The Soulmate Series

Cracks in the Pavement (Chapter Thirty-Nine of Soulmates)

“You bastard!”

Angel can feel the sting of Willow’s hand against his cheek, but surprisingly, there’s no accompanying rush of anger. His fangs haven’t dropped and his control hasn’t lessened one iota. He realizes what’s happened, of course, to engender this impassioned display - not that he understands. She’s angry that he never made her aware that he heard her invitation. It makes no sense to him, however, since she should trust him more after seeing this demonstration of his restraint. But he does recognize that her distress and her anger are really all his fault. He’s been handling this situation completely wrong from the very beginning.

Why on Earth did he think it was a good idea to leave her alone, to allow her disordered fancies to have time to fester and take root in her psyche until she could no longer see the truth at all anymore? It’s no wonder she’s so distraught, so unsettled. She’s been telling her lie to her friends for so long that it’s completely distorted her memories of what actually happened, and, like a fool, he’s permitted it to get to this point. If there is any anger in him, therefore, it’s at himself for letting things become so completely confused, not at her - no, never at her.

Speaking of confusion, that’s one of the emotions he can feel from her right now, along with a disheartening level of fury and fear. It hurts more than he can bear that his love is so very afraid of him. He makes sure she can feel his calm and his forgiveness; strangely, though, it doesn’t seem to help. Instead, it only increases her level of panic.

“Willow, I understand...” That’s all he’s able to say before her anger overwhelms him.

“You understand? You keep saying that, but I don’t think you even know what the word means. Because you don’t, Angel, you don’t understand anything. You’re evil! All this time, manipulating the bond, making me think it would fade whenever you weren’t around...knowing about the invitation ever since...but never saying a word? You’re...you’re a monster. Even with your soul.”

Oh, so that’s it as well. She’s figured out the truth about their bond and the way he’s been letting her think it’s affected by distance. How could this have happened? He’s been so careful. His mind goes back to earlier tonight. He must have opened it too much...and too soon. Damn! He hadn’t counted on her being quite so lucid and analytical. She’s a braver and more resilient girl than he’d thought. For all the trouble that’s making for him, he can’t help loving her even more. She’s an amazing creature, his love.

“I did it for you...”

“For me?” She interrupts again, her face turning red with agitation and he’s just about fed up. He’s allowed her to rant and rave and call him vile names and accuse him of the basest crimes. There’s a limit to what even love will permit and she’s reached it at last.

“Enough!” He’s not quite shouting, but his tone is firm and brooks no defiance. She offers none, going instantly quiet. The fear he feels from her is overwhelming and he’s saddened by that, but there’s no help for it. For now, she must fear and obey. It’s all for her own good anyway.

“Willow,” his tone is quieter now, calmer, “can we please talk this over like two rational adults? Give me a chance to explain myself?” He doesn’t say defend. After all, he’s done nothing wrong and he doesn’t want a glitch in his choice of words to reinforce her mistaken beliefs. It’s time for her to be made to see reason. It’s unfortunate, and largely his fault, but he’s going to have to take her firmly in hand.

She looks around the room as if she’s suddenly aware that there’s a bed in here. Her unease quickly equals her fear. “Umm...talk? Okay. But can we go downstairs? To the living room?”

On this point, he can concede. To do so, after all, will probably secure some much needed trust and good will. Besides, it little matters where the conversation begins. He knows where it will end. “Alright. Lead the way.” He smiles indulgently and he’s gratified by the decreased turbulence he can feel in her emotions.

She leads him out of her bedroom and down the stairs. He’s struck by the artificial quality of her home. It looks like something out of a commercial, or a magazine advertisement, nothing at all like a place where a real family lives. Its manufactured coziness comes off as so contrived that it wouldn’t even pass muster as the setting for a television show. Of course, he might be less disgusted by it if he didn’t know how completely lacking in warmth and devotion her family truly is.

His eyes sweep the living room and he stifles a chuckle as Willow turns on the imitation Frank Lloyd Wright stained glass lamp on the console table. It wouldn’t do for him to be patronizing and snobbish right now, though he’s sadly aware that he wasn’t completely able to suppress his disdain in time.

How much has Willow figured out about his control of their bond? All she mentioned was her realization that he had manipulated the intensity of it, made her believe that it faded when there was distance between them. She said nothing, however, about his ability to control just which emotions she picks up on from him. Given her lack of restraint earlier, he’s willing to bet that she’d have said something if she knew, so therefore, she’s not gained that particular bit of wisdom. Good. That’s a very lucky thing.

They stand awkwardly for a moment that seems to last for a very long time and Angel takes in the remainder of his surroundings. There’s too much furniture in the room and too many knickknacks and expensive - but artificial - flowers, as if filling the room with clutter will create the illusion that there is living being done in this living room. Even in the dim light of that godawful lamp, Angel can see the dust that gives lie to that impression.

“Why don’t we sit down?” He’d like to build a fire in the fireplace that yawns sadly and emptily beneath it’s precisely-decorated mantel, but he’s sure Willow would find that threateningly romantic right now. “We can talk more comfortably that way.” Smiling now, ever so slightly, he hopes she finds his manner reassuring. He’s doing his best to temper the resolve he’s feeling with the love that is always there for her, the love that means he’ll never harm her - if only she could just trust and believe in him.

Angel waits for her to be seated, a bit crestfallen as he sees her huddle against the arm of the sofa. He then sits down in the middle of the hideous couch, far enough away to give her the requisite amount of personal space, but still close enough to reach out and touch her, though that’s a temptation he resists...at least for now. She’s still so very fearful of him.

“Now we can talk.” He smiles again, more broadly this time. It doesn’t seem to help and he decides to allow her to feel his irritation. He’s been so patient and understanding all this time and this is the thanks he gets? “Like I said upstairs, Willow, I did what I did for you.”

She’s about to interrupt...again. This time, he’s having none of it. Holding his hand up in clearly admonitory fashion, he continues. “You’ve had a chance to speak your mind. It’s time to let me have mine, okay?”

Her lips are tight, like a toddler’s, as she nods her head in the affirmative. And that’s really the root of their difficulty, isn’t it? He’s cursing himself anew for his choices. For all her brilliant intellect, she’s still so very much a child, a child who’s had no chance to learn wisdom through the guidance of parents or parental figures, a child left to her own devices to learn the world and its ways - and to learn them so very badly.

Intellectual ability is nothing like wisdom. Sadly, she’s far too clever to realize that, and there’s been no one in her life to exercise any authority over her, to teach her and guide her. So now, here she is, more immature and ignorant than she realizes, and far too used to an independence she’s entirely unqualified to exercise. It’s not too late, but the cure will be painful. Still, he’s willing to do whatever it takes to make her happy, and he knows that her happiness lies with him.

“I love you.” She opens her mouth to speak. This is it. Time to overcome his revulsion at her fear. Fear, after all, will prove a sure path to learning. “No! You’re going to let me speak and you’re going to listen to me.”

She goes silent, but she’s trembling. He’s let her feel the full force of his emotions this time and her knuckles are white as she grips the arm of the couch. He nearly drowns in her terror.

The next words are softer, more gentle, but he’s still determined that she show him respect. He’ll just have to deal with her fright, remind himself that it will soon give way to the love and affection he wants so desperately. “I love you, Willow. I know you don’t understand that, that you think love is something different, but you don’t know anything about love.”

There’s some defiance in her now; she feels insulted and patronized, but Angel is not going to apologize. “Hear me out. Where did you learn about love? Your parents, Willow, do they love each other? Do they love you?”

Parents. The word brings tears to her eyes immediately and Angel wishes he didn’t have to do what he’s about to, but he has no choice. Sometimes a wound must be opened for healing to take place.

“Do they hug you? Are they there for you when you’re hurting? Can you go to them for advice? Do they know anything about your life? Do they care - even a little - about who you are and what you do?” He stops for a moment, gauging her response. She’s silent, but her tears have begun flowing down her pale cheeks. Her pain cuts Angel to the quick, but he goes on. He has to go on, or all of this will have been for naught and he truly will have hurt his love.

“They don’t, do they?” And now for the real blow. He closes his eyes for a split second, then speaks. “Tell me the truth, Willow. Do you really think it was just the demon that night?” He doesn’t have to spell it out. She knows which night he means. “Or do you know? Know that deep down, your mother was dying to get rid of a daughter who has been a millstone around her neck since the day she was born?”

She’s on her feet, hands over her ears, her anguish overpowering as she sobs fit to break his heart. “Stop it!” she screams, “Stop it!” Just as she’s about to collapse, he takes her in his arms. She doesn’t fight him, and a part of him can’t help but glory in this moment as he holds her close.

He leads her back to the sofa. “Shh, sweetheart. It’s alright.” Incongruous to comfort her after he himself provoked her anguish, but it’s really not his fault, after all. Her parents are the ones who abandoned her in every meaningful way. It’s their barren mockery of parental care which is the source of her tears and her sorrow. And now he will soothe her through it.

Moments pass as he waits for her shaking to subside and for her to quiet enough to hear him through her grief. She makes no move to break free of his embrace and his senses are filled with the warmth of her body and the salt-scent of her tears as they soak through his shirt.

“When was the last time you cried about them, about what they’ve done to you? Have you ever? Really and truly? Or do you just tell yourself that they do the best they can? That the reason they leave you alone so much as that they’re busy and they trust you and know you can take care of yourself?” Bull’s-eye. She’s looking up into his face, her eyes wide and surprised. “That night, when your mother lit the pyre, when your father wasn’t even there...when they left the next day without a word, did you realize then - that they don’t love you, that they never did?”

Now she pushes away from him, but only slightly, so he allows it. “You’re wrong, Angel. They’re just...busy...and different, you know? They’re...”

“Cold and callous and incapable of affection.” This time he’s the one who interrupts. “But you’ve just proved my point, Willow. In order to consider them to be loving parents, you have had to take on a completely distorted view of what love is.” He takes both her hands in his and gazes into her eyes. “Love isn’t leaving you alone. It isn’t saying ‘here’s your life, do whatever you want with it.’ Love isn’t distant or dispassionate and it’s not something you must constantly earn. Love is powerful and irrational.”

She’s fearful again, so he uses an example he knows will win her over. “Look at Joyce. She would do anything for Buffy. She forgives her for everything, always has, even before she knew Buffy was the Slayer. She’s risked her own life, made sacrifices, accepted things most people would never believe. Because she loves her.”

There’s no answer from her for a time, then her soft words emerge. “Xander. He’s my friend. I love him. And he loves me.”

Angel resists the urge to snort. Xander? That’s her best example? “He clung to you out of desperation, used you, because no one else would give him the time of day. And then he ditched you for Cordelia the minute he had the chance. They’re both being nice to you now, but who knows how long that will last, You know as well as I do that neither one of them cares about you the way you care about them.”

Silence again, along with a heightened sense of pain and distress, and there’s a name he can feel on the tip of her tongue, a name she doesn’t mention, doesn’t want to expose to the sharp glare of reality. Well, as much as he hesitates to hurt her more, he has to do it.

“And then there’s Oz. Who pretended to be so happy to find a girl who accepted his demon, but who never let you in on how much of a demon he really was, who high-tailed it and ran from the truth, even though he thought you were suffering. He never even offered to kill the one who hurt you, did he? And if you were so sure, so very sure, that he loved you, why didn’t you tell him about us, Willow? Why not tell him, of all people, the truth? Because you know the real truth, don’t you?”

Fresh tears threaten are falling and he pulls her close again. “I hurt you. I know that. But believe me when I tell you...when I swear to you...I never, ever meant to give you one moment’s pain. I do love you, Willow. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything, as man or demon. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. You’re a part of me, more than you know.”

He waits, knowing she’ll ask him about those last few words. He’s not disappointed. “What do you mean, ‘more than I know’?” She pulls away from him, and once again, he allows her this small bit of freedom. She’s still sitting right beside him, after all.

He, of course, conveys discomfiture, as if he revealed something he’d never meant to, and it works. He can feel her taking him as exactly what he portrays. “I...Giles asked me not to say anything. He was worried it might upset you, especially since we’re not sure exactly what...”

“Angel, what is it?” He can tell she’s apprehensive, and that she’s very worried about this being something Giles is involved with. That’s a good thing, he’s given her yet another far more suitable focus for her anxiety than himself.

“It’s the curse, Willow. Something happened when you performed it and...”

“Oh my God! What is it? I mean, am I in danger? Are you? Are we...?”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that, it’s just...”

“What, Angel? You’re scaring me.”

“Our souls are bound, Willow. It’s not just a connection, like what I had with the gypsy who first cursed me, or even like the one between sire and childe. Our souls are linked together, part of each other. The magician who the Mayor hired to try to take my soul told Giles my soul couldn’t be taken - because it’s bound to yours, secured...forever.”

She holds her breath, taking it all in. “Does Giles...does he...?”

“No. He doesn’t know anything about us. I told him the connection feels no different to me than the one I had with the gypsy.”

“Oh. That’s good, I guess.” It’s apparent that she’s in shock. Which is fortuitous. Anything that allows him to get past the intellect she uses to keep herself inured from reality is a good thing.

“Willow,” he takes her hand again, “now are you beginning to understand? When I came back, after all those centuries, and you were there...you were all I could feel. You were everything good and human and safe and...all I knew was how very much I loved you, just as I love you now. But I didn’t understand then...that you didn’t experience our connection the way I did. That it hadn’t been sharpened for you the way that my time in Hell had sharpened it for me. I didn’t see your fear or your panic. All I saw was my soulmate and how much I needed you. I am so sorry, Willow.”

Has she heard a word he said? Perhaps her shock is too great. Her next words seem to indicate that’s so, because they have nothing to do with his impassioned plea. “I don’t understand...the curse...how?”

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“I did the curse just the way it said to in Miss Calendar’s notes and...something must have happened...when it took over...”

Took over? Now Angel is the one who’s curious. “What are you talking about? What took over?”

“Something...when I did the curse in the hospital...after I came out of the coma...I started the spell and then...it just took over. The next thing I remember was feeling something go through me and it was over and...I don’t understand. How did it go wrong?”

As much as her characterization of their bond as being the result of the spell going wrong pains him, what Angel is most struck by is the rest of the tale. She did the spell when she was in such a weakened state? Magick so powerful...in the hands of one both injured and untried? It should have, by all rights, been fatal. But instead...something intervened. Something powerful, with a greater purpose in mind.

This is yet more confirmation that he and Willow have always been destined for each other. Even his earlier union with Buffy was nothing more than a link in the chain fate was forging to bind them together as one. Now if only he can make Willow see.

“It didn’t go wrong. Don’t you see? What happened when you did the spell...it proves that this...that you and I...” Words aren’t working. Willow’s feelings tell him that. Time to step up the game.

Taking her face in his hands, he kisses her. Gentle but firm, his lips against hers, he moves his hands to her shoulders and then to her waist as she tries to pull away.

He stops to let her breathe, and he’s disappointed - though not surprised - when she protests. “Angel, please don’t...”

Finger against her lips, caressing them even as he stops her from speaking. “Don’t think. Just feel. Close your eyes. Feel how much I love you.” She’s frightened and her heart is racing in panic, but she does as she’s bidden. He concentrates and pours all the passion and need and love he feels into her through their bond, drowning her in it. He kisses her again.

He wants to be soft, to restrain himself, but there’s only so much he can manage. Willow is in his arms, at last, and the feel of her warm body against his as he kisses her arouses him like nothing else. He’s going to have her.

Her fear and her resistance are still there, of course, but he’s overwhelming them with the force of his own desire. His hands move over her. He’s forgotten nothing, knows exactly what to do to make her respond. It’s more glorious than he remembers: touching her, feeling her response to his attentions. She’s perfect, so very perfect.

Her nipples harden as he caresses her breasts and he can smell her arousal. The cotton of her dress sliding against the flesh whose velvet softness he hasn’t felt in so long, the silk slide of her hair against his face as his lips worship her throat - so many delightful sensations. Best of all though, is the scent of her - the scent of a body ready to welcome him inside now that he’s won it over. Now that he’s managed to accomplish that, surely her mind and heart will follow, and soon.

But she’s not lost in him the way he is in her. He’s shocked when he feels her hands pushing against his chest, trying to get away from him. “Stop, please, Angel! I don’t want this. Please.” Her voice is choked and she’s crying. Instead of even the smallest reflection of what he feels for her, all she’s feeling is fright and despair, despite her body’s eager response to his touch.

No. He’s not going to allow this. She’s his, and if he needs to be forceful to make her see that, then so be it. He’d underestimated the damage her dysfunctional upbringing and independent ways did to her psyche, but he’s undaunted. She’ll see, once they’ve made love, she’ll feel the magic between them, just as she did that day at the mansion, before Buffy’s arrival and his own stupidity threw everything into chaos.

His eyes flash gold and it’s all he can do to keep his true face from emerging. He lets her feel that struggle. What was it he’d realized earlier? That fear was Willow’s surest path to learning? It’s time for her to let go the reins and realize that it’s better for her to give herself over to him. It’s patently obvious that only one of them understands their relationship and what will make them both happy.

“You do want this, Willow. I can feel it, smell it.” She blushes when he says that, as if she’s ashamed of her desire. That only fuels Angel’s impatience. “Your body knows, knows that you’re mine, that you love me the way I love you. Why won’t you accept that?”

“Because it’s not true. Maybe you can make me want you physically, but my heart, my mind? They don’t want you, Angel. Whatever happened with the curse was a mistake...”

Those last words break his control and he can feel the ridges form as his fangs descend. She’s silent now.

“Enough!” He is a fearsome creature now, all demon as he stares into Willow’s eyes, which go pale and glassy under the heat of his fury.

He manages to bring himself back under control, his face going human once more. He softens his tone as he strokes her face. She’s shaking with a terror so powerful it nearly makes him weep. “I’m sorry for shouting at you, sweetheart. I didn’t mean it. I love you.” With that, he’s kissing her again, softly at first, stroking her gently, flooding her with his love and his repentance for being angry with her.

This time, there’s no resistance, though a part of him knows it’s because she’s too frightened to oppose him any longer. Her body, however, is responding again and he’ll use that to make her see.

He picks her up. He doesn’t want this special union to take place on that hideous couch or on the living room floor. Willow deserves comfort. So he carries her back upstairs to that girlish bedroom where he once asked for her help with Buffy. That was so long ago.

And now here they are, in that very room. The room where he’s about to make love to her, to make her see that they are truly one. He sets her down on the bed. One look from him tells her not to move as he goes to her closet and finds a blanket to hang over the window. He doesn’t want any threat of sunlight to interrupt this time with his lover.

Once he’s done, he joins her on the bed. She’s sitting there, her eyes brimming with tears. “Angel, please...”

“Shh...” Any further words are lost as he covers her mouth with his own. She tastes of salt and sweetness and purity. She tastes like love.

He moves to pull that horrible dress she’s wearing over her head. He can feel her want to refuse him, but she doesn’t. Her face is hidden for a few seconds by garish, painted cotton, and then she’s nearly nude before him, her whole body tinted crimson.

“So beautiful.”

“Please...”

“We’ve done enough talking tonight, don’t you think?” She’s still afraid, but he’s resigned to that. She’s obedient, thankfully, and she’s still aroused. That’s enough, at least for now.

He lays her back on the bed and he kisses her neck, resisting the temptation to mark her. Their relationship is still too fragile, and will be even after they’ve made love, to withstand the scrutiny of Giles and Buffy and Xander.

His mouth moves lower, suckling her breast through the flimsy fabric of her bra before he removes it, doing his best not to be too eager. She stiffens slightly, but her nipples are hard and aching for his touch, and he can see further evidence of her arousal in the wetness glistening through her panties. It proves her intransigence is nothing more than some childish fit of temper at realizing she doesn’t know best after all.

The taste of her skin, the scent of her need, it’s all too much. He’d wanted to take this slowly, to touch her and taste her and be gentle, but it’s impossible. Tearing off her panties, he enters her just as she cries “no” one last time. Her words, after all, mean so little when set against the movement of her body as it arches up to meet his.

Warm, wet...she is heaven. The feel of her tight heat surrounding his cock is even more glorious than he remembered. How has he done without her for so long? He’s not sure, but he knows that he’ll never be able to do so again. His strokes are forceful, his rhythm insistent, and he tries not to hurt her. Her body welcomes his into it and her protests have ceased. She’s everything he wants and more. He’ll never get enough of her.

He won’t last, he knows, so he reaches down and finds her clitoris, making sure he’ll carry her over the edge when he comes. Her mind is still fighting against the truth of their union, but her mental resistance is no match for his passion as he almost forces his emotions into her with each thrust of his cock. A moment later she follows him into ecstasy as they both find release.

He’s sure now that they’ve made love again that she can deny it no longer. She is his.


Tbc...