Accelerando With Peroxide and a Leather Duster

 

"Desperate for changing
Starving for truth
Closer to where I started
Chasing after you
I'm falling even more in love with you
Letting go of all I've held onto
I'm standing here until you make me move
Hanging by a moment here with you."
--Hanging by a Moment--Lifehouse


This whisky, Spike thought, tastes like bloody horse piss. He downed another hearty swig and made a face. Horse-piss or not, it was getting him nice and drunk. And it tasted better than that God-awful pig's blood he'd been reduced to living on. Fucking chip, anyway.

He scrubbed at his forehead, wondering for probably the hundred thousandth time how deep the thing was in his skull. He would have ripped it out with his bare hands if he could have.

But then what would Buffy think?

He shoved that thought away. He didn't want to think about Buffy (sweet golden smell like daffodils, soft skin, veins full of Slayer blood...). That was why he was drinking this horse-piss in the first place.

It occurred to him, tipping back the bottle again, that he had no idea where he was. He stopped, scrubbed the back of a hand across his mouth, and assessed his surroundings.

He knew this place. This alley. He'd been here three years ago, more or less, when Angelus had dragged him into the dingy, old apartment, reeking of Slayer, because heaven forbid Angelus should go a couple of days without his favorite bleeding drawing pencils.

"Ponce," Spike muttered, as annoyed by the memory as he had been by the actual event. Then, over the stench of the God-awful whisky, he smelled a familiar something. "God, not now." He stopped, thinking. Which was difficult at the moment, after all the alcohol. After a moment, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it awkwardly, juggling the whisky bottle, and took a long drag. That didn't help, but it tasted good.

He took another swig of whisky and rounded the corner. This was the place, that was certain. Spike remember going in with Angelus through that door and trashing the place, looking for those fucking pencils. And the hair gel. Once Angelus had found the pencils, it had been all about the grooming products.
And right now, a dark figure stood near the back wall of the alley. A tall, broad-shouldered, all-too-familiar dark figure. His back was turned toward Spike and he was hunched a little, one hand splayed against the brick wall. A woman stood between the man and the wall, golden hair falling over the man's shoulder.
Spike's mouth watered. He could smell the blood, rich and thick, woman's blood. He could also smell the vamp, well enough to know who it was, and to understand why he'd been drawn to this particular place.

Spike took a step forward, too drunk to be particularly shocked. The other vamp stiffened suddenly, then slowly turned, holding onto the by now unconscious girl he was feeding from.

"Spike?" he said, with some surprise.

"Angelus," said Spike, and gestured toward the girl. "Care to share?"

#
Angel took Buffy out to dinner, choosing a place by Wesley's recommendation. It turned out to be fairly pricey, but he figured he could swing the cost since he didn't really have to buy anything for himself. The waiter seemed less than pleased by this, but then Buffy ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, which seemed to placate him a bit.

"You planning to kick in for that?" Angel asked Buffy as she dug enthusiastically into her lobster.

She made a face. "C'mon. You can afford those pretty silk shirts and your leather coat and you can't swing for a little lobster? Besides, I fixed your curse problem. You owe me."

He knew she was ribbing him, but the comment hit home. "I owe you for a lot of things."

"Don't you dare get all mushy on me, Angel."

"Sorry." He sipped his glass of wine while Buffy dismembered the lobster. "So, you're staying the night, and then what?"

Buffy slanted him a quick look. "Then I'm going back to Sunnydale. I'm sorry, Angel, but I have to take care of my mom."

"No, it's okay. I was just wondering..." He faltered. She'd already told him she couldn't promise him anything beyond today, so why did he keep pushing? "I was wondering when I could see you again."

"Give me a call. Maybe you could come up to Sunnydale for a day or two."

"I'll have to see what my caseload looks like."

Buffy laughed. "Caseload."

"What's funny about that?"

"It's just--" She broke off, her mirth fading a little. Angel waited, wondering if he should be offended. "You just sound like Mr. Professional PI."

"Well, I kind of am."

Her smile turned warm. "I know. It's neat. I bet you help a lot of people."

"I do what I can."

She pulled out a long piece of lobster meat, dipped it in butter, then ate it slowly, savoring it. Watching her mouth move, Angel completely forgot what they'd been talking about.

Suddenly Buffy said, "You know what we should do tonight?"

"Go back to the hotel and get naked?" Angel blurted. His brain had gone completely out of gear, watching her down that large, rather phallic hunk of lobster.

"Well, that, too, but I mean first."

"Why does there have to be anything first?"

"Jeez, Angel. Horny much?"

"Yes, actually."

Her warm smile, the meltiness in her green eyes, didn't help. "How long has it been," she said, "since you hit a cemetery for some major slayage?"

He looked into his wineglass. "The night I broke up with you."

Her smile curled up, just a little, at one corner, with regret perhaps, but he wasn't sure. "You up for it?" she said, her soft voice somehow managing an undeniable challenge.

He looked up, into the mischievousness that had overtaken her eyes. "Yeah, I'm up for it. Finish your lobster and let's go."

#
Angelus smiled at Spike, showing blood-reddened fangs. "You hungry, Spike?" he said, his voice thin and mocking. "Get your own."

He turned back to his feeding. Spike stared dully at him. He was too drunk to process much of what was going on, and the thick, heady smell of blood wasn't helping.

He took a long drag on his cigarette. "Well, fuck you, then, you great, bloody git."

Angelus looked up again, laughing. "That what you want?"

Spike just stared at him. Imagine that, considering the possibility of prostituting himself to Angelus for a taste of human blood. It wouldn't be the first time.
Angelus grinned and shook his head. "God, you're just pissed off your ass, aren't you?" He grabbed the limp woman by her shoulders and pushed the body toward Spike. "She's dead, anyway."

Spike caught the woman and tentatively sucked at her bloody neck, waiting for the pain to lance through his head. Nothing happened. So she was, indeed, dead, but the blood was still hot, so hot, and so damn good sliding thick down his throat. He gulped, greedily, involuntarily moaning with the sheer ecstasy of it.
"Jesus, Spike." Angelus had shifted back to human and regarded Spike with a thin sneer. "You act like you never tasted human blood before."

Spike rolled his eyes toward his Sire, taking in the derisive look, but all he wanted to do right now was drink and drink until there was nothing left, and he let the limp, exsanguinated body slide to the ground.

"Haven't had human blood in months." He breathed out the admission before he could think about it.

Angelus laughed outright. "God, Spike. What's wrong with you? You go all goody-goody on me? You're what, now--Angel lite?"

Spike was so drunk he didn't even consider the consequences before he slammed his whisky bottle into Angelus' head. Angelus lurched with the impact, then straightened, fangs flashing. He shoved Spike into the brick wall, grabbed his hair, wrenched his head sideways, and sank his teeth in hard. Spike started to fight, then instinct kicked in, honed through a century of being dominated by this his grandsire.

Angelus sucked at Spike's throat just long enough to fill his mouth, then let him go, shoved his mouth against Spike's and forced his lips open, fangs sharp and cutting. Angelus spat Spike's own blood back into his mouth. Spike swallowed convulsively.

Angelus tipped his head back, the dark, soulless eyes regarding him narrowly under that ridiculous ledge of forehead. "Have you forgotten, William?" He bit out the name, made it thin and hateful. His lips and fangs were still rimmed with blood. "Have you forgotten your place?"

Spike just stared at him, holding the dark, accusing gaze evenly. After a moment, Angelus let him go.

"See that you don't," he said, straightening his shirt. It was a deep maroon, the color of old blood, with a high collar and open cuffs. He shifted out of vamp face, smiling almost affectionately. "Now," he said. "Wherever it is you're living these days, take me there."

#
Though Angel didn't spend much time in cemeteries these days, he knew where they all were. When Buffy had finished her dinner--including an incredibly elaborate and expensive dessert--he drove her to the nearest one.

"We need equipment," she protested.

He shot her a look before retrieving a duffel bag from the trunk. He tossed it into the front seat and leaned on the door to watch her open it.
"Ooo!" she squealed, as if he'd given her jewelry, and he had to smile. "Nice stakes. And holy water, and this is the prettiest axe..." She lifted the weapon out of the bag and he leaned in to take it from her.

"That's mine."

"Why?" she protested. "I know how to use an axe."

"Because I said so. Gear up and let's go."

She selected three stakes, sticking one into her hip pocket, one under her front beltline, and fisting the other. Even watching her don weapons made him hard. His mind cast back to the Sunnydale days, when they'd done this every night, and he'd come home hot and sweaty and thoroughly aroused, and had been forced to kiss her goodbye at the door.

None of that bullshit tonight. If he had his way about it, there was going to be some staking, followed by some serious sex. And he had a feeling he was going to have his way about it.

He hadn't seen her fight in a long time, hadn't had the privilege of fighting with her. They fell into the old patterns as if no time had passed at all. He had her back, she had his, and in a half-hour they'd taken out a half-dozen vamps.

"Damn," said Angel, slapping vamp dust off his coat. "I'd forgotten how much I enjoy this."

Buffy twirled up against him. "The thrill of the hunt, huh?"

"Just some sustained kick-ass." He hefted his axe--it had proved a handy decapitation tool. "I mean, I do quite a bit of that as it is, but--" He broke off. "Maybe it's just because it's with you."

She smiled warmly, then jumped up into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. "It's a lot more fun with you."

He met her kiss with enthusiasm; he didn't think he could ever get enough of her mouth. She hummed against his lips, then cocked her head back to smile into his face.

"Buffy--" he started.

"Duck!"

He didn't hesitate to think or question--he just did as she said, ducking and taking Buffy down with him as a long, steel blade hissed over their heads. Buffy's feet touched the ground, and Angel made sure she had her balance before he spun around, axe at the ready.

"Katurgis," he said, identifying the demon's species by the ridge of spines growing like a mane from the middle of its forehead, over the top of its skull and down its spine. It bared wickedly sharp teeth and took another swipe at Angel with its sword. Angel blocked the blow with his axe.

"Best way to kill it?" Buffy had a stake at the ready.

"I'd go for decapitation. Though if you put that thing through its throat, that might do it." He deflected another blow from the sword. The demon seemed to be fixated on him, and not so much interested in Buffy.

"You distract it," Buffy said. "I'll go in."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

He gave her a quick look to be sure she was serious. She was taut and focused, stake cocked. There was something feline about her when she was like this.

Sleek and graceful and very, very deadly. He'd missed that, too, just watching her move. And they'd had a rapport when fighting that he'd never had with anyone else, as if they were in synch, aware of each other's next move.

So that right now, somehow, he knew exactly what she was going to do, and moved to back her up when she lunged forward into the demon, plunging the stake into its eye.

Angel parried the demon's sword with his axe as it swung toward Buffy, then leapt back to get out of her way so she could retreat. The demon staggered, ichor oozing from its eye, but the wound appeared to be less debilitating than Angel had hoped.

"Huh," said Buffy. "Guess we gotta do it the hard way."

Before he could protest, she grabbed Angel's axe and plunged in again.

"Buffy--" he started, but broke off, not wanting to be a distraction.

Still, he hated the feeling of helplessness as he watched her go in, axe blade glinting. She was doing well, too--deflecting the demon's blows and landing a few of her own--and Angel was starting to feel less helpless and more unnecessary when suddenly something--a stalk, an extemporaneous limb--flew out of the demon's shattered eye socket and slammed into Buffy's forehead.

"Shit!" said Angel, and lurched toward her, but the unexpected assault had stunned her long enough for the demon's sword to swing around and slice her open.
"Buffy!" Angel plowed into the demon, knocking it to the ground. The smell of Buffy's blood had risen, clean and crisp. A lot of it hitting the air at once, he thought, numb, but if he stopped to check on her now the demon would most likely kill them both.

"Buffy!" he said again, without looking at her. "Talk to me!" He shifted, accessing his own demon, and with the additional strength flooding him, he smashed a fist into the demon's already ruined face. The strange eye-tentacle lashed at him; he grabbed it and yanked it out.

That must have done some useful damage, because the demon howled, a high-pitched caterwaul that made Angel's eyes water. With the demon partially distracted by its pain, Angel broke its guard and laid hands on its head. With a huge, sickening crunch of bone and flesh, he wrenched the demon's head completely off.

The demon's body spasmed, then collapsed limply to the ground. Angel flung the head, hard, into a nearby tree, where it spattered in a spray of green brains and demon gore.

Then, only then, when he knew the danger had been dealt with, did he turn to face Buffy.

She was conscious at least, which was something, but her bright blouse had been sliced open and was drenched with blood. Angel went to his knees next to her and lifted her shoulders, pressing a hand against the wound to stop the flow. There was too much blood to really see how deep the gash was.

"Buffy?" He tried to keep his voice steady, for her benefit, and failed miserably. "Talk to me, Buffy."

Her head rolled a little toward him, and he was relieved to see some clarity in her eyes. "Did you get it?"

"I got it. It's dead."

"Good. Let's go home." She flinched, then squeezed her eyes shut. "How bad is it?"

"I can't tell. How bad does it feel?"

"Not that bad, not really." She shifted in his arms. "I can walk."

"Huh uh." He scooped her up and carried her to the car, oblivious to the blood smearing his clothes, or the axe he'd left behind in the graveyard.

Trying not to jostle her too much, he wrestled the car door open and laid her down gently in the back seat. He could see well enough in the darkness, but the blood was still flowing, obscuring the wound. He grabbed a towel from the back seat--he always kept towels in the car, as it seemed there was always blood to mop up--and carefully started to clean the wound.

"How is it?" Buffy asked after a moment.

"It's not that deep," Angel answered, watching blood well up again in the long gash. "But it won't stop bleeding."

"That's not good."

"No, it isn't." Gingerly, he sniffed his fingers, dark with her blood. "There was something on the blade."

"You can smell it?"

"Yeah, but not well enough to tell what it is." He peeled back the torn edges of her shirt. The wound ran from just above her left breast, down to the waistline of her jeans. It should have been closing by now, defeated by her Slayer constitution, but it stubbornly continued to weep blood. "We have to get this stopped or you're going to bleed to death." The smell was making him dizzy; he couldn't think past the incredible urge to suck her blood off his fingers.

"Angel," she said, her voice weakening. "Don't vamps have some kind of coagulant element in their saliva? You know, for bite-now-snack-later purposes?"

He blinked, barely able to register what she was saying. The blood smell had hit him so hard he couldn't even gather himself enough to shift out of game face.
"Um...yeah," he said, then the implication hit him. "Yeah, right, that might work." As long as he didn't completely lose it and kill her by accident, anyway.

He unbuttoned her blouse, carefully pulling the fabric back from the wound. The blood ran, dripped down her body, made bright garnet trails on her skin. The sword had sliced through the front of her bra and it lay already out of his way. He grabbed another towel, laid it against the gash, then drew it back. For a moment he could make out the line of the wound, before it flooded again with blood. He bent over her and began, gently, to lick her.

It was the second time he'd had her blood in his mouth in twenty-four hours, and it went right to his head. He hesitated, everything inside him screaming at him to sink his teeth in and feed. She had no idea how much danger she was in right now, he thought, no idea how stupid she was to trust him. He swallowed hard, tasting the sweet, thick, musky blood. Slayer blood.

"Maybe I should take you to the hospital," he managed, but just then she cried out, stiffening under him. "What? Buffy, what is it?"

"It hurts."

He looked down at the gash, where he had licked it clean. He could see the harsh line now, clear of blood, but the wound had taken on an odd, purple tinge. Then it faded, turning back to red.

"That's better," Buffy said.

"It's working," said Angel. "I think there's some kind of reaction between what was on the blade and what's in my mouth. That's what you were feeling."

"Keep going."

"Buffy, I--"

"Angel, I don't think I'd make it to the hospital."

He looked up into her eyes, saw the fear there. Maybe she was right--there was so much blood, and it just kept coming. Faster now, even, he realized. Whatever had been on the blade was not only keeping her bleeding, but making her bleed more profusely.

"Shit," he muttered, fear clenching his gut. He had no choice. Her hand lifted unsteadily and settled in his hair.

"Angel, hurry."

The soft desperation in her voice spurred him on. He bent back to her body and set to work.

Buffy clutched Angel's hair, watching him as best she could in the darkness. There was enough blood in the car even she could smell it; she had no doubt Angel was teetering on the edge of control. There was no way he couldn't be. His body was taut against her, and as his mouth worked down her chest, he cupped her breast in one big hand. She wondered if he even realized he was doing it. She could feel his fingers trembling there with the effort of control.

Still, his mouth remained gentle, careful, pulling softly down the length of the burning wound. Occasionally she felt the prick or scrape of his fangs, but nothing that would have been enough to draw more blood. The coagulant he supplied mixed with whatever had been on the blade to create a deep, sickening swell of pain that rose and then faded as he worked down the length of the wound. She already felt better, less woozy, as if the poison on the blade had weakened her as much as the blood loss.

Angel had started breathing. Fast and shallow, lust-breathing. His breath puffed out of his nose against her skin, cooling the blood, the moist trails his tongue was leaving behind. His hand moved from her breast, clutching her back instead, the other one going lower to clasp hard on her buttock. His hips lay against her thigh, and she could feel his erection, long and thick, through his pants, through her jeans. His mouth continued down her body, licking, sucking a little now, though not hard. She combed her fingers deeper into his hair, hoping it might help him focus.

He jerked back, breathing hard. "I'm hurting you."

"No." He must have misinterpreted the tightening of her fingers. "How much farther?"

"Not a lot. Six inches, maybe." He pressed his forehead between her breasts, gathering himself. "How are you doing?"

"Better. You're making it better."

He nodded, his forehead rubbing against her. "Okay." She heard his teeth grind together, then he dipped his head back down again, to where he had left off, just above her navel. His mouth latched onto her hard, then eased back. Trying not to flinch, she looked down at him, at his dark form hunched over her like some great, black panther, pulling at her, easing his mouth down her an inch at a time. Then, suddenly, he lurched back. "It's done."

He scrubbed his hand across his mouth, smearing blood over his cheek. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the back of the car's front seat. "We need to get you home, cleaned up."

"How much blood?" Buffy managed. She felt better, but drained. "How much do you think it was?"

"Too much." His body stilled, the frantic breathing stopping abruptly. The stillness made Buffy hold her breath, as well, until finally he tipped his head up a little and the ridges faded from his forehead. He opened his eyes and they were dark again. "You just stay put. You'll be okay back there."

He vaulted into the front seat, slid behind the wheel.

"Angel?"

He started the car. "What?"

"What about your axe?"

He slammed the car into gear and peeled away from the curb, tires squealing. Buffy came to the conclusion that he wasn't particularly worried about the axe.

#
At the hotel, Angel pulled up in front of the building, scooped Buffy out of the back seat before she could protest, and carried her in through the front door.
Wesley popped up from behind the counter. "How did you like the--" He stopped, seeing Buffy. "Goodness, I don't remember being eviscerated the last time I ate there." He rounded the counter, hurrying toward them. "Are you all right, Buffy?"

"I'm okay now. He's just being all overprotective."

Angel finally stopped, easing her to her feet. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She nodded decisively, then looked down at herself. In the harsh light of the hotel lobby, the blood looked bright and wet and horrible. "I'm fine."

"You look as if you've lost a great deal of blood," Wesley said.

"I did." To her surprise, she wavered a little. Angel grasped her elbow.

"We need to get you upstairs," he said. He looked at Wesley. "The restaurant was fine. Thanks. Could you do me a favor?"

Wesley still looked concerned. "Of course."

"There's blood all over the back seat of the car. Could you at least get the towels out and washed? And maybe make a note for Cordelia to find someplace to clean it. I can't drive it like that."

Of course Wesley needed no explanation as to why Angel would have a problem driving a car full of Slayer blood. "I'll get right on it. I was getting ready to go home, actually--do you need me to stay?"

Angel grasped Buffy's arm a little more firmly and steered her toward the stairs. "We'll be all right. Thanks, Wes."

Angel helped Buffy up the stairs, holding her all the way, though she was fairly certain that, at this point, she could stand on her own.
He pushed open the door to his suite. "We need to get the blood off you."

She unbuttoned her shirt, peeling the material back from where it had stuck to the finally congealed blood. She was a mess, and Angel was right. The sooner they got the blood off her, the easier it would be for him.

He pulled off his coat and draped it over a chair, careful to keep the blood off the upholstery. Then he paused, picked it back up, and tossed it into the hallway. After a moment's hesitation, he stripped off his shirt and pants, as well, dropped them on top of the coat and closed the door on them.

"You want mine, too?" Buffy eased out of her shirt. The long wound still ached.

"Probably a good idea."

"This shirt's ruined, anyway." But everything she had on was drenched with blood, and it was smeared over her skin. She had no choice but to strip, and for some reason she suddenly felt self-conscious about it.

Angel looked at her when he turned to take her bloody clothes, but his focus was on her injury rather than her nakedness. She watched as his gaze traveled up to her shoulder. That wound was nearly healed by now, as well. "Shower," he announced.

He tossed her clothes into the hallway and shut the door, then headed into the bathroom. She followed, a little hesitant, the nudity frankly making her uncomfortable, which made no sense at all considering she'd spent the bulk of the day today with him inside her.

But this was strange. This was intimate in a way sex just wasn't. Watching him bend over to adjust the water temperature, watching him matter-of-factly shuck his underwear.

The tub was huge, a claw-footed porcelain thing bigger than any bathtub she'd ever seen. He pulled the shower curtain into place around it and stepped in, turned, held a hand out to her.

She took it and joined him, standing behind him as he started the shower. He turned toward her and put his hands on her shoulders. Her body trembled, expecting his hands to trail over her, leaving arousal in their wake, but he only held her, looking at the long, red streak where the demon had tried to bisect her.
"That's more like it," he said. "It's closing up."

It's already closed. Her mind flashed back to that night, both of them rain-wet in his narrow bed, his hands on her shoulders, and she had turned to him, fallen softly into him--

"Buffy?" he said. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she assured him quickly. "Just a little woozy still."

"You lost a lot of blood." He swallowed and she tried not to think too hard about the fact that a good deal of that blood had gone down his throat. He seemed to be thinking the same thing, because his face hardened a little and he said, "Let's get you cleaned up."

A loofah hung from the shower head; he took it down, soaped it up, and began to scrub her. It seemed so strange, his touching her this way, and she wasn't sure why. But gradually it came to her, as he slid the soapy sponge over her shoulders, her back. This contact wasn't meant to arouse. It was purely utilitarian, gentle but straightforward. Even when he slid the loofah over her breasts, down to her belly, there was nothing sexual about it. There probably would be before it was over, but right now it was all about getting her clean.

The water coming off her was stained pink, swirled pink down the drain. After what seemed a long time, it finally ran clear. Angel seemed to relax a little then, as if the disappearance of the blood relieved him.

"How are you doing?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the pounding of the shower.

"Better." Some of the wooziness had faded, and she felt almost normal again.

His big hands tightened on her shoulders. She maneuvered the loofah out from under his fingers, but before she had a firm hold on it, he had folded her hard against his chest, enveloping her in his arms.

"That was too close, Buffy." His voice was ragged.

With her face pressed against the wide planes of his chest, Buffy realized he was warm. Of course he would be--the shower was hot and billowing steam--but it seemed strange to her. Angel wasn't supposed to feel this hot.

"I've been closer," she managed, her lips moving right against his smooth skin.

He gathered himself, lifted a hand to comb his fingers into her wet hair, bunching it up against the back of her neck. "I know. But that thing could have killed you. I could have killed you."

"It didn't. You didn't. I'm fine." She lifted the loofah threateningly. "Turn around."

He looked at her. She glared back, expecting obedience, and his face softened finally, almost into a smile. "Why?"

"It's time for me to scrub your back."

He didn't fight her. There seemed no point. Not that she would exercise her Slayer powers against him over a matter as minor as a loofah.

Then again, maybe she would. She could be unreasonably stubborn when she wanted to.

She slid the loofah across his back and he stopped thinking. How long had it been since he'd had someone soap him down in the shower? Casting back, searching for a precedent, he could find none. This had simply never happened to him before.

It felt so good. So simple, just a woman he loved scrubbing his back with a sponge. How had he gone two and a half centuries without this?

She sleeked his back with soap, scrubbed his shoulders, lingering on the right shoulder blade as if experimenting to see if she could sponge off the tattoo. Then she moved down the groove of his spine, over his ribs, around to scrub his stomach a little, then back down his buttocks, the backs of his thighs. Rather pointedly ignoring his groin, but he was surprised at his own lack of arousal, anyway. This was just nice. Sweet.

Then she pressed her chest against his back, her breasts, slick with soap, sliding against him, and the game changed.

Not fair, he thought, as his cock slammed straight up against his stomach. I so wasn't ready for that.

And he truly hadn't been, absorbed as he'd been in the sweet, domestic pleasure of being washed. He actually found himself wanting to tell her to stop. Then he summoned the memory of being inside her, and decided he'd really had enough of the loofah, after all.

However-- "Buffy, you almost got sliced in two. You almost bled to death. Don't you think maybe you should rest?"

"I'm fine." Her hands slid around him, over his stomach. "Besides, we can take it slow and easy." She pressed her lips against his shoulder. "Make it like the first time."

He closed his eyes, shivering a little. The first time. He remembered it so clearly. He'd replayed it over and over in his head, knowing it would never happen again, and wanting to hold the memory. Thinking about that, he turned toward her, cupped her face in his hand and kissed her gently.

"I love you," he whispered against her mouth. "I've loved you since the first time I saw you."

She smiled. "I didn't like you very much the first time I saw you."

"I remember." He cradled her, savoring her small warmth. "I've missed you so much."

"Angel--"

He knew what she was going to say, so he stopped her with his mouth, kissing her again, slow and careful. When he withdrew, she smiled a little. "The water's getting cold."

In response, he shut off the shower. He reached out past the shower curtain and grabbed towels.

"I can dry myself," Buffy protested as he wrapped a towel around her and began to dry her off.

"I know. Hold still."

To his surprise, she did hold still, and he toweled her off, then gave himself a quick, cursory scrub before picking her up and carrying her out of the tub, out of the bathroom and to the bed.

The ugly gash across her torso had faded to a red line, but it still made him hurt to look at it. He'd almost lost her. It had just been too damn close. And he could still taste her blood on his tongue. That would haunt him for days, he knew.

Now he wanted not her blood, but her touch, her body, her love. And after decades of fighting the urges, he could differentiate, could love without the taking of blood.

He laid her down on the bed, opened her towel and just looked at her. So beautiful, her small, sleek body, smooth skin, smoky Slayer smell, and he could hear all her soft pulses quicken as he looked at her.

She shivered a little and he laid himself down carefully over her, wishing he could warm her with his body. He would be a little warm now, though, after the heat of the shower. She didn't seem to mind; she shifted under him, settling against him. With her face pressed against his neck, she breathed deep.
"Even after all that washing, you still smell like a vampire."

He laid his cheek against her wet hair. "Is that a good thing?"

"It is when it's you." She kissed his throat, his jaw, then he turned his head so his mouth met hers. Sweet and soft--he just wanted to taste her, feel her, experience her. They'd made love for hours that afternoon, but, cuffed to the bed, he'd been unable to do most of the things he'd wanted to do. Now he could do them, but he was almost afraid to. Afraid of what might happen.

The potion had worked, though. It had to have. Everything had gone exactly the way it was supposed to. But it was so hard to relax into that assumption. So hard to let go of the fear.

Buffy's small hands slid up his back, clutched at him, her body shifting, aligning herself with him. He was hard--he couldn't help that, no matter how much he wanted to hold back--and before he quite realized what she was up to, she had maneuvered herself just so, and he settled inside her.
He jerked back, shocked by the sudden heat engulfing him. "Buffy--"

"Angel, it's okay."

"We don't know for sure, you should tie me up again..." The words came breathy and fast; his body was rising high and fast on the wave of sensation. He clamped down hard, fighting for control.

Her hand slid soft over her cheek, easing him. "Kiss me."

He did, letting her set the rhythm as her mouth moved against his. She held her body still and he followed that lead, as well, just feeling the tight heat, the depth of her body, her softness accepting him. Her tongue slid alongside his, teasing, toying. She had learned new angles, different rhythms. It made him angry, made him hurt, to think she'd learned the finer points of sex from another man. He'd had her first, but Riley had had her longer.

His hands tightened on her shoulders before he could stop the harsh, primal reaction, and he pushed hard into her. She jumped a little under him and he forced himself to ease back.

"I'm sorry."

She slid her hands over his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing. It's okay." He took a long, deep breath. Somehow air moving through him calmed him, though he had no other use for it.

Gentle, gentle. Make it like the first time, she'd said, but he didn't want to dwell on the first time, didn't want to lose himself in that memory when he could, for the first time, have reality.

He savored her, caressed her, moved slowly inside her and then faster, but keeping it smooth and easy, resisting the urge to drive into her hard and fast. She moaned under him, drawing him in, and suddenly the echoes of her blood in his mouth were too much, were overwhelming, made his vision turn red and his head throb.

He stared down at the silver scar on her neck, the mark of his own teeth. Love her, don't claim her. You've already claimed her. But it was too much, and he lowered his head to her neck, traced the scar with his tongue. The demon was so close, just there under the surface of his skin, and it would be so much easier just to let it go...

Her body lifted under his, pressing firm and hard against him, and she cried out. He felt her pulsing on him, the rippling movement of muscle clenching up and down his cock. He clutched at the bed, holding himself steady as the surging of her body almost pushed him off her.

Then, to his surprise, he came after her, in spite of his misgivings, his insecurities, his obsessive fear.

And he felt it all let go, all flood out of him as he lost himself in her heated body, and there it was, that moment, that bubble, where his heart expanded and he looked down into her face and felt her soul touch his.

Perfect happiness didn't begin to describe it. It was like touching the purity of his own soul, of hers, seeing into the perfection of a heart molded by pure love. In that moment, he saw everything he could be, everything he should be, and, looking into her eyes, felt as if he could actually be that. Could be absolved, forgiven, cleansed.

He wished he could hold that moment forever, wrap it around him and make it his reality, but it slid away, leaving him with only memory and a hint of tears.
"Angel," she whispered, smiling, her eyes heavy with the look of a woman well-loved.

He closed his mouth over hers, so full of her, so enveloped by her, he could feel little else. Finally, the demon had eased off, leaving him alone to feel human here in her embrace.

After a time, he moved to the side, and she turned to spoon into him. He curled his body around her, closed his eyes, and breathed in the smell of her hair.

#
"This place is a shit hole."

Spike bristled at Angelus' assessment of his crypt. "Find your own place then, mate."

Angelus shook his head, grimacing at the dark, cluttered space. "What happened to the nice place, the one over on Crawford Street?"

"Still there, I guess." Spike sat glumly down on his couch and lit a cigarette.

"Give me a smoke," said Angelus. Spike obediently handed him the lit fag and pulled out another.

Angelus draped himself over a chair, inhaled the tobacco smoke, closed his eyes to savor it, let it out. Spike watched dully. The soft, gray smoke drifted from Angelus' lips, his nostrils, and he made a breathy sound of satisfaction. "God, that's good." He took another drag. "Angel doesn't smoke, you know. Pussy. Like it'd kill him."

Angelus laughed at his own joke and exhaled another gray column of smoke. Spike just stared at him, still trying to fight his way out of the near-stupor the whisky had put on him.

"Why the hell are you here?" he said finally.

Angelus considered. "You know, I don't actually know."

Spike inhaled cigarette smoke. "You shag the Slayer again?"

Angelus frowned, thinking. "I don't remember."

Spike eyed the other vampire narrowly. He was fairly certain Angelus had remembered last time. Maybe the transition had been more traumatic this time, or maybe there had been side effects. However, there were still elements of the situation that didn't make sense.

"I thought you were in LA."

"LA?"

"Los Angeles. You moved to Los Angeles almost two years ago, mate. So what are you doing here?"

"What difference does it make?" Angelus blustered.

Spike shrugged. "Maybe none. But it's odd, isn't it? You just popping up, like? What's the last thing you remember?"

Angelus juggled his cigarette in his fingers. Spike could tell the older vampire was more than a little confused. Even more so than usual.

"Um..." Angelus considered. "I was fighting with the Slayer. Swords. I'd just activated the statue of Acathla--"

Spike laughed. "God, mate, that's ancient history."

Angelus looked taken aback. "How ancient?"

"Three years. I thought you remembered all the bloody heroic exploits of your phenomenally boring alter ego."

"I do." Angelus seemed disturbed by this revelation. "Three years ago? You're sure?"

"Hell, yes, I'm sure. I've tried to off you a couple of times since then."

Angelus frowned over this a few more seconds, then shrugged it off, grinning. "Who the hell cares? It's probably post-traumatic memory loss or something."

"Yeah," said Spike. "Angel probably came to town, got too friendly with Buffy and boom." But somehow that didn't sound right. Spike's head had started to clear, and as it did, the situation was making less and less sense.

"So she's still around, huh?" said Angelus, derision sliding into his voice. "Three years later, and she's not dead yet? Why haven't you killed her, Spike? It's not like you haven't had some experience killing Slayers."

"Fucking chip," Spike muttered.

"Oh, right. What was that story? The government neutered you?" Angelus cackled. "It's almost as good as the gypsy story." He took a last drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out, then came to his feet. "I'm going out. I need some things if I'm gonna be stuck in this shit hole."

He headed out. Spike watched him go, shaking his head in disgust. "Right," he muttered. "Pencils and hair gel, no doubt. Bloody poof."

#
Blood. The odor strikes Angel's nostrils strongly, making it hard to hear, hard to think. It fills his head with the intensity of sound.

Slayer blood.

She is there and he wants her. She runs, her hair gold, tossing over her shoulders as she looks back, her green eyes bright with fear. He leaps, power in his shoulders, his haunches, springing like an animal.

He is on her, bears her down to the ground, his body heavy on her, her struggles useless beneath him. She is small and strong, but he can break her if he wants to, if he tries hard enough, and after a moment of her lurching under him, of him straining against her, he stills her with his strength and his weight and his teeth penetrate her neck, slick and cold, and the hot, musky, smoky Slayer blood floods his mouth--

"Angel."

How can she speak to him? How can she have enough life left to speak, as her blood floods his mouth, his throat?

"Angel!"

Angel jolted awake. The moonlight touched Buffy's pale shoulders, making them look white as milk. He stared at her numbly, his body still buzzing with the sensation of hot, sweet, swallowed blood.

"Buffy," he managed.

"Are you okay? You were making weird noises."

Angel's face felt hot. He didn't think he was blushing; he wasn't sure what the sensation meant other than that it was uncomfortable. He was glad for the darkness hiding his face. He wasn't sure what Buffy might see if she looked at him.

"I'm fine," he finally said. "Just a dream."

"A bad dream?"

He swallowed. He didn't want to lie to her. "Hunting dream," he said.

"Oh." Her voice was small. She seemed to struggle for more to say, unsuccessfully. Finally she settled back down next to him, watching, her eyes glinting in the pale light.

He settled down, as well, facing her, trying to read her eyes.

"It was too much," he said after a time.

She frowned. "What was too much?"

"Your blood. It was more than I could handle." It felt good to tell her, to get it out.

Her face softened in understanding, then worry tautened her features. "Please tell me you're not going to starve yourself again."

He said nothing. The smell from the dream hadn't left him, mostly because it was real, filling his bed. Looking at her, drawing in her scent, he felt the demon surge. He closed his eyes, fought it down, then forced himself away from Buffy, out of the bed.

"I'm sorry," he said. He steeled himself, made sure he had control, then bent down to kiss her. "I'll see you in the morning."

She sat up, her eyes wide, as he left the room. Seeing her devastated expression, it was all he could do to keep from going back. But he was afraid that, if he did, she might not live through the night.

He closed the door behind him. The pile of bloody clothes had disappeared from the hallway; someone must have taken them away. This relieved Angel. The way he felt right now, he would have sat down and sucked the blood off everything they'd been wearing, and that would have been pathetic. Not to mention gross.

The room next door was clean and made up, so he went there. He'd wanted so much to wake up with her, but it wouldn't happen. Not this time.

Next time, he promised himself, sliding between the new set of sheets, which smelled of starch. Definitely next time.

#
At two a.m., Angelus hadn't returned, and Spike's head had begun to clear. It occurred to him that Scooby Headquarters must be alight with information on Angel's latest fall from holier-than-thou-ness.

And that Buffy would undoubtedly be distraught, and in need of comforting.

He headed for Revello Drive, alert for Angelus' presence. He had no desire to run into his Sire again in uncontrolled circumstances. Angelus was one of the very few things on the planet that could make Spike twitchy.

He was surprised, in fact, to discover he was the only vampire lurking around Buffy's house. He'd fully expected Angelus to drop by, to check his invitation status, if nothing else. Or to leave a dead cat nailed to the door. Some kind of token of his affection for the Slayer. But he was nowhere in sight. Probably off torturing stray dogs, or biting more hookers. Angelus liked hookers. And nuns. The whole Madonna/whore thing, Spike thought. Angelus was nothing if not emotionally oversimplified.

There was a light on in the living room of the Summers house, so Spike pushed the door open.

He was immediately assaulted by the sweet scent of female arousal. A double whammy, if he wasn't mistaken. Grinning, he made himself as quiet as he could and slipped into the living room.

They were being remarkably quiet, all fast breath and soft slurping, probably because Joyce was home. Spike leaned against the wall to watch.
They were both topless, Willow on top of Tara--why did that not surprise him?--but they hadn't taken their pants off yet, so they must have just gotten underway. They were kissing, deep and wet. Willow licked into Tara's mouth, and Tara, eyes closed, made a noise, barely more than a breath, that could have been a moan if she hadn't been trying so hard to be quiet.

Willow drew her mouth away from Tara's and kissed down her neck, her hand cupping Tara's breast. Damn, this is fun, Spike thought, grinning. It was good to be dead, so you didn't have to breathe and make noise and interrupt the show.
Tara writhed under Willow, embraced her with her legs, as Willow moved her hand from Tara's breast and replaced it with her mouth. Tara gasped, opened her eyes--

And saw Spike.

And squeaked.

Spike laughed. He couldn't help it. He might have expected a screech, or a scream, but not a squeak.

Willow jumped, shielding Tara's body with her own while Tara groped for the clothes on the floor next to the couch.

"Hullo, Red," said Spike.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Willow demanded. Tara held a shirt out to her and she quickly pulled it on, but Spike had already gotten an eyeful.

"You kiss your lady with that mouth?" he said, still grinning. "Oh, right, I guess you do."

"Don't you ever knock?" Willow buttoned her shirt, which was too bad--her breasts were much prettier than Spike had expected.

"Don't you ever lock the bloody door? All kinds of creeps 'round here--could just walk in, you know."

"Get out!" Willow snarled. Tara, shrugging into her shirt, watched him over her lover's shoulder with a dark glare.

Spike just shifted a little against the wall and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Either one of you girls want one? Oh, right, you weren't quite finished yet, were you?"

"I could kill you, Spike." Willow obviously was not in a forgiving mood. "Better yet, I could... I could... make your dick shrivel up and fall off and it would be really painful and swollen and gross first."

Spike almost managed not to wince at the possibility. "Well, then I guess it wouldn't wake me up at night all hard and twitchy, like."

It was hard and twitchy, like, right now, and Tara's glaring at him didn't help. "You're a p-pig, Spike," she spat.

"Yeah." Spike's tone was bored. "So I've been told. Now, where's Buffy?"

"How is that your business?" Willow, shirt buttoned now, still looked angry.

Spike shrugged. "Got a bit of a situation. Wanted to run it by her."

"What kind of situation?"

"The kind of situation I need to talk to Buffy about." Now that the sex show was over, he was getting impatient.

Willow relented, but only a little. "She's in LA."

Spike frowned. That was interesting. Feigning nonchalance, he said, "LA? With her dad?"

"No, with Angel. What the hell business is it of yours?"

"I just need to talk to her, is all." So Buffy was in LA with Angel. What, then, was Angelus doing in Sunnydale with Spike? "Has she called? Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine. Now get the hell out before I decide to go medieval magic-user on your ass."

Spike lifted his hands. "Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to disturb you, Red." He backed toward the door. "As you were."

He closed the door behind him. Pausing on the sidewalk to light a cigarette, he heard the lock click into place.

Laughing, he headed back to the cemetery.

#
Back at the crypt, Angelus had returned. A paper bag sat on the table, undoubtedly full of pencils and nancy-boy hair products. Angelus himself was crouched in front of the CD rack, moving CDs.

Spike bristled. "Get your sodding hands off my CDs!"

Angelus straightened, leveling his dark gaze on Spike. "Where the fuck you been, boy?"

"I was out. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Angelus grimaced. "Alphabetizing. This place is a shit hole."

"So you said."

Angelus reached into the paper bag and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. "Where were you?" He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, closing his eyes. He looked like he was going to come in his slightly-too-tight leather trousers.

Spike scowled. "I was getting information. Useful information. While you were, apparently, buying smokes."

Angelus opened his eyes and regarded Spike narrowly. "Your point?"

"My point is that there's something bloody odd going on. We need to go to LA."

#
Buffy dozed fitfully for the rest of the night, unable to put aside her concern for Angel. She also couldn't help thinking it was all her fault. After all, she'd made him drink in the first place. Maybe there had been a better way to activate the curse. Of course, there was no way she could have known he would have to take more of her blood later.

In any case, she was worried about him, and felt more than a little responsible for what had happened.

A few hours later, she woke alone in his bed, with no clothes at all because they'd all been tossed out last night. With no other immediately apparent option, she went to his closet and pulled out a shirt.

The shirt, which she'd initially thought was black, was actually a dark blue, and fit her like a dress. An advantage to having a large boyfriend, she thought, then realized she'd thought the word, 'boyfriend.' That wasn't necessarily a good thing. She wasn't sure she was ready to bring Angel back into her life in that capacity.

What else would he be, though? She knew him, and herself, well enough to know neither of them was likely to start sleeping with anybody else any time soon. But neither were they likely to uproot to cement the relationship in a geographical sense. So they were stuck together, but also stuck apart.

Sighing, she opened drawers in the chest next to the bed until she found his underwear. He kept things ridiculously neat, she noted, though it didn't surprise her. His boxers were huge on her but better than nothing, and the elastic proved just tight enough to keep them from falling off. Reasonably well-dressed, she headed out of the bedroom to look for him.

The door to the room next to hers stood ajar. Hesitant, she pushed it open. The room beyond was smaller than Angel's--just a room rather than a suite. The Queen-sized bed was full of naked, sleeping vampire.

She tiptoed to him, sat next to him on the bed. After last night's dreams, she hated to wake him up. Leaning forward, she breathed him in, her nose almost touching his hair, right behind his ear. He didn't respond. Afraid any more direct contact might disturb him, she slipped away and headed downstairs.

Wes and Cordelia were already there, along with a very tall, very bald black man Buffy didn't recognize. A box of food sat on the reception counter, filling the lobby with the smells of eggs, ham, and warm cinnamon.

"Mmm, breakfast," Buffy said.

The others looked up. "Good morning, Buffy," said Wesley. "How are you?"

"I'm good," she said. The black man was eyeing her, taking in, no doubt, the fact she was wearing nothing but one of Angel's shirts. Buffy looked him in the eyes. "We haven't met. I'm Buffy."

He held out a hand. "Charles Gunn. Nice to meet you." He paused. "That Angel's shirt?"

"Yeah. I could have come down naked, but I didn't think it'd be polite."

"It's okay, Gunn," Cordelia chimed in. "Angel's been de-cursed." She gestured toward the box of food, looking at Buffy. "Burritos?"

Buffy took one of the breakfast burritos and unwrapped it, trying not to feel too self-conscious. She would have been fine in front of Wes and Cordy, but this Gunn guy was making her nervous.

Gunn looked from Cordelia to Buffy and back. "De-cursed, huh? That mean he ain't a vampire anymore? Or just that somebody took out his soul?" He seemed less than happy with this prospect, giving Buffy a baleful look.

"Neither," said Cordy, apparently happy to field Gunn's nosy questions. "It means Buffy can come down once in a while and give him a good once-over so he won't be so crabby all the time."

Gunn raised his eyebrows, looking at Buffy, who crossed her arms over her chest and returned his regard defiantly.

"Well," Gunn said, "I gotta say I'm in favor of anything makin' fang boy easier to get along with."

Buffy smiled a little. "Wes, could I use the phone? I want to call home."

All was still well back in Sunnydale. Reassured, Buffy went back to her breakfast. Apparently Cordy and Wes had been getting Gunn up to speed.

"So you're a Vampire Slayer, huh?" he said. "Kinda small, aren't you?"

"I could totally kick your ass."

Gunn nodded, not looking particularly convinced. "Really."

"She can kick Angel's ass," said Cordelia. "I wouldn't push it if I were you."

This seemed to impress Gunn. "That I'd like to see."

"I'll tell you what," said Buffy. "Next time he pisses me off, I'll arrange a little demonstration."

"Demonstration of what?" Angel meandered down the stairs, buttoning his shirt. Buffy turned to face him and involuntarily caught her breath. She wasn't used to this yet--seeing him, big and gorgeous and real, knowing she could touch him, kiss him, drag him back upstairs and make love to him. She composed herself carefully.

"Of how I can kick your ass."

Angel made a face. "Not today. We've got a couple demons to kill tonight and I'd rather be at full capacity."

"So she really can kick your ass?" said Gunn.

"Yep. Killed me one time, even." He had reached Buffy by then and bent to kiss her gently. "We need to get you something to wear."

#
Since nothing Cordelia owned would fit Buffy comfortably, Angel insisted on going out himself to pick up some clothes for her to wear home. Buffy wasn't sure how he could manage a shopping trip in broad daylight, but he seemed confident he could, so she didn't question him. After all, you only had to peek into Angel's closet to know he'd had a good deal of experience shopping for clothes.

He grabbed a cup of coffee before he headed out, but Buffy couldn't help noticing he hadn't drunk any breakfast.

"You're going to have to keep an eye on him," she told Wesley, and his expression told her he, too, had noticed Angel's abstinence.

"Too much blood yesterday?" Wes said.

"Yeah." Buffy could still feel an ache along the line of the huge abdominal wound, though she'd barely been able to see it this morning.

Gunn looked perplexed. "Somebody feeding Angel high-octane blood or something?"

"Yeah," said Buffy. "He had human blood yesterday. Fresh. A lot of it."

"How'd that happen? You said you didn't turn him evil--what's he doing feeding off humans again?"

"It was my blood." Buffy explained about the wound the demon had inflicted, but didn't bother going into yesterday's sexcapades. "Not only human blood, but Slayer blood." She hesitated, not sure how much else to say. "He couldn't even stay in bed with me all night. He was dreaming. Hunting dreams. They woke him up and he moved to another room." So she still didn't know what it felt like to awaken in Angel's arms. She had wanted that so much.

"We'll watch him," Wes assured her. "He'll be all right."

#
Spike and Angelus peered carefully through the blackened window of Spike's DeSoto.

"You're sure this is the right place?" Angelus asked. He'd been chain-smoking all the way from Sunnydale. Weird cigarettes, with something herbal in them that was making Spike's eyes burn. He stubbed out another butt into the ashtray.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Nice place."

"Whatever, mate."

They had parked across the street from the hotel at Angelus' insistence, though Spike had felt something a little more discreet might have been better. But Angelus was the big man, the Sire, the old fart with the stupid hair, so he got his way.

"There he is," Angelus said

For Angel had, indeed, just emerged from the hotel.

Angel. Clearly Angel, the mirror image of the vampire in the car next to Spike, but in more conservative clothes. Buffy followed him out. They spoke for a few minutes, Angel adjusting Buffy's collar, touching her hair. Something had happened there, Spike was certain. Something to do with nakedness and shagging. Which explained some things, but actually really didn't.

"Slayer," said Angelus, his voice softening. Spike looked at him. Malice had crept into his Sire's eyes, dark and cold. He didn't like seeing that look directed at Buffy. She kissed Angel warmly, then went to her car, which was sitting in front of the hotel, and got in.

"This is very interesting," Angelus went on, and nudged Spike with his elbow. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Slowly, Spike smiled. "Yes, Peaches, I do believe I am."

Angelus cocked a fist and hit him, hard, in the nose. "Don't you ever fucking call me Peaches."