FEEDBACK: Spyke Raven
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The night after Valentine's Day, she found the picture. She had been searching deep within the ancient stacks, for yet another volume that chronicled Angelus' reign of terror. It wasn't easy, as there were at least a hundred texts written about his life during the 17th century alone. Each in the plain, simple binding of a watcher diary, each bare of pictures, or fancy woodcuts that had normally enlivened the boredom of the Watcher's recording.
As Lucas, Giles' contemporary of the 18th century had written, "I have seen what he [Angelus] has wrought and I pray God that no other will have to witness the same...Each time he sinks to newer depths it seems he can go no further, but he finds a way." It stood to reason that any Watcher would grow tired of sketching the countless scenes of destruction that followed Angelus, shattering enough to have to describe it for posterity.
The book Giles wanted lay below th elast, slimmest volume of Lucas' recordings. As she tried to get at it, the slim diary fell open to the floor and the last few lines caught her eyes.
"He has killed my darling girl...I saw her body fall from his hands when he was done and I couldn't stop him. My God, I couldn't...there is nothing more I can do. I will train no more. It hurts too much to see them fall, one by one, all my family. It ends tonight."
In an attempt to exorcise the memory of that sight, the artist had tried to expunge the vision by binding it in the pages of this book.
Etched into the paper, was a sketch that looked as thought it had been burned into the paper by fire, charcoal and the intensity of the artist's emotion. It showed Angelus, in the interim between full game face and humanity. He had been caught feeding, and his eyes gleamed with an unholy light of pleasure. The tautness of the neck and the wildness of his stance, as he stood, hands crooked, bent around an unseen object, all bespoke the nature of the beast. And told of the pleasure he found in the kill.
There was no sign of his victim in the picture. Angelus, and Angelus alone was the focus of a passion so searing, it might well have been lust and not hatred that caused the Watcher to draw him that way.
She took the book home without telling Giles. Slipped into her jeans, it made an uncomfortable wedge against her backbone. She didn't even notice.
As soon as possible, she climbed into her bed, drew the curtains and pretended to be asleep when her mother came up to check on her. When she was sure of solitude, she took a deep breath and opened the book at the first page.
The recording was full of Angelus, his lusts, his haunts, and his kills. Over and over she read the words until they bled her soul dry of tears, as she came to know this part of the vampire she had given her heart to. She learned of his sexual escapades, which were nothing more than a tool to break his victims and, if they were lucky, remake them in his own image. If not...Angelus knew ways of prolonging life to its fullest, so that his toys could experience the heights of pain needed for his own satisfaction. He gave nothing and no one any respect. He was sufficient unto himself and viewed the rest of creation as a tool designed only for his pleasure. He took, and gave nothing good in return. And when he was done, he paid them the ultimate insult of forgetting them completely.
She could almost hear the moans from his victims who sobbed out their last few moments in pain, terror and indignity, and wondered that mere pen and ink could be so vivid. Lucas did not embroider. He merely stated the facts, yet Angelus' darkness pervaded the manuscript, giving it an aura of chilling truth.
She wept as she read the words, and she was sure that nothing could now spark any emotion from a soul exhausted by this journey into the dark night.
She was wrong.
A tremor of wind ruffled the pages of the book which she had put down for only a while, to bury her head in her hands and stare sightlessly at the ceiling. The sound of paper rustling alerted her to the fall of a solitary sheet.
It was a sketch of Angelus quite like the one that had captured her attention at first. But this one had been done in pencil, recently, and on paper that looked suspiciously like standard school issue. And then again, the face of the demon was almost fully human, the pose tragic rather than triumphant, the hands wringing together and not curved around his kill.
Below his drawing, Angel had written in faint pencil. "My face?"
The tears came again and she covered her face with her hands, rocking soundlessly back and forth. She cried for the loss of her love, for the vampire who had not seen his face in over two centuries. Sobbed out her need to hold him in her arms and comfort him, for his body to curl around hers in the aftermath of love. Most of all she cried for her shame, for the desire she still felt rushing through her body whenever she saw this demon in her lover's form, for the duty she could not fulfill because of the one night of love they had shared.
A soft voice broke through her cocoon of emotion, freezing her into silence.
"Gee, Buffy, didn't know you still cared."
She sprang off the bed and faced him, her enemy and her temptation. He lay facing her, one hand clasping a blood-rose. catching her eye, insolently confident of his command of the situation, he brought the rose to his lips and smiled.
"I know it's Valentine's night, lover. I would have been here sooner, but the traffic these days!" He licked his lips sensuously. "Very tasty. Drive-in food is really going to catch on."
"What are you here for?" Breathing warily, she circled around the foot of the bed, on guard for any sudden moves he might make.
He watched, his face showing nothing but cool amusement until she stopped and her hand closed around a stake. Then his smile vanished though his tone retained the same mocking lightness as before.
"Trust me, lover, that stake won't do half as much for you as I can."
"Don't be too sure. The adrenaline rush is everything."
"Mmm, I know. Why do you think I'm here?" He moved forward and she raised the stake threateningly, trying to ignore the warmth in her heart that had begun at the sight of him lounging on her bed.
"No, Buffy, that's not the way to stake somebody. Let me show you how it's done. And we won't even need props."
"Ha! You have a hope."
He wiggled his eyebrows. "Hope springs eternal in a lover's breast. Now can I get my hands on your chest?"
She stared, torn between laughter and horror. He sounded like any normal, horny boyfriend teasing his girl.
"Hey, I sent you the flowers, I'm doing the poetry, and I have something better than candy to offer. So what say, we get down and -"
"-Fight! Yes, we can do that." She forestalled him, half laughing, hands held out protectively before her.
He had a sudden vision.
Our bodies pressed together, her fists battering helplessly on my chest, she moves, but I drag her down anyway, her neck so soft and warm and helplessly yielding beneath my hands and my lips...
A delicious shudder ran across his spine and his fangs dropped a bit, slicing across his tongue. The input of blood added to the intense desire he was beginning to feel.
Damn! I don't know if it's the prospect of killing her or kissing her that's making me feel this way. Oh, well, who says I can't do both.
"Buffy, you never cease to amaze me. The scenario has definite potential."
Without warning, he leaped from the bed, and bore down on her. Her laughte turned to surprise, then her Slayer abilities kicked into action, and she blocked his first throw with a defensive punch. Angry now, and determined to wipe the floor with his smug game face, she brought her knee up in a move intended to disable. Unfortunately, he predicted her thoughts accurately. One swift hand clamped down on her knee, forcing it down as the other twisted her wrist painfully enough for it to break. She didn't release the stake.
He paused for an instant, caught in appreciation of the fight and her nearness. She seized the opportunity to throw her weight against him. He let her bear them to the ground, twisting at the last moment so that she was on top of him. Pinning her hands between their bodies, he caught her shoulder blades and brought his mouth close to hers.
"To the victor belongs the spoils, eh, Slayer?" he whispered.
Resting on one elbow, he brought out the rose from seemingly nowhere, and began to trace the contours of her cheeks with it. The pain from his elbow digging into her neck was almost eclipsed by the tortuous effect of the soft glide of petals, over her nose, under her cheekbones, feathering her chin...She moaned, deep throated and open mouthed, which was all the challenge he needed. The first kiss was long and deep, the second left her gasping for breath.
Dizzy with pleasure, eyes softened by love, she looked into his eyes, searching, looking...and finding no answer to her unspoken question.
Chilled to the bone, she felt the heady effects of passion evaporate.
This is Angelus. Not Angel. You just kissed Angelus. Look at his face. He thinks he has won. That's all this is to him. Power play. This is not Angel.
Angelus didn't appear to notice her sudden realization. Mentally congratulating himself on his easy conquest, he decided to prolong the moment of passion before turning to other things.
"Now let's see," he mused, stopping his caress and holding the rose in cupped hands, "what should I do to you now?" He plucked a petal and let it fall against her neck. It lay curved in the hollow of her neck, gently beating in time to her rapid pulse. Other than that, she made no sound, indicated neither lust nor fear.
We can't have that, can we?
He bent and swiftly took her mouth, savagely invading, thrusting, and the drum roll of her blood growing louder in his ears. Nothing mattered to him but the growing urge to tear her apart, to smash into every inch of her, to vent his anger at her until she begged for mercy. The darkness roared and the demon within clamored for sustenance.
He only stopped when he realized she lay beneath him, still unmoving, with her eyes closed.
Damn!
It was important that she participate and not lie there mute and immobile. She should be begging for mercy, screaming for release, or at least fighting to tear his guts out...otherwise this was about as much fun as listening to Drusilla's drivel.
"This is a team sport, Slayer. Not solitaire."
He nuzzled her neck, fangs scraping it lightly. She shivered at that, and drew in her breath sharply. He could taste the scent of her growing anger and he grew more confident. Close to her ear, he whispered lightly. "You gonna let me win this round uncontested? The best defense is a good offense, Slayer."
This time, she bridged the gap between their lips, forced her way into his mouth, wrestled his tongue into submission-and bit down. Hard.
He yelled in pain and pleasure, falling backwards. She scrambled on top of him and punched his nose so hard that the crack of bone was audible. Having somehow reclaimed her stake in the process, she sat on top of him, aiming at his heart, her harsh breathing the only accompaniment to the elation that sang in his heart.
This, THIS is what I live for, why she drives me crazy. Ah, Slayer, Slayer, you're the best I've had in centuries. He waited in almost perfect confidence for what was coming next.
He wasn't disappointed either. She stayed poised for a few indecisive moments, during which uncertainty aroused him to new heights of pleasure, before standing up, stake still aimed. He folded his arms below his head, just a tiny bit shaken, but now allowing that to affect his demeanor.
"You're never going to be able to do it, you know." He remarked conversationally. She refused to meet his gaze, but didn't shift from her battle stance, her legs still aside his own. A mistake as it happened.
He suddenly moved his legs in a scissor kick, which quite literally swept her off her feet, then bent his knees so that her stiff, unresisting body lay along his once more. Slowly, almost lazily, he gave her mouth a thorough inspection with his, then let her go, and got up, dusting imaginary lint off his cuffs.
He froze as a familiar piece of paper caught his eye.
Angel.
A voice, buried deep under the weight of the demon cried out in involuntary pain. Some trace of it must have shown on his face, because Buffy relaxed her grip on the stake.
Damn you, bitch! I will NOT be pitied.
He yanked her to her feet and snarled, "Is that why you will not fight me? Do you think your surrender will bring Angel-boy back? Are you waiting for the strength of your pathetic love to bring me groveling to my knees?"
He held both her wrists in a crushing grip now, and he could see tears of pain trickle down her eyes. The sight gave him savage pleasure and he increased the pressure until she cried openly.
"This is what I am, Slayer. This is who I've always been, Slayer. And you will learn to like it or-" he stopped and smiled cruelly.
"Or what, Angelus?" she spoke through her tears. "Or you'll nail my pets to my door? Bad news, oh mighty airbag, my goldfish died before I met you."
He was momentarily diverted. Did I ever do that? Nail animals to a door? I was better than I thought. Wonder if Dru would like another present? That wretched dog of hers is driving me insane...no, better not. Spike would probably enjoy watching it die and I don't want to contribute to his happiness.
"Love me, or hate me, Slayer. The outcome will still be the same." He spoke lightly, mocking her even as the demon within roared in discomfort, still unbalanced by the remnant of Angel that appeared to have survived.
"You still want me, you know. That's your weakness, Slayer."
"Not true." She said, voice trembling now. It had been a long day. "It was Angel I loved, never you. Never you."
"Ah, but you still need me, Slayer. If only to feed your stupid hope that soul boy is coming back someday. Look at you, you stupid girl!" he spat the words out. "You're the bloody Chosen One and you can't even kill a vampire when he's in your bedroom."
"It could still be arranged." Her voice held a deadly calm. "One more person, Angelus. You get one last chance. Before. I. Will...kill you."
They stared at each other, caught in a battle of wills that neither of them could win. Angelus moved away first, walking to the window contemptuously. He paused with one hand on the edge.
"You will come to me in the end, Slayer. They all come, either to kill me, or broken and ready to do anything to stop me. Oh, I think, I hope you will remain strong to the end, Slayer. Killing is always better if they fight to the end."
Long after he disappeared into the night, she sat near her bed, cradling a pencil sketch to her chest, weeping herself to sleep.
When she woke up in the morning, the sketch of Angel was gone. Next to her head was a drawing of her, asleep and vulnerable.
~End
DISCLAIMER: Joss et. al own all the characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Pity.
RATING: PG-13, I suppose.
SUMMARY: B/A(us) After Bewitched... just before Passion. A sequel to my fic "Well Met By Moonlight".
NOTES: Inspired by this thought-why did Angelus draw that sketch of Buffy? The title comes from W. Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" for a reason.