The Soulmate Series

In Eden, There Is Brimstone (Chapter Twenty-Three of Soulmates)


“Willow!”

There are pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Her intention is unmistakable, even if Angel hadn’t been sharing her dreams these past few days, even if he hadn’t found out about the Bringers and deduced their intent, even if his bond with Willow wasn’t there: impossible to shut down entirely.

“Willow!” He shouts to her again, desperately wishing that the glass of her french doors was the only barrier between them. But it isn’t. Vampires have few weaknesses, but this one - the inability to enter a house uninvited - it is insuperable. And his love has barred him from her home.

She has, however, heard him at least. Her hand, the one filled with the promise of a slumber from which she’ll never awaken, has paused midway to her lips, and she is looking at him. Her eyes are vacant, though, and he’s not at all sure that she isn’t, in reality, looking through him. Has she already taken some of the pills? No, he’d feel that. He’s reopened their bond completely now and while there’s despair that is agonizing for him to share, there’s no drugs in her. That’s good. That’s better than good. Now all he has to do is keep it that way.

But how? What can he say to her? She hates him. She sees him as nothing but the author of her misery and, thanks to those damnable agents of the First Evil, as the future murderer of her best friend. He could feel her horror and disgust when she awoke from dreaming that they had made love and her revulsion was for more than just the image of Buffy’s corpse that ended the dream. It was for having given herself to him.

As much as that still burns, he can’t think about it. He has to keep his mind clear and rational, his instincts keen. He can’t let his own wounds bleed into the here and now. There are lives at stake: Willow’s and his. Because he knows that if she dies, he’ll follow her.

“Willow, listen to me, sweetheart. Put the pills down, okay? You don’t have to do this. Don’t be tricked into taking yourself out of the fight. Don’t you see? That’s what they want. For your goodness and humanity to be gone. Please, Willow. Please. Don’t do this.”

She puts the pills back in the bottle, but she doesn’t put the cap back on; merely sets it, yawning open like a portal to Hell, on her night table. Already she looks like a wraith as she walks tentatively to the doors and opens them. He hopes this means she’s about to invite him in. But she doesn’t. She does, however, seem willing to talk.

“Why are you here?”

“I knew you were in danger. Your dreams...I’ve had them, too.”

“Oh.” Her face is blank, but there’s a faint stirring behind her eyes, and a whisper of something that he can feel, that says she’s processing that revelation. He wonders what she is thinking. The bond has limits and he’s feeling them keenly. Her emotions aren’t enough for him to read, not now.

“It’s the First Evil, Willow. It was trying to deceive you. You don’t have to...Buffy’s in no danger. I swear to you. I would never hurt her. I loved her. And I still care about her. You have to believe me.”

“Why? You hurt me.” Once again, the blank face and the muddled feelings are hindering his ability to proceed. He decides that dealing with the words themselves and not to trying to see the totality of motivation behind them represents the best course of action.

“I know. I know I hurt you. But I never meant to; I never, ever meant to hurt you at all. Now that I’m...I’m myself again, now I would never hurt anyone. You know that, Willow, or you will if you look in your heart, if you look in mine. What you see there will tell you the truth, will expose all the lies the First tried to tell you. Please, Willow. I’m not asking you to love me, or even forgive me. Just believe me, because I’m telling you the truth.”

He’s maintaining his calm and his ability to control what of himself he reveals. It’s a gift that balances out some of the weaknesses that hinder him and he’s grateful for it. There are advantages to having a demon within him and he doesn’t view himself as divided into a good half and a bad half anymore. Not that he would ever share that insight, not now, anyway. Someday, when Willow has come around, once she’s realized that there’s one more thing The First was right about - that he’s her destiny - then she’ll be ready to understand everything.

Confusion, that’s primarily what he’s reading from her now, that and the fatigue that’s always there. She’s longing for things to make sense and he knows, too, that her weariness only serves to make death a more attractive option - any sort of rest having an allure. But he won’t allow it. He’s not sure how he’d stop her if she reached for the pills again, but he’s positive that he would find a way.

“Willow?” Her continued silence is troubling.

“I don’t know...I just...I don’t know, Angel. I want to believe you. I don’t want to die. But how can I trust you? And if I make a mistake...and Buffy dies...”

“You can believe me, Willow. You know you can. Since...what happened, have I hurt you? Have I hurt anyone?”

Her reply is soft. “No.”

If it’s only one word, at least it’s the right one. Angel’s gladdened by it. There’s a small kernel of trust there and he feels the back of her resolve break. The danger has not passed, but it’s lessened considerably and he’s overcome by relief. No time to be complacent, however. The cap is still off the bottle and there’s no certainty those pills will stay safe within its confines.

There’s another danger as well - sunrise. Angel feels its approach creeping under his skin. It’s the instinct every vampire has and one that tells him he must be indoors within minutes or he’ll be dust. But then there’s Willow, teetering on the edge of oblivion. Whose life does he save?

Oddly, he’s not the only one who’s noticed the hour and what it means.

“You need to go, Angel. It’s almost sunrise.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Angel, you have to go. Don’t you understand? Sunrise? You’ll die.”

“Isn’t that what you want? To be free of me? And if I die, that means you won’t have to, won’t it?” It’s a risky card he’s playing and he’s not sure why he’s playing it. But he’s going with his instincts. He can only hope they’re leading him down the right path.

“No...I mean...I don’t know.” She’s sobbing now and he’s not sure what she’s going to do. She’s sitting on her bed again, face buried in her hands. He’s not sure he’s meant to hear her barely choked-out words. He can scarcely believe he does hear them. “Come in.”

He’s about to do just that; her words have come in the nick of time, the frisson of terror that he feels as the inner warning that the sun is ascending into the sky having left him all but certain that he was destined to return to the dust this day. But then, something strange happens - or rather doesn’t happen.

There’s no sunlight. No burning of flesh, no acid flame cutting through skin to bone and turning it all to agony. There is only...

Snow.

He looks up into the sky and feels the wet, cold flakes settling on his face, his clothes, blanketing him with salvation. It’s a benediction, a reprieve. Surely the fact that his life has been spared by an offering from the heavens will assure Willow that The First was lying about the source of his resurrection and thus wrong about their love being a cursed thing.

She’s still sobbing and Angel knows she’s afraid. Afraid that he’s heard her and will come in and hurt her - afraid that he didn’t hear her and is about to turn to dust.

“Willow?”

Her head is still buried in her hands.

“Willow?”

At last she looks up and within seconds her eyes are filled with wonder as she sees the snow.

“Angel?”

“I’m alright, Willow. See? The sun didn’t come out today...look.” He turns around slowly, face upturned, actually enjoying the sensation of being outside during hours he has not enjoyed in so very, very long.

Her eyes grow wider. She’s a California girl and Angel can feel the thrall that snow is exerting over her. She’s never seen it, longs to experience it. She’ll join him, he knows she will.

He stays outside; his instincts are telling him to hide the fact that he heard her invitation, knowing she believes that if he didn’t hear it, there was no invitation at all. Save this entree into her home instead, use it wisely.

“Come out, Willow. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I won’t touch you. You have my word.”

To his delight - a delight he ruthlessly reins in lest the intense feelings flow through the bond and frighten her - she does come outside. Halting steps bring her to the door and then out to the balcony. He steps back, allowing her space, making clear his intention to keep his word.

“Snow.” Her observation is redundant and obvious, but it’s a conversation starter and Angel seizes on it.

“Yeah, snow.”

She looks up, lost for a moment in the magic of her first real winter. She’s feeling joy, in spite of all she’s been through the past few days, and Angel is so thankful he is able to share this with her. She’s so childlike and pure in these moments: overcome by the magic of twinkling snowflakes. He’d thought he loved her as much as he possibly could, but somehow now he loves her more. There’s something so perfect about the way she reaches over the balcony, touching the snow as it falls to blanket the green lawn below. He knows she can feel the power of his affections, but he can’t bring himself to shut them down.

Surprisingly, though, she seems unaffected. He senses that she has just lumped everything into one big feeling of euphoria. Finally, her exhaustion is working in his favour, making her unable to completely distinguish what is coming through the bond and what is innate to her being. He rejoices that at least now, in some convoluted fashion, she’s accepting the love he feels. Perhaps somewhere inside she even knows it’s there and can allow herself to own it while her conscious mind is weakened by fatigue and trauma.

“It’s beautiful.” Her voice is filled with awe.

“Yes, it is.” Of course his eyes are on her face. Sadly, she notices and the fragile peace is shattered. She’s wary now and back on her guard. He should have known. A mind like hers is never fully at rest.

“They told me you would kill Buffy - to be with me.”

“Who, Willow? Who told you that?”

“Jenny...Jesse. They told me she had to die because she was in the way. I don’t want her to die.”

“She won’t, Willow. I would never kill Buffy, never. That wasn’t Jenny or Jesse. It was the First, Willow. It wanted you to kill yourself, it knows how important you are, how much Buffy needs you. It wasn’t your friends, Willow.”

“I know.” Her voice is flat and he can tell that the very fact her friends didn’t actually visit her is part of what’s making her so sad. She misses them. She’s lonely. The First knew how to be cruel - choosing Willow...choosing to take the form of people she loves and misses so much.

And then she turns, she’s about to go inside. Angel can’t bear for this to end. He wants a few more minutes - a few more memories of Willow with her cheeks pinked by cold and with snowflakes in her hair.

“Will you take a walk with me? I don’t get to be out in the daytime too much and...”

“I still hate you.” He’s not surprised she said it, but he’s hurt by her words, nonetheless. Still, he consoles himself with the likelihood that she felt she had to say it more than she actually meant it. She’s afraid to let go, especially after all she’s been through in the last few hours. He doesn’t sense the intensity he’s used to from her. He’s sure that’s more than her weariness - it must be a sign that she really doesn’t hate him, at least not as much as before.

“I know.”

“I guess though...I guess I owe you for stopping me from...you know.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” He means that, but he says it because he knows it will make up her mind. He’s not disappointed.

“Just let me change.”

“There’s no need. Just put some shoes on. I don’t think anyone will see you at this hour. You have a robe and pajamas on; I think that you’ll be warm enough.”

“Okay.”

He watches as she goes back inside, getting socks from her dresser drawer and high top sneakers from her closet. She’s attentive as she puts them on and he can tell how much she needs sleep by the way her fingers fumble with the laces of her shoes. But she finishes and looks up at him.

“Meet me by the front door, okay?”

He had hoped she’d let him carry her down, but he realizes that was ridiculous, so he does as she asks, leaping gracefully from the balcony and waiting for her down by the stoop.

For a moment, he’s afraid that she’s played a trick on him, but soon she emerges. Her robe is wrapped and tied tightly around her and she’s wearing mittens, a surprising accessory for a girl accustomed to Sunnydale’s temperate clime to own. She says nothing.

“Shall we go?”

She doesn’t answer, but he starts walking and she walks with him, her eyes everywhere but on him. Her nervousness is overpowering and he decides on a circuitous route that keeps them relatively near her home at all times. After all, it doesn’t really matter where they go.

Silence prevails as they stroll down the quiet street, the snow falling still, the world becoming whiter and colder, Willow’s hair burning copper in the near darkness of the day that never dawned. She’s a snow fairy, he’s sure of it. No one was ever more lovely in winter.

They walk for a good half an hour and Angel doesn’t break the stillness by talking. He’s cautiously reveling in the fact that Willow seems at least comfortable in his presence. Conversation would be pushing things too far, too fast. He doesn’t actively use their connection either, leaving it open, but not straining at it, allowing her to gradually ignore it.

“I’m tired.” The first words she’s spoken and Angel knows they mean she’s dropping. He watches her carefully as they make the short trek back to where the bed she needs is waiting for her. He almost hopes her shuffling steps will trip her, that she’ll need him to help her up, that he’ll be able to touch her. But it doesn’t happen. One foot in front of the other and she stays upright.

They arrive at their destination in short order. The front door looms, though Angel wishes that it were his and that she would allow him to take her to his bed, where he could hold her and care for her and watch her sleep, instead of to her lonely room in her empty house.

“Thank you.”

“You raped me, Angel. This doesn’t mean that I forgive you. Snow doesn’t fix everything.” And with that, she’s through the door, locking it behind her.

The calm, quiet way in which she delivered that stunning blow leaves him reeling. He walks away, shutting down the bond gradually, as he knows he must, and trying desperately to make sense of what just happened. He’d thought they’d made progress, that she saw how much he loves her. He saved her life, nearly at the cost of his own. What more does he have to do?

He’s almost angry, but then he starts to think. Earlier he’d concluded that her calm recitation of those same sentiments meant she was repeating by rote what she believed she should feel, rather than what she truly did. Wouldn’t that be more true now? Now that she has spent a comfortable morning by his side? Now that he has proven himself by being willing to die to save her? She must be so frightened by this, by the realization that what she’d thought was true actually wasn’t. She’s a girl who clings to the familiar, he knows. And that’s all this is.

Rather than cause for despair, he is now assured that along with snow, this morning has given him hope - more hope than he has had before, by a long chalk.

There’s a spring in his step as he makes his way back to the mansion. Soon, he knows, he’ll no longer be returning to an empty bed. It’s Christmas Day, and Willow is his gift.


Tbc...