One Man's Hell...

(co-written with blndswdsmn)

Another day gone by… just like the last. Buffy sat on the stairs leading to her tiny LA apartment looking at the sunset, but not seeing it. Not seeing anything really. It was better not to see... because when she did see, it was always the same... the hurt on his face right after she drove the sword through his chest.


A voice said from behind her, "You know, the problem with this place? Curtains. You get some nice curtains, maybe one of those fancy standing lights they sell through IKEA, it'd lighten this place up big time. You kids all like the IKEA nowadays, right?"


She turned suddenly. "Whistler." She said his name through almost closed lips, spat it out much like a curse. He was the bringer of bad news... the beginning of the end... the one who'd told her Angel's destiny was to stop Acathla. "Get out," she said, resenting the fact he was in her doorway.


"I was gonna invite you in, but after bein' inside, I can see why you'd prefer it out here," Whistler replied. He shifted the porkpie hat on his head and moved down the stairs. He sat down on the steps behind Buffy and looked at the sunset with her. "Hell of a view from here, though. Hey, look." He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and retrieved a small triangle of metal on a chain. "I come bearing peace offerings." He dangled the chain from his fingers and cocked an eyebrow.


She tensed and fought the urge to snatch the strange, razor thin pendant from him and throw it as far as she could. “Peace, huh. Thought that’s what you were doing the last time.” Bitter words, but not half as bitter as she felt. Her throat closed up on her and she locked gazes with him. “I don’t want any other presents from you.”


"You'll want this one," Whistler said casually, the pendant still swinging idly back-and-forth. "It'll bring him back."


Buffy had been about to knock it out of his hand, but stopped mid-motion and closed her fist around it. It cut her... deep enough so that streams of blood ran down her forearm. She’d walk barefoot over cut glass if there was a way. ’“Explain.”


Whistler held onto the chain for a moment, and watched the blood run down her arm. "I don't like this," he said suddenly. "At the end of the day, what do you think we are to the higher powers, or good and evil, whatever you wanna call it? You think we're some valued members of the same family? We're pawns. I did my job, I showed him you, I set him on the path he walked on. And because he's a good man, and he loved somebody, now he's in a place you can't even imagine." Whistler's eyes fixed on Buffy. "He's in hell, and nobody seems ready to do a damn thing about it." The short man made a face of distaste, his eyes troubled. "I don't like the thought I sent a good man to eternal torment and left him to it."

“You don’t like it, try being me,” she said harshly, her eyes misting at the thought of Angel in hell. She’d hoped he’d died a permanent death and if there was a heaven... but even that hope had been a stretch... with Jenny’s blood and so many others on his hands. “Go on,” she tugged on the pendant, aware he hadn’t given it to her yet.


"This thing? I ain't even supposed to have it." Whistler released the chain suddenly. "A guy doin' this thing in another dimension, about fifty years from now is gonna need it. So that's a rental. Think of it like a car. Only instead of carryin' you across the highway, it takes you through dimensions. The dimension you need, in fact. You give it a little blood," Whistler's eyes darted at the blood dripping from Buffy's fist, "and you think of who you want to see on the other side. You want it. You need it. It takes you. And you're protected. If time goes different there, you're still covered. You won't age, nothin'." Whistler's eyes met Buffy's. "You gotta want it pretty bad, though."


She gave a strangled laugh. “Not a problem.” Why the hell else was she in this pit... waitressing by day, moping by night? She couldn’t stand to look at herself, not after what she’d done. The right thing in the big picture... that’s what they all said. But it was wrong for her. And wrong for him.

Getting up to her feet, she asked one more question. “It’ll bring him back with me?”

"If he wants to come," Whistler replied with a shug. "He's been in a place you can't imagine. To him, it's been one hell of a long time, too. You ain't gonna like what you find. But if he wants to come back. Needs it the way you need to find him," Whistler snapped his fingers, "mission accomplished."

“He’s in hell, of course he’s going to wanna come. Oh, you mean with me.” She swallowed hard. “He’ll come... he'll come...” There was a steely edge to her voice, even as she forgot Whistler and saw, in his place, only Angel... willing herself to him as she squeezed the pendant tighter in her blood slicked hand.


* * *

He'd grown used to this place. Long ago, he'd pulled and struggled and fought, trying anything to get somewhere else. But that was years ago. Decades. Perhaps centuries. He'd lost all track of time between the beatings, the visitations. The illusions. All of it calculated to drive him crazy, he knew now.

He'd stopped pulling on the ropes and chains that bound him, his skin still rubbed raw. Sometimes, when she came, she'd bind him differently, in a new position, to increase the novelty of whatever torture she felt like inflicting. He was always hungry, always thirsty, always hurting. His clothes were tattered remains in the corner, and he was stripped naked. The post sat in the middle of the room. Angel's arms were pulled up over his head and rested on top of the post, bound by the wrists with thick ropes that resisted even his preternatural strength. He hung down from the bonds; his legs had given up trying to hold him, and he arched forward painfully. His head hung and he tried to sleep, but sleep never seemed to come.

*

It was dark and bright at the same time, this place that had a dank smell to it. Buffy blinked and saw fire ringing the edges of the room, and coming from the torches along the wall. It was a large room, a dungeon. Once her eyes adjusted, she started walking to the center. She could see a wooden post, and the backs of a man’s arms... almost as if he were being crucified, but not quite.


A weight crushed her heart. It better not be him... not Angel. Someone would pay. If it was the devil himself, he’d pay. You’d think she’d run to him, but her steps were slow and steady. A part of her knew that Whistler might be right about what she’d find.


Buffy circled around the post and almost tripped at the sight of Angel, stripped bare of his clothes, his face... listless, his body still powerful, gleaming under the reflection of the fire light... and yes somehow broken. “Angel,” she rasped, putting her arms around his waist and pushing him back ... taking some of his body weight.


A soft groan escaped Angel's lips, even though he didn't want to give her even that satisfaction. Her body was warm against him as she lifted him up, and the blood rushed painfully through his arms. He didn't want to look at her, not the way she looked. But he knew she'd demand it, sooner or later. For now, though, he pointed his eyes towards the fire, watching it leap and dance. Anything to keep from looking at her.


“Angel,” she repeated. “Don’t you know me?” She bit her lip and slid one hand up his chest and throat, to the side of his face, shaking internally at memories of touching him ... it had only been that one time, but it was emblazoned in her mind. She pressed her palm into his cheek and made him look at her. “It’s Buffy. What have they done to you?” Her eyes stung. “I’m gonna get you home, okay.” Thick ropes, thicker than she’d ever seen... but she had to believe the amulet could get them back. “Do you want that? Home?”


Angel knew she wanted him to look at her, and if he didn't, he knew what'd follow. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. He turned his eyes to her, and worked to keep them flat and hard, devoid of any of the emotion he knew she was intent on ringing from him. Her eyes were stung with tears, which weren't necessarily anything new, but she hadn't tried that one in a long, long time. He thought they were past that charade.


Her heart wrenched. He didn’t know her. How could he forget? It hurt, even though she saw his state, it cut her deep. “Say something. Anything,” she pleaded, nuzzling his neck and blinking away her tears when he didn’t. “You’ll remember. I’ll make you remember,” she vowed.


For hours, she whispered to him until her throat was raw... reminded him of how they’d met, how they’d fallen for each other even when it was the worst idea ever... and how nothing, not what people thought, and not the fact that as Slayer and Vampire, they were direct opposites in nature, had stopped them from getting together. She would have told him more, would have apologized for pushing that sword through him... for sending him to hell, but a sound alerted her that someone was coming.


“Angel... I love you. I’m not leaving you,” she whispered, kissing him lightly on the mouth and leaving her tears on his cheeks. If it hadn’t been for the danger, she would have sobbed out loud. He really, really didn’t know her, or he couldn’t have looked at her so blankly.


There were broken pillars in this hellhole of a dungeon. She ducked behind one of them, her heart beating out a rhythm that any vampire could hear. She wasn’t afraid of vampires, but she was afraid of anything that could do this... break his spirit... something she’d have thought was impossible.


The Kreshlok demon cloaked itself in human flesh and sauntered into the room, her high heeled boots clicking authoritatively against the concrete floor as she approached. “Miss me?” she asked from a distance.

Buffy frowned. She recognized that voice. It was her voice. Moving slightly, she looked to see who or what this was... and what the hell... Someone was masquerading as the Slayer, only she’d never worn clothes like that. What was with all that black latex and skin?

The demon instantly saw the moisture on Angel’s cheek. “Is this for me?” she asked, bending toward him and licking it off. Buffy gripped the pillar, wanting to throttle the fake for touching him. Then there was cold, hard shock. The bitch had...

The Kreshlock tore her teeth out of his cheek and wiped the blood off her mouth. “Next time, you’ll answer me, slave. Now... is that, for me?”

Angel said nothing for just an instant. She'd put the tears on herself, and now she was punishing him, playing another of her headgames. He felt the blood dripping from his chin, and his lips pressed a thin line. He swallowed; his pride had long since been torn away from him. "Yes, Mistress," he answered quietly. "I've missed you so much."


He hadn’t said that... not to that bitch. Yeah she’d bitten him but ... but here she had talked to him all that time, poured out her heart... Buffy didn’t understand. This was wrong... all wrong.


“Of course you have.” The demon answered, with a sadistic twist of her reddened lips. Without warning, her hand shot out and she grasped his penis. “Show me... show me how much you’ve missed me.”


Angel gasped and jumped, then sagged in his bonds again. He looked down at the hand wrapped tight around his cock. The hand that looked like Buffy's. The voice that sounded so much like Buffy. He wished it was Buffy.


He shut his eyes tightly, pushing the thought away. This was the demon's game. The same game that had been played for years on end. The one game they hadn't tired of yet. How they pulled her from his mind, he'd never know, but they'd taken the last refuge of his sanity and twisted it into...this. Slowly, Angel did what he knew was expected of him. He rocked his hips forward, sliding himself in her firm grasp, his eyes opened slightly to look up at the demon. He had to remind himself it wasn't Buffy, and kept moving in her grasp, biting his lip so hard he could taste blood.


“Tell me it’s good,” she said, jerking him hard when he didn’t answer fast enough. “You know I can demonstrate what happens when you have one force holding you up, and the other...” she violently tugged his cock downwards, stretching him as far as he could go, and farther.


Buffy bled... her hand bled from the pendant she still gripped, her other hand from the force of gripping the jagged pillar, and her lower lip from chewing on it to stop herself from screaming.


Angel yelped as she pulled down on him, and his hands clenched into tight fists. He tried to lean down with it, to take the pressure off. "It's so good, Mistress," he said quickly. He'd refused to answer for the longest time, and he knew now it was futile. Let her finish her game and leave him for a time again. "You're so good, I need this. Please, Mistress."

“Yes I am. Call me Buffy. Mistress Buffy,” she answered, stepping behind him, forcing him to lean ever more forward and threatening to dislocate his arms from their sockets. She ground herself up against his bare ass as she stroked him. “Say it, tell me you want to fuck me... tell me.” Her head rolled back as she started to get off on this, bucking against him, excited by the thought of the pain he must be in... and her power to make him love it.


Angel closed his eyes tightly. He didn't want to use the name, that name didn't belong to this...thing. He could feel her working him harder, grinding against him. And even though he knew it wasn't Buffy, it sounded like her. It was her voice heavy with lust as she jerked him. He tried to ignore the swell of arousal at it, but he knew even that was futile. She knew just the form to take to have the right effect. "I want to fuck you," he gasped, using the words the demon liked. "I want you, Mistress Buffy. I want you to let me fuck you, please!"


“Fuck... Angel... again,” she rasped harshly, widening her legs and inserting one between his so she could get the friction she needed. She bent down, bearing the entirety of her weight on him, knowing he hurt... and that even through the pain, she could make him come.


I..." He swallowed hard, his words coming out broken and heavy as she worked him harder and harder, pleasure mixing with the pain. "I want to fuck you, Mistress Buffy." He hung his head in shame, and knew that's what the demon wanted to see. "Please, please let me fuck you, I need you so bad, Mistress Buffy."

She came against him with a loud gutteral cry, biting his ear, tearing it as she jerked back and forth. He tensed under her... she felt his back stiffen, and she pinched him off. “No. Not today. Buffy says no,” she whispered, rubbing herself against him one last time.


With a moan of frustration barely restrained, Angel shivered in his bonds, unable to move to relieve his frustration. He was angry at himself for being pushed to this edge again. But she sounded so like Buffy. So like her, and so unlike. He choked out the words he knew he had to say, even as more blood dribbled down his ear. "Thank you, Mistress Buffy, for letting me serve you." He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and waited for her to leave him in peace.

“Cry for me again... and I just might let you fuck me,” she answered, chucking him under the chin. As she walked away, she picked up a piece of his tattered clothes and used it to wipe his sweat and hers off her chest.

Buffy couldn’t move. Every emotion known to man had roiled through her... anger, sadness, disgust, and even... God... she didn’t want to admit it to herself that her shortness of breath and the heat coursing through her veins had been anything but a manifestation of her anger.


Eventually, she came to herself and took a step toward him, but stopped. “Angel,” she called him from across the room.


That voice, it was more like hers. Like the real Buffy's. But it couldn't be her, not here, not in this place. He hung in his bonds, his cock still hard and erect, and he finally turned his eyes to face her. Appearing twice like this, one harsh and angry, one innocent and sweet, was a new trick, and crueler than any other.


He knew he'd be punished for this, but he didn't care. This was too far, even for them. He met the girl's eyes, and held them for a second, keeping his flat. And then he spat on the ground at her feet and turned away again, ignoring her. He could forget about the harsh mistress they had her play, but to remind him of the way she really was at the same time was enough to send a wave of anger through him, and he closed his eyes against the image, retreating again into his mind.


She swallowed hard... wanted to hold him, to tell him it would be better. But instinctively, she knew this wasn’t going to work. “Good... you spit at her,” she said. “You fight, Angel... you keep fighting. I’m gonna come back for you, and then we’ll fight together, you got that? I love you.” Then she did the hardest thing she’d ever done... closed her fist around the pendant and wished herself home.


As soon as she was out of the room, it was like some small warmth was out of the room. He opened his eyes again and looked at the spot she'd occupied. He'd stare at that spot for hours, his eyes cold and flat, but unable to look anywhere else.

(This is our first Bangel fic... please let us know whether you like/hate/how we can improve. Thanks!)