Warp & WeftBy Medea
Chapter FourSubject: Re: For the archives or my personal gratification?
Date: 6 June 2034
From: Willow Rosenberg <redwillow@aurora.net>
To: Rupert Giles <gilesr@preservation.society.co.uk>Hi Giles,
A whole volume, huh? Wow.
About the archives: include whatever you want about our position within the clans. Hey, we might as well shoot for two volumes, right? *g* Come to think of it, I could probably give you a detailed description of the process of claiming vampire Mates that would fill at least one chapter, if you're interested...
We don't even get to enjoy the honeymoon, though. Murdoch brought us our first headache tonight. Something about humans who trade human blood and organs on a black market. Sounds like some pretty icky things were going on while I was off scouting in demon communities and hellmouths.
No rest for the wicked, huh? *g* (I've always wanted to say that...)
You probably know what it's like. Not that you're wicked or anything, but running the Council must have its own share of headaches. Everything still hunky-dory?
Hi to Wesley -- Angel says he'll Fed Ex the copy of Wharton's Lesser Demon Anthology back to Wesley in a day or two, but Cordelia got some coffee stains on the entry for Somnambulent Howler Demons. Sorry.
Love,
Willow
*****
The guests had all departed and dawn was approaching.
Stillness and quiet reigned throughout the hotel. Its three residents had ensconced themselves once again in their private suite, sheltered in each other's embrace from newly stirring troubles.
And yet, Angel couldn't shake free of his restlessness. In the fitful, gray realm between waking and sleeping, strange images came to him. His troubled mind couldn't tell whether this was memory or prophecy foreshadowed, but the dream reached straight to his core.
A slender, graceful vision came toward him, as warm and golden as she had been in life. In his dream, Angel nearly choked.
Buffy?
When she drew near, she raised a hand and let it ghost across his cheek. He stared, mesmerized, at his lost love. Her eyes burned into his with the same, urgent passion they'd held the night of her seventeenth birthday.
That bittersweet, ill-fated...wondrous night. It was the first night of ecstasy he'd known since the curse. With Buffy, he'd tasted pure joy.
And paid dearly for it.
Slowly, he reached for her. As his fingers threaded through her silky hair, Angel was started to see her features blur, as if smudged by the hand of an invisible artist, until it was no longer Buffy he embraced, but Willow. He narrowed his eyes in confusion. Willow brought both hands up to frame his face and gazed at him as lovingly as had Buffy. His Mate's lips moved, yet when Angel strained to make out her words, all he heard was the thunderous hush of waves crashing on the shore.
Angel tried to speak, and in that moment, his dream vision shifted again to reveal Spike before him. His childe regarded him with such intensity that it made Angel shiver. Spike grinned seductively, clasped one of Angel's hands in his, raised it to his mouth and kissed the palm. When Spike teased his tongue in the tender valley between Angel's fingers, the dark vampire was unable to suppress a groan.
Without warning, Spike tightened his grip on Angel's hand and plunged it into his own chest.
Horrified, Angel watched Spike's blood pour out from the wound and run down his arm. Desperately, Angel tried to break free, but no matter how he tugged, twisted, and strained, his hand remained firmly lodged in Spike's chest. Throughout it all, Spike merely smiled knowingly and drew closer. When their bodies were flush against each other, Angel felt Spike meld with him. The dark vampire looked down to find he'd been transformed into a grotesque, surreal amalgam of himself and his blond Mate. Four arms protruded from his/their body, the hands shifting appearance from Spike's, to Willow's, to Buffy's, and any number of mis-matched combinations of all three.
A terrible pain swelled in Angel's chest. Once again, he looked down and saw a lump growing on his chest, stretching his flesh to the bursting point until a second head emerged. The face contorted from Willow to Spike, each in demon guise. This frightful, demonic head opened its mouth wide, impossibly wide like a serpent, and began to swallow Angel's own head.
Just as Angel began to panic at the warm darkness that enveloped him, he awakened and sat bolt upright.
His entire body shivered with the aftershock of the dream.
Disoriented and troubled by the bizarre imagery, Angel huddled for several minutes, completely immobile, his knees drawn tightly against his chest. He was amazed that he hadn't roused his Mates from their slumber, but decided not to press his luck. Careful not to disturb Willow and Spike, he quietly slipped from their huge, sumptuous bed, slipped on a pair of sweatpants, and made his way to the refrigerator in their suite's kitchen area. He withdrew one of several containers of pig's blood, drained its contents, then wandered out to the grand lobby.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, cutting beautiful -- though deadly -- swathes in the air and across the floor. Careful navigation allowed Angel to wander out to the courtyard, but he was obliged to stop at the shade's edge, just beneath the cloister that ringed the fountain.
Halted by the sun's fatal power, Angel folded his arms across his chest and contemplated his dream. He stood that way, gazing out at the daytime world, for several moments until he sensed the nearness of one of his Mates.
Even before slender arms wrapped around him from behind, Angel felt Willow's approach, sensing her concern through their bond. His eyes slipped shut at her touch, but what awed him more than their physical contact was the intangible yet powerful emotional connection he felt. It had been scarcely three nights since Spike, Willow and he had conjoined themselves, and the sensations still awed him.
It felt like gentle arms embracing his soul. Or, as if by enchantment, his body could now withstand sunlight and golden rays shone directly on his heart.
At times, when they were far apart or distracted, the connection was a mere presence. Constant. Reassuring. Much like air, it saturated every space without blinding his senses to everything else. Then there were moments like this one. With a slight shift of focus, he and his Mates could reach out to each other. It was so gentle, a breeze whispering through leaves, yet it had tremendous depth and force to it, plunging to his core and singing through him. In such moments, his soul resounded with sweeter strains than any human musician could breathe into a flute. Angel wanted nothing more than to drown in the intoxicating harmonies. For a vampire who had spent nearly a century as a pariah, sunk in despair over past sins, repulsed by his very nature, by all his kind, this was truly a heady blend.
All residual distress from his dream melted away.
The reassuring glide of Willow's hands along his crossed arms stirred Angel from his reverie. He caught her hands in his and gave them a gentle squeeze of gratitude, then continued to hold them loosely.
"What's wrong?" she asked, nuzzling his shoulder blade.
Softly, he replied, "Strange dreams."
"Hmm?"
Briefly, Angel recounted the images from his bizarre dream. Willow listened, frowning thoughtfully once or twice.
"You might try listening more closely next time," she suggested when he finished.
"Listening?" Angel repeated, his brow furrowing. "You think this is some kind of message, like one of Cordy's visions?"
Willow's fingers entwined with his and she drew him further back under the shaded cloister. As she eased down on a smooth, stone bench and urged her Mate to sit beside her, she said, "It's been known to happen -- you remember Buffy's prophetic dreams, don't you? You're a champion, like she was. But dreams are dialogues: some stuff comes from you, some from without. I think the message got clouded by your own fear."
Angel nodded, nibbling absently on his lower lip. "So, who's trying to reach me, and why?"
Grinning, Willow poked her finger teasingly at his lip, offering him something else to nibble on. "You won't know until you're able to listen more closely. The trick is to figure out what you're afraid of."
Arching an eyebrow, Angel held her gaze and slowly closed his teeth over her finger. For a moment, he worried her fingertip with his tongue, then released it, rose to his feet, and walked back to the edge of the sunlight. Eyes downcast in deference to the sun's piercing brilliance, he admitted, "I don't know. Maybe losing control...becoming a monster again..."
Willow looked down and fiddled with the hem of her silk robe. Her fingers toyed with a few loose threads where the fabric had grown frayed. With a light tug, she pulled one deep blue thread free and watched, intrigued, as the remaining threads unraveled further, stretching until the weave of the fabric resembled a dense cobweb more than a gleaming measure of satin.
Rolling a loose thread between her fingertips, Willow watched it flutter as she asked, "Do you remember the first time I got shot?"
Angel craned his neck to regard her over his shoulder. "When the Durjhan cult tried to raise the dead in the Holy Cross cemetery?"
Willow nodded, then frowned in amusement and muttered, "Way too much trouble just to meet Bela Lugosi." Shaking her head at the memory of how ridiculous the entire episode had been...well, except for the getting shot part...Willow continued, "I was still pretty new to all this, and you gave me some advice I've never forgotten."
//Los Angeles, 2004//
Willow winced as she leaned against her mentor, who guided her through the Hyperion's lobby toward their suite. She glanced down at the large bloodstain across her chest.
Her first gunshot wound. Definitely a high weirdness-factor. True, it couldn't kill her, but her brain hadn't quite gotten used to that idea, so it had still scared her. And knocked her down. Really, really hard.
And hurt. A lot.
Ow.
Angel had already fished the bullet out of her, although not before getting pretty medieval on the cult member who'd shot her. But even though the wound had begun to heal, Willow's entire body felt sore and fatigued. Not to mention that the front of her thin, cotton tee shirt was pretty much saturated with blood.
Her *favorite* tee shirt.
Most of the gray whale and part of the 'Save The Whales' logo was overshadowed by a large, red stain.
Once in their suite, Angel gently eased her down onto the bed. "Just rest for a moment, little one. I'll heat you some blood."
As he turned to go, Willow caught his hand. With a sly twinkle in her eyes, she pouted, "Bagged? How badly does a girl have to get hurt to get something a little more...potent?"
Angel flashed her a dark, seductive look, and enticed his red-headed minion with the subtle command of a Master vampire. Leaning in, he placed a hand on either side of her head and murmured, "I'm all yours, Willow. But first, humor me. Let's get a few pints in you before you start hitting the hard stuff."
Willow's reply was to flick her tongue across Angel's bottom lip. The elder vampire's mouth curled into a sultry grin, but to Willow's dismay, he pulled away and headed toward the kitchen.
With a purely ornamental, frustrated sigh, she carefully peeled off her tee shirt and scrutinized it. "I guess I'll have to toss this. Oh, well...it's just as well..." she acknowledged in forlorn resignation.
Angel returned with a mug of warm blood. He traded it for Willow's blood-soaked shirt and countered, "Let me see what I can do. I've been doctoring bloodstains in my clothes for over two centuries. There aren't many tricks I don't already know."
Willow shrugged and savored the restorative contents of her mug. Angel crossed back to the kitchen, draped the tee shirt over the counter and into the sink, then opened a cabinet and withdrew a bottle of ammonia. As he liberally doused the stain, he asked, "So...why 'just as well'?"
"Huh?"
Puzzled, Willow blinked at the back of his head.
Busily scrubbing the shirt beneath running water, Angel clarified, "This is your favorite shirt. Why so quick to toss it, rather than salvage it?"
For several seconds, Willow said nothing. She cradled the mug in her hands and stared down at her lap, searching her feelings.
Finally, she admitted, "I guess the joke was cute for a while, but I know it doesn't fit. Saving the whales is something that actually matters. Losing a whole species would be bad. A ten-on-the-scale-of-badness kind of bad. But what's one minion, more or less?"
Angel paused. Slowly, he set the shirt down in the sink and turned off the water. He wiped his hands on a towel. Then, turning to face Willow, he asked softly, "You don't think you matter?"
Mortified, Willow stammered, "Oh! No! No, I didn't mean...Angel, I appreciate everything you're doing for me, honest. Really, not fishing for a daily affirmation or a Hallmark moment. It's just...I don't know...some of it has made you compromise things you care about. I mean, I kill. Sometimes I wonder why you do this, when it means giving up some of what you believe in."
Regarding her with a steady, sympathetic gaze, Angel made his way to the bedside and eased down beside her. Taking her hand in his, he laced their fingers together, and rested his chin on their joined hands. Gentle, brown eyes stared into hers. He sat like this for several moments, saying nothing, until Willow began to squirm self-consciously.
"I made the choice to help you," Angel began at last, clasping his free hand over their intertwined fingers. "Any time we reach out to someone else and form a connection, we give up control. That can be scary. Sure, it's possible that the Powers will hold me accountable for sheltering a killer. It's also possible that you have something better in your future than just killing. I'm willing to take that risk."
"But I don't want them to hold you accountable for what I do!" Willow protested, her voice rising in distress. "I don't want you to have to pay for what I am. It isn't fair."
With a patient, bemused grin, Angel squeezed her hand and said, "It's not an easy feeling to deal with, is it?"
"No, it isn't," Willow pouted, searching for the right words. "I don't want you to be hurt because of my own weaknesses."
"There's an easy solution," Angel pointed out. "You could let the demon take over completely. Then, you wouldn't care. Like I said, Willow, we take risks when we open ourselves up to others. We lose the feeling of control over who we are, what we feel, what matters to us. We can be pulled in new directions. We're vulnerable."
Hearing the truth in his words, Willow's eyes shone warmly as she brought her free hand up to cup her mentor's cheek. "You're changing me for the better, Angel."
Their gazes locked for a moment. Slowly, Angel leaned forward and kissed her forehead before resting his brow against hers. A warm, soothing sense of peace flowed through her at the simple gesture.
Several moments later, Angel drew back, released her hands, and said, "Give me a minute to finish taking care of your tee shirt before the stain sets."
As he moved to get up, Willow stayed him with a light touch on his arm. "Leave it. It doesn't matter." At Angel's questioning look, she explained, "If some of the blood sinks in permanently, it will be a reminder about tonight and what really matters."
Her mentor eased down beside her, cocked an eyebrow and remarked, "You have a strange way of choosing your souvenirs, Willow."
"Hey, a little license to get sappy, here, okay? I got shot this evening," Willow retorted with mock indignation. Raising herself up on her knees, she crawled onto Angel, wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, "Besides, all this talking has whet my appetite."
Willow's eyes gleamed gold and her fangs elongated. Responding to her aggression, Angel growled with pleasure and offered his neck. Limbs entwined and fingers wove through hair as Willow bit deep and hard to draw rich, healing blood from Angel's veins.
Crumpled and forgotten in the sink lay the beginnings of a memory.
//Los Angeles, Present Day - 2034//
Through the strange alchemy of recollection, a series of moments folded into one, single instant. A brief flash of insight. Willow thought of the stained shirt she no longer had, its fragile weave eventually unraveling from years of wear; and the intangible, but more permanent, links that bound her to her Mates. Smiling at Angel as he leaned against one of the cloister's pillars, a troubled expression on his face, Willow offered him the same advice he'd given her decades ago.
"Being connected to others can be scary. You opened yourself to Spike and me as Mates. You've also stepped into the clan system after staying out of vampire society for over a century. On top of it, you're trying to find a way to balance all that with your connection to the Powers That Be. Talk about divided loyalties! Angel, I'd be worried if you *weren't* having weird dreams."
Angel's tense, preoccupied expression relaxed and he managed a lopsided grin. "Amazing what you can work out with a little effort."
"Even bloodstains from tee shirts...well, mostly," Willow answered warmly. Angel drew near and enfolded her in his arms. He tilted his head to the side and rested it lightly atop hers in an affectionate gesture of thanks.
Willow and Angel held each other in the shadows at the edge of the waking world, enjoying their fleeting, vicarious taste of the bustling signs of life. Street sounds filtered into the courtyard. Even the nearly imperceptible scuttling of insects through the plants teased their acute hearing. Shielded from the lethal effects of direct sunlight, they felt the tingling of its energy in the warm air that surrounded them.
Yet all of it, the entire symphony of sensations, was muted at the approach of their third Mate.
"Y'know, shagging does wonders for releasing nervous tension," Spike remarked from the doorway to the lobby. Willow glanced over to see him leaning casually against the doorjamb, unabashedly naked. Unlike Angel or Willow, he was completely unconcerned about flashing any humans who might pass by the hotel. "Besides, it's damned unnatural to be up at this time of day."
Turning so that an arm remained draped over Willow's shoulder, Angel raised his chin and mused suggestively, "Why, Spike, are you offering to help me work off my tension?"
Spike snorted derisively, "There isn't a force in this world strong enough to work off *your* tension, y'brooding ponce. Soon as someone gets your head straightened out, you trot off and work up some more. But you woke me up, and I fancy a shag, so get your great, hulking arse back to bed."
Amid Willow's delighted giggles, Angel sighed dramatically, "The romance is definitely dead in this relationship."
*****
Subject: A word of caution
Date: 6 June 2034
From: Rupert Giles <gilesr@preservation.society.co.uk>
To: Willow Rosenberg <redwillow@aurora.net>Dear Willow,
I know this black market you've described. News of their activities began surfacing in Watcher field reports about six years ago. Please, be very, very careful in your dealings with them. Their methods are ruthless, and their reach extends far beyond yours.
As for the archives, I can do quite well without any detailed descriptions of vampire Mating behavior. Let's leave that for sordid, paperback fictions, shall we?
I'll ask Wesley to compile the details we've gathered about the black market from our field reports. Hopefully, the information will be of some use to you.
Wesley will send you an electronic file, to avoid any future mishaps with Cordelia's coffee.
Fondly,
Giles