Sorosis---Part Two

Content warning: Not to be read by the faint hearted. NC-17 most definitely

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When she screamed, I didn’t know what to do. I pressed down hard on the accelerator, then switched to the brakes instead. Narrowly swerving to avoid a tree, I brought the car to rest at the side of the road. Luckily we were well into town, and near the lights. Still, I left the engine running in case something with an ick factor of 10 decided to show up.

She was shaking, bolt upright, and the rug clenched in her fists. I tried the casual approach.

"Err, Buffy?"

No response. Her eyes stared into vacancy, her body still trembling. I tried again.

"Buffy?"

Still nothing.

"Dammit all, Slayer, answer me!"

She turned to me, and then without any warning, fainted.

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I still didn’t get it, even when his wrists encircled mine, and my back came up against the gazebo wall. I could feel the wind on my face and hear that bitch giggle insanely, but I was waiting for a word, any word from him.

"Run," would have been nice. "I’ll hold them off while you get away."

Even, "Shut your demented mouth, you skanky-ho, or I’ll rip your teeth out one by one."

Instead, he asked her, "How do you want it, love? Hard or soft?"

"Ooooh, let me think..."

My back against the wall, my hands thrust through the trellis opening and his hands holding mine, I could feel the pressure of his hands against mine, wasn’t that a signal, wasn’t he saying "Wait, and trust me." Wasn’t he, wasn’t he, wasn’t he...?

And Spike in his wheelchair, with his eyes full of revenge and jealousy, as Drusilla cooed and my Angel answered in a voice soft as a dove.

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An unconscious Buffy was easy to handle all right, but how the hell was I going to get her inside my house?

There was a note on the door when we pulled up. Mom and I are at the hospital tonight, love. Don’t wait up. Love, Dad.

PS: Your Mother says there’s dinner in the freezer.

Shit.

It’s cold tonight. It’s always cold whenever she has to go back - there. And of course I wasn’t there for her, when am I there for them anyway?

Rubbing at my smarting eyes wasn’t going to solve world hunger was it? And I had a Slayer to manhandle.

Luckily, as it turned out, she follows instructions better when asleep. Half supporting, half dragging, I got her out of the car, up the stairs and into the house.

Now, where to go? My room? Yuck. Blood all over the sheets - ok, better than all over my parents’ sheets. That I could never explain.

She made a nice tidy mess sprawled in the middle of my beautiful white satin sheets, the ones I’d had to practically arm-wrestle Daddy into buying.

I wonder if bloodstains come out easily?

Thank God she’s bleeding less now. Her leg is still swollen, but looks less I-just-got-run-over than before.

Lifting the hair, I peer at the neck, and wince. Unfortunately, that’s got to be cleaned up.

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This isn’t the way it was supposed to be, Angel. I thought you loved me. I thought what we had was special, so special that no one else in the world could see or know.

Then why are you letting them see?

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I wish I knew more elementary nurse stuff.

Grimacing, I rinse out the - what, twentieth? - wash cloth. It looks like a pack of wild dogs went for her throat.

Not impossible, knowing the kind of things she hangs out with. Actually, I don’t know the things she hangs out with, and I am very glad I don’t. Ignorance is bliss.

Anyway, the neck is reasonably clean and antiseptic cream has been applied, plus a gauze bandage to keep it covered.

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She’s trying to get inside my mind again, and it hurts, as much as - he - hurt me. When she can’t, she slashes at anything she can find, my face, my hands, my - God, no, not the eyes.

Keep them closed, keep them closed, keep them closed, must keep them closed...

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She tosses and turns, always crying out then stifling it as though she doesn’t want anyone to hear. My mother does the same, sometimes. Daddy cries about it, because he knows she doesn’t want us to know what she’s going through.

The wounds of love aren’t easily hidden though.

Does Buffy do this every night? Cry herself to sleep? Suddenly, perversely, I don’t want to know, don’t want to feel any more pain than I have already...

Everyone picks up your messes, Buffy, every damned one of us, always without thinking. Giles, Xander - hah! THAT goes without saying, Willow, now even me! Its like we’re some bloody sidekicks all revolving around the great Slayer and her tasks. We kids with *normal* problems just get shunted to the sidelines, with no one to care about us or what we’re going through, like we’re not important unless we’re sneezing dust from some moldy books, researching like mad so that Buffy can kill the ugly demons faster, and have more time to spend rolling about with her demonic but oh-so-PRETTY boyfriend!

You have a mother who’s alive and healthy and working, even if she IS separated from your father! You are Xander Harris’ secret obsession and I’m the cheap substitute! You, you, you - dammit, you lived in L. A.!

I’ve kept a secret for you; you owe me for that - don’t add to your debts. You might find that you can never repay them all.

No, that’s not the one.

Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors...

On the heels of that memory comes a realization. A deduction born of inference and the state I found her in.

Oh shit.

Cold fear washes over me and I have to force my legs to carry me to the bed, so that I can confirm what has been staring me in the face all along.

I was so fucking caught up in my own little tirade of self-pity that I didn’t realize.

Where - else - she was bleeding from.

Why I was worried about the sheets.

Oh God!

God damn you, Cordelia Chase! You should be sent to hell for your stupid childish whining. Damn you, damn you, damnit all...WHY! Fucking hell, WHY?!!

Oh my God!

I didn’t want to see, I didn’t want to know, but now I do.

God, why did you allow this? Damnit, where the fuck were you?

The haven of my arms is a warm comfort for my poor, tired, aching head.

What do I do now?

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"She sings so prettily, my Angel. Doesn’t she, Spike? Sing again for me, little songbird." She coaxes, turning my head this way and that. "A pretty little canary. Like a pretty yellow canary."

I won’t answer. I will choke on my blood and drown in my own body fluids before I will give this bitch queen and her bastard court the satisfaction of hearing my voice again.

I will not beg. I will not beg.

"The little canary is broken." Drusilla complains. "She won’t sing for me."

A familiar hand grasps my neck; a familiar voice echoes the bitch queen. Can’t he write his own bloody lines? "You heard the Princess, Slayer. Sing for her."

I will not. I will not.

"Say something, Slayer. Open that pretty little voice box of yours - unless you want me to do that for you." He leans close and I note the scent of musk, detachedly.

"It would be a pleasure."

Keep silent.

"Dammit, Slayer, ANSWER ME!" He throws my head crashing back into the wall, I hear the crack and all is blackness.

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I must have fallen asleep, because a sound awakens me. Raising bleary eyes, I can see the wall clock says its almost 3:45 in the morning.

Buffy is sleeping soundly now. Her body is curled into a fetal position, as though still warding off blows.

I realize my hands are protectively crossed against my chest.

I hear the sound again.

Crossing over to the window, I lift the blinds. The figure on the lawn is hauntingly familiar.

It knocks again.

The car is unfamiliar, a black DeSoto. So its not my parents back from the hospital.

Before moving down, I put on the now familiar armor. Cross on chain, bottle of holy water and sharp stake. I leave the room, and then return for something else.

Clutching the Bible to my chest, I go down the stairs. Despite - or perhaps because of everything, I have an unshakeable conviction that this book will be of far more use than any other paraphernalia.

Knock. Knock.

I hesitate, and take a deep breath. Open the door just a crack - and then bang it shut almost as fast.

Dropping everything in my arms, bottle, book, stake, I lean against the door breathing heavily.

Oh God!

Angelus.

In the flesh.

Outside.

My door.

With flowers.

He can’t get in unless he’s invited, he is NOT welcome, and it’s going to stay that way. Run, girl, run up the stairs, and wait till daylight.

Poised to flee, yet something holds me back. Maybe it’s the fear that Daddy will come back earlier than I expect and Angelus will decide to take a snack. Maybe it is the thought of that girl upstairs and the memory of what I felt when I first saw her fear.

Maybe it is the utilitarian part of my personality - hey I brought all this down, why don’t I use it.

Maybe it is a still, small voice speaking to me.

Whatever it is, I obey.

Grasping the knob in firm hands, I fling the door wide open and cast a dazzling smile on the bewildered creature outside.

I hope he goes blind from it.

"Hello Angel."

~End

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