Taming the Beasts
Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

Spoilers/Ships: This is AU. Buffy/Spike/Angel. Xander/Anya. Willow/Tara.

Distribution: Sure, just let me know.

Feedback: Is always nice. DarkRhiannon@aol.com

Rating: NC-17. I mean it. Go away if you're too young.

Angel clutched Buffy's wounded body close to himself as he strode into the hospital. His black leather duster swirled around them as he paced quickly to the counter. "My mate...girlfriend is hurt," he said urgently to the nurse on duty. "She needs help, please."

The nurse gazed at the attractive brown-eyed man clutching the naked, bloody, girl to his chest. Broken manacles hung from her wrists and the nurse thought he knew what had happened. They were into BDSM and it had gotten out of hand. It was a frequent problem in his area of LA. All those expensive high rises and condos attracted the young, beautiful, and decadent. The young would try anything for gratification, he had learned that first-hand.

"Paging Dr. Ross, paging Dr. Ross," he called into the loudspeaker. Dr. Ross had been sleeping in the 5th ER suite during her second shift, but he knew that her sleep was hair-triggered and her practiced response would be almost immediate. She was one of the better attendings.

The nurse led the handsome young man to Trauma One and had him lay the woman upon the table. The man did so with a tenderness that confirmed his earlier suspicions. This was not a stranger-finds-victim situation, he knew. The two were twined together as tightly as he'd ever seen, despite the victim's wounds.

"What happened?" he asked, knowing the answer. He was shocked by the response.

"It was them. They shot her!" the young man said.

"Oh." He hadn't even noted the gunshot wounds, he'd been too caught up in the manacles. *Gang-related!* The nurse filed the information away in his head, sure that he'd once again classified the violence into a significant category. They all fit somewhere, no matter how original they thought themselves. He assessed the patient with an experienced eye. The girl was pale and thin as a bone.

Clearly one of those silly children who thought that "thin was in." Despite that, she seemed quite muscular, with clearly defined arms, abs and legs. It was easy to see she was athletic. But the blood that had dried on her upper and lower body looked oldÉseveral hours, if not a day. Clearly this wasn't going to be an easily categorized case at all.

He took the girl's pulse and blood pressure, noting that both were appropriate for her condition. The pulse was too fast, indicating physiological stress commensurate with her wounds. The blood pressure was low, indicating that she had suffered blood loss. He gave the young man a dark look, wondering again how wounds that looked days old could have been left like this.

Angel didn't give a damn what the nurse thought. His mate needed help. Again. And again, it was his fault. Wolfram and Hart had been trying to hurt him in some fashion, raising something, undoubtedly one of his kills in the past. Instead, the spell energy had seared its way into Buffy and she'd been harmed. The physical damage she'd suffered at their hands afterward was adding injury to injury. He needed her physically healed because he was fairly certain that the doctors would be unable to heal her mentally. She needed something more than these clinicians could give her.

The doctor entered the room briskly and drew near to the bed, where the nurse had already hooked up an IV. "What do we have here, Doug?" she asked, pulling gloves from her pocket and snapping them onto her hands with deft grace.

"Patient presented with gunshot wounds and evidence of beating," the nurse replied, rattling off the too-low blood pressure and extremely high pulse rate with the ease of long practice. The doctor frowned, leaning forward to listen to the girl's chest with her stethoscope. The heartbeat was fast and irregular, worrisome. With firm, but gentle fingers, the doctor probed the shoulder wound.

"This is odd, Doug," she commented. "The tissue damage is healed, as if it's days old, and the wound is scabbing over."

She turned to the dark man, hovering close by. "When did you say this happened?" she asked, wondering why the wound had been left to heal itself for at least three days before the girl received medical care.

"I don't know, exactly," Angel growled, frustrated at his inability to tell them the whole truth. Clearly, Buffy's amazing recuperative powers were going to be an issue, he thought, but how, precisely was he going to explain them without sounding insane? "She'd been missing.  I brought her in as soon as I found her tonight," he added, hoping that would satisfy the doctor for a while.

"I see." The doctor turned back to his mate's bloody body, intent on assessing the rest of the damage. She probed the bullet wound in Buffy's arm, noting that the exit wound was scabbed over and the bullet seemed to have missed the bone. The hip wound was more serious, the bullet showed no signs of having exited and would have to be removed.

"Page Dr. Tufts and an anesthesiologist to the ER, please, Doug. We're going to need a surgeon down here. And start an IV line in the unwounded arm. Do we have any bolt cutters around here to get rid of those things?" She pointed to the manacles with distaste.

"I'll see what I can find, Dr. Ross," the nurse replied, hustling about the room with quick, decisive motions.

The doctor drew Angel out of the room and he followed, reluctant to leave his mate in the care of a human, even if he was a nurse. "Your girlfriend is badly injured, but I don't think it's life-threatening," the doctor said to him. "I assume that you called the police about the kidnapping?" she asked pointedly.

"Um, I'm a private investigator," Angel mumbled, trying to discern a way he could avoid having the police called in on this. "I wanted to find her on my own, there were some issues with a firm that I'd provided the police with evidence against earlier. With them involved, I couldn't risk calling the police in. She was in danger from them." He looked into the doctor's eyes, willing her to believe him and not make the entire thing any more difficult for him.

"I understand, but unfortunately, I must report all crime victims to the proper authorities," she replied. "Now that your girlfriend is safe, they need to be notified. I'll leave it up to you, for now."

She looked at him sternly, and he understood that if he didn't call them, she would. He nodded reluctantly.

"Good," she said briskly. "I'm glad we understand each other. Now, I need to get back and take care of your girlfriend. Don't worry, I'll take good care of her." She walked quickly back into the room, leaving the door swinging behind her. Angel pressed his hands against the glass and stared inside, his soul cringing at the sight of Buffy's tiny, naked body laying there covered with blood.

*

Spike was bloody ticked at not being able to stay with his sire and, dare he think it, mate. He needed them, needed to be near them, now more than ever. He could feel violence welling up inside of him, his instinctual reaction to the fear and anger that consumed him at the thought of what those damned lawyers had done to his Slayer. That he, in the past, had planned far greater harm to her was inconsequential. He had changed, as had she, and they were together, were tied to each other and to Angel with ever stronger bonds.

"Bloody bastards," he fumed, driving swiftly through the dark streets of the city. This time of night, it was actually easy to get around. Not like the day, which he'd heard from demons who could actually venture into the ever-present sun, was wall to wall traffic. At last he arrived at Cordelia's former apartment, sparing a sad thought for the other woman he'd failed to save from the lawyers.

"Owe them another spot of retribution for that, I do," he muttered to himself, thinking of the torment that Voca had inflicted upon the seer before she'd died. He winced at the thought that he now carried her visions, then pushed it aside. His problems could wait, he thought. Right now, he and Wussly needed to see what was in the bloody scroll to help the Slayer.

Parking the car, Spike strode into the building and up to the apartment, pounding on the door. Wesley, awakened by Spike's phone call from the hospital, opened the door quickly and invited him in.

"Would you care for some tea, Spike?" he asked, removing his glasses and polishing them in a gesture that made Spike think of Giles immediately. He replaced the handkerchief in his pocket, continuing, "I made Darjeeling."

"None for me, Watcher," he growled. "Got any O-Pos?" Spike asked, knowing he'd probably be out of luck.

"Actually, I believe that Cordy..." his voice broke and Wesley's face crumpled momentarily at the thought of the girl who'd died only days before. His linen handkerchief pulled itself from his pocket and floated through the air to hang before him and he grasped it gratefully. "Thank you, Dennis," he muttered, wiping at his eyes briefly before replacing his glasses and refolding the handkerchief again with meticulous care. "Cordy kept blood in the freezer for Angel. You may find some there. I've been looking over the manuscript since you called me, Spike," he said.

Spike's reply was muffled, his head stuck in the freezer, as he flipped through the frozen packets of blood. "Right, O-Pos it is," he announced triumphantly at finding his favorite type, then yelped as the blood was pulled from his hands and wafted through the air to the microwave, which opened itself and set to defrost as he watched. "Um, thanks, Den," he mumbled to the phantom, still uncomfortable with the idea of a ghost doing household chores.

"So, what'd you find, Watcher? What charming news does that damned scroll have for us all now? Am I going to turn into a fish? Is Peaches actually a newt in vampire form?" he scoffed angrily, pacing in agitation at his inability to do anything.

"The relevant lines seem to have been part of a spell," Wesley replied, deciding to ignore the vampire's angry ranting for the moment. "I believe that Wolfram and Hart were trying to raise Angelus's Sire, at least, that's what appears to be their goal."

"Fuck! That bloody bitch is all we'd have needed bollixing up the works," Spike swore, glaring angrily at Wesley. "Do ya know what a mind fucker she was to Angel whenever she came round? She wouldn't take his touching anyone but her, possessive bitch," he muttered, remembering years of rows betwixt Angelus and Darla over his sire's predilection for attaching to his childer. *Specially me and Dru,* he thought, *didnÕt keep him from letting her beat the hell out of us anytime we displeased him.* Aloud, he just swore.

"Yes, well, Darla's attachment to Angelus is well-documented," Wesley replied fussily, glancing at the scroll again to avoid Spike's angry gaze. "What concerns me isn't Darla, however," he added.

"The spell went awry, Angel said. The powerÉthe incantation that was supposed to raise the beast, which was intended to be Darla, instead seems to have affected Buffy in a completely unforeseen manner."

"Right you are, Watcher," Spike replied, starting momentarily as the microwave beeped and opened. The blood bag floated eerily through the room, joined by a mug. As he watched, a small hole appeared in the plastic bag and the blood decanted neatly into the mug, which then floated into his hands. He grasped it, feeling ghostly fingers even colder than his own lift away. "Um, thanks Dennis," he said, lifting the mug and slurping gratefully at the red fluid within. He normally hated frozen blood, but he was so hungry, he'd have eaten frozen pig's blood at this point.

Suddenly aware that Wesley had stopped yammering at some point, Spike turned and looked at him while swallowing the warm, viscous fluid in the mug. Wesley was staring at him. "Whut?" he asked, gulping more blood from the mug.

"Um, it's your face," Wesley said, staring in fascination at Spike's vampiric features. "Do you always...ah, assume your demonic face whilst drinking from a mug?" he asked.

"Dunno," Spike replied, wondering why it mattered to the wanker. "Can't exactly look in a mirror to see, now can I? Blood scent'll do it automatically for a fledgling," he said, consideringly. "Guess the taste does it for me." He slurped the last of the blood from the mug, sighing in something resembling repletion as he ran his finger around the sides to get the last bit out. He sucked on the finger, pulling the last of the blood off with his tongue and looked up to see Wesley's dumfounded face. "Watcher, you can't tell me you've never seen Angelus drink blood before," he said with irritation, wondering what the fuck was so damned fascinating about him drinking a mug of blood.

"Well, actually, Angel is quite shy of drinking before humans," Wesley replied, trying to think of a time he'd actually seen Angel drink anything besides Cordelia's dreadful coffee in front of them. "I don't believe I've ever seen him partake of blood."

"Well, I ain't Angelus," Spike muttered. "Can we get back to the scroll, now?" he morphed back to human countenance without even thinking about it, and Wesley wisely decided not to pursue the issue.

"How many demonic languages do you speak, Spike," Wesley asked as the vampire joined him at the table to look over the scroll.

"Not as many as Angelus," Spike replied. "Perhaps fifty or so? Mostly the fighting ones, mercs an such. Never had much use for the pansy ones."

Wesley was shocked that the vampire spoke so many. "And human languages?"

"Ah, ten or so. Never did learn Latin, though, even with Angelus beatin' me bloody over it. T's dead, what do I need with it?"

Wesley refrained from pointing out that a dead man learning a dead language seemed somehow apt, thinking that Spike would probably not see the humor in it.  He was, frankly, amazed that the rough and tumble vampire claimed to be so erudite.

"This part here, perhaps you might be familiar with the phrasing?" he pointed to a portion of the scroll he'd yet to translate. "It seems to indicate that a Beast or the Beast will do something, but what, precisely, I'm not sure of."

"Bloody hell," Spike sighed, realizing that he was going to be stuck, will he or nill he, with translating duties.  "get me some of that tea and I'll try to figure it," Spike conceded, knowing he was going to be trapped in this damned apartment with the Watcher and ghost until they'd figured out what the spell had done to his mate. Only then could he be of any help to her and his sire.

"Do you have any Wheatabix?"

*

Angel paced in the waiting room, having been pointedly asked to leave off his glaring vigil outside the surgical room. The nurse, Doug, his name was, he remembered, had stayed in with Buffy and the doctor and another, female, nurse glanced at him with appreciative eyes every now and then as his pacing drew him closer to her station. The ER was busy, even at this late night hour, and Angel was amazed and disheartened at the sheer number of people who came through the doors.

They were all so broken, so scared. Some were bleeding and he restrained his demon with difficulty as the scent of fresh human blood reminded him of how hungry he was. Some were ill, their sickness surrounding them like a miasma to his sensitive nose. All were frightened, lost and grasping for help, just as he was. He turned to the nurse, hoping that she might know something else about his mate, though he knew she'd not heard anything new.

"Please, can you tell me how it's going?" he pleaded.

The nurse was not immune to the warm brown gaze of the handsome man before her, and she leaned closer to him. "I'll try to find out more about your friend, soon," she replied, flirting at him.

Angel didn't notice, he was too busy worrying about Buffy, about what Spike might be discovering and about how he was supposed to hold them all together. Then, suddenly, a door in his mind snapped open and he was inundated with feelings. PAIN! FEAR! RAGE! They pounded at him, ripping at the veneer of civilization that cloaked his demonic nature and fighting against his intrinsic control. He felt his human face waver and turned abruptly away from the nurse, running toward the surgical area with inhuman speed and grace. He burst through the doors into a scene from hell.

Buffy was awake, awake and growling at the totally confused doctors and nurses who were trying to care for her. Her eyes glowed a feral green as she ripped the IV from her arm. Blood spurted from the small wound and Angel growled in mixed worry and hunger. At the sound, Buffy looked up and calmed.  The wound healed before his eyes, and his growl changed to a rumbling purr.

Her mate was here. He moved quickly to her side, batting away a frightened doctor and caressing Buffy with gentle, possessive hands. He stroked her back, running cool hands down her hot, fevered flesh, and she sighed with pleasure. Without the fear fueling her transformation, her fangs ascended, and she relaxed a bit more.

Angel was struggling to think, to hold on to rationality, but it was difficult, if not impossible, with Buffy's shattered mind pulling at him. Her soul called to his, and her emotions spilled over into him, filling him with her own pleasure at his presence and calling his demon closer and closer to the surface with the strong, visceral emotions. He glided gentle hands over her body, feeling the bandages on her collarbone, arm and hip, and knowing that the doctors had managed to remove the bullets from her before she woke. Idly, he noticed them yelling and scurrying around, but the humans held little interest for him in this state.

"Call security!"

"How the hell did she wake up?"

"Did you see her teeth? Were those fangs?"

"My god, she ripped the restraints off the table like they were made of tissue, what is she on?"

Angel had enough presence of mind to realize that they needed to get out of there before the humans managed to restrain them. Explaining either of their metabolisms would be quite impossible, and Buffy's preternatural healing would simply have to make up for the remaining wounds.  Her healing would speed recovery further than anything the doctors could do for her.

Angel swept his mate into his arms with ease, her small weight no difficulty to him. He moved from the room so quickly that the humans left behind could only gasp and founder in his wake. Angel called urgently through the night to his childe with his mind, pulling on the bond between them and feeling an answering pull in return. He raced into the dark streets, shouldering past two security guards with ease, before disappearing from their sight, into the darkness.

*

Wesley jumped back from the table when, without warning, Spike's face morphed to its demonic shape.  The vampire leapt from his chair, black duster swirling behind him as he raced out the door without a word.  Wesley followed, befuddled by the vampire's abrupt exit and watched from the stairs as Spike sped off into the night in Angel's car.

"Was it something I said?"

*