"Human - Bed of Nails"

Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: "With or Without You" by U2.
The Usual Suspects: Esmerelda, Serena, Kaz, and Dru -- I LOVE YOU, MAN!
Dedication: To Smurfette, for her awesome, awesome feedback. See what a properly motivated Trix is capable of?!

See the stone set in your eyes
See the thorn twist in your side
I wait for you

It was a few short hours until dawn by the time Angel made it back to the Hyperion.

"Hard night?"

Angel turned, shutting the door to his and Buffy's room behind him.

"More than one Fyarl," he said heavily, shedding his leather jacket. He followed the sound of Buffy's voice (had there been a hard edge to it, or was his imagination playing tricks on him?) out onto the balcony. She sat, her profile to him, staring out at the Hollywood night. Her gaze wandered to his, and he saw a flash of concern.

"Are you hurt?"

"I'll live," he assured her.

"Right. How could I forget?" Now he was sure of it. Her voice was definitely off; her entire posture was off.

"Is everything all right?"

"Peachy," she said stiffly.

"And you say I'm passive aggressive." He tried to joke, but feared it came out more aggravated.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" She finally looked at him, head on, and he almost wished she hadn't.

"Tell you what?" He definitely had a bad feeling about this.

"About the fact that you're going to be human one day. About how we're going to be back to square one in the whole 'vampires and humans don't make good lovers' argument." Her eyes teared up, and he was certain it wasn't for the first time tonight. "About how you're going to leave me someday."

"Buffy--"

"Just say it's not true." Both her hands clutched the edge of the chair she was sitting in. His chair, he noted dimly, that she must have dragged outside . . . "Please, just tell me it's not true."

He opened his mouth to do just that; to deny everything she was saying, to explain away her fears and her doubts and vow to never leave her, not even by dying. And then--

"I can't do that."

"Were you ever going to tell me?" She leapt to her feet and began pacing. "Or were you just going to let the steady pulse and functioning respiratory system speak for itself?"

"I was going to tell you." He shook his head. "I haven't even . . . so much has happened over the past few months . . . we don't even know if it'll happen . . ." He gestured futilely. "I hadn't really . . . given it much thought. Not in a long time."

"You're going to be human one day, and you haven't given it much thought?!" She sounded completely aghast. "The one thing I would give up *anything* for, and it just slipped your mind?!"

"The promise of what's been foretold in those scrolls nearly pulled me under so far I couldn't tell which way was up." Closing some of the distance between them, he reached his arms out in a calming gesture. "Hope isn't always a good thing, Buffy," he explained quietly. "Sometimes . . . it can destroy you."

She gave off a snort of disgust. "Do you have any idea how sick I am of hearing doom and gloom from you?" she snapped. She hunched over. "'Oh, woe is me, if I admit to myself that I have a demon inside of me, if I try to deal with it in any way that doesn't involve guilt or repression, the world will come to an end.'" Her bad (and incredibly hurtful, as far as he was concerned) impression at an end, she straightened her shoulders. "You can't *wait* to be human," she informed him, "because you can't begin to deal with being a demon. You never could."

"Where the hell do you get off--"

"Oh, =right=, I forgot!" She managed to yell louder than he was. "You're the one who's been a vampire for over two hundred years! You're the one who's supposed to be showing me the ropes on how to deal. Guess what, Angel? I don't see any rope lying around." She folded her arms over her chest angrily. "The only thing you've taught me is how to pretend real hard that I'm still human; to deny that any of the new feelings I have inside of me could possibly be positive, because they're from the demon and must be repressed at all costs." Glaring, she took a menacing step closer to him. "Sorry, Angel, not all of us have a shiny certificate that says someday, if we close our eyes, hold onto a happy thought and get sprinkled with some magic dust, we'll be real boys and girls again."

Exhibiting a Herculean effort, Angel reined in the demonic rage threatening to explode. This was Buffy, acting out of a deep-seated fear of abandonment. Everything inside her was screaming that he would leave her, and he couldn't even assure her that it wouldn't happen. He didn't =want= to leave her, but if the Powers made him human, even if they did find a way to make their lives together work . . . he would have a mortal existence. Death would take him from her . . .

Which was exactly why he'd kept from thinking about it in the first place. It was cowardly, certainly, but with everything he and Buffy had gone through . . . was it really so unfair to crave a few months to simply =be= with her? He wanted to know every part of her, to be secure with her before he took the last skeleton out of the closet, forced her to bear with him the last obstacle that might someday rip them apart.

"I know you're angry," he said quietly, "and I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just . . . I didn't know how."

His genuine sorrow, the confusion that oozed out of every pore, must have made an impression on her, as he watched her visibly soften.

"I heard it from Cordelia," she enunciated carefully. "=Cordelia=. And the worst part was, she said it like I already knew; like it was a given. And I =should= have known."

"You should have," he agreed honestly. A beat of silence passed between them. Then--

"I'm glad she told me," Buffy said at last. "You never would have."

"That's not--"

"It's true," she insisted. "You didn't know how. You shy away from any discussion of humanity, yours or mine. You don't like to talk about the demons that live inside of us both. I can't . . . Angel, I can't just pretend like it isn't there."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said flatly. But he did. And he felt the old, familiar sting of guilt for lying to her face.

"Despite my impression of a psychotic raging bitch, I'm not trying to pick a fight with you, Angel."

"Well you could've fooled me."

She sighed deeply. "You're always so defensive about this. I just want to =talk= about it and you're closing up right in front of me. There's a demon inside you, and I'm sorry, sweetheart, but that isn't exactly news."

"I know that," he gritted out. "I know what's inside of me. I also know that I have to . . ." A muscle in his jaw twitched, remembering her earlier diatribe, "--=suppress= it as much as possible, because when it gets out--"

"Look, I don't care what you did because Darla was fucking with your brain, or what happened when the demon ran loose without your soul to--"

"It's not just that," he snapped. "Don't you feel it? When you're in a room full of living, breathing people? I know you do. You can feel their blood pumping, rushing through their veins, and there's this part of you screaming to take them." He'd moved closer, bridged some of the physical distance he'd put between them. "You have to feel it."

"Of course I do," she choked out. "But Angel, that's my point. You're denying a part of yourself--"

"That part of me =raped= you!" he burst out.

"And a part of me =liked= it!" she shot back. "Do you think I'm comfortable with that? 'Cause I promise you, I'm not. But I can't just pretend really hard that it isn't there, and hope it suddenly won't be."

"That's not what I do," he denied immediately.

"Isn't it?" she asked softly. "Isn't that part of why you have these occasional meltdowns? Because you spend so much time suppressing a part of yourself that it literally builds and builds until there's nowhere left for you to stuff all that demonic rage down into?"

"What do you suggest I do?" he snapped. "Go out and kill a few people for sport? To blow off steam?"

"Fine, you know, if you're going to treat this like some kind of joke--"

He grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. "Am I supposed to throw you down and treat you like a vampire concubine? Am I supposed to shove you up against a wall and screw you until we're both raw? Do I drain you for the sheer, visceral pleasure of it, then let you curl up in my arms while you regain your strength like we're playing some kind of game?"

She looked up at him bravely. "Maybe," she whispered. "Sometimes."

Their gazes stayed firm for a moment; then he let her arm drop and he backed away from her, shaking his head.

"You don't mean that," he said stiffly.

"Would you PLEASE stop telling me what I do and do not mean?" she snapped, placing her hands on her hips. "I'm not an idiot. I know what I feel, and unlike SOME people in this room, I'm not going to deny a part of myself because it scares me."

"That part of yourself ATE your family!" he practically screamed.

Buffy reeled back as if he'd hit her. His sorrow for saying it washed over his face instantly, and he moved to hold her. She stepped back further, and held out a hand, putting an abrupt halt to his forward momentum.

"You think it's wrong that I feel any of this." Her words were cold; there was only a slight edge of hysteria coloring her tone.

"Not wrong," he hedged. "You can't control what you feel; =neither= of us can," he added.

Gesturing, she made it clear that she was sick of him walking around the big fanged elephant in the room.

"Fine, but you think it's wrong that I think we should try . . . being freer when we're alone." Her expression turned pleading. "Just when we're alone, Angel, not when other people could get hurt--"

"I could hurt =you=," he cried, moving toward her again. He brought a shaky hand up to her face; cupped her cheek gently in his palm. "I've hurt you so much . . . I can't . . . I can't stand the thought of causing you any more pain. And . . .I know you hate it when I do this, but Buffy, you haven't lived with being a vampire for very long. You don't know how it eats at you--"

"No, you know what, =I= can't do this anymore." She pulled away from his touch, and from his words. "I can't listen to you tell me what I feel for another second. Maybe you're right. Maybe I don't know the full extent of what it is to be a vampire with a soul. But at least I'm not hiding my head in the sand. At least I'm =trying= to figure it out, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you."

"You've been a vampire with a soul for six months," he said flatly. "I've lived with this for a century. You did a lot of damage your first week out; more than most of the newly risen. I always knew you'd be deadly like that; that only your beautiful heart, the selfless soul I've always seen inside of you, kept it under control.

"I never had that, as a human being. The only thing that even remotely stood out about me was how unremarkable I was; how incredibly good I was at disappointing my father, and everyone else around me. After I became a vampire, do you know what I found out I was good at, Buffy?"

She shook her head mutely.

"Doing damage. Doing the worst kind of damage there was. At first, I went about it the way every vampire does. Rape, rob, and pillage. Later, I grew bored with all that. You don't inflict real pain on people by killing them. The only real agony we suffer is that of the mind, and of the heart. Damage the spirit, and you've destroyed a person without ever lifting a finger.

"It makes the blood taste sweeter, too, that hint of desperation when they've nearly hit rock bottom. I became a master, to the point that I could flavor my victim's blood the exact pitch I craved in the moment. For a hundred and fifty years I exalted in the evil I had become."

"This is different," she insisted stubbornly. "You said so yourself. You were soulless. After you regained your soul--"

"After I regained my soul," he cut her off coldly, "I tried to be that again." That had surprised her, and he continued, softer, "I couldn't. I wasn't what I had been, before the change, but I didn't feel it then. It wasn't until I saw you, until I wanted to help, to keep you safe, that I really felt even a fraction of everything that I was to become. I help people, Buffy. I save them. The most worthless drunk to ever come out of my tiny little village, and I've saved the world. A couple of times.

"But that monster is still inside me. It's still waiting for me to let my guard down, even a little bit. It doesn't take a shoddy gypsy curse to turn me into a killer, Buffy. That killer is with me every day. That killer tied you down and raped you and left me the memory, so that I could 'enjoy' it for the rest of my eternity."

Buffy stared up at him for a long beat. Big tears were gathered in her eyes, but she wasn't shedding them. Her tongue came out to wet her dry lips, and she took a deep, unnecessary breath.

"You hate that part of yourself," she said quietly. "You don't see it as another entity at all, do you?" Now, the tears did fall. "I always thought you did. Angel and Angelus. It helped me . . . in the beginning, when I couldn't even begin to deal with all these memories I had, all these feelings that ran so opposite anything I'd ever dealt with before. At my bitchiest, I'd never felt as bad as I did without a soul. Only I couldn't feel it then.

"You don't really see yourself as separate, though, do you? And that's . .. that's why you can't forgive yourself. Because what you did, couldn't be forgiven."

His gaze was nailed to the floor, and she moved toward him, placing a hand on his forearm. He flinched, but raised his head to look her in the eye. His mouth opened, then closed, as though he didn't know what to say. She squeezed his arm in support. He nodded his head, once, jerkily.

"Yes," he said hoarsely.

"And you hate that part of me, too," Buffy confirmed quietly.

His gaze shot to hers, and his head began shaking in automatic denial. "No, Buffy, you couldn't--"

"You don't =want= to hate me," she insisted, "but you do. Just a little." The tears fell a little harder, and she laughed bitterly. "Just enough."

"Buffy--"

"No, it's good," she said, licking the tears that fell to her mouth away. "Because one day, you're going to be human, and you're going to leave me, and you won't have to be reminded of all those things you did when you didn't have a soul. Because that's what you see every time you look at me now. You see all of the horrible things you've ever done."

"I don't," he insisted heatedly, moving toward her again. She shook off his hold. "Damn it, Buffy--"

"Then why won't you even =consider= the idea that your way isn't the best way?!" she cried. "You've never been in a relationship with someone who was =exactly= like you before. We never had to deal with the vampire sex issue, because sex was a big red circle with a line through it for us. That isn't the case anymore, and we BOTH have . . . urges that go beyond the normal, human desire to make love. It doesn't make us evil to admit that we have these feelings--"

"I can't do this," he said abruptly. "I can't talk to you right now."

She stared at him like he'd sprouted horns and started doing a jig.

"What?"

The demon was close to the surface; much closer than she knew, closer than she could even imagine. Vampires matured with age. Granted, she had been a natural, but she still hadn't had the time to grow into her new skin, before she'd been shoved back down in the old one. Neither fit her, and she was trying to find her identity, and he was supposed to help her, but he didn't know how, not when it had all happened again, not when he'd just killed one of his best friends and done irreparable damage to another, not when he'd hurt Buffy in the only way he'd previously managed not to yet.

How could she possibly not understand? The demon raged for her blood, both because she represented its imprisonment, and because it recognized her as its mate, in every way, now that she, too, had a demon of her own. He wanted to claw into her, to tear her with fangs and mark her again and again as his own. The faded scar she bore on her throat did nothing to satisfy this burning imperative.

And he was supposed to just let that free? Just . . . let go of the hard won control that it had taken him a century to build?

What if he couldn't get it back? What if the Chinese Blessing didn't hold, and his soul somehow loosened itself from its tethers and just . . . floated away? He knew, should that happen, he would find a way to turn Buffy, as well, and his worst nightmare would at last be upon them.

There was no doubt in his mind that, given the time, he and Buffy would dance on the ashes of everything their souls had held dear.

To him, that was the best case scenario. The worst case involved destroying Buffy's psyche more than it already had been. He was convinced she hadn't completely healed from the rape -- mostly because she refused to view it as such -- and this desire of hers was like a cry for help. It had to be.

And he was too much of a monster to even take her in his arms, and rock her. Because if he touched her right now, if he inhaled her and smelled her demon's lust that so matched his own . . .

"I can't be around you right now," he said again, clearly. "Go . . . go find Willow. I don't want you to be alone."

"I don't want Willow," she said, that hurt look crossing her face < take her, hurt her, she wants you to, she's begging you to, show her who she belongs to, claim her the way you know you're supposed to >, "I want =you=."

"I'm not good for you right now," he ground out. He moved to walk around her, and she got in his way. Stood her ground when he tried to physically move her aside. "Get out of the way, Buffy."

"Make me." She glared at him, demonic rage flickering behind her hazel eyes. They never flickered gold, the way she'd told him his did in moments of supreme rage. She looked utterly, delectably human until the change came over her completely. She leaned in toward him; sniffed at his neck, the gesture so blatantly animal that an unconscious growl left his mouth.

Her tongue darted out, and she laved at the pulse point that once would have beat with his life; worried the skin between her blunt teeth until she had him hard as a rock, shaking with the effort he was exerting to keep his hands off of her. < take her hurt she wants you tos beggingshow who belongsclaim the way knowre supposed >

Growling, he roughly shoved her away from him. He. Would. Not. Treat her like a vampire whore. He had already done enough damage.

"We're demons," she said clearly. "I don't like it, but I also can't fight it. Why do you keep fighting it?"

"We have demons inside of us, but we're not," he said weakly.

"Is that what you tell yourself?" She stalked up to him again. "I hate to break this to you, baby, but we =are= demons and it's way past time we started acting like it."

"What do you suggest?" he snapped. "Killing innocent people? Burning cities to the ground? Because that's what vampires do!"

Her fist flew so fast, he didn't have time to block her. She cracked his lip open and the fists he'd been making tightened until he felt the knuckles crack.

He would not hit her again. Not ever again. And if he spent another minute looking into her stormy eyes, her cheeks that no longer flamed with her righteous indignation . . . he would do more than hit her. He would show her what a Sire did to a Childe that demanded and pleaded so prettily; would make the darkest fantasies he'd had about her into the reality she apparently craved so much.

And that was something he could not allow himself.

He stormed out of their bedroom without looking back.

Sleight of hand and twist of fate On a bed of nails she makes me wait And I wait without you

"Again."

"Do you think maybe you've had enou--"

"I said, 'again'."

The steel in her voice obviously did the trick. He poured her another shot, then left the bottle of ancient Irish whiskey on the bar, scurrying away to attend to other, less menacing looking customers.

Buffy didn't care. There was nothing she particularly cared about at the moment beyond getting so drunk that she couldn't think anymore, couldn't feel this numbing pain.

Angel had rejected her; again. He had looked at everything she was, everything she was offering, and somehow found her wanting. She was too much like him now, too much like a monster for him to want. Fucking hypocrite. She'd loved him in spite of < because of > < wouldn't > everything that he was. It had never mattered to her, not like it did to him. All she wanted was a little understanding, some space to grow, to help =him= grow and he couldn't give that little bit.

Screw him, she thought blearily, shot number . . . well, it was in the double digits, at least. Her constitution hadn't been very high before she was turned and she found that immortality hadn't done anything for her resistance to alcohol. Everything was already growing pleasantly fuzzy. Even the deep, demonic rage toward Angel was mellowing.

However, as the rage began to temper, Buffy noticed another, more primal emotion: hunger. It built, not in her belly, but in the borrowed blood that animated her dead flesh, and no, she had never felt anything like this when she was alive. The hunger was a powerful wave sweeping away everything but desire in its wake. Desire, not just for blood, but for . . . satisfaction. Sex, death, hunger -- since her transformation, Buffy had noticed the three were almost synonymous at times, especially when she hadn't fed for too long.

Of course, she'd never mentioned it to Angel. She had known exactly how he would react, and that knowledge, however subconscious, had kept her silent about the intense urges she experienced. Tonight, he had proven her insubstantial fears valid. His rejection somehow managed to cut deeper than anything else ever had, even his own abandonment so soon after her high school graduation.

That event had devastated her, but at least then, she'd had something to cling to. There were friends, a sacred duty, the fate of the world. Now what did she have? Only him, and she sickened him. He would be human one day, he would become that perfect imperfection he'd craved for longer than she had been alive, and he would leave her for some sunshine girl she could barely recall being.

They would have children, beautiful little brown haired brown eyed boys and girls. He would give them Irish names and tell them bedtime stories they'd never know were true. His wife would adore him, as any sane woman would, and he would make love to her with a pounding heart, sweaty palms and uneven breath. Their darkness and pain would be over petty, human jealousies, and every once in awhile, basking in the sunshine of his everyday, he would spare a thought for the Slayer-cum-souled-vampire he had left behind in the dark.

< loneliness is just about the scariest thing there is. >

"Fuck you," she mumbled into her shot glass before she tipped it back.

He knew about loneliness; even better than she did. He knew it, and yet somehow, he still didn't fear it the way that she did. A hundred years, wandering and alone, and he still didn't fear it like Buffy. Death was preferable to having no one at all, which, she mused, was probably why she hadn't minded the thought of dying too much over the past two years: she had been alone since he left her.

It wasn't just his departure that broke her; she wouldn't give him that much credit. It was everything that happened with Faith, the betrayal of her sister Slayer, a betrayal that still ran deeper than anything Angel had ever done, could ever do, even if he went out and got himself a pulse. Faith deadened something inside of Buffy, something that might have come to life again had what remained of her heart not been torn out, only to vanish with Angel into a smoky night.

Surrounded by concerned faces, beloved friends, Buffy had felt the intense desire to scream. Didn't they see? Couldn't they tell? Wasn't there a big sign on her face that said 'I'm different now.' Had it not been for Dawn's appearance in her life, Buffy wasn't sure she would have had any reason to live at all.

And now . . . now there was no Dawn. There was no Mom. Willow and Xander could try, but things would never be the same between them, ever again, for the things that she had done, and by the simple fact of what she was. Giles claimed that he wasn't disappointed in her, but at the moment, Buffy couldn't bring herself to believe him. The half a bottle she'd consumed so far no doubt aided her self-pity, but she certainly didn't recognize that at the moment. All she knew was that no one in her life would ever be there, forever, no matter what.

Which brought her nicely back to Angel, the one person who =was= supposed to be there forever, in the most literal sense of the word. She'd given him everything she had inside of her -- her virginity, her life, her soul -- and < Buffy, come home. You're being ridiculous, we had a fight, we can work it out, we can work anything out-- > he didn't want any of it. It meant nothing to him if it shattered his pretty illusions of demon and man and where he fit into it all.

He made it sound like she =liked= the demon inside of her. She didn't, of course, but she also recognized that it was a part of her now, just like the less flattering sides to her nature she had learned to accept. This was just a new facet to adapt to, but he was so caught up in his guilt and his self-hatred that he couldn't . . .

Her face felt wet and she realized she was crying. Again. Great, she thought, nice to know he can still make me cry. The feel of his arms around her was imagined, and she glanced up in the mirror above the bar to find herself not there. That still tripped her out, but thankfully, no one else seemed to notice.

"Go to hell, Angel," she slurred to the voice in her head. "And =stay= there this time."

"My, my, someone's out for blood, aren't they?"

Buffy jumped a little, glancing quickly at the mirror, then to her left. Spike. Her night was complete now.

"Go 'way," she mumbled, knocking back another shot. If she finished the bottle, would she be able to erase the imprints Angel's hands had left on her skin?

"You look more heroin-chic suicical than usual, pet," he said casually. "Any particular reason?"

"My whole world is over," she answered honestly.

"Right. Think that might be overstatin' matters a bit?"

"Angel's going to be human someday," she said with a sickly little smile. "Prophecy says so."

"Well, that's right inconsiderate of him, isn't it?" Spike said dully. Buffy thought he might have been a little shocked and it felt good; Spike wasn't an easy guy to shock. "'Course," he added, "prophecy once said you were gonna end up dead and look how that turned out."

"I didn't want to die," Buffy said sadly, "but Angel wants to be human." More tears. "More than anything," she added in a pained whisper. "More than me."

"Then he is a fool," Spike said, his tone precise and impassioned.

Looking Spike straight in the eye, Buffy felt something inside of her lurch. It might have been her heart, had it not been shattered into a thousand different pieces. Spike . . . he would never be human. He would never leave and he could never break her heart because she would never love him.

And he could make the hunger go away.

Before she could change her fogged mind, Buffy leaned over and pressed her lips to Spike's. His hands were all over her in seconds flat and she was hauled half into his lap while they mauled each other's mouths. He was already hard, and Buffy pressed her palm to his crotch, eliciting a growl from his throat.

"I don't want to be here anymore," she mumbled against his mouth.

Without another word, he grabbed her arm and she stumbled behind him as they left the bar.

Contrary to popular opinion, Angel wasn't oblivious to the signals Buffy had always sent out to him.

There had been her 'I know we're natural enemies, but I don't really want you to stay away from me, I want you to kiss me' vibes. Her 'I'm acting like a total bitch but =please= just ignore that and kiss me' vibes, which segued nicely into her 'kissing me is no longer enough, I need more' vibes. And who could forget her 'I know you just spent an eternity in hell and I'm telling you I've moved on but I'm lying please don't believe me please just hold me make me stay' vibes?

Those were the vibes that haunted him most. Even then, she'd always wanted him to take control of their relationship. She hadn't been prepared to make the hard decisions, and instead of giving into her desires, he'd tried to give into what she needed. Leaving her, it had seemed then, was the only thing he could do. His other option was taking her up on the invitation in her eyes, and, then, tumbling her into bed for a week had been the road sign on a one-way express trip into Hell.

What she was asking of him now . . . he could give her. Assuming it didn't fly in the face of every decision that he had made since first regaining possession of his soul.

Sitting in the garden, inhaling the smell of roses, Angel went over his mental Rolodex of rules.

Rule #1: Don't get too close to humans.

Rule #2: Keep your fangs to yourself and don't feed on a living human being.

Rule #3: Avoid other vampires like the plague, because whatever your animal drive tells you, you aren't one of them.

It should have come as no great surprise to him that each and every one of his 'cardinal' rules had been tossed out the window the very first time he caught a glimpse of Buffy.

Another 'rule' had popped into his head from the moment he'd realized Buffy would be spending her immortality at his side -- they would not give into their baser desires. The idea of feeding from her, from his mate, of having her drink him in return . . . the idea was enough to harden every inch of his body, and cause his demon to howl with longing.

Didn't she understand that the temptation alone could swallow them both whole? If they actually gave in, if they explored their natures too deeply . . .

Well, it could swallow the =world= whole.

There was a demon inside of him, but he was not a demon. It had become like a mantra for him over the past six years. How else did she think he could go on? The things he'd done, the atrocities his hands had committed . . . it =had= to be another entity. An entity he was responsible for, one that he controlled, but something separate from himself.

Buffy was unable to understand that because her own demon hadn't formed a dual personality. She'd only been without a soul for a few short weeks and in that time, though she'd wreaked a lot of havoc, she hadn't . . . couldn't she understand that the deaths of her family were the very tip of the iceberg for all that she might have become? There was real evil inside of them both. It wasn't a game they could play with safe words and fuzzy handcuffs.

He needed to be more understanding with her. He had to retain more control when they spoke, he needed to make sure she knew that whatever she needed to say to him, that he wouldn't judge her. There was nothing inside of her that he couldn't love, though he had to admit that she did have a point: he was decidedly uncomfortable with her demon, but no more so than he was with his own.

Look what had happened when he'd . . . grown complacent about his existence. He thought of Giles, pointing a crossbow at his heart, thought of Jenny, the sound her neck had made as it snapped in his grip . . .he thought of Buffy, the look on her face when he told her he thought she was a pro, and again, after she'd shoved that sword through his heart . . .

All that pain . . .all that destruction . . . all because of the thing inside of him, the thing she wanted him to get used to like a bad temper. The trivial attitude she assigned to their states of being both angered and frightened him. Buffy would never hurt anyone knowingly, but the demon inside of her was another matter. She was strong, stronger than anyone he'd ever known, but she'd never had a devil quite so persuasive sitting on her shoulder before, whispering desires into her ear.

And, he admitted shamefully, he'd never kept something quite so vitally important from her before.

The lie of omission he'd told her had been unconscious and without malice. There had been a simple genesis in his subconscious: Buffy had forever and he would have it with her. Prophecies unfulfilled, teases of humanity . . . it hadn't seemed to matter in the face of all he and Buffy had left to resolve between them.

From the moment Wesley had translated it, a part of Angel had viewed Shanshu as nothing more than a pipe dream, a fruitless pursuit to give him enough hope to keep up the good fight. But after that fateful encounter with the good demon he'd mistakenly killed, Angel had put even the distant hope of humanity out of his mind. His epiphany after the fiasco with Darla had cinched it -- there would be nothing beyond the moment, beyond the right now. Concentrate on the little things and . . . don't get so caught up in the big picture that you miss the details.

Angel sat back on the ground by Anya's bush, stunned at his own stupidity.

Earlier he'd been so consumed by fear, so terrified of the big bad consequences that he'd let all the gentle, important details get swept away. Buffy had opened herself to him, her whole self to him, and he had rejected her. A test, a true test of their relationship, and he had failed. They both had.

He wouldn't take all the blame. Not anymore. She had handled things badly, hadn't thought them out nearly as well as she should have . . . but he could have at least listened. Maybe she had a point. Maybe it was ridiculous of him to believe they could go through the rest of forever together denying so much of who they were.

Agree with her or not, he owed her an apology for freaking out on her and especially for lacking the control to stay in the room and finish things. She'd just completely thrown him after the fight with the Fyarl's . . . Angel glanced at his watch. It had been over an hour since he'd left her in their bedroom. He would go upstairs, he would apologize, and they would talk things out calmly and openly. He would make sure she understood that there was nothing she couldn't say to him, even if he reacted badly, it would still be okay . . .

He rehearsed what he would say in his head all the way upstairs, was still rehearsing, in fact, when he found their room completely empty. A terrible ache made its presence known in his chest and his voice, when it finally came, sounded quiet and far away.

"Buffy?"

Through the storm we reach the shore You give it all but I want more And I'm waiting for you With or without you

There weren't too many truly perfect situations given out by fate and Spike was damn sure not going to waste this one.

Angel had been stalking down the hallway until he caught sight of Spike. He'd almost cartoonishly done an about face, heading in the opposite direction. Spike smirked. He knew how Angel felt. Time was, he would have done the same.

But not today. Today . . . today, everything was about to change.

"Buffy's fine," he called out to Angel's rapidly retreating back. The old bastard paused, and Spike's grin intensified. It would almost be too easy . . . "Probably still passed out on the bed where I left her."

Yes, that definitely hit a nerve. Angel turned slowly and there was a growl building in his chest, the likes of which Spike hadn't heard in over a century. Oh, yes, this was definitely the moment. It would all be over soon.

"Don't worry," Spike continued, hoping it didn't happen =too= soon. He wanted it done, but not before he'd gutted Angel right proper. "I made sure the curtains were closed. Slutty lives to shag another--" He would have continued, but Angel's hand wrapped vice-like around his throat made it difficult. Damn but he was spry for an old bugger . . .

Angel snarled, "If I find out you touched her--"

"Oh, I touched her all right, mate." < ah, yes. this. > Every leering fantasy he'd ever had about Buffy played through Spike's mind as he stared into Angel's demonic eyes. Ponce was already half-crazed. It would be so easy to push him over the edge . . .

Because that was exactly what Spike wanted. To push Angel over the edge, to invite final death into his own unlife and end an existence that had gone on two years too long. He loved two girls desperately and neither one would ever love him back. The black beauty who'd obsessed him for two centuries had cast him out back when he'd still had a pair; now, with love in his heart for not one, but two pure, beautiful girls . . .

He wasn't demon enough for the black beauty who made him, not human enough for the little witch who trusted him, not soulful enough for the perfect goddess the bastard before him was so fucking besotted with . . . Can't hunt, can't kill . . .

What was there, really, left to live for?

"She's got the softest skin," Spike croaked. "You'd know, of course. And that little birthmark on the dip of her left hip--" Again, he would have continued, but it was damned hard to keep a coherent train of thought when you're sailing through the air.

Spike shook his head, opened his mouth to say more, or maybe to get a last look at Angel before someone finally took him out of this world. Something, anyway, before eternal darkness wrapped its cool, comforting arms around him.

But the hallway was empty.

"What does it fucking TAKE?!" Spike yelled at the ceiling.

"Woah! Angel, watch where you're going!"

Angel only snarled in response as he helped Willow to her feet.

"You're grouchy," Willow grumbled, brushing herself off.

"Are you all right?" Angel snapped.

"Fine," Willow snapped back. She looked at him carefully, trying to remember the last time she'd seen him this . . . wrong. Not a single occasion came to mind, not even when Buffy had been -- different. Then, he'd just been so sad, so desperately, horribly sad. Now . . . "Angel, what's wrong?

"Ask Spike," he growled, barreling down the hallway. He flung the door to his room open, then slammed it behind him.

Disturbed, Willow turned to find Cordelia or someone else who might be able to talk to Angel--

--and ran face first into Wesley's chest.

"Oh! Sorry!"

"What on earth is all that racket?" Wesley asked, glancing around her down the hall.

"Angel's all growly," Willow answered, frowning. "Something's wrong, but he won't say what." She paused, then added petulantly, "Maybe I don't =want= to ask Spike."

Wesley puffed up before her eyes. "We straightened this out months ago. When he's having a crisis, he's not to bottle it up. He needs to know that he can share his trials with us, for his own good as well as ours." Wesley sighs in a very put upon way and Willow had to contain the urge to laugh. "I'll go and talk to him."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Wes," Willow said, placing a hand on his arm. "Maybe Cordy or someone he's less likely to throw through a window--"

"Nonsense," Wesley insisted. "Angel would never harm me, and whatever it is that's bothering him, it'll seem better after he's gotten it off of his chest."

That thought firmly in mind, Willow watched Wesley stride up to Angel and Buffy's door, open it, and shut it gently behind him. A few seconds passed, and just as Willow was about to admit that maybe Wesley was right, after all, the door flew open, Wesley rushed out and slammed it behind him. A loud "crash" of something shattering against the door sounded a moment later.

Wesley paused, then straightened, nodded wisely to Willow, and declared, "Best to give him a bit of space for now."

"At least he's not bottling," Willow offered hopefully.

 

The End

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