITs, and the world.
Buffy was in charge of saving them all, and sometimes the burden
seemed far past impossible and well into soul-crushing. She could no
longer summon the need and passion that she'd once felt for the now-
souled vampire. She was empty…adrift on the tides of the Hellmouth,
and its deadly currents pulled at her, sucking her strength, her
resolve, her very being into its whirlpool until she despaired of
ever getting out. Hence, training. If only one of the SITs could be
taught, could learn the killer instinct so necessary for a successful
Slayer, then Buffy could rest a little easier, could concentrate just
a little more on fighting instead of worrying.

She spoke and demonstrated and finally, when all else failed her,
trapped the SITs in a tomb with one rather measly vampire. She and
Spike hovered outside to make sure that the SITs dispatched the vamp,
and Buffy allowed herself a glance in his direction. She worried
about him, despite her better judgment. He'd been so horribly
tortured and tormented by The First and she wept for the changes in
the once confident vampire. He'd been so sure and strong. She
blamed herself for his broken mind and crushed spirit.

When he and Drusilla had cruised into town back in her junior year,
Buffy had feared him, yes, but more than anything, she'd admired the
devil-may-care attitude he'd dripped and the confident manner he'd
worn like a second skin. Spike had been many things, all of them
trouble, but she'd found him strangely attractive even then. He was
so very different from Angel, she thought, that was probably the
attraction. Spike had made unlife seem like the high life—had shown
such dreadful glee, such vicious joy—that even she had been drawn to
that flaming confidence.

It was gone now, and Buffy knew that she was responsible for its
loss, as she was for Willow's darkness and Dawn's very existence. At
times, she wondered why they hadn't just left her dead…it would all
have been so much easier.

She shrugged off her melancholy and rounded up the victorious and
cocky SITs and Spike and herded them all home before heading for her
third job, the only real one…patrol. It was a long night, filled
with two unknown demons, three already identified ones and 17
vampires, a full night's work, even for her. They were drawn, she
knew, by the overwhelming evil that The First projected all around
its manifestations, and by the hope that she, while dealing with it,
might fail to notice the other, smaller evils that made their way to
her town.

At last, impossibly weary and barely able to keep her eyes open,
Buffy greeted the dawn as she trudged slowly back to her house. She
climbed the stairs to her bedroom, forgetting for a moment that four
of the SITs were now ensconced within. She closed the door quietly
on them and trudged back downstairs to curl up in a chair in the
living room, too tired to do anything more than pull her leather
coat, *Angel's coat,* her traitorous brain supplied, over her as a
makeshift blanket and fall into an uneasy sleep for the three hours
before she must shower and return to work once again.

The leather no longer smelled of his unique scent, of sandalwood and
soap with just the faintest sense of blood, but it comforted her,
nonetheless, and she cuddled into it, wishing, as always, that it was
him holding her in his strong, cool arms.

*

It hadn't taken much time at all, and Angelus chortled with glee at
the sight of Fred the annoying, lying unconscious by the cage. He'd
simply had to grab her through the bars and threaten her life to
bring the others to their knees. They clustered around her, all
except Cordy, who, with incredible bravery or stupidity (and knowing
her, he suspected the latter and not the former) confronted him as he
leapt for the stairs and his freedom.

"Angelus," she said, and he turned to her in exaggerated
surprise. "I know you think you can join with this Beast and fight
against us, but you need to know that we'll stop you. We'll get
Faith…"

Angelus smiled malevolently at her. "Cordy, you are living proof
that I am so much smarter than Soul-Boy that he just doesn't deserve
to exist at all. What he thought he saw in you is beyond me. You're
shockingly boring, sanctimonious, and dreadfully annoying. I'd be
doing everyone a favor if I just killed you right now. But you know
what? I can't be bothered. You just aren't worth my time, Cordelia."

The seer jumped, startled at his vehemence. "What? But Angel said…"
her voice trailed off as she realized, again, that Angel was not
standing before her.

"I'm not Angel," he hissed, "and you're not Buffy, Cordelia! How
could I ever want you when I've had her?" He grabbed her and pulled
one arm up around her neck, glaring at the suddenly halted onrush of
Wesley and Connor as he backed slowly toward the stairs.

"She was a crush," Cordy sputtered indignantly. "Angel and I have a
more mature love, an adult love…."

Angelus laughed derisively. "You have NOTHING, Cordy. He's kidding
himself. You know what? You could have fucked him into the next
century and I wouldn't have come back…it's a good thing you little
twits didn't try that one to banish the soul, `cause it wouldn't have
worked. The only woman he's ever loved in 245 years is Buffy,
Cordelia. No matter how you sniff around him, you'll never be her.
And frankly, even with blonde hair, prancing around with your sword
and your kyerumption, you'll never be her. Never. And guess what?
You're not worth my time. I'm outta here, babe, just be glad that
I'm not hungry right now…."

He pushed her into Connor and exited the cellar with a flourish. They
all heard the click of the lock on the door. As they rushed for the
entrance, Cordelia wondered if Angel would ever forgive her.

*

Buffy was, if anything, even more tired than she'd been yesterday.
She had finished her shifts at the high school and the DMP, showered
and crept downstairs to leaf through the growing piles of bills and
balance her meager checking account. It was simply impossible. The
SITS, Dawn, Willow, Spike and Andrew were eating her out of house and
home. The mortgage bill stared at her with greedy eyes and she had
nearly died when she'd opened the water bill. Providing this many
people with food and shelter, electricity and water, was eating up
every cent she could earn and ten more besides. Every day she
slipped further and further into debt, and she knew beyond a shadow
of a doubt, that she could never climb out.

She compromised by paying all of the mortgage and parts of both
electricity and water bills, calculating in her head how many hours
she'd need to work at the DMP to make up the difference. Perhaps she
could take a third job, somewhere? She could be a night watch at one
of the many cemeteries in town, but that would tie her down to one,
when she really needed to patrol all of them.

She left the house, SITs, Dawn, Willow, and Andrew ensconced in front
of the television with Spike, Xander, and Giles to watch over them.
Buffy's steps, once light and energetic, now plodded from cemetery to
cemetery as she dispatched demons with no passion, no finesse, just
repetitive, numb movements of limbs that felt as if she were walking
through quick-sand.

She'd tried to eat, she really had, knowing that her body required
fuel for its nightly exertions. But the thought of food right now
nauseated her…she was simply too tired to eat. And so she trekked
onward, mind focused only on finishing patrol and returning to her
home for a few, paltry hours of sleep before doing the entire thing
over again.

*

He'd arrived in Sunnydale mere hours after dusk, and he'd parked the
car carefully in the garage of the still-deserted mansion before
heading out to feed. Two hapless teenagers later, Angelus had found
himself in Sunnyrest, always his favorite cemetery because of the
numerous crypts to be hidden in. He'd waited, knowing Buffy's patrol
route as well as she did, and it had paid off. He watched her from
under hooded eyes as she made her rounds. His lover had changed, and
not for the better.

She was wraith thin, as thin as Drusilla, and he scowled at the
sight. Then she'd paused under a floodlight for a moment and he'd
gotten a good look at her. She looked…more dead than he. He reveled
in unlife, in killing, maiming, and feeding. She looked as if all
the energy had been sucked out of her into something else. She was
going through the motions, he could see that, but none of her former
spark remained. She looked…old.

Angelus was nonplussed by the situation. He couldn't actually be
feeling…pity for her, could he? After all, demon…heartless…cruel…
that was him. He wasn't full of disgusting love for the Slayer as
his alter ego was. No, he didn't feel like taking her in his arms
and kissing her cares away. He was not thinking of whisking her away
and feeding and bedding her until she was sated and satiated in every
way. No. That wasn't what he wanted to do to her at all…was it?

He scowled and melted back into the underbrush, unwilling, suddenly,
to confront her this moment.

Angelus Unbound: Chapter 2


Author's Note: I wrote this after the 1/29/03 Angel ep and it
contains spoilers thereto. This one will be Jossed into kingdom come
by next week. In the meantime…enter my dream… -Rhi

*

4 a.m. Buffy had loved this time of day back when she was a student
in high school instead of a counselor. Few people were about when
she patrolled this late, which made for a much smaller pool of
victims, witnesses, or corpses. But more than that, this pre-dawn
stillness held an anticipatory calm. The sunrise was coming…she
could taste it. Finally, after all these years, Buffy understood
what Angel had meant when he told her he could smell the sunrise.
Angel had been on her mind even more often than usual these past few
days, and Buffy wasn't certain why.

Since she'd returned from death, since that one stilted meeting with
Angel shortly after, she'd tried not to think of him at all. Being
without him was too painfully similar to losing heaven. The agonized
nerves that had screamed for months after her resurrection were no
more painful than the loss of her soul mate.

He had moved on, built a life for himself in LA…a good life. She
knew that he was helping people. And she suspected that he was doing
a much better job of it than she was, these days. Cordelia had
confirmed it last year when Willow had spoken to her. Willow, who
had never liked Cordy much before she, to hear tell anyway, became a
glowing demi-demon, had described the former cheerleader as
gloating. Buffy gathered from Willow's wincing expression that Angel
had moved on in more ways than one.

She'd tried to be brave about it…tried to be an adult now…but the
truth was, it was that news that had finally driven her to seek
something, anything, in Spike's cold kisses. For so long, all of her
true feelings before her death had been tied up in Angel. He'd been
the source of her greatest joy and her greatest pain. Her two most
powerful physical experiences before death had been her first night
in his arms—full of all the tender passion and unleashed sensuality
that only a 243-year-old could have drawn from her—and her near-death
as he'd drained her. That experience had shaken her to her very
core. She'd seen vampires feed before, had stopped them on more
occasions than she could count. But she'd never seen the sort of
incandescent bliss that she had felt on any of their faces.

That, more than anything else, had driven her to almost hate Angel.
That he could make her feel that way and still leave her, that he
could drink her and mark her as used goods and then walk away without
a backward glance…tore her apart inside. Their subsequent encounters
with each other had proven all too easily how little he thought of
her gift to him…and of her.

When she'd gone to him after Thanksgiving, they'd barely spent five
minutes together before his coldness had driven her from his office.
When she'd rushed to she thought, save him from Faith, he'd defended
the dark Slayer from her. Buffy knew that he'd seen her jealousy,
the hatred that she felt for Faith. She wasn't sure if he understood
why she felt that way, though.

Faith was the physical representation of everything that had taken
Angel from her…forced her to seek a "normal" life. As if. Faith's
betrayal had started the events that led to Angel's desertion…at
least in Buffy's mind. And it was because of Faith that Buffy had
stood in that jail and heard Angel tell everyone within earshot that
Buffy was "no one." She'd flinched at his cavalier dismissal and
nearly run from the jail at his words.

Buffy stalked slowly through the early morning mist as these thoughts
filled her mind. Spike didn't think she was no one. To Spike, she
was everything. And he could hurt her…extra bonus. Though he really
hadn't…much. His ideas of sex had been…disturbingly close to hers,
actually. Every nasty little fantasy, every sick and depraved
longing that she'd ever felt, was drawn out and enacted by Spike.
Plus a whole lot more that he had come up with.

She'd guessed early on that the destructiveness of their sex would
spill over at some point…guessed and truly not cared. It didn't
matter that Spike hurt her…she'd craved the bruises as much as the
ecstasy…maybe more, and he'd seemed to welcome them as well. What
mattered was the feeling that she wasn't dead. The livid marks of
his powerful lust had reminded her that she was alive. But she'd
broken something inside of him and he'd never recovered.

A fledgling erupted from the newly turned grave before her and Buffy
staked him before he even pulled himself all the way out. This was
easy now…hell, compared to the Turukan, baby vampires were a breeze.

Her thoughts returned to their familiar, well-worn paths, as her feet
followed a similarly familiar route through the cemetery. Everyone
left. Spike was the only one who'd managed to stay and that had
turned out so well for him. She'd driven him mad. Perhaps not
literally, but he'd sought out his soul for her, and the blame for
his subsequent insanity and the deaths of his victims could thus be
laid directly at her feet. Buffy wondered idly how tall that
figurative pile of corpses was by now.

Her friends had accused her on more than one occasion of being self-
centered. Buffy knew it was true, but wondered if they had ever
really thought the whole thing through. She'd been an only child
until she was nineteen and received a teenaged sister overnight.
Self-centeredness had come naturally to her, but she'd been 15 when
she was Chosen. She'd resisted the truth at first, but once she'd
accepted it, selfishness had become a necessity. If she went on
patrol and didn't stay focused…didn't watch herself, she would die,
and others would too. If she did something wrong and a demon walked
free, the world could end. So, in the end, it really was "all about
Buffy."

Her unwanted introspection ended abruptly as she sensed something…the
same presence that she'd felt last night. It felt almost like…but
that wasn't possible. He was in L.A. and would have called before
he'd have just come. That was the way they had left things in their
painfully awkward, post-resurrection meeting. Besides, the feeling
wasn't right. Something about it was off. Buffy glanced around,
eyes searching the misty false dawn. Nothing. *You're losing it
again, Buffy. That's all. You came back wrong and it's not getting
better…it's getting worse.*

*
Angelus watched Buffy, his vampiric senses trained upon her every
movement. He'd watched her enter the cemetery from the dark of a
crypt. He'd thought about confronting her tonight, but there was a
little present waiting for her at home and he'd wanted her to see it
before he took her.

*
Buffy plodded slowly into her house, checking the door behind her
before moving into the living room. The SITS slept fitfully there
and she knew that the same amorphous prescient dreams that plagued
her own sleep were undoubtedly worrying theirs as well. Slipping
quietly upstairs, she moved into her own room and grabbed clean
clothes from the dresser without disturbing the two who slept there,
then slunk into the bathroom to grab a quick shower. She had the
luxury of a real day off this Saturday, and she wanted to be clean
before she went to sleep.

The shower felt wonderful and Buffy sighed with pleasure as the hot
water loosened muscles held taut for far too long. The ever-present
headache that plagued her almost constantly these days finally began
to ease as she scrubbed the vampire dust from her blonde hair. It
was pernicious—that stuff—the taste lingered in her mouth, the oily
ashes clung to her skin and hair until she felt as if she'd never be
clean. Death. It coated her, body and soul, whether she would or no.

At last she felt clean, at least on the outside, and turned the water
off. Buffy dried herself perfunctorily, swiping drops of water from
her legs and hips before drying her arms and chest. She pulled on
the soft, cozy sweats she'd grabbed earlier and made her way silently
downstairs. In the kitchen, she grabbed a scant bowl of cereal and
some milk, amazed that there was even that much food left in the
house. Between the teenaged SITs, Xander, Andrew, Willow and Dawn,
Buffy sometimes felt as if she were trapped at the zoo during feeding
time. At least Spike had given up his taste for human food lately.

*Speaking of Spike,* Buffy thought, *I should take him some blood and
check on him.* She poured gelid pigs blood into a mug, the viscous
liquid dropping in with a squelching plop that would have turned her
stomach had she not gotten used to it countless meals ago. Spike had
made a point of feeding in front of her during their trysts, perhaps
because Angel had avoided it at all costs. Unless they concentrated
very hard, the vampires, souled or not, changed to game face when
they fed. Angel, notoriously shy about appearing in his true form
before her, had avoided feeding when she was around.

Buffy took the now-warm mug from the microwave and climbed down the
stairs to the basement. Spike could have his morning snack and then
sleep through the day, as she fully intended to do as soon as she'd
put some laundry in to wash. It was a never-ending task these days,
and not one she relished.

Buffy glanced over at Spike's cot in the gloom of the unlit basement
and realized he wasn't there. Startled, she looked around pacing
forward and tripping over something as she did so. She landed, mug
flying from her hands with a clatter-smash, and nearly jumped out of
her skin as she felt cool, naked vampire flesh beneath her.

"Spike!" she snapped, "What the hell are you…?" Her voice trailed
off as she lifted one hand from his chest to gaze at it. It was
covered in cold blood. "Oh, my God! Spike!" She drew back and ran
for the light by his cot, switching it on, then gasped in horror at
the sight before her.

Spike had been beaten and crucified with large metal spikes driven
through his limbs directly into the cement floor of the basement. A
rough gag was jammed into his bruised and bloody mouth, held in place
with clothesline wire that Buffy vaguely remembered seeing on one of
the shelves.

She knelt by his side, gently undoing the brutal gag and removing it
from his swollen mouth. His face was barely recognizable—eyes beaten
shut and multiple gashes marring his once-perfect cheekbones. He was
unconscious and looked every bit as dead as he truly was.

Buffy turned to his hands, pinned to the floor like butterflies in
some macabre collection, and grabbing a spike, she pulled it
laboriously out of the floor and his hand. His skin had started to
heal around it, and it ripped anew as she pulled it out.

Glad, now, that he was unconscious; Buffy quickly pulled the other
three spikes from the wounded vampire, then grabbed a sheet from the
dryer and tore it into strips to bind the vampire's wounds. They
weren't bleeding—an ominous sign—and she realized that he needed
blood…soon!

Buffy carried Spike carefully to the cot, laying him gently on the
thin mattress before she ran up the stairs to the kitchen. She
dumped the rest of his blood into a large ceramic bowl and put it in
the microwave, waiting impatiently for it to heat. Finally, it was
done and she grabbed a new mug, which proclaimed, "Kiss the
Carpenter" in bold lettering, and made her way carefully downstairs
with the full bowl and mug. She set the bowl by the side of Spike's
cot and dipped the mug into it, filling it half-way with warm blood.
She pulled Spike into her arms and held him with one arm as she tried
to pour the red liquid into his mouth with the other hand. She
managed to get most of it into him, rather than onto him, and smiled
grimly to herself as he morphed and gulped, still barely conscious.

She dipped another cup for him, and fed him equally slowly, holding
him gently and speaking softly to him. "Spike, that's right, drink
some more. Take your time—there's plenty."

Spike growled in response, battered features screwing up in anger or
agony, Buffy couldn't tell. She dipped another cup and another,
trying to calm the increasingly agitated vampire while she wondered,
*What new evil could have snuck into the house and done this to him
while I was on patrol?*

Angelus smiled and drew away from the cellar window. The look on her
face had been worth it, even though he'd have to take the sewers home
to escape the sun now cresting the hill. He dropped silently into
the sewer, replacing the manhole cover carefully, before moving
quietly through the deserted tunnels toward the mansion.

Beating and raping Spike was one of the things the demon had missed
most when trapped beneath that noxious soul. And that was before his
Childe had the temerity to fuck his mate! Surely Spike hadn't
thought that either Angel or Angelus would allow that little
transgression to go unpunished? He smirked. After disporting
himself with his Childe, he'd been busy disabling all the phones,
traditional and cellular, while Buffy was gone. With just a little
luck, she wouldn't realize that until evening.

He grinned, wondering what Buffy would say when she saw that he'd
pulled Spike's fangs. Angelus jingled them lightly in his pocket,
enjoying the dry rattle they made as he walked onward.


Angelus Unbound: Chapter 3


"I don't know how The First got in, Giles, but it was here!" Buffy
said, her voice rising in concern as she paced the narrow confines of
the kitchen. "And somehow, it's corporeal now…or whatever it has
working for it is. Maybe the Bringers got in, I don't know. All I
know is, it's not safe for you here any longer."

Giles gazed thoughtfully at his Slayer. She was taut, lean to the
point of near emaciation, and bone tired, he could tell. Every year
of Slaying showed on her face and he recognized, for not the first
time, that she'd already outlived nearly every Slayer in the annals.
And none of them had dwelt upon the hellmouth. "A dearth of safety
is hardly a new occurrence in Sunnydale, Buffy," he commented wryly.

"You know what I mean, Giles. At least the vampires couldn't get
into our homes. I don't know what to do about The First. You saw
what it did to Spike," she shuddered at the image of her former lover
pinned to the floor like some macabre and broken toy.

"While I don't disagree about the danger, Buffy, I should like to
observe that what happened to Spike is no less than he himself
inflicted upon countless victims back when he, Angelus, Darla, and
Drusilla were roaming about."

"So you're saying he deserved it then, Giles? What do I deserve,
then? I slept with him…used him…rolled with him in the dirt. What
if it comes for me next? Or for Willow? Or Anya? Or you? All of
us have killed. All of us are guilty."

"Buffy, that's hardly the point," Giles straightened up at the
attack. Buffy always reacted to perceived criticism of any kind with
a nearly instantaneous counter-strike. The instinct served her well
on the slaying field, somewhat less well in inter-personal
relationships. "You kill monsters, Buffy, not people."

"But I get off on it, Giles!" She yelled, then stopped, aghast at
what she'd just admitted. She turned from him to stare out the
window, ashamed to even meet his eyes.

"Buffy, dear girl, of course you do," Giles said, crossing the room
and turning her to face him with a gentle hand cupped under her
chin. "You're wired to enjoy it. What do you think being a Slayer
means? It's not an empty title made up by a group of stuffy old
men. It's not a job that you can leave at the office. It's not even
immersing yourself in lore and paper monsters as Watchers do. You
were born to fight them, born with the ability, the power, the *need*
to fight them. Of course you `get off on it.' You would never have
survived this long if you didn't."

Buffy turned tired, tear-filled eyes to the man who was more of a
father to her than her own had ever shown interest in being. "But,"
she sniffed, "doesn't that make me a monster, too? Especially with
first Angel and then…Spike…" her voice trailed off and the tears
spilled down her face.

Giles pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly to him.
Whatever inward reservations he felt, still, about his Slayer's
penchant for snogging the very things she was supposed to kill, she
needed him now, needed him to reassure her that she wasn't evil,
wasn't a thing to be reviled for what she felt. "Buffy, all Slayers
face this moral quandary…if they live so long. You are,
fundamentally, a creature of the dark and the dark will draw you. It
is only natural for you to be captivated by it. The key, my dear, is
to use that natural affinity to your advantage rather than to allow
it to subsume your character."

Buffy looked up at him through tearful eyes. Sniff. "Use it?"

"Yes, dear Buffy, use it. You already know how…it's what drew both
Angel and Spike to you in the first place. They crave the very one
who will destroy them. All vampires do. Your power, your poise,
your light, your, well, charms. They attract the vampires and draw
them into your power so you can dispose of them at your leisure. It
is what you do best."

"Oh." She thought about it. It all made sense now to the exhausted
Slayer. She wasn't what Angel and Spike had loved, *thought they
loved,* at all. It was The Slayer…capital S. That made a lot more
sense. It completely explained how Angel could say he loved her, yet
leave, why Spike could claim to love her yet attempt rape when she
finally left him. And why Riley had always been dismayed by her. It
all made perfect sense.

Giles felt her sobs still, felt her calm, and thought that he had
solved the problem, had reconciled Buffy to her darker side, to the
needs and impulses that she'd fought so long to deny, especially
given their destructive aftermaths.

He had no idea.

*

Angelus paced the mansion impatiently in the afternoon gloom. The
innumerable drapes and curtains kept him safe from the hateful rays
of the sun. It hated him…that infernal hot and burning ball of
destructive light…despised his kindred and he hated it in return. He
remembered the soul's baffling enjoyment of the sun during those two
fateful days in which he'd walked in light…both linked inexorably to
his, *their* lover.

Buffy had sent the ring of Amara to LA with Oz. *Coward,* Angelus
thought scathingly. She'd not even been willing to face the soul in
person with her so-called gift. Instead she'd sent a minion. Though
Oz, honestly, was one of the Scoobies whom he admired. The laconic
werewolf had actually backed the vampire away from a kill once,
something he'd rarely ever been willing to do. He knew that Oz
didn't remember the event, but it had twinged upon his consciousness
even after the soul had returned. The soul, sap that he was,
honestly enjoyed Oz's company, but even the demon bore grudging
respect for the spare musician.

Walking from under the pier into the sun, the demon had cringed deep
into the psyche of his host, flinching from the light even though
he'd known logically that it could not harm him. But even the power
afforded by the ring was not worth the price the demon would have had
to pay, walking in light. He craved the darkness, ruled it. He did
not belong in the light.

The other memory was worse, given that he'd been banished from their
body completely at the time and could only relive it through the
soul's memories. The Day That Wasn't. The soul capitalized it in
his thoughts, treasured it the way the demon treasured his memories
of the taste of their Mate's blood. Angel held that damned day to
his battered soul as if it were the only thing that gave him strength
to go on. The demon had thought, more than once, that if only he
could have erased that memory that the soul would have given in by
now…would have despaired and diminished. Kissing Buffy on the beach,
with the sun shining down on them and the wind whispering promises of
life…actual finite life instead of the infinite unlife that the soul
had grown to hate…the memory made the demon cringe in disgust.

But now, that was all over. The demon ruled the body for good now,
and tonight he would take the golden Slayer from the soul and remake
her in his own infernal image. He hoped wherever the soul had been
stolen to, that it could feel the change tonight, feel the Slayer's
life draining into the demon and feel the demon forcing himself into
her very being as he fucked her. For that was precisely what he
planned to do.

*
Connor broke through the door for them, finally, but it took him
nearly a day due to the barricades Angelus had erected on the other
side. Cordelia rushed to the phones immediately. This was so not
going according to plan. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be
anyone in Sunnydale, at least, not available by phone. Buffy's
regular number rang and rang without end and her cell just rang to
voice mail. After leaving several minutes of increasingly hysterical
message on that, Cordy hung up. Giving up on that for the time
being, the group collected themselves and then the debate began.

"We must go to this hellmouth and destroy him before he kills anyone
else," Connor insisted.

"You forgettin' about horny out there?" Gunn scoffed. "Somebody's
got to stick around and try to keep people safe."

Fred chimed in, "Charles is right," her eyes flickered to him then
back to the group as she resolutely refused to meet Wesley's
thoughtful gaze. "What about all the vampires out there in the
dark? We have to protect LA!"

Cordy seethed, unable to contain her anger at the entire
situation. "We need to get Angelus back, Connor is right. We need
him here with us."

Connor looked less than enthusiastic about the absence of parental
death involved in her comment. He didn't want to bring Angelus
back. He just wanted to kill him. Surely the group wasn't still
confused about the necessity for that?

As they bickered on, fundamentally divided by their internal quarrels
and Angelus's pointed barbs, the blackened sun sank inexorably toward
the horizon.

*

Buffy sat in the evening gloom of the basement next to the chugging
washing machine and stroked Spike's hair softly. His battered face
screamed reproach at her…yet another ally she'd failed to protect.
In her own house, even. At least she'd managed to get Giles and the
others to relocate to Xander's for the time being. They should be
safer there…at least she hoped so. Unwilling to risk that Spike
might either attack them or draw whatever minion had harmed him to
them, Buffy had kept him in the basement and stayed to protect him.
Her feelings for the blond vampire were complicated at best, she
knew, downright Byzantine by any rational standards.

Every time she looked at Spike, Buffy saw layers. Where Angel had
concealed the depth of over two centuries of experience beneath a
veil of urbane calm, Spike affected the attitude of a perpetual
teenager. Neither was the true face of the monster below. Buffy
recognized that she used a similar mask, that the Slayer hovering
deadly and ever-present under her shield of youthful girlishness was
just as much of a monster as either of her erstwhile undead lovers.

Focusing the Slayer instinct onto vampires and demons alone was a
formidable task at times. The urge to kill, to rule, to dominate all
whom she encountered was inborn and extreme. She shared so many of
the traits of the master vampires—great physical strength,
unbelievable physical appetites, power on all levels. She remembered
Xander telling her that it was good that she *thought* that she
didn't handle everything with violence…his implication being that the
truth was somewhat different.

She knew that was what drew her to the monsters. She was one. So
she sat by this broken monster and stroked his hair gently, saddened
equally by her inability to truly love him and her very real care for
him. He drew her, yes, it was true. His passion and joy at being a
demon had awed Watchers over the century and a half that William the
Bloody had existed. They drew Slayers, as well. Spike's ability to
kill Slayers was based in no small measure on their own fatal
fascination with him. It was only Buffy's good luck, *she grimaced
to herself at that thought,* that Spike had ended up more interested
in fucking her than in killing her.

It hadn't been Spike's good luck, however. And now she had a souled,
unchipped vampire who was demonstrably still capable of killing.
Evil was possible with a soul, she knew that. But Buffy couldn't
kill Spike. Not yet, anyway. Despite still loving Angel with all of
her soul, Buffy cared for Spike. *He's witty, interesting, and
downright gorgeous to look at,* she thought. Plus, he connected her
somehow to Angel. She could…feel…Angel in him somehow. She
suspected that it was the blood bond forged between them, and in turn
between Angel and her, but whatever it was, Spike felt like…home.

That familiar feeling had drawn her after her resurrection. The
nightmares that plagued her nearly every single night…ghastly dreams
of being trapped inside a coffin, no air, the weight of the ground
pressing down upon her until she must scream and scream but receive
no help. The pain…physical, mental, and soulful, of being ripped
from heaven, the torment she'd felt as moldering flesh, sinew and
bone had reshaped themselves into a living body…she revisited it
every night when she slept. It was inescapable and soul-destroying,
that pain.

With Spike, lying exhausted in Spike's arms after sex so rough that
she'd felt at times that *she* was raping *him,* she'd found some
twisted kind of peace. It was only when their bodies were battered
and bruised, when she bled from his passion, that she could sleep
without dreaming.

So she'd sought out that peace, clung to it with both hands, knowing
full well as she did so, that she was destroying them both with her
need, but unable to turn away from her only salvation in the hard,
cold light of renewed life.

She left him there, laying like one truly dead, and she tucked in the
blanket around him, smoothing her hand across his hair and hoping
that somehow small kindnesses now might make up for the pain they'd
caused each other. Taking the clean laundry with her, Buffy climbed
wearily upstairs.

Her plan for sleeping the day away had fallen by the wayside with the
attack on Spike, and she was so tired that each step jarred her
aching body. She would fold the clothes after she napped, she
thought. Just a little sleep, enough to take the edge off the
exhaustion that pulled at her limbs like quick-sand.

Buffy made up her own bed with fresh sheets, reveling in the
crispness of their clean scent, then shucked her clothes by the foot
of the bed and climbed in. She slept instantly, her tired body
somehow aware that it must grasp rest wherever it might find it.

*

The sun was still hovering over the edge of the horizon when Angelus
set out from the mansion, keeping to the long shadows like the dread
predator that he was. He encountered few pedestrians in the gloom of
early evening…even this early, most inhabitants of Sunnydale were too
wary to venture out alone.

As he passed a playground, Angelus saw two little girls walking hand
in hand to cross before him. They skipped light-heartedly ahead on
the sidewalk and his fangs dropped at the delicious sight. He licked
his lips in anticipation. Innocence was to be savored wherever one
might find it. Children were Dru's favorite, but Angelus was the one
who had taught her that taste, among others too vile to mention.

Plucking flowers from a small curbside garden as he passed it,
Angelus moved forward and called to the girls. "Hello, pretties.
Have you seen my puppy? He broke his leash and now I can't find
him." His mock concern smirked from his face with each word, but
their innocent eyes were too young to recognize it. He knelt before
them and gently held out a flower to each.

The girls looked at him curiously, then glanced around expectantly,
as if the nonexistent puppy might appear from a hedge or bush. "I
like puppies, mister," the taller one offered, smiling at the
handsome man who knelt before them. "Which way did he go?"

Angelus glanced ahead. Revello Drive, his destination, branched off
to the left ahead. "I think he went that way," he drawled silkily.
This was just too easy…he almost felt guilty…nah.

"Why don't you walk straight and she and I will take this shortcut
through the…" he paused looking for a sign and finding one, "the
Anderson's yard. They're neighbors of mine and I know that my puppy
likes to dig in their garden," he said.

The girls agreed and split up, the taller one hurrying onward as the
smaller one darted through the Anderson's yard. "What's your puppy's
name, mister?" she asked innocently.

"His name is…Will. He's a bloodhound. He's been a very very bad
puppy lately and I've had to punish him. He was sniffing around Bu…
people in a very rude way," Angelus replied.

"Oh," she said. "Sometimes our dog, Max, likes to jump up on
people. Daddy always has to yell at him. He says, `bad Max!' and
then Max stops doing that. Maybe you should try it with Will," she
remarked, young eyes scanning the back yard for any signs of the
missing puppy.

Angelus scooped her up into his arms gently. "Yes," he
murmured. "I'll have to try that." Abruptly tired of the game, he
turned her head to one side with a snap of his wrist and sank his
teeth into her tender young neck. The flesh parted like butter under
his razor sharp fangs, and he sucked lasciviously at the scrumptious
morsel in his arms.

She didn't even cry out, too startled to scream…and then…too
drained. She was sweet, that innocent blood filling his mouth with
light, frothy flavor. He savored every drop on his tongue, pressing
the coppery taste against his palate and drawing out the tiny death
in his mouth.

Finally she was drained and he dropped her spent corpse indifferently
to his feet before calling to her friend. They were amuse bouche…
barely enough to tempt his appetite, but still, why waste one?

To be continued…

NEXT>>>>>
Title Page
Author's Page