Rated R, just to be on the safe side, for language and sexual situations. And yes, it's supposed to be all mixed up.
We don’t talk about it, because that’s the deal.
My friends don’t know. I just tell Mom I’m going patrolling. Things are easier now that she knows. Well, they’re supposed to be easier. But they’re not. Not for me. Everything is just more confusing.
When I go to him, we don’t talk. I don’t sneak up on him. I don’t wear my slaying gear. And he seems to know.
He always knows.
He’s still Angel, after all, somewhere deep down. I don’t know if his soul is trapped, or if it’s gone forever, but he’s got some of the Vampire I used to love in him. He remembers everything. Every single intimate moment we ever shared. He knows me better than I know myself.
I suppose he would know, then.
I’m lying here, in his lair. In his bed, and I should be dead right now. He should have torn my insides out long ago and rubbed them against the walls of this room so that the smell of my blood-my death, would linger and never be forgotten.
But I’m not.
Angelus didn’t drag me here. He didn’t capture me. This isn’t the end of the line. I came by myself, without weapons or even a plan to try and once again defeat him.
And he knows that.
That’s why his legs are tangled with mine. That’s why it’s a little hard to breathe, because his face is so peaceful when he’s sleeping. I remember when he was…when he was good; I liked to watch him when he slept.
Angel always looked so sad. The very first time I saw him I thought something was wrong; some tragedy had happened and he was coming to me for help, because he couldn’t take it anymore.
That wasn’t it, of course. I know now why he always looks so glum, even when he smiles.
But when he sleeps, it all goes away. His hair sticks up even more than it normally does. The creases around his eyes and the furrows in his forehead smooth out and nearly disappear.
No one knows this, but Angel talks in his sleep. Well, more like mumbles. And he’s sweet. Occasionally incoherent, but sweet.
I can feel his cool breath against my neck, because he’s burrowed his head down into the crook of my shoulder now. He’s muttering something about Buffy and rain and love you.
And I smile.
Like I said, Angelus and I don’t talk much when I come to him, or when he comes to me. We don’t come to each other with weapons, company, or the intent to kill. He would never admit it, but somewhere deep down we still need each other like we did before- we never stopped. And we’ll keep needing, and keep hurting, until one of us is dead.
Angelus could mock me with this. He could taunt me about it in front of everyone. But he doesn’t. And he sure doesn’t have qualms about mocking me about everything else he knows.
That’s how I know he secretly needs this.
Because Angelus has a big mouth, yet he keeps this is a secret. That and he doesn’t try to kill me when I come. He looks at me standing in his door way, with those glowing yellow eyes. Sometimes he’ll lick his lips and step back, so I can walk in. Other times he’ll just yank me in and rip my clothes off so fast I can’t remember which he did first. But I don’t get scared, or angry like I do when I’m trying to kill him. This is an old rhyme. It’s our little secret, our little game.
If Giles found out, he would kill me. But if I wasn’t doing this, I’d already be dead.
I look up.
Someone’s knocking at my door. Judging by the sound, soft and hesitant, it’s not a man. And it certainly isn’t Dru. She doesn’t knock.
I growl. If it’s one of those annoying younglings I’ll have to twist a couple of its fingers off- a good object lesson for the others, you see. Angelus likes his beauty sleep. What he doesn’t like, is…
She’s here. And she looks so innocent and lost in that little white sweater of hers, the way she plays with her sleeves and bites her lip while she looks up at me.
I take her by the forearm and guide her inside, shutting the door firmly with my other hand. She comes willingly, and I’m excited already just from that fact. She should be scared to death of me; brandishing a stake and fighting back. Trying to get away. But she’s not. She came, and she came without weapons, just like we silently agreed.
My mouth comes down hard over hers, and I remember that I’m supposed to be biting her throat right about now. Her hand starts wrestling with the fly on my leather pants and I know that I could snap her in half like a twig. She’s so small, so utterly breakable.
And I want to. God, how I hate her.
But I only hate her because that idiot Angel fell in love with her, and dragged me into it.
Her top shreds in my hands and now I’m sitting atop her on my bed, and her fingers are everywhere.
But I need her. All the time. If we’re not fighting then we’re fucking.
I’ll kill her one day. It’s not like she’s got a separate agenda.
But the only reason I’m killing her (besides the fact that, hello, vampire?) is that she made me love her. And that hurts more than my goddamn soul ever did. She’s writhing and sweaty and suddenly I’m inside, and everything is warm and wet and perfect. She’s working her hips up and down, moving hard with my rhythm and suddenly she tightens, stiffens, finding her own climax, and that’s good enough for me. My vision whites out for a second as we slow down.
I lick a long, slow trail around her collar bone and up that sweet, pulsing neck, until I’m close enough to pull on her plump lips with sharp teeth, and glean just a little blood from her.
We lay there for a long time. I couldn’t tell you how long. We don’t talk; we never do. Eventually she falls asleep, and I know Buffy feels safe. I know her like Angel, the prick, knew her. She only sleeps when she feels secure. That’s a sign if there ever was one.
She’s starting to move, I think she might wake up. But I don’t care. If she feels safe while I’m awake then I’m sure she’ll return the favor of not murdering me in my sleep. My bed is never warm, except for now it is, and I have a soft, willing body to hold, and some one I love, (God, have I gone soft?) and hate, right here.
I’ll kill her tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever the scent of sex has worn off.
If Spike ever finds out, I’ll never hear the end of it.
The first time it happened, it was an accident.
Angelus snuck up on her when she was on her way home from the Bronze, alone, despite Xander’s protests.
She’d been doing well. She had a stake out and was ready to use it.
But she hesitated, and that was her undoing.
Angelus flipped her around so she was the one pinned up against the wall, not himself. And he was going to kill her. He swore. He was going to kill her now. Or now. Okay, he’d kill her right….now.
He waited too long. He looked into her eyes, and as one they moved in, and their lips met in a kiss.
It only lasted a moment. Angelus was the first to pull back, spitting and swearing.
But that was how it started, and neither of them could find the strength nor the will power to end it. So it progressed to this.
She ended up coming straight to his door, with no weapons of any kind. He growled and threatened and finally drew her inside, still kissing obscenities into her warm mouth.
He was one twisted monster. He should have killed her. But he didn’t want to. Some days he would still be nursing some injury she had inflicted the day before, and she would show up.
And she knew she was safe, and he knew he was safe, and on some nights, some nights when both of them thought they had to kill each other or kill themselves, they took it into their own hands to make their own kind of happiness.