Auld Lange Syne
Spoilers: For
Soulless/Cavalry. Nothing for S7 BtVS.
Pairing:
Buffy/Angelus, in a sort of a way.
Rating: R, Dark,
disturbing, Angelus.
Disclaimer: All
characters are the toys of Joss.
A/N: This is just a
little thing that was in my head and wanted to get written down. In my defence,
the ending kinda changed once I did actually write it
down.
*****************************************
“It would have been
nice if we’d managed to keep this monster of our own creation on the radar at least,”
says Wesley tartly, his anger contained within the steady rhythm of his pacing.
Another day, another
failure. “God, he could be anywhere now!”
“Sorry,” says Fred
quietly, failing to meet the furious gaze of the man who has reappointed
himself their boss.
“Wasn’t our fault,”
grumbles Gunn, sounding sulky and resentful. He meets Wesley’s eyes with a show
of bravado. “You think you could have done better?”
“I think that
having loosed Angelus upon the world, we could at least try to keep an eye on
where exactly in the world he is,” retorts Wesley. “But we’ve failed at even that.
For all we know, he may not even be in LA anymore!”
This proclamation
manages to stump both Fred and Gunn. Fred furrows her brow as she contemplates
the possibilities; after an eternity she voices the question on all of their
minds.
“But where else
would he want to go?”
*
Whistling a happy
tune, Angelus shoves his elbow through the car window, then
brushes the jagged shards of remaining glass aside with a casual sweep of his
hand. In one lithe movement, the door is open and he is in the driving seat.
Back
in the driving seat, where he belongs.
And the fact that
the car is Wesley’s doesn’t fail to amuse him. He’ll trade up later, but for
now, this will meet his needs.
***
Perched on the
window sill, where his better half spent so many long, long nights all that
time ago, he watches her sleep. She seems peaceful, her face serene and her
breathing even. Whatever nightmares walk in her day have yet to invade her
night. Angelus smiles at the thought.
Because that’s all about
to change, isn’t it?
Carefully, he tests
the barrier spell, swinging one leg through the open window, finding no
resistance. She’s a trusting girl when all is said and done, he remembers that
now, and why refuse entry to an old lover just because he might come back some
day and feel that good old fashioned urge to kill her in all sorts of imaginative
and painful ways? He chuckles quietly, this little
jaunt is bringing back so many happy memories.
Maybe it’s time to
share them with the love of his life?
“Buffy,” he
whispers softly, staying by the window, far enough from her bed not to frighten
her too much. When she doesn’t stir, he repeats himself, raising the volume
just a little as his foot impatiently taps the floor. He doesn’t like to repeat
himself.
She stirs a little,
a tiny, sleepy moan escaping her lips. Then abruptly, she sits up in bed, a
frantic glow to her eyes as her hand instinctively unearths a stake from
somewhere beneath the rumpled bed linen. He holds his position, a smile playing
about his lips as he watches the myriad emotions cross her face, as he watches
her adjust from predator and slayer to bewildered little girl.
“Angel?” she
whispers, her confusion coloured with yearning, and he wonders if she still
dreams of him, of either of his personas. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
she hisses, unexpectedly, breaking his train of thought. She tugs a sheet up
over her chest in a vague gesture of self-defence, covering the tiny white vest
that was giving him such a pretty view.
“Did Wesley call
you?” he asks nicely, taking a step closer to her bed. Ready
for a fight. Fucking Wesley,
spoiling his plans, calling the slayer….Angelus prepares a mental list of
presents he must bring back to LA for Wesley.
“What?” she asks, truly confused. The stake stays clutched in her hand.
“No. Why would Wesley call? What the hell is going on and why are you in my bedroom, Angel?”
“I’m sorry,” he
says gently, sitting at the foot of her bed, cloaking his face in guileless
innocence. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Buffy.”
She brings her
knees to her chest, glaring at him suspiciously. “Then don’t barge into my
fucking bedroom in the middle of the night, Angel. God, you haven’t called in
over a year and you think you can just…..”
“I’m truly sorry,”
he promises, resisting the urge to snap her head just to stop the sound of the
whining. “And I didn’t want to scare you, it’s just I was in the neighbourhood
and I….” He reaches a hand across the bedspread in a
gesture of apology but she ignores it. He smothers an irritated sigh. If the
little bitch doesn’t want to play nice, then there are other ways to do this.
“Why?” she asks carefully,
suspiciously. “Why were you in the neighbourhood?”
“There’s been trouble
in LA,” he explains. Yeah, there has, he thinks cheerfully. He’s been causing
it. “We thought there might be a link to Sunnydale.”
“Oh,” she says in a
small voice. “The First Evil.”
“Yeah,” he agrees
carelessly. “Exactly. That’s just what we were thinking.
So I had to come and make sure you were alright.” He works hard to infuse his
voice with just enough worry and concern.
“I’m fine,” she
says, sounding tired and sulky. “We’re all fine. And if you were so worried,
you might have actually called.”
His eyes fall on
the phone beside her and he contemplates a vision of Buffy, white and
motionless, the phone line she cares so much about wrapped tightly round her
neck. He swallows the excitement that this picture stirs in him and reluctantly
returns to the conversation at hand.
“I know I didn’t
call you,” he tells her earnestly, “But, Buffy, I never stopped thinking about
you.”
He can feel, can hear the effect the words have on her; a
change in her heart beat, her pulse. Her expression softens, but she doesn’t
reply.
He vaguely wonders
why she can’t tell the difference, can’t tell who he really is now. For a
moment he wonder if she does, if it’s easier for her to fool herself in the
deep of night and the (relative) safety of her bedroom. If Buffy just wants to
pretend her boyfriend’s back.
He tries for the
magic words as he shifts a little closer, very slowly, careful not to unnerve
her. “I missed you, Buffy.”
And when he invades
her personal space, one hand gently resting on her face as he leans closer to
her, she doesn’t resist, in fact she draws him in, letting the sheet drop to her
waist as she clutches his arm with a vice-like grip.
When they kiss,
it’s she who deepens it, devouring him, biting at his lip as she pulls him properly
into her bed, wrapping one leg around his back. He almost laughs into the kiss.
His little girl’s all grown up.
He runs a finger
over her throat, distracted for a moment. Her neck is inviting, pale creamy
flesh spread before him, slayer blood pumping closer to the surface, rushing
faster as her arousal grows. But he resists the temptation, she is a dish best
served slowly. Her death won’t be that easy. He’s going to make her scream so
many different ways.
He wonders how many
ways he’ll fuck her before she realises who she’s really dealing with. And how
many ways he’ll bother fucking her afterwards.
Snapping the
spaghetti strap of her top, he rips the cotton, brushes a thumb over her nipple
and revels in the shiver that runs through her body. With quickening breath and
closed eyes, she palms his crotch through black leather, then
reaches for his zip.
Her grip is confident
and assured, if urgent. He wonders where she has learnt her new skills, this is no more the fumbling teenager he slept with
once than he is the same souled fool. This
is…interesting, and he responds fully to her ministrations. He recalls for a
moment the soldier boy he met so long ago, when he wasn’t in a suitable state
to rip the fucker’s head off, and wonders did soft little Buffy become so….well
educated - under his tutelage.
He tugs on the
loose fitting shorts she sleeps in these days, (gee, whatever happened to that
pink silk nightshirt?) slides a finger into the heat of her centre and watches
appreciatively as she arches into the bed, her head tipping back as she groans.
And
utters a single word, hidden within her moan, so soft that he would never have
caught it with human hearing. But he vamps uncontrollably at that word.
“Spike.”
She scuttles
backwards at his sudden change of face, at the feral growl that leaves his
mouth. There is fear and confusion on her face, and through the rage that
clouds his mind he realises that she doesn’t even know what she said. But he
doesn’t much care about that. It seems that things have changed while he’s been
gone. Well, things are going to change
now.
And with an animal
roar, he lunges for her throat.
.