E-MAIL: Ciderbreak@aol.com
DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon and the WB own all BTVS characters. No infringement implied.
SUMMARY: Story #3 in the as-yet-unnamed series. Follows 'Tailspin' and 'Paperwhites'.
DISTRIBUTION: Charity's site, Fever of Fate, this list's site.
FEEDBACK: If you love me.
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Willow came out of her shock long enough to insist Angel stop at the supermarket to buy food since his refrigerator was not stocked with much besides pig's blood, eggs, and a few questionable vegetables. She kept noticing little things like how clean he kept the interior of the fridge, how the light blue paint on the shelves was scratched and chipped, and how he owned only two forks. Everything in his apartment, her new home, was new, like a pile of birthday gifts fresh out of their boxes. She held the forks in her hand and tried to get his attention, but he was absorbed in checking the mail on the table and listening to the one answering machine message, something about having won a free rug shampoo.
The simple "coming home" scene looked far too domesticated for the fury still emanating from his silent body and Willow despised him for it. They'd tearfully left Giles and the others, promising to be in contact by phone and email constantly but Willow knew as well as they did that after a few heart-wrenching months the frequency of the correspondence would subside and all she would be left with was a thin, empty shell of a relationship with Angel.
Angel, with his dark clothing and his darker expressions, her soul mate by force for eternity.
"It'll be dark soon," Angel informed her. "I'm going to work. While I'm gone, you could do some research on the Powers That Be and this maelstorm of truth thing and find out more about our limitations. I don't want to be caught in a case and find myself unable to fight because of some random clause."
"Or I could unpack my things and try to find a little corner of this windowless place that isn't gloomy," Willow countered sweetly, gesturing to the boxes piled in the corner that held all her worldly possessions.
"You don't have to live here," Angel growled. It was pure childishness on his part, since the decision was over and done with. Buffy suggested it, everyone agreed, and now his solitude was compromised. No more peaceful days alone with his classical records and a good, thick book on Tasinghi curses.
"I'm safer here," Willow pointed out. "Besides, as much as you hate to admit it, the further you get away from me the more anxious you feel. I sensed it when we split up to collect my things."
"I don't have to like this set up, little girl."
Willow ignored him and lit a balsam fir candle.
When she turned around, he was gone.
Breathing a large sigh of relief, she rushed over to the phone and picked up the receiver to call Buffy, only to find Angel on the other end of the phone upstairs, talking to someone.
"… I don't care, Doyle, I cannot spend the rest of my life living with Willow. What do we have in common, huh? She's barely a woman, still all meek and defenseless. I'm amazed she stopped crying long enough to insult me."
"I think she's sort of cute," Doyle replied, pointedly ignoring his boss's frustrated sigh. "And she was very resourceful killing the Baylick demon, you said so yourself. Sure you're not secretly attracted to her? They say red-heads are full of passion in bed and I can attest that-"
"Good bye, Doyle."
Willow held the phone to her ear long after the dial tone sounded, thinking of the venom she heard in Angel's voice. Nothing else could jolt her out of this depression than a good dose of indignation and she was finished acting like a doormat. Angel had the wrong idea about her character, that was for sure. Okay, when they first met she was definitely no Xena, but years later she'd surpassed that and come into her own, especially now that she didn't hold the title of "Oz's girlfriend." Meek? Defenseless? Hardly! And as for Doyle's suggestion of her sexual candor, well…
"You'll never be so lucky to find out," she said saucily, tilting her head up in the general direction of the office.
For a brief moment Willow indulged in a very human and very female memory about Angel. When they were on the roof, in the height of the spell and she was drinking his blood like a runner seeking water at the end of a race, he'd pulled her against him and returned the favor by sinking his fangs into her temple. Her hand went to the scars, remembering Xander's sweet kiss only a few hours earlier. Still, when she was pressed tightly against Angel it was not her imagination that had her feeling something distinctly hard pressing against her stomach that could not be his belt buckle.
< Maybe he's so grumpy because he's mad that he's attracted to me and feels like he's betraying Buffy > Willow ventured a thought. Unlikely, but possible. In a bizarro world, maybe.
Despite the grief she still suffered over losing Oz, Willow was not at all ashamed or regretful for having loved him. Having loved. Passive past tense verbs were all that was left to describe her relationship with Oz now, just another inevitable transition she'd have to mourn. He was her first requited love, the images of which were now relegated to sappy poetry in her ignored journal and, five years or so from now, he could be the topic of conversation at a lunch with her friends downtown.
She might be moving on a little bitterly, but at least she was moving on. Buffy was doing the same thing with Riley. Moving forward, trying new things, risking your heart again and again because once the pain abates you're left with the knowledge that intimacy, love, friendship do not come without sacrifice. And love is definitely worth pain on the journey.
Willow sat down so hard in a kitchen chair the legs squealed against the linoleum. The realization that her journey was, in fact, over was a sobering thought.
It was also hysterically funny, if you've spent most of your life living over the Hellmouth.
Of course she should be bonded to a vampire for the rest of eternity! Of course she should move away from her friends to a scary city where the only person she knew besides Angel was Cordelia Chase, of all people! The Powers That Be were no different than any other fastball thrown at her head, they just packed a little more heat than the average challenge.
Willow laughed a little and determinedly gazed upon her surroundings. The balsam fir already masked the musty kitchen smell. It was a ray of hope. Angel might hate her now, but he'd really hate her after she redecorated. And who better to spruce up the style of a vampire lair than her former not-friend, the aforementioned Cordelia.
End Part 1
The thrill of the hunt paled in comparison to the killing and tonight, Angel was more than happy to end the life of a dead-beat dad whose idea of holiday cheer was to tie his children to the balcony until they died of exposure. He'd seen the guy escape from the crime scene and suffered a pretty nasty gash trying to apprehend the guy without force.
However, the sloppily dressed dead-beat would not give in without a fight and nearly managed to take Angel's head off with a broadsword he'd pilfered from a museum. That was the ironic thing; the police tracked down the stolen object, having no idea what domestic life for the thief looked like. Typical LA turn of events.
Angel finally saw a space in the fight of swinging arms and legs and slammed his fist into the man with enough force to send his fist squishing into the guys intestines. It was like sliding his hand into a vat of warm jam. It looked like warm jam, too, all bloody and grainy with little tan seeds. The night air turned the blood green and caused a smell worse than stomach bile.
"Damn, how'd you know my Achilles' heel? It takes weeks to repair the stomach, you insensitive jerk!" the guy whined.
"You're not human," Angel pointed out accusingly. No humans he'd ever fought had that rank, viscous green fluid in their systems. Only a few humans had that twisted order of priority.
"You think a human could scale the wall of the modern art Museum?" the guy challenged, one large hand holding his intestines from falling onto the dirty pavement.
"Spiderman," Angel said after a pause.
His enemy took a thoughtful pose and poked a ropy strand of flesh back inside the hole in his midsection.
"Well, he's half human, though, and not by choice. He was bitten, remember?"
"But he didn't have to use his powers," Angel countered. "It was a moral choice."
"So what, morality makes you human? I don't think so, buddy, and anyway, Spiderman-"
The man, whatever he was, never finished his sentence. Angel lifted the sword, swung it in a singing arc, and neatly sliced his head off. The police found the sword intact, if a little messy, and the corpse of the man who still held his stomach in a vise-like grip.
Angel just walked down the alley and was absorbed into the night.
After the successful kill of the… well, whatever it was, he met Doyle "down the pub" for a drink. The seedy bar with its nickel drafts and tilted pool tables squatted just down the street from Angel Investigations and had one lone neon beer sign in the window announcing its existence. The place didn't even boast a name. It just served alcohol and a few laughs, a few games of cards or pool to wager on and a corner TV to watch Monday Night Football. Angel liked the anonymity as well as the fact that he'd never seen another vampire enter the building. Doyle liked it because the bartender was Irish and understood the necessity of celebrating with a little something firey.
Angel's scrappy, cheerful friend waited for him before ordering a jigger of whiskey, which meant he had something important to say.
"Good night?" Doyle inquired, his eyes widening when Angel pressed a fat wad of cash into the Bracken demon's hand.
"Usual," Angel said to the bartender who nodded and returned with a black mug of pig's blood. The arrangement was easy and all Angel had to do was help out in a fight. So far, he hadn't even seen the hint of a brawl. To Doyle, he said quietly, "Lifted it off a kill. Bastard won't miss it and it's sure as hell not traceable."
"Paid in full, then. Y'know what this means, Angel, we can-"
"Pay rent, Cordelia's salary, and the rest of the bills."
"I was thinking something along the lines of a more liquid celebration, if y'catch my drift."
"Remind me not to sit downwind."
"Witty. Hey, now that you're married, want some sage advice?"
"No."
"Always say you're sorry, even if it's not your fault. Ooh, and if y'throw in a "forgive me," you'll be back in bed faster than…"
Angel shut Doyle's mouth with a steely look.
"I'm not married."
The smug look on Doyle's pug was asking to be knocked off and Angel almost raised his hand as a warning.
"Are ya, or are ya not bonded to the little red-head for life?"
"The Powers That Be chose it, Doyle. Some benevolent gift called a maelstorm of truth, whatever the hell that is, and now we've got all these neat parlor tricks. One of which is immortality, but I'm used to that. Willow is Buffy's best friend and a nice girl, but she is not my wife, I have no romantic feelings for her, and I don't want to ever discuss it."
"But you're living together."
Angel gritted his teeth. "Yes."
"And ya didn't kill yourself, or her, then went to the Scooby Gang right away and they gave their blessing?"
"More or less."
"Well, doesn't it just make sense to go ahead and fall in love with her, man? She's uncommon pretty despite Cordelia's less-than-flattering description. I think they had a falling out over a boy or something. Anyway, she seems nice enough to me. Sweet, loving, easy on the eyes, young firm-"
"Doyle! Enough!"
"Just making observations like a good little detective."
"You're not a detective, you're a demon."
Doyle just grinned, which made Angel even more furious. He watched as Doyle downed the whiskey and started prattling on about a bet he'd won, or would have won if the dealer hadn't been a sadistic cheat at blackjack. Angel was only half listening, his mind tuned to the people in the bar, checking for anything dangerous. It disappointed him to find nothing suspicious, because the fight was still in him and he wanted someone else to hit. Or maim, or even disfigure. Visions of Angelus danced in his head and he shook his head and pounced on the first other image that came to mind.
"Damn," he muttered.
"What?" Doyle wanted to know, all traces of teasing gone. Angel looked at his friend and actually blushed for the first time in centuries.
"Nothing," Angel said, completely embarrassed.
"You were thinking of her breasts, weren't you?!"
"Goodnight, Doyle."
"Ha! I knew it!"
Angel gulped down the contents of his mug, left the barstool, and stalked off into the night, looking for a fight. Doyle followed after him, unwilling to let him off the hook and Angel let him follow, figuring if a bad guy didn't cross their path he could just wail on Doyle for a while. Still, his friend wouldn't keep quiet about being right. Damn Irish demon.
End Part 2
"Hold it right there, mister!" Cordelia's menacing voice stopped Angel in his tracks at the bottom of the stairs. He sported the deer-in-headlights look for a moment seeing his apartment partially transformed into something… not entirely unappealing. The girls had been hard at work. Cordelia was even wearing a kerchief over her long brown hair, though he guessed it might be a fashion statement only, since she appeared completely spotless and Willow was the one covered in dirt and grime.
"What?" he protested, taking a step forward. Cordelia squeaked and rushed over to him, pushing on his chest to stop him from going any further. It was a useless effort, but her eyes widening and her mouth making a small O of surprise did give him pause. Her hand flattened out over his chest and she looked up, pleasantly surprised.
"You have a heartbeat."
"Side effect of the bond. When I'm near Willow, I get aspects of humanity."
"So, right now you're not a vampire."
"No, I'm completely a vampire. And a little human."
"Yeah, and I'm a little bit country *and* a little bit rock and roll. Impossible!"
"Tell it to the TPB. Now, please move. I need a shower."
Cordelia lost her happy face and turned sour again, putting her hands on her hips for emphasis.
"I don't think so. We just had this carpet cleaned, for free, I might add, and I'm not going to let you drip blood and dirt and… and whatever the heck that black sludge is supposed to be…"
"Guts of a water sprite."
"Whatever! I'm not wrecking a perfectly good free cleaning."
"You killed a water sprite?" Willow piped up, sounding a little disappointed.
Angel sighed. So much for being the master of his own domain. As it were.
"They're not all cute fairies from books," he said patiently and jumped onto the linoleum. From there it was a quick leap to the hallway and he'd be safe in the bathroom. Truth was, the battle with the water sprite was long and very gruesome. Lots of screaming and carrying on. Melodrama, of course, since the sprites never went quietly. But he and Doyle had found it biting a couple out on the beach necking and it appeared to be fairly vengeful, so they took it out. Still, the pleasure Angel felt in killing the annoying little beast was akin to peace. He often felt grateful at evening the score between good and evil, often wondering if his efforts were being noticed, but never satisfaction in the hedonistic sense. It reminded him of how much Angelus liked torture, how creatively he scared his victims.
He hoped he wasn't regressing. Doyle made noise about the purging of evil that had taken place during the maelstorm, but Angel privately wondered what would happen if he purposefully gave in to some of his baser urges. Everyone has them. Fleeting thoughts of harm to others that never materialize unless you're sick, under a spell, or truly evil, like the villains he vanquished on a regular basis. His conscious would permanently pester him if he let out his anger in cruelty.
A whole field of rage lay fallow, unchecked in his soul. The PTB weren't even a tangible entity, for pete's sake, just his possible salvation who unfortunately possessed a warped sense of gift-giving. He could not lash out at them nor scream his anguish at being permanently separated from the woman he loved and bonded to her best friend. Willow would never measure up to Buffy. Never match her intensity, her power, her steadfast love and unbridled passion.
A long, hot shower removed the night's layer of dirt as well as the rest of his tension.
Willow sat cross-legged on her sleeping bag and surveyed their handiwork. Cordelia, while refusing to get her hands dirty, did possess a flair for decorating. They left all of Angel's art where it was, choosing to move in a few shade-loving plants and distribute Willow's effects around the apartment. Her bed, temporarily a sleeping bag on an old straw window shade, was tucked neatly into a corner with an inside wall. Her clothes were still in boxes, waiting for her furniture to arrive from Sunnydale via Xander and a borrowed truck, but her pictures and books found a home in the many bookcases and her leather-bound trunk held her witchcraft supplies and also made a dividing wall al the foot of the sleeping bag so people in the living room couldn't see her. Not completely cozy, but ivory candles fit in wall sconces above her head and that cast a romantic glow on the old brick. Cordelia approved the sleeping space as "vermin free" after a thorough search.
Angel emerged from the bathroom wearing black silk boxers, rubbing his hair with a forest green towel. He paused and looked at her in her baggy pajamas with the cat on the front and she desperately wished she wore something a little less junior high to bed.
"Home Sweet Home," he quipped.
Willow blushed and cast her eyes to the floor. He was so uninhibited about his masculine beauty. Did he know what seeing him nearly naked could do to a girl? Even if the girl happened to be the best friend of the guy's love, any man with Angel's body and carefree attitude should be a little more considerate.
"Stop blushing, Willow. This is my home and I'm going to dress however I want to. If you weren't here I wouldn't even be wearing boxers, so can we just be adults about this?"
"Oh, sure, yeah, so you won't mind if I have my wiccan friends over for an orgy Friday night?"
Angel stopped puttering around in the living room and just stared at her.
"It's a joke. You know, me, kidding, being sardonic to counteract your ego?"
"Right." Angel smiled then, and Willow nearly melted. Then she straightened and berated herself strongly. Bad! Bad, naughty feelings! "Well, goodnight."
"Goodnight. Angel?"
"Yes?"
Willow watched him pull back the covers of his bed and climb between the sheets. A shiver ran down her back when she realized she could sense his total relaxation. Couldn't feel it, not empathetically, anyway, but she knew he was completely loose and ready for slumber. The bond started to hum in her breast like a high voltage power line.
"Maybe, if you want, you could tell me about your work when you come home. Maybe I could help with insights or research."
"You'll be busy with school," he argued.
"Not all the time," she pointed out hopefully. "And it's not like I have a lot of extra curricular activities."
"You'll find clubs to join. UCLA is a huge campus and they're lucky to have you."
"I meant friends," Willow said softly. Angel heard her and guilt flooded his soul. Of course she meant friends. He was content with Doyle and, strangely enough, Cordelia. But solitude was his best friend. Willow, on the other hand, had no friends and wasn't likely to make a best friend quickly living off campus and keeping strange hours. So, he picked the most callous thing he could say and rolled it around on his tongue before delivering it with cold indifference.
"Get used to loneliness."
Willow cried herself to sleep that night.