Later in the Ashes

Later in the Ashes (Chapter Two)


The phone was ringing - the fact that it woke her up was Willow’s first inkling that she had been asleep in the first place. Last she remembered, she’d been lying on the bed, having cried her eyes out, and was planning to head back to Giles’s place to do some damage control. Guess that hadn’t happened. What time was it anyway?

The room was dark, but she realized Buffy wasn’t there as she reached over to answer the phone. “Hello?” she said, her voice groggy enough to tell her she’d been dozing for quite awhile.

“Doyle’s dead.”

The voice on the other end of the line shocked her awake and what he said had her sitting upright and reaching to turn on her bedside lamp in a trice. She squinted; the sudden burst of light hurt her eyes.

“What happened?”

“He was...there was a bomb and...”

Angel wasn’t very coherent and Willow could only make out a few words, but they, and the tone of his voice, were enough to tell her what was important: Angel’s best friend had just come to a horrible end. Willow knew better than most exactly what he was going through.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”

The click at the end of the line before hearing a dial tone was her answer. Maybe it was rude, but Willow chalked it up instead to Angel being too overwhelmed for things like rational conversation or etiquette.

What a stroke of luck that Buffy was gone, because there was no way she could lie convincingly about this while having to look her erstwhile best friend in the eye. Willow went to her desk and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. A few scrawled words telling Buffy that her aunt had taken a turn for the worse and Willow had to return to see her in the hospital - hopefully, they would suffice. She had told the others that it was her aunt who was the reason she’d had to take off in a hurry before, hadn’t she?

Oh well, they hadn’t paid close enough attention to tell the difference anyway and right now she didn’t have time to care about making her cover stories match up. What she needed to do was grab some stakes, stuff them and a few essentials into a bag, drink as much high octane coffee as she could hold, and head to her parents’ house to borrow the car again.

The first two tasks were easily accomplished and the third only required a walk down to the next floor and a knock on Rita’s door - that girl never seemed to sleep. Willow was pretty sure that it wasn’t coffee that kept her up, but at least she did have a pot of a rather potent brew on and was more than willing to share a cup and a thermos-full with Willow, who did her best to make it clear she was in a hurry while trying hard not to be rude.

“Thanks for the coffee. I’ll let you get back to studying.” She had her hand on the doorknob. Angel, after all, was waiting for her and she needed to get on the road.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay with just that coffee?” The tone of Rita’s voice was a patent ‘wink-wink, nudge-nudge, know what I mean?’ Willow had been right; Rita was not making her shimmy shake on tea. Best to just act like she was completely clueless.

“Yeah. And thanks again.” She made sure her face held an expression of complete and utter innocence combined with a bit of confusion. “Hey, if you need any help later, you know, studying for finals or anything...”

“Nah, I’ll be fine, but thanks, Rosenberg. See ya later.”

Looks like Rita was convinced she was just too much of a goody two shoes to have around during her sort of study session. Thanks heavens for that. As an added bonus, the conversation was now over and Willow had made it out of Rita’s room fueled by nothing stronger than caffeine. Thermos and duffel bag in hand, she headed out into the dark and unsafe Sunnydale night.

Years of living on the Hellmouth and fighting evil alongside the Slayer had honed her senses pretty well, and Willow could tell that there were a few vampires or other demons about, yet strangely enough, none of them seemed to want to get near her.

Maybe they thought she was one of those mysterious commandos. No, that was silly. But better that than what Willow suspected was the real reason: the bite mark on her neck. While the glamour hid it from humans, her encounter with Spike showed her that demons didn’t need to see it in order to know it was there. Apparently, it wasn’t just Spike who recognized her as a member of the ‘Future Vampires of America.’

Still, as much as she wanted to be angry with Angel, how could she be right now? He had just lost Doyle, his seer, his confidant, a man who - from what Angel had told her last week - was the closest thing to a real friend he’d ever had. No, now was not the time for reproach and recrimination. He needed a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on, a...well, Willow wasn’t so naive as not to know what Angel was really seeking from her or to doubt for one moment that she’d give it to him.

Of course, what she didn’t want to think about was just how much she wanted to give it to him. She’d gone without sex for longer than a week often enough in her relationship with Oz, yet now a week seemed like an eternity. For all the pain she’d been in with Angel, she still yearned for how he made her feel.

Could it be the bite? Could that be the reason she was suddenly channeling her inner tramp? Oh how she hoped so, because otherwise she was just...shallow. A night of good sex - okay, great sex - and she was suddenly ready to throw her morals right out the window. Not that consoling Angel was immoral, but there were ways to console someone that didn’t involve getting naked, and she wasn’t even considering trying to convince Angel of their efficacy.

Goody, she was at the house at last, safe and sound and ready to ‘borrow’ the car again. She ducked inside for a moment to leave a note (basically the same as the one she’d left last time), grabbed the keys, and headed back to the garage. In a trice she was on the road.

Of course, once again, she’d forgotten to bring along any CD’s and the radio, naturally, was playing nothing but cheesy pop ballads and snooze-inducing oldies. Why did they always play slow, sleepy music late at night anyway? Didn’t they realize that people listening to the radio at this hour were usually drivers trying to stay awake? So far, the peppiest tune she’d found was “Brandy” and that wasn’t exactly a toe-tapper. She was willing to settle for 80's hair metal at this point, but it was not to be found.

She resigned herself to soft rock and that thermos of coffee and tried valiantly to think about her upcoming finals. As much as she tried to work herself up into paranoia about them and run through questions in her head, it just wasn’t happening. She was acing her classes, especially now that she’d accidentally figured out how to impress Walsh, and she could sleepwalk easily to straight A’s on all her exams. She’d been a whiz at school and all its matins and lauds for too long to pretend it was difficult now. There went that attempt at diverting her thoughts.

Her mind drifted right back to Angel, and sex, and Angel, and grief...which finally did lead to an effectively distracting topic, though hardly a happy one: Jesse.

She missed him. She missed him so much, and the guilt she felt about him and about how she’d neglected his memory was almost intolerable. So many years had gone by since she’d even spoken his name out loud. When was the last time she and Xander had mentioned him? They didn’t even visit his grave, a lapse she knew full well she couldn’t blame on the fact that he wasn’t actually in it. They just neglected him, simple as that; drowning themselves in today and acting as if yesterday, and the boy who’d been so very much a part of it, meant nothing.

She wanted to cry, but crying and driving didn’t mix. Besides, some part of her recognized tears as self-indulgent after all the time she’d left her memory of Jesse to moulder in the cold recesses of her mind. So instead, she focused on bringing that memory to life within her.

It was startling how easy it was to remember those lazy summer days at his house, laughing and talking and mocking the popular kids, while his mom made cookies and lemonade. Jesse’s mother was so different from her own, or from Xander’s. She’d even called when Jesse hadn’t come home that terrible night. Willow’s experience since had taught her that, unlike Jesse’s parents, hers would not have noticed for months had she failed to come home after school. Jesse would have noticed, though.

He deserved a better friend - someone who thought about him every day, who cried on his birthday, who retold his favorite jokes, someone who called his mother on holidays and stopped by to check on her, someone who wasn’t Willow (or Xander, for that matter). More than anything, what Jesse deserved was to still be alive.

A few tears escaped despite her best efforts to hold them at bay. How could they not? At least she was crying for Jesse, and not for herself. Every tear was a year of life he hadn’t lived or one he never would, years in which he might have done so much good as a part of the Scooby Gang, years that might have led him to college, years full of adventure and achievement. Yet even if they hadn’t led to anything lofty, even if he’d wound up a vagrant or a criminal, didn’t he deserve those years anyway?

The freeway exit looming in front of her caught her by surprise. It felt like she’d just left Sunnydale, but here she was, almost at Angel’s. Time to put Jesse back in the box at the back of her mind again, though she whispered a promise to him that he wouldn’t stay there anymore. She would let him out every day. She owed him that.

Willow parked her car and got out cautiously, L.A. wasn’t really any safer than Sunnydale in the middle of the night and it wasn’t like Angel lived in the best part of town (though considering what she heard on the news, no part of Los Angeles was the good part of town, except maybe Beverly Hills).

She went around to the passenger side, retrieving her bag and her thermos. When she closed the door and turned around, Angel was standing there. She stood for a moment, looking at him expectantly, but he said nothing. It was one of those small moments where she felt the difference between Oz and Angel so keenly. Oz’s silence had been comforting and familiar and safe. Angel’s? It made her nervous.

“So...umm...how are you?” She hated herself the moment the words left her mouth, so she tried to backpedal. “Dumb question, I mean Doyle just died and...”

“Let’s go inside.” He didn’t seem upset with her; she wasn’t sure what that expression on his face meant, but it wasn’t irritation.

No sooner were they in the door, now shrouded in the quiet darkness of his office, and she was in his arms, held so tightly that she couldn’t breathe.

“Thank you.” He was glad she was here.

He let her go and she followed him to his room. She held no illusions about why they were headed there. It wasn’t for conversation.

Those few words he’d spoken before did nothing to fill the silence now and Willow’s nerves were about to get the best of her. She wanted to be there for him, but now she was no longer sure this was right at all. As much as she wanted him, wanted to help him through this horrible night, and as certain as she was that in his current emotional state, perfect happiness was impossible, a part of her screamed for her to run out the door, get in her car, and drive as fast as she could back to Sunnydale.

She wouldn’t do that, though; not just because Angel now stood between her and the exit, but because she couldn’t leave him like this. The pain he was in was palpable. He seemed almost to have aged, impossible as that was, grief creating the lines in his face that nature never would. She found herself staring, seeing these new things in him, changes in a visage that had gone unaltered for two centuries.

After a moment, she noticed he was staring at her as well. His eyes, however, were not on her face; they were on her neck, where the bite mark was hidden by her magick. His gaze had an intensity in it as discomfiting as his silence, perhaps more. He was obviously confused by not being able to see what he knew was still there.

An explanation might help defuse what was fast becoming tension. “It’s a glamour. See?” She muttered a few words under her breath and he grew calmer. He could see the mark now. Which reminded her - as loath as she was to confront him at a time like this - they were going to have to have a serious talk before she went home. Spike being in on their secret made it a necessity.

That talk would not be happening anytime soon. Within seconds of undoing the glamour, she was in his arms again; this time he was kissing her, his intent obvious. She didn’t object, or even try to slow things down. In a way, she was more comfortable with this than she was with the idea of conversation. Oddly, she realized now that she felt guiltier about the time she’d spent talking to Angel than she did about the sex at all. The sex was...well...wrong, but the conversation? That was an intimacy that truly infringed on his relationship with Buffy, and on hers with Oz.

Luckily, it didn’t look like she’d have to think about that, or anything, for the time being. Angel’s hands were skilled and he had her clothes off almost before she realized what he was doing. How had he gotten her sweatshirt over her head without her really noticing? She didn’t even remember a break in their kiss.

Her jeans were on the ground around her ankles, waiting only for her to step out of them, which she did, shedding her bra and panties as well. A moment later he lifted her up and carried her right to the bed. He laid her down, looking at her for a long moment before ridding himself of his own clothes. Again, Willow stared. Pain-ravaged face or not, he was still the most beautiful man she had ever seen...and he wanted her. That much was startlingly obvious.

She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, he was lying next to her, an urgency in the way he was touching her. She kissed him, moaning into his mouth as his hands continued to roam over her body, then when his fingers found their way between her legs, readying her for his entry.

Still, she was surprised by his intrusion and she wasn’t quite prepared. He was a good bit larger than Oz and, last week aside, she still wasn’t used to him. Combine that with the rather hasty foreplay and she didn’t immediately find things pleasurable. That fierce desire of his soon carried her along, however, and she was crying out his name as he thrust into her.

It wasn’t the same as before. Once the initial discomfort had passed, there wasn’t the pain of their first coupling. She had thought that he was heedless and desperate and maybe he was, but he was not the least bit out of control.

It was frightening. That much, at least, was familiar.

“Willow.” His voice was low. “I need you.”

She wondered why he said that. It made no sense. She was here, underneath him, he was inside her. What did he need that she wasn’t already giving him? Was she not being responsive enough? Did he want to try a different position?

She tried to roll, in case he wanted her to be on top, but he growled. Guess that wasn’t what he wanted. Funny, Oz had always liked that best. But not all men were alike, not even demons, she supposed.

Then his fangs were against her neck and she realized what he meant. No. Not again. The bite was taking too long to heal as it was. She shook her head, even as Angel’s thrusts brought her closer to release and almost past caring.

Angel paid her no heed. Seconds later, his fangs slid right into the holes he’d created and Willow’s orgasm hit her with the force of a cannon blast.

“Angel!” she screamed.

He was still inside her. Not finished yet, it seemed. He drove into her over and over, bringing her closer to another orgasm even as she was still feeling the aftershocks of the first one. It was too much. She wanted him to stop, but she didn’t have the strength to fend him off.

Inside herself, she acquiesced, letting go and allowing him to do what he wanted. She couldn’t deny that she was enjoying it. That scared her, too. Maybe that was why she’d wanted him to stop, the fact that she could see herself becoming addicted to the pleasure she felt with Angel.

She stopped thinking, her second orgasm hitting her harder than the first, her screams mixing with Angel’s as he roared his release.

When it was over and she could breathe again, he was still on top of her. He was keeping his weight from crushing her, but he was still inside and above her and she felt...oppressed. In a moment though, he slid out of her and moved to lay beside her, putting his arms around her and holding her close. She still felt oppressed and she was ashamed of herself for that. Angel was grieving. He needed to touch and be touched, to hold and be held.

“He was a...he was a hero. He died saving...”

Justifications. Willow understood those. “It doesn’t much matter, does it? I mean, they die saving the world or they have to die so the world can be saved. Either way, someone special is gone forever.”

Angel looked into her eyes, puzzled, but there was something else there, too. He seemed almost...impressed somehow. Obviously he thought she was wise and insightful. She wasn’t.

“Jesse.”

“Who?” Now it was all puzzlement on Angel’s part.

With a sick feeling in her gut, Willow realized that Angel had probably never even heard his name before. “My best friend. He died the night I met Buffy. Darla turned him. Xander had to stake him.”

“Oh.” What else could he say?

“What was Doyle like?” Willow figured that fresh grief should take precedence over that kept in cold storage for too many years.

“He was... He kept me on my toes. He tried...”

Angel had never been about words, Willow knew. Talking about someone he’d managed to become close to after years of holding everyone but Buffy (and her) at arms length had to be painfully difficult. What he said next, though...she wasn’t prepared for it.

“He was in love with Cordelia.”

She couldn’t help herself; she burst out laughing. It was obviously not the most appropriate reaction. Angel looked a bit upset and Willow knew she had to try to explain. “I’m sorry,” she said with some difficulty through her laughter, “It’s just...Jesse was in love with her, too, and it seems like...” She was overcome.

Angel stared at her. Minutes passed and Willow could only keep laughing. It turned to hysteria and Angel pulled her more tightly to him.

“Shhh. It’s okay,” he said as he held her, stroking her hair.

“No, it isn’t,” she finally managed. “This is supposed to be about you and your pain.”

“It is.”

Angel was, as ever, inscrutable. Willow wished she understood what he meant, but she couldn’t stop crying and that made it hard to think.

Through it all, Angel just held her, kept stroking her hair. She could almost feel him thinking and at one point she thought he might have smiled ever so slightly. Probably a happy memory. She wished one of those would make her smile. But they didn’t. Even lighthearted memories like Jesse’s hopeless crush on Cordelia made her ache, maybe because Xander had walked off with that prize instead, or maybe just because.

After awhile, her weeping dwindled to a few hiccupping sobs and eventually ceased altogether.

“Thanks,” she said, colouring a bit with embarrassment at having been so emotional.

“Thank you.”

Now Willow was the one who was puzzled. “What for?”

He smiled at her. It was a sad smile. “For being here. For letting me know I’m not alone.”

The silence returned, but now it was more comfortable, though Willow wasn’t quite sure why. She let herself get caught up in minutiae as she lay in the crook of his arm, tracing patterns on his chest with her finger. Angel’s sheets were silk and that jarred her for some reason. It seemed incongruous. Last time...she tried to remember...she was pretty sure his sheets had been cotton last time. Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean anything. But still, the observation dug itself a little trench in the back of her mind and burrowed in there, refusing to leave. She had a feeling it intended to bedevil her later.

“Spike knows.” Again, Willow managed to say something clumsy. It was a habit with her, and not a good one.

“Does he now.” It wasn’t really a question and it bothered Willow that Angel seemed perfectly calm as he said it. Her head was now pillowed against his chest and he scarcely moved. His fingers were in her hair again and she felt a painful tug as she tried to perch herself on one elbow to face him.

He disentangled his hand from her hair. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” But not everything was. “Angel, this is probably a really bad time, and I don’t want you to think I’m angry at you or anything, but...”

“You want to know about the bite mark.” Angel’s face was impassive. Once again she was struck by how different he was from Oz at a moment where he was ostensibly so much like the boy she still loved.

“Yeah. Spike knew it was there even with the glamour and he called it a ‘claiming mark’ and said it meant we were practically family. I know he was lying, but...” Actually, she believed every word Spike had said, but she supposed that, deep down, a part of her still hoped. “I mean, he was, wasn’t he?” Angel’s face remained a mask and Willow’s feeble hope died a horrible, gruesome death.

“Why, Angel?” The tears threatened to return.

“I don’t know.”

That wasn’t true, and Willow knew it. But Willow believed him even as she knew his answer to be utterly false. She had no choice. The truth wasn’t something she wanted to accept. Besides, now was not the time to be confrontational and cruel. Doyle was dead. Angel was mourning.

She had questions: Would it fade? What exactly did it mean? Could it be undone somehow? But, just as with anger, now was not the time or place for them.

She wondered if there ever would be a good time to ask Angel about any of it. Would she have to ask Spike? Could she trust any answers he gave her? Was she capable of any sort of discernment after all the self-deception she was practicing even as she lay here?

Angel pulled her down to him for a kiss. He needed her again. That was okay. Willow was used to being needed, though not so much in a sexual way. She needed him, too - to chase away her own grief, to make the questions and the guilt disappear, to make her feel with her body and not with her heart, at least for a little while.

When it was over, and Angel was sated at last, perhaps she would sleep. Which was all right. It wasn’t like her problems and questions had anywhere else to be. She’d be as filled with concern and uncertainty and anguish in the morning as she was right now. Was it wrong of her to allow herself a brief respite?

Whether it was or it wasn’t, she did. Angel filled her again, his cool, hard body against hers creating a heat she didn’t think she’d ever get used to, no matter how many times she shared his bed. Looking into his eyes, she saw pain and passion and so many things she couldn’t quite understand. She wondered what he saw in hers.


Tbc...