Angelus Unbound
folder
AtS/BtVS Crossovers › Het - Male/Female › Angel(us)/Buffy
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
6
Views:
4,089
Reviews:
24
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
AtS/BtVS Crossovers › Het - Male/Female › Angel(us)/Buffy
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
6
Views:
4,089
Reviews:
24
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 2
Angelus Unbound: Chapter 2
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Mutant Enemy does. All hail Joss Whedon.
Spoilers/Ships: This is AU. Angelus/Buffy.
Distribution: Sure, just let me know.
Feedback: Is always nice. darkrhiannon@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for violence and sex.
Author's Note: I wrote this after the 1/29/03 Angel ep and it contains spoilers thereto. This one will be Jossed into kingdom come by next week. In the meantime…enter my dream… -Rhi
*
4 a.m. Buffy had loved this time of day back when she was a student in high school instead of a counselor. Few people were about when she patrolled this late, which made for a much smaller pool of victims, witnesses, or corpses. But more than that, this pre-dawn stillness held an anticipatory calm. The sunrise was coming…she could taste it. Finally, after all these years, Buffy understood what Angel had meant when he told her he could smell the sunrise. Angel had been on her mind even more often than usual these past few days, and Buffy wasn’t certain why.
Since she’d returned from death, since that one stilted meeting with Angel shortly after, she’d tried not to think of him at all. Being without him was too painfully similar to losing heaven. The agonized nerves that had screamed for months after her resurrection were no more painful than the loss of her soul mate.
He had moved on, built a life for himself in LA…a good life. She knew that he was helping people. And she suspected that he was doing a much better job of it than she was, these days. Cordelia had confirmed it last year when Willow had spoken to her. Willow, who had never liked Cordy much before she, to hear tell anyway, became a glowing demi-demon, had described the former cheerleader as gloating. Buffy gathered from Willow’s wincing expression that Angel had moved on in more ways than one.
She’d tried to be brave about it…tried to be an adult now…but the truth was, it was that news that had finally driven her to seek something, anything, in Spike’s cold kisses. For so long, all of her true feelings before her death had been tied up in Angel. He’d been the source of her greatest joy and her greatest pain. Her two most powerful physical experiences before death had been her first night in his arms—full of all the tender passion and unleashed sensuality that only a 243-year-old could have drawn from her—and her near-death as he’d drained her. That experience had shaken her to her very core. She’d seen vampires feed before, had stopped them on more occasions than she could count. But she’d never seen the sort of incandescent bliss that she had felt on any of their faces.
That, more than anything else, had driven her to almost hate Angel. That he could make her feel that way and still leave her, that he could drink her and mark her as used goods and then walk away without a backward glance…tore her apart inside. Their subsequent encounters with each other had proven all too easily how little he thought of her gift to him…and of her.
When she’d gone to him after Thanksgiving, they’d barely spent five minutes together before his coldness had driven her from his office. When she’d rushed to she thought, save him from Faith, he’d defended the dark Slayer from her. Buffy knew that he’d seen her jealousy, the hatred that she felt for Faith. She wasn’t sure if he understood why she felt that way, though.
Faith was the physical representation of everything that had taken Angel from her…forced her to seek a “normal” life. As if. Faith’s betrayal had started the events that led to A’s d’s desertion…at least in Buffy’s mind. And it was because of Faith that Buffy had stood in that jail and heard Angel tell everyone within earshot that Buffy was “no one.” She’d flinched at his cavalier dismissal and nearly run from the jail at his words.
Buffy stalked slowly through the early morning mist as these thoughts filled her mind. Spike didn’t think she was no one. To Spike, she was everything. And he could hurt her…extra bonus. Though he really hadn’t…much. His ideas of sex had been…disturbingly close to hers, actually. Every nasty little fantasy, every sick and depraved longing that she’d ever felt, was drawn out and enacted by Spike. Plus a whole lot more that he had come up with.
She’d guessed early on that the destructiveness of their sex would spill over at some point…guessed and truly not cared. It didn’t matter that Spike hurt her…she’d craved the bruises as much as the ecstasy…maybe more, and he’d seemed to welcome them as well. What mattered was the feeling that she wasn’t dead. The livid marks of his powerful lust had reminded her that she was alive. But she’d broken something inside of him and he’d never recovered.
A fledgling erupted from the newly turned grave before her and Buffy staked him before he even pulled himself all the way out. This was easy now…hell, compared to the Turukan, baby vampires were a breeze.
Her thoughts returned to their familiar, well-worn paths, as her feet followed a similarly familiar route through the cemetery. Evee lee left. Spike was the only one who’d managed to stay and that had turned out so well for him. She’d driven him mad. Perhaps not literally, but he’d sought out his soul for her, and the blame for his subsequent insanity and the deaths of his victims could the lae laid directly at her feet. Buffy wondered idly how tall that figurative pile of corpses was by now.
Her friends had accused her on more than one occasion of being self-centered. Buffy knew it was true, but wondered if they had ever really thought the whole thing through. She’d been an only child until she was nineteen and received a teenaged sister overnight. Self-centeredness had come naturally to her, but she’d been 15 when she was Chosen. She’d resisted the truth at first, but once she’d accepted it, selfishness had become a necessity. If she went on patrol and didn’t stay focused…didn’t watch herself, she would die, and others would too. If she did something wrong and a demon walked free, the world could end. So, in the end, it really was “all about Buffy.”
Her unwanted introspection ended abruptly as she sensed something…the same presence that she’d felt last night. It felt almost like…but that wasn’t possible. He was in L.A. and would have called before he’d have just come. That was the way they had left things in their painfully awkward, post-resurrection meeting. Besides, the feeling wasn’t right. Something about it was off. Buffy glanced around, eyes searching the misty false dawn. Nothing. *You’re losing it again, Buffy. That’s all. You came back wrong and it’s not getting better…it’s getting worse.*
*
Angelus watched Buffy, his vampiric senses trained upon her every movement. He’d watched her enter the cemetery from the dark of a crypt. He’d thought about confronting her tonight, but there was a little present waiting for her at home and he’d wanted her to see it before he took her.
*
Buffy plodded slowly into her house, checking the door behind her before moving into the living room. The SITS slept fitfully there and she knew that the same amorphous prescient dreams that plagued her own sleep were undoubtedly worrying theirs as well. Slipping quietly upstairs, she moved into her own room and grabbed clean clothes from the dresser without disturbing the two who slept there, then slunk into the bathroom to grab a quick shower. She had the luxury of a real day off this Saturday, and she wanted to be clean before she went to sleep.
The shower felt wonderful and Buffy sighed with pleasure as the hot water loosened muscles held taut for far too long. The ever-present headache that plagued her almost constantly these days finally began to ease as she scrubbed the vampire dust from her blonde hair. It was pernicious—that stuff—the taste lingered in her mouth, the oily ashes clung to her skin and hair until she felt as if she’d never be clean. Death. It coated her, body and soul, whether she would or no.
At last she felt clean, at least on the outside, and turned the water off. Buffy dried herself perfunctorily, swiping drops of water from her legs and hips before drying her arms and chest. She pulled on the soft, cozy sweats she’d grabbed earlier and made her way silently downstairs. In the kitchen, she grabbed a scant bowl of cereal and some milk, amazed that there was even that much food left in the house. Between the teenaged SITs, Xander, Andrew, Willow and Dawn, Buffy sometimes felt as if she were trapped at the zoo during feeding time. At least Spike had given up his taste for human food lately.
*Speaking of Spike,* Buffy thought, *I should take him some blood and check on him.* She poured gelid pigs blood into a mug, the viscous liquid dropping in with a squelching plop that would have turned her stomach had she not gotten used to it countless meals ago. Spike had made a point of feeding in front of her during their trysts, perhaps because Angel had avoided it at all costs. Unless they concentrated very hard, the vampires, souled or not, changed to game face when they fed. Angel, notoriously shy about appearing in his true form before her, had avoided feeding when she was around.
Buffy took the now-warm mug from the microwave and climbed down the stairs to the basement. Spike could have his morning snack and then sleep through the day, as she fully intended to do as soon as she’d put some laundry in to wash. It was a never-ending task these days, and not one she relished.
Buffy glanced over at Spike’s cot in the gloom of the unlit basement and realized he wasn’t there. Startled, she looked around pacing forward and tripping over something as she did so. She landed, mug flying from her hands with a clatter-smash, and nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt conakenaked vampire flesh beneath her.
“Spike!” she snapped, “What the hell are you…?” Her voice trailed off as she lifted one hand from his chest to gaze at it. It was covered in cold blood. “Oh, my God! Spike!” She drew back and ran for the light by his cot, switching it on, then gasped in horror at the sight before her.
Spike had been beaten and crucified with large metal spikes driven through his limbs directly into the cement floor of the basement. A rough gag was jammed into his bruised and bloody mouth, held in place with clothesline wire that Buffy vaguely remembered seeing on one of the shelves.
She knelt by his side, gently undoing the brutal gag and removing it from his swollen mouth. His face was barely recognizable—eyes beaten shut and multiple gashes marring his once-perfect cheekbones. He was unconscious and looked every bit as dead as he truly was.
Buffy turned to his hands, pinned to the floor like butterflies in some macabre collection, and grabbing a spike, she pulled it laboriously out of the floor and his hand. His skin had started to heal around it, and it ripped anew as she pulled it out.
Glad, now, that he was unconscious; Buffy quickly pulled the other three spikes from the wounded vampire, then grabbed a sheet from the dryer and tore it into strips to bind the vampire’s wounds. They weren’t bleeding—an ominous sign—and she realized that he needed blood…soon!
Buffy carried Spike carefully to the cot, laying him gently on the thin mattress before she ran up the stairs to the kitchen. She dumped the rest of his blood into a large ceramic bowl and put it in the microwave, waiting impatiently for it to heat. Finally, it was done and she grabbed a new mug, which proclaimed, “Kiss the Carpenter” in bold lettering, and made her way carefully downstairs with the full bowl and mug. She set the bowl by the side of Spike’s cot and dipped the mug into it, filling it half-way with warm blood. She pulled Spike into her arms and held him with one arm as she tried to pour the red liquid into his mouth with the other hand. She managed to get most of it into him, rather than onto him, and smiled grimly to herself as he morphed and gulped, still barely conscious.
She dipped another cup for him, and fed him equally slowly, holding him gently and speaking softly to him. “Spike, that’s right, drink some more. Take your time—there’s plenty.”
Spike growled in response, battered features screwing up in anger or agony, Buffy couldn’t tell. She dipped another cup and another, trying to calm the increasingly agitated vampire while she wondered, *What new evil could have snuck into the house and done this to him while I was on patrol?*
Angelus smiled and drew away from the cellar window. The look on her face had been worth it, even though he’d have to take the sewers home to escape the sun now cresting the hill. He dropped silently into the sewer, replacing the manhole cover carefully, before moving quietly through the deserted tunnels toward the mansion.
Beating and raping Spike was one of the things the demon had missed most when trapped beneath that noxious soul. And that was before his Childe had the temerity to fuck his mate! Surely Spike hadn’t thought that either Angel or Angelus would allow that little transgression to go unpunished? He smirked. After disporting himself with his Childe, he’d been busy disabling all the phones, traditional and cellular, while Buffy was gone. With just a little luck, she wouldn’t realize that until evening.
He grinned, wondering what Buffy would say when she saw that he’d pulled Spike’s fangs. Angelus jingled them lightly in his pocket, enjoying the dry rattle they made as he walked onward.
To be continued…
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Mutant Enemy does. All hail Joss Whedon.
Spoilers/Ships: This is AU. Angelus/Buffy.
Distribution: Sure, just let me know.
Feedback: Is always nice. darkrhiannon@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for violence and sex.
Author's Note: I wrote this after the 1/29/03 Angel ep and it contains spoilers thereto. This one will be Jossed into kingdom come by next week. In the meantime…enter my dream… -Rhi
*
4 a.m. Buffy had loved this time of day back when she was a student in high school instead of a counselor. Few people were about when she patrolled this late, which made for a much smaller pool of victims, witnesses, or corpses. But more than that, this pre-dawn stillness held an anticipatory calm. The sunrise was coming…she could taste it. Finally, after all these years, Buffy understood what Angel had meant when he told her he could smell the sunrise. Angel had been on her mind even more often than usual these past few days, and Buffy wasn’t certain why.
Since she’d returned from death, since that one stilted meeting with Angel shortly after, she’d tried not to think of him at all. Being without him was too painfully similar to losing heaven. The agonized nerves that had screamed for months after her resurrection were no more painful than the loss of her soul mate.
He had moved on, built a life for himself in LA…a good life. She knew that he was helping people. And she suspected that he was doing a much better job of it than she was, these days. Cordelia had confirmed it last year when Willow had spoken to her. Willow, who had never liked Cordy much before she, to hear tell anyway, became a glowing demi-demon, had described the former cheerleader as gloating. Buffy gathered from Willow’s wincing expression that Angel had moved on in more ways than one.
She’d tried to be brave about it…tried to be an adult now…but the truth was, it was that news that had finally driven her to seek something, anything, in Spike’s cold kisses. For so long, all of her true feelings before her death had been tied up in Angel. He’d been the source of her greatest joy and her greatest pain. Her two most powerful physical experiences before death had been her first night in his arms—full of all the tender passion and unleashed sensuality that only a 243-year-old could have drawn from her—and her near-death as he’d drained her. That experience had shaken her to her very core. She’d seen vampires feed before, had stopped them on more occasions than she could count. But she’d never seen the sort of incandescent bliss that she had felt on any of their faces.
That, more than anything else, had driven her to almost hate Angel. That he could make her feel that way and still leave her, that he could drink her and mark her as used goods and then walk away without a backward glance…tore her apart inside. Their subsequent encounters with each other had proven all too easily how little he thought of her gift to him…and of her.
When she’d gone to him after Thanksgiving, they’d barely spent five minutes together before his coldness had driven her from his office. When she’d rushed to she thought, save him from Faith, he’d defended the dark Slayer from her. Buffy knew that he’d seen her jealousy, the hatred that she felt for Faith. She wasn’t sure if he understood why she felt that way, though.
Faith was the physical representation of everything that had taken Angel from her…forced her to seek a “normal” life. As if. Faith’s betrayal had started the events that led to A’s d’s desertion…at least in Buffy’s mind. And it was because of Faith that Buffy had stood in that jail and heard Angel tell everyone within earshot that Buffy was “no one.” She’d flinched at his cavalier dismissal and nearly run from the jail at his words.
Buffy stalked slowly through the early morning mist as these thoughts filled her mind. Spike didn’t think she was no one. To Spike, she was everything. And he could hurt her…extra bonus. Though he really hadn’t…much. His ideas of sex had been…disturbingly close to hers, actually. Every nasty little fantasy, every sick and depraved longing that she’d ever felt, was drawn out and enacted by Spike. Plus a whole lot more that he had come up with.
She’d guessed early on that the destructiveness of their sex would spill over at some point…guessed and truly not cared. It didn’t matter that Spike hurt her…she’d craved the bruises as much as the ecstasy…maybe more, and he’d seemed to welcome them as well. What mattered was the feeling that she wasn’t dead. The livid marks of his powerful lust had reminded her that she was alive. But she’d broken something inside of him and he’d never recovered.
A fledgling erupted from the newly turned grave before her and Buffy staked him before he even pulled himself all the way out. This was easy now…hell, compared to the Turukan, baby vampires were a breeze.
Her thoughts returned to their familiar, well-worn paths, as her feet followed a similarly familiar route through the cemetery. Evee lee left. Spike was the only one who’d managed to stay and that had turned out so well for him. She’d driven him mad. Perhaps not literally, but he’d sought out his soul for her, and the blame for his subsequent insanity and the deaths of his victims could the lae laid directly at her feet. Buffy wondered idly how tall that figurative pile of corpses was by now.
Her friends had accused her on more than one occasion of being self-centered. Buffy knew it was true, but wondered if they had ever really thought the whole thing through. She’d been an only child until she was nineteen and received a teenaged sister overnight. Self-centeredness had come naturally to her, but she’d been 15 when she was Chosen. She’d resisted the truth at first, but once she’d accepted it, selfishness had become a necessity. If she went on patrol and didn’t stay focused…didn’t watch herself, she would die, and others would too. If she did something wrong and a demon walked free, the world could end. So, in the end, it really was “all about Buffy.”
Her unwanted introspection ended abruptly as she sensed something…the same presence that she’d felt last night. It felt almost like…but that wasn’t possible. He was in L.A. and would have called before he’d have just come. That was the way they had left things in their painfully awkward, post-resurrection meeting. Besides, the feeling wasn’t right. Something about it was off. Buffy glanced around, eyes searching the misty false dawn. Nothing. *You’re losing it again, Buffy. That’s all. You came back wrong and it’s not getting better…it’s getting worse.*
*
Angelus watched Buffy, his vampiric senses trained upon her every movement. He’d watched her enter the cemetery from the dark of a crypt. He’d thought about confronting her tonight, but there was a little present waiting for her at home and he’d wanted her to see it before he took her.
*
Buffy plodded slowly into her house, checking the door behind her before moving into the living room. The SITS slept fitfully there and she knew that the same amorphous prescient dreams that plagued her own sleep were undoubtedly worrying theirs as well. Slipping quietly upstairs, she moved into her own room and grabbed clean clothes from the dresser without disturbing the two who slept there, then slunk into the bathroom to grab a quick shower. She had the luxury of a real day off this Saturday, and she wanted to be clean before she went to sleep.
The shower felt wonderful and Buffy sighed with pleasure as the hot water loosened muscles held taut for far too long. The ever-present headache that plagued her almost constantly these days finally began to ease as she scrubbed the vampire dust from her blonde hair. It was pernicious—that stuff—the taste lingered in her mouth, the oily ashes clung to her skin and hair until she felt as if she’d never be clean. Death. It coated her, body and soul, whether she would or no.
At last she felt clean, at least on the outside, and turned the water off. Buffy dried herself perfunctorily, swiping drops of water from her legs and hips before drying her arms and chest. She pulled on the soft, cozy sweats she’d grabbed earlier and made her way silently downstairs. In the kitchen, she grabbed a scant bowl of cereal and some milk, amazed that there was even that much food left in the house. Between the teenaged SITs, Xander, Andrew, Willow and Dawn, Buffy sometimes felt as if she were trapped at the zoo during feeding time. At least Spike had given up his taste for human food lately.
*Speaking of Spike,* Buffy thought, *I should take him some blood and check on him.* She poured gelid pigs blood into a mug, the viscous liquid dropping in with a squelching plop that would have turned her stomach had she not gotten used to it countless meals ago. Spike had made a point of feeding in front of her during their trysts, perhaps because Angel had avoided it at all costs. Unless they concentrated very hard, the vampires, souled or not, changed to game face when they fed. Angel, notoriously shy about appearing in his true form before her, had avoided feeding when she was around.
Buffy took the now-warm mug from the microwave and climbed down the stairs to the basement. Spike could have his morning snack and then sleep through the day, as she fully intended to do as soon as she’d put some laundry in to wash. It was a never-ending task these days, and not one she relished.
Buffy glanced over at Spike’s cot in the gloom of the unlit basement and realized he wasn’t there. Startled, she looked around pacing forward and tripping over something as she did so. She landed, mug flying from her hands with a clatter-smash, and nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt conakenaked vampire flesh beneath her.
“Spike!” she snapped, “What the hell are you…?” Her voice trailed off as she lifted one hand from his chest to gaze at it. It was covered in cold blood. “Oh, my God! Spike!” She drew back and ran for the light by his cot, switching it on, then gasped in horror at the sight before her.
Spike had been beaten and crucified with large metal spikes driven through his limbs directly into the cement floor of the basement. A rough gag was jammed into his bruised and bloody mouth, held in place with clothesline wire that Buffy vaguely remembered seeing on one of the shelves.
She knelt by his side, gently undoing the brutal gag and removing it from his swollen mouth. His face was barely recognizable—eyes beaten shut and multiple gashes marring his once-perfect cheekbones. He was unconscious and looked every bit as dead as he truly was.
Buffy turned to his hands, pinned to the floor like butterflies in some macabre collection, and grabbing a spike, she pulled it laboriously out of the floor and his hand. His skin had started to heal around it, and it ripped anew as she pulled it out.
Glad, now, that he was unconscious; Buffy quickly pulled the other three spikes from the wounded vampire, then grabbed a sheet from the dryer and tore it into strips to bind the vampire’s wounds. They weren’t bleeding—an ominous sign—and she realized that he needed blood…soon!
Buffy carried Spike carefully to the cot, laying him gently on the thin mattress before she ran up the stairs to the kitchen. She dumped the rest of his blood into a large ceramic bowl and put it in the microwave, waiting impatiently for it to heat. Finally, it was done and she grabbed a new mug, which proclaimed, “Kiss the Carpenter” in bold lettering, and made her way carefully downstairs with the full bowl and mug. She set the bowl by the side of Spike’s cot and dipped the mug into it, filling it half-way with warm blood. She pulled Spike into her arms and held him with one arm as she tried to pour the red liquid into his mouth with the other hand. She managed to get most of it into him, rather than onto him, and smiled grimly to herself as he morphed and gulped, still barely conscious.
She dipped another cup for him, and fed him equally slowly, holding him gently and speaking softly to him. “Spike, that’s right, drink some more. Take your time—there’s plenty.”
Spike growled in response, battered features screwing up in anger or agony, Buffy couldn’t tell. She dipped another cup and another, trying to calm the increasingly agitated vampire while she wondered, *What new evil could have snuck into the house and done this to him while I was on patrol?*
Angelus smiled and drew away from the cellar window. The look on her face had been worth it, even though he’d have to take the sewers home to escape the sun now cresting the hill. He dropped silently into the sewer, replacing the manhole cover carefully, before moving quietly through the deserted tunnels toward the mansion.
Beating and raping Spike was one of the things the demon had missed most when trapped beneath that noxious soul. And that was before his Childe had the temerity to fuck his mate! Surely Spike hadn’t thought that either Angel or Angelus would allow that little transgression to go unpunished? He smirked. After disporting himself with his Childe, he’d been busy disabling all the phones, traditional and cellular, while Buffy was gone. With just a little luck, she wouldn’t realize that until evening.
He grinned, wondering what Buffy would say when she saw that he’d pulled Spike’s fangs. Angelus jingled them lightly in his pocket, enjoying the dry rattle they made as he walked onward.
To be continued…