Track A in Track B  
London, England  
1885  

She slept for the whole day and most of the next night. 

When Buffy finally awoke, Drusilla was no longer lying on the bed next to her, where Buffy remembered trying to get away from the strange vampiress who insisted she continually touch Buffy. Her dreams had been equally as strange, involving Dru and Spike (William) and a cavern with that stupid cheese man and the First Slayer. 

Angelus was standing at the window, looking out at the dark night. And she was still alive. Taking a moment to realign her thoughts, to remember the bizarre circumstances that had brought her there, Buffy studied his hard frame. 

Nothing had changed between this Angelus and the one she knew. Oh, his hair was longer, more in style with the times she supposed, and his dress was different, no leather but dark colors all the same. She still wanted him; Buffy knew that, recognize the feeling within her from those months in Sunnydale when she couldn’t kill the demon who wore her lover’s face. She wanted him with the same passion she wanted Angel. Maybe because she knew that Angel loved her enough to die for her. 

Maybe she was just crazy. 

His stance was straighter, as if he wasn’t burdened with the weight of so much guilt. Again that stab of sympathy shot through her for the soul she loved and for the demon who stood before her now, unaware of what course his future was going to take. 

“I know you’re awake.” He said without turning from his silent perusal of the street below. In truth, he hadn’t seen the street in nearly two hours, since he had taken his vigil in her room. And he still didn’t know why he’d taken up that vigil in the first place. They all agreed that leaving the Slayer alone was bad form, but Drusilla had guarded her throughout the day and most of the night. 

Angelus, however, felt the need to watch over her. to protect her, keep her safe, watch her as she slept. 

“Yes, I imagine you would,” She said somewhat huskily. Slowly, testing her muscles and joints, Buffy climbed out of bed, wondering where the bathroom was. Did they have toilets now? Or, at least ones that flushed? And water, her mouth was so dry she was surprised she could speak. 

The room held two doors, one was the way out, she was sure, the other had to lead somewhere, perhaps the bathroom? Her bladder was rapidly not caring, and she had no way of knowing which door was the right one, and knew that the instant she tried to escape – not that she had anyplace really to go, as much as she hated to admit that – Angelus would stop her. Instead, she asked, “Where’s the bathroom?” 

He turned, finally, at that and raised an eyebrow. She had never really seen his face expressive, but Buffy was finding that she liked it very much. Especially when the smile appeared. It held just a hint of the cruelness that was so much a part of him, a part of the Angelus Buffy knew, as if he weren’t the same demon he would be in a little over a hundred years. 

“Bathroom? Ah, the toilet. Yes, through that door.” Angelus pointed to the far one and watched in mild amusement as Buffy did her best not to run into the room. She was still clad in the chemise Drusilla lent her, the soft material flowing over her golden skin like a waterfall. 

Several minutes passed when he heard, “How the hell do you flush this thing?” 

Chuckling, Angelus walked into the backroom off the antechamber and grinned all the wider at her scowl. Tugging on the chain hanging from the ceiling, he watched her as she looked on in fascination at the swirling water. 

“Wow, neat.” She turned to him, careful never to show her back to the vampire, then asked, “Why on earth do you even have a flushing toilet when I know for a fact you don’t pee.” 

Despite her unusual words, Angelus knew what she meant. “It came with the house, standard.”

”Don’t ever tell me how you acquired this property.” She said, shaking her head at the thought, and looking for a sink or a wash bin or something that held water so she could wash her hands. There wasn’t anything. 

“Water and soap?” She looked at him as she asked then did a double take. He was smiling. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had done so in her presence, but it had been so long…and never as Angelus. Or, at least, not without a faintly mocking tilt to it as he was trying to kill her. 

God, he was gorgeous. 

Shaking these thoughts away, they would do her no good in this highly surreal situation, Buffy asked instead, “Um, a-and-and food. I’m starved.” 

Cocking an eyebrow at her manner, she ordered as if she were used to being obeyed, certainly nothing like the other Slayers he had met, Angelus nodded. “Food is being brought up to the room, as for soap and water; I’ll see what I can do.” 

Fifteen minutes later Buffy was as clean as she could get with the thin bar of scented soap, a small bowl of water (but no washcloth) Angelus had had the terrified maid procure, and was eating voraciously. Buffy couldn’t think about the maid, as she had other things to worry about, but vowed to see the scared woman freed if she could. Again, she noted the amused look on her former lover’s face as she sipped the wine brought with her meal. 

While alcohol and Buffy didn’t exactly mix, she felt she needed something this evening and it came with the meal. 

“Are you going to tell me where you’re from?” He asked, that faint Irish lilt in his voice that made Buffy wish he still had the accent. Or, that the Angel from her time had the accent, or…whatever.
She had never heard that, had only heard him with an American accent. Traveling the world for a few hundred years must have taken it out of him. Buffy suddenly wished he hadn’t lost the accent; it was wonderful. Sexy and alluring and…Stop it, Summers, this certainly isn’t helping.  

“California,” She said as she bit into the cold chicken wing. 

“America?” He frowned as if he hadn’t expected that. “The Slayer is currently in Russia.” 

“Like I said, I’m not really the Slayer…for here at least.” What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to handle this situation? She missed Giles, he would know what to do, how to help. Angel would as well. Except he was sitting in front of her, well not really, but…what a mess. 

“From where then, as there’s only one called at a time.” 

“Right, that’s not entirely true, either.” She shrugged, seeing no help for it. Until and unless she found her way back to Sunnydale 2000, she needed help. And clothes, but that was for another time. Like after her nervous breakdown. 

“If I tell you,” she asked slowly as a really bad plan formed in her mind. “And then not stake any of you, will you help me get back to California?” 

Sunnydale was around in 1885, she was fairly sure. Or at least the beginnings of it she was sure, if the demonic mayor had his way and Buffy was certain he did. And if not, then the energy radiating off the Hellmouth was a sure way to pull her there. Buffy hadn’t lived there for four years without learning to recognize its unique signature. 

“Why should I help you?” There it was again, that damned amused look. And Buffy couldn’t think of one good reason he should. It wasn’t like she could tell him anything; not his future, not hers. Not even their past together. 

Instead she asked, “Tell me about this world; what’s it like?” 

Interested in this sudden change of subject, Angelus complied. “What would you like to know? Queen Victoria is still reigning, though she’s almost as old as I. Russia is in the midst of another revolt which will fail just as surely as all the others, and France and America are at war again.” 

That caught her off guard. Was there a war between France and America? Buffy couldn’t remember, but she doubted it. It just seemed off somehow. “War? Tell me about it?” 

He eased himself back in the too delicate looking chair, stretching his long legs out before him, folding his big strong hands over his taunt stomach…Buffy swallowed and looked back at her nearly empty plate. She had to stop thinking like this, had to get herself under control; unfortunately she wanted him, or, well, the souled version, and she knew Angelus could smell her arousal. 

Damn vampire senses.  

It was unfortunate that she wanted the Angelus from her time as well. She could never fully explain it to herself, and couldn’t begin to understand her fascination with the unsouled version of her lover, but Buffy admitted that she wanted both of them. To this day, despite the fact that she and Angel were no longer together, she felt horrible guilt over that. Over wanting Angelus as much as she did Angel. 

“After the success of the American Revolution, France tried the same. A tad more bloody than their counterparts, and when it ended in more bloodshed than resolution, the new rulers blamed America. They’ve been fighting on and off for about a hundred years now.” 

“Bonaparte? Was he the new leader?” Buffy asked, trying to assimilate all this with what she knew, which, granted, wasn’t a lot. 

History so wasn’t her strong point; and while Angel had helped her through high school with stellar grades, Buffy was more interested in hearing him talk than in what he was saying. He had the most beautiful voice, soft and soothing as he told her stories about what really happened then. Buffy used to listen to him for hours as he talked about the past, as he read to her from one of the endless books he had. 

As he told her he loved her. 

Shaking thoughts about her future (past) away, and focusing on the demon before her, Buffy tried to concentrate on what Angelus was saying. American and France never went to war against each other; that much Buffy did know. She had no idea what each country was doing in 1885, but was fairly sure it wasn’t fighting each other. 

“No, Beaumont, Jean Claude Beaumont. Bonaparte came later, not a very capable leader, he was soon disposed.” 

“Oh. And America? What…do you know her history?” 

“A little, but now I think it’s time you tell me more of yourself. And why I should help you get back to California.” 

Buffy swallowed. This wasn’t her time. With the things Angelus had told her, she wasn’t even sure it was her universe. Which was a whole other headache she didn’t feel like dealing with at the moment. Maybe it was just as well that she had started paying attention in history class. 

“I know…things.” She swallowed again, not sure what she was changing by revealing her one and only trump card. Would the same history even hold when so much had already changed? She took another sip of her wine, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat. 

“I know what’s going to happen to you…in the future.” Her appetite suddenly gone, Buffy pushed the tray away and stood, pacing over to the window Angelus had formerly occupied. 

She was changing history by telling him what was going to happen, of course she was. And her future self, should she even exist? That Buffy would never know the touch of her love, would never know how it felt to love that deeply, that completely. Was it fair to her? 

But then she’d also never know what it felt like to tear your own heart out and kill the only man you ever loved. To watch him call for you as Hell swirled around him, claiming him as its own. To know that that one night of carnal love, of pure passion and completeness, was the only one you’d ever have with him. 

To watch him walk away from you.
Was it better never to know? Or were the memories worth the pain just for having experienced them? 

Buffy reached out a hand to trace the panes on the window, lost in her own memories of her time with Angel. She wouldn’t trade a moment of their time together for anything. Some nights it was all that kept her sane, the memory of his love surrounding her when all she wanted to do was curl up and cry…curl up and die. 

Suddenly filled with steely determination, Buffy turned from the frosted planes and looked at the man sitting before her, calm and intrigued, and knew that she’d do anything to get back home. If only to see her Angel again and tell him all the things she never got to, to tell him one last time that she loved him. 

“Do you want to know?” 

“Do I wish to know what happens to me in the future?” 

Did he? Was that something that he wanted? While it would be interesting to learn what had become of him, what he had accomplished in the years ahead, there was something in her voice, maybe, in the way she held herself, in the way her eyes sought and latched onto his boring deeply into him that said he really didn’t want to know. 

“Tell me about your mark, first.” He said, changing the subject yet again. Angelus wasn’t sure why he was reluctant to learn the future, but he knew enough about such promises and prophecies to know that once you knew, things changed. Everything changed. 

He hadn’t survived over one hundred and thirty years by making rash decisions and acting before he thought everything through. Well, not after the first few years at least. 

Buffy’s hand strayed to the fading scar adorning her neck, gently tracing the raised tissue. She had long ago memorized the feel of the scar, every mark, every line and crevice. How often had she looked at that, the only mark on her body that was testament to her calling? The Master’s Bite hadn’t scarred, numerous fights and battles had all left scrapes and cuts and contusions from mild to serious, but none of them had ever scarred. 

That bitch Walsh had once asked her if a vampire had bitten her, asking if she had been careless enough to have been bitten. Buffy had told her yes, she had been bitten, once. Obviously, she had been if the scar was there; and though Walsh had been a moron when it came to the demons she captured, she hadn’t been that stupid. 

The mad professor had then wanted to know about ‘the animal, the beast’ that had sunk its fangs into the Slayer’s neck. 

Walsh wanted to know if Buffy had killed it, if Buffy had been injured when the thing bit her, if Buffy had nightmares, etc., etc., etc… 

What could she say? Buffy had no idea and couldn’t to this day remember what her answer had been. But she knew that Walsh had never learned the truth; Buffy would lie to God himself if it meant keeping Angel safe. 

Walsh had even commented on the scarring factor, wanted to run tests on the Slayer to chart her healing factors and such, wondering why that had scarred yet nothing else had. It was fascinating this scar, and perhaps the thing that bit her was old and that was the reason she scarred? But why, Walsh had asked over and over again, why had this one scarred but nothing else ever had?

Yet this one had.

She still remembered the feel of Angel’s fangs as they pierced her skin after innumerable seconds’ ticked by, soul fighting survival fighting demon. The utter ecstasy as his mouth pulled great swallows of her life giving blood from her body to his, that indescribable feeling of pleasure, carnal and erotic and everything she had ever wanted, a pleasurable pain she hadn’t felt before and hadn’t since. 

Her blood heated at the memory and Buffy sucked in her breath at the arousal that coursed through her. 

Without thinking, she told the truth; awash in memories so strong time had done little to erase them Buffy admitted the truth. “You. It’s from you. Another you. We knew each other; in another time and place where destiny was thwarted by vengeance, we knew each other. Intimately.” 

So that was a little melodramatic, so what? She was a little out of her element here, so it was to be expected. 

A large part of Angelus was shocked by her admission, shocked that she would tell something like that and shocked that it was his mark. He had never marked another in his long, long lives, never felt the need. Darla was his mate, but not in the strictest sense. She was a fellow vampire, a kindred who shared the same pleasures and passions as he himself did. But the bond that existed between them was not one of ‘mate’ but one of…a consort, which was slightly more than Sire and Childe. 

The rest of him knew; knew that she spoke the truth before she spoke it, knew that she was marked as his even before he knew her as Slayer. That realization, the knowledge that she was his came to him as he watched her lying on the street, moments before he felt the power streaming off her announcing her as his mortal enemy. He had no idea how, but the awareness was there all the same. 

Buffy continued to stare at her one time lover as she tried to explain. “I told you I don’t belong here. I’m from over one hundred years in the future, a different continent, a different life. My destiny was intricately entwined with yours, but,” she shrugged as if she had long ago accepted this and there was nothing either of them could do. “Things change and time moves forward.” 

Curious despite himself, Angelus rose and walked towards her. She smelled intoxicating, her unique human scent mixed with all things Slayer and something just underneath that he could identify as himself. It was nearly overwhelmed by the lust he could feel from her, and he wanted to sate that – and his – until she could no longer stand. 

“Why did I mark you?” 

Buffy knew what he meant, but asked anyway. Whether it was jealously that she wasn’t the first he’d marked, that he’d marked Darla as well, or something else, even she didn’t know.  “Why do you ask? Why do you usually mark humans?” 

“I,” he said, stressing the pronoun, “Have never marked a human. No creature in all existence bears my mark. Vampires, however, mark for several reasons. Human slaves to do their bidding in places they cannot venture. Vampires who are bound to each other, whether in mutual passion as mates, as punishment or something else, for eternity and beyond. Or Mates, True Mates whether human, demon or otherwise, whose destiny is as intertwined as you claim.” 

She hadn’t known the rest of the reasons, but she knew the Mates one. Giles had confirmed her suspicions, not quite stammering through an explanation as to the ritual that she had gone through to save her lover’s life. The freely given gift of blood, the sacrifice, the love. 

Buffy hadn’t cried at his words, hadn’t shed one tear or given Giles any reason to think that she was anything other than completely all right as she sat stoically in his living room, the bright sunlight pouring through the open windows. 

But he had moved to the couch on which she sat and taken her into his arms, rocking her gently as she finally broke down, weeks after Angel’s departure. Three hours and twenty five minutes after she had received his letter – the letter that was currently neatly folded on her lap after she had read it almost constantly for those three hours – telling her where he was, that he was okay, and that he missed her. Not that he loved her, though he did sign it, ‘Always, Angel.’ 

“You were dieing, poisoned with something mystical and the only cure was the blood of a Slayer. We tried to find an alternate route,” Faith’s face flashed through her mind but Buffy didn’t hesitate as she finished, “We tried everything anyone could think of, but nothing else was going to work. I gave you my blood to save your life.” 

“What happened then?” At her look, he elaborated, “I obviously lived yet you speak in the past tense.”

Had she? Buffy hadn’t realized, but it really didn’t matter. “A lot of things. You were different…then. A lot was different.” 

They were standing inches apart now, bathed in the artificial glow of modern nineteenth century lamplight and the more ethereal glow of the moon. The house was empty, Darla was out somewhere throwing a conniption because of the Slayer living in her house, stolen though it was, taking time and attention away from her, William and Drusilla were out hunting, content in the knowledge that Angelus would do nothing to harm the girl while they were away. 

Deep inside her, Buffy could feel the bond she had always shared with Angel throb with recognition, life, understanding, identification of her Mate. This wasn’t the Angelus she knew, this was one who had not had to live with a hundred years of guilt and torture, he stood straighter, spoke, acted, moved with sanity and reason and purpose. 

Her Angelus…well, she never really knew that Angelus and couldn’t claim him as hers in any case. 

Had he been he punishing her for showing him love? Was he resentful for the all too human feelings she had given him? If he hadn’t tried to suck the world into hell, if things had been different between them…what would have been different between them? 

It didn’t matter. Did it…did it? No, nothing mattered except finding her way back to her time and place and her dimension considering this didn’t seem like any of those things. It didn’t matter that her body wanted the demon in front of her as much as she had wanted her Angel and consequently her Angelus. 

Her blood, her mark, her everything screamed for her to take that final step and brush her body over his taunt one. To claim his lips with hers and feel his cool hands sooth her heated flesh. To move with him in an intimate dance where both were victors and to know that no matter which part of the whole he was, that he wanted her, only her. 

But it didn’t matter…because, because…because she didn’t belong here despite the sense of rightness and completeness. She didn’t belong here with the demon half of her lover. 

Despite her body’s feelings to the contrary. 

Angelus hadn’t moved, watching the fascinating display of emotions cross her beautiful face. Love and anger and despair and hurt and lust and rage. He had always considered himself a master of manipulation, a scholar of the human mind…the better to torture his victims, the better to alleviate the long years of boredom that stretched before him. But the woman before him…there was something that pulled him to her, something that revolted at the thought of toying, using, and discarding her as he had so many others. 

He wasn’t sure what that was, only that it was new and different and he wanted time to study that more. Time to study her more. 

“Where is it that you think you need to be?” 

The spell was broken at those words, a complete change from the subject matter that had brought them so physically close. Buffy cleared her throat and tried to think things through. 

“Sunnydale, I need to get to California.” No need to mention a Hellmouth, oh no, that just wouldn’t do at all; things were bad enough in her time, she didn’t want to make it worse sooner than it was. 

“That’s where it started, I know for a fact.” At his raised eyebrow and strange look she gave a weak chuckle. “Strange things happen there, take my word for it.” 

“You want me to take you half way across the world? Why not ask the Watcher’s Council for help?” She hadn’t once mentioned that austere and over bloated organization, especially considering she was the Slayer. 

Her face hardened, her expressive green eyes darkened and a low growl escaped her lips. “I have nothing to do with them; I want nothing to do with them. I quit the council.” 

Now that was new. “I don’t think any Slayer has ever quite the council, it just isn’t done. Interesting, my dear. You continue to shock and amaze me.” Walking back to the chair he had previously occupied, Angelus casually arranged his large body back within its confines and asked, “Why would you do something like that?” 

Scowling, Buffy turned back to the window, refusing to shed the tears that clogged her throat. “They wanted to let someone I was close to die because it ‘just wasn’t done,’” she mimicked in a snooty English accent. Why she didn’t say that someone was Angel, Buffy didn’t know, why she didn’t just tell him, she couldn’t say. Angelus already knew how she received her scar, her mark; it was all part of the same story. 

“They had endangered my mother, had tried to have me killed, had replaced my first watcher…well okay technically my second watcher, because ‘he was unfit for the job,’ though he never actually left me…that was just the last straw.”  

Turning, she shot Angelus a wicked grin. “We just didn’t get on you might say.” 

“Yes, I imagine so. You continue to surprise me. I find myself wanting to keep you here even without Drusilla’s ramblings.”

“Yeah, about those; at the best of times she never makes any sense, what’s with the ‘You’re daddy’s’ bit? I know you’re her Sire so I’m assuming that she meant…” Oh, oh…Oh! God, oh…God! That’s what it meant exactly, the crazy bitch meant her words exactly as they had come out of her mouth. 

Buffy paled, her breathing stopped and she stumbled the few feet to the bed, sinking into its plush depths. Her gaze locked with Angelus’ and her breath, so newly recovered, caught again. 

He seemed amused, calm…and completely accepting of the situation. 

She had a sudden urge to kill him, but couldn’t make herself move. Oh, God…

Part 3        Part 5

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