The Soulmate Series

Mathematics (Chapter Forty of Soulmates)

Angel is inside her. Angel is inside her. Angel is inside her.

It’s not just his cock he’s thrusting into her, either. He’s overwhelming her very soul with that grotesque mockery he calls love. And he’s enlisted her own body to betray her. The body which is even now arching against his, shaming her with the ecstasy it’s forcing her to feel as Angel takes her.

The betrayal is complete as she comes, hard and shattering and hideously beautiful. She can feel the sweat of her heated skin against the cool marble of his, experience the sensations of taking and being taken, even feel his pleasure along with her own. The power of it all overwhelms her. She hates Angel even as she cries out her release, but she hates herself more. How can she be like this, give him this, be a part of Angel’s delusion, even perpetuate it?

It’s over, for now, at any rate. He’s pulled out of her - physically, at least - and he’s holding her in his arms, murmuring words she wishes she couldn’t hear.

“I love you.”

She stays silent, though she knows full well it will make no difference. He will fill the emptiness with what he longs to hear, fancy that in the stillness of her tongue lie the words he keeps fighting to make her say. In some strange way, she’s as invisible as Marcie Ross. Who she really is, what she really feels? Angel sees none of it and he never will...

Except that he does see, at least some things. So maybe the Marcie Ross analogy isn’t entirely apt. Some of what he said to her...it’s not that she believes him, not completely, anyway. But it does show that he pays attention, that he sees. He’s manipulative and a predator, but he’s paid attention, and maybe for longer than she’d like to know.

She needs to be away from him, to have a chance to think. There’s at least one way to buy a few minutes, at least she hopes there is. Shrugging off his embrace, she starts to get out of bed.

“I’m going to take a shower, okay?” She’s surprised at how fearful she sounds. She’s not comfortable with feeling so helpless. Even today, with Faith, she’d never lost that sense that she could get out of it somehow. But now...there’s no way out. Because even dying is no longer an option, not with Angel’s soul and the safety of all those she loves hanging in the balance.

If there’s one thing Angel was wrong about, it is this: Willow does know how to love. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t use the razor sitting on the edge of her bathtub to shave her legs today.

For a disconcerting moment that bends and stretches well past the sixty seconds it’s supposed to be bound within, she’s sure he’s going to get up and insist on joining her, invading and destroying one more piece of her privacy and sovereignty of self, but he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says, making some sort of half-hearted effort at a smile. It’s as false as so very much else about him, but the fact that he’s placating her is as close to a blessing as she could ever expect now, and she flashes an equally cheerless display of upturned lips as she heads for the transparent and pathetic simulacrum of solitude offered by her bathroom. She’s naked, and even though he’s seen her body before, she’s still humiliated by it. So she moves as fast as she can without running.

She steps into the room and closes the door. This is as close to privacy as she’ll ever get, maybe for the rest of her life. It’s sterile in here. Every bit of what might be called decor was selected by her mother. From the towels with the little floral appliques at the bottom to the matching soap dish right down to her toothbrush, it’s all coordinated and pretty and none of it has anything to do with her.

Her bedroom, now that she thinks about it - it’s exactly the same: her mother’s idea of a daughter’s bedroom. Not her daughter, just a daughter, the accessory she and Ira chose to complement their lives, like this house, or their cars, or like the stained glass lamp in the living room that filled Angel with so much snooty contempt. The daughter they know nothing about save her grades and the colleges to which she’s been accepted. The daughter whose death at her own mother’s hands wouldn’t have cost either parent a single tear or a moment’s diversion from one of their myriad “business trips.”

She starts the water in the shower. She knows Angel is listening and he’ll start wondering what’s going on if he doesn’t hear anything soon. He can feel her hopelessness, after all. He can feel everything, just as she can. She’s not sure which she hates more.

The water heats up fairly quickly. She’s grateful for that new water heater her parents put in, though she still wonders why they bothered. It’s not as if they’re home often enough to care about the water temperature, now is it? But right at the moment, Willow cares and while this blessedly hot water doesn’t for one minute mean that her parents love her or even think about her, it feels like that, and she allows herself the luxury of two seconds’ pretending.

She gets in and lets the spray scald her for a moment before she reaches for the knob to adjust the heat. Maybe she’d been hoping that the water would burn away the feel of Angel’s hands on her skin. It doesn’t. And really, how would it? He is still within her, his soul a part of her. It’s as if his fingers are inside her, caressing the underside of her flesh. It’s a morbid image, even grotesque, but it is true for all its hideous evocations of carrion and blood. She grabs her bath sponge and lathers it up, begins scrubbing away what is the least of what makes her feel unclean.

If she could break down, sob her anguish out and let her tears flow down the drain with the soapy water, she would, but she can’t. Now is not the time for grief and despair.

She visualizes a box inside herself, shining steel and so strong, stronger by far than that ancient container they just handed over to The Mayor. It opens, and she pours her feelings into it: all the hate and self-loathing and pain that have no place to go. They look like smoke as they flow into the box, but they stay put as the lid closes with a clang of metal against metal. A key turns in its lock, only to disappear. And then the box itself disappears. Someday, when it is quiet and she is truly alone, she will know where to find them both. She will open the box and all those emotions will come pouring forth. Until then, the bad feelings are safe and so is she.

She shampoos her hair, not caring that she’ll be going to bed with a wet head. Maybe she’ll take ill and die from the resultant pneumonia. That’s not really suicide, is it? No one could blame her if Angelus were loosed on the world because she died from natural causes.

Willow knows she’s not that lucky. She’ll live. She might wake up a bit hoarse, but she’ll wake up and keep on waking up - day after day after endless day. So she finishes up her shower and turns off the water, then grabs her bath towel and dries herself throughly, towel-drying her hair as well. Old habits die hard.

She finds that she’s thankful for those same sensible habits, however, when she spies the clean pajamas and underwear she’d laid out for herself this very morning sitting atop her hamper. There’s something to be said for being fastidious. She puts the garments on, almost comically grateful that she’ll next see Angel when she’s fully-clothed. She knows he can feel her brief burst of elation and she wonders to what he’s ascribing it; she can feel a bit of agitation within him and knows he’s discomfitted by her feelings. Good. It’s high time for it to be his turn to be unsettled by their bond.

Taking a deep breath, she steadies herself and heads back for her bedroom. It will look the same, but it’s less her room now than it has ever been. What her mother hadn’t managed to do, Angel had. It hurts, but it’s a distant hurt. The bulk of her pain is in that box and it’s obedient enough to stay there. Something inside Willow prays that her instincts are true and that the box is safe from the prying tentacles of the bond. What a terrible irony that she cherishes her emotional agony because it’s the only thing she has that stands a chance of remaining hers alone.

When she enters her room, she’s surprised. Angel is dressed, well, partially so, at any rate. He’s found a pair of her father’s sweatpants. They’re a bit too short for him, but they seem loose enough. And he’s changed the sheets on the bed. He’s giving her that shy, awkward look, prevaricating again, trying to win her over, to soften the knife edge of what she’s learned tonight. She’s too tired for another standoff. In fact, she’s too tired for anything. All she wants is to lie down and go to sleep.

That’s not going to happen right now. Angel approaches her, a comb in his hand, and she curses herself for washing her hair. There’s an intimacy in having someone else perform the task of untangling the still-damp strands that she wishes Angel wasn’t going to know. But he is, and all she can do is sit in her chair and surrender.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. Willow isn’t sure whether he means her hair or her, and she doesn’t care. Either way, his admiration is unwelcome. Why can’t he find her as repulsive as all the boys in school were wont to all her life?

“Are you alright?” He asks her that as if he actually cares how she feels and, shockingly, what she’s feeling from him appears to confirm his sincerity. It’s too much. Why couldn’t he have given a damn about how this would affect her before he forced himself on her?

She stays stoic and quiet, offering only her silence in answer. Silence which, while it isn’t exactly honesty, isn’t dishonesty either.

He keeps combing, treating her hair as if it’s something perfect and precious, being as gentle with her now as he was ruthless and violent earlier. The movement of the comb through her hair is maddeningly repetitive.

“I never wanted to hurt you. But you have to see...”

“I’m tired, Angel,” she interrupts. “I need to sleep.”

“Of course.” He’s put off and a bit disturbed by her attitude, and she feels a growing dread that he knows she’s hiding something from him. Still, he oozes treacle as he takes her hand to help her to her feet. “You’ll feel so much better after a good night’s rest.”

She wants to ask him if he really believes that, and if so, what sort of drugs he’s been taking, but she doesn’t. No sense in starting something she can’t possibly finish.

“Yeah.” It’s an answer that, while technically in agreement, really means nothing, and Angel’s smart enough to know it. His brow furrows slightly in that way that Xander used to mock. Willow somehow can’t find the humour in it now, even after conjuring up the image of Xander’s over-the-top impression in her mind’s eye. Someday, maybe tomorrow, or maybe many days from now, she will recall it and laugh hysterically. At least she hopes so, oh how much she hopes so.

Angel watches her as she gets into bed and then he joins her. If she’d had any foolish hopes that he would at least keep his hands to himself, they are quickly dashed. He curves his body around hers, wrapping his arms around her waist, his head in the crook of her neck.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

Willow can’t imagine a day and night filled with less good than these past twenty-four hours have been, but she lets the words pass. Sleep, uncertain refuge though it is, draws her into its embrace. Soon enough, she is somewhere else.


She’s at school and she’s late for class. Oh no! That will never do. If she’s late, she’ll never catch up.

Willow nearly runs down the hall towards her homeroom. A few heads turns toward her as she opens the door and enters. There are giggles and pointed looks, no friendly ones, but most of the students ignore her, and she sees that most of them are strangers.

Still, there are familiar faces in the room. Xander is in the back row, Cordelia in his lap. They are kissing rather passionately and Xander’s hand is up her skirt. No one seems to notice, or care.

Oz is taking notes, though nothing is being said, and he’s wearing glasses. They’re not normal ones and Willow can’t help but stare. The spectacles are huge, with lenses painted black. “All the better to see you with,” she hears him say, though he never looks at her and his lips aren’t moving.

Buffy is there, of course, dressed provocatively in the tiniest miniskirt and tightest tank top Willow has ever seen. She’s doing her best to catch the eye of Angel, who is sitting right in front of her and to her right. He, however, is not paying attention. His eyes are glued to the front of the room, where the teacher is standing, glaring at Willow.

“Nice of you to join us,” Jenny Calendar says, looking at Willow as if she were some sort of insect. “And appropriately dressed, as always.” Her sarcasm is obvious and the classroom erupts in whispering and sniggering.

Willow looks down at her fuzzy pink sweater and knee-length brown skirt. What’s wrong with her clothes?

“Now, if you were to dress like *this*,” she walks over to Buffy, who stands and preens, twirling around for good measure, “you wouldn’t have so much trouble in school.”

Willow is mortified and blushes, which only makes everyone laugh all the louder, including Jenny. She looks around for an empty desk, but finds none.

“Are you just going to stand there?” She is being mocked again.

“I can’t find a seat.”

“So the one right there isn’t good enough for you, your highness?” Jenny points to the desk next to Angel. Someone had been sitting there two seconds earlier...hadn’t they?

Willow has tears in her eyes as she takes her chair. What has gone wrong? She’s good in school, isn’t she? A moment later, someone passes her a note. It’s blank. She looks around, but no one is laughing and she wonders what this is all about. For some reason, nothing is going as it’s supposed to go. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her textbook. Opening it, she tries to make sense of her lessons, but she can’t understand the words.

Jenny speaks, this time addressing the class. “Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?” Sniggering again. “Oh yes, who can tell me what two and two is?”

Willow raises her hand eagerly. She knows this! She can redeem herself. “Four,” she carols, even before she’s called on. To her shock, the room erupts in gales of laughter.

“Why am I not surprised that you don’t know how to put two and two together?” Jenny looks at her scornfully. “Angel, will you please tell us the correct answer?”

Angel winks at Jenny. “Twenty-two.”

But... that’s wrong! Willow knows it’s wrong. Two plus two equals four. That’s the answer. That’s always been the answer.

“Miss Calendar?” Willow raises her hand again. “That’s not the right answer. Two and two are four. It says so right here.” Giles is supposed to be here. He’ll back her up. But when she looks around, he’s nowhere to be seen. Oh well, she still has her book. She opens it to the page where she knows the proof lies, only to find it blank. The answer was right there, but it’s gone, and now Angel has grabbed the book away from her.

“Oh really? Where does it say that?” He holds the book out of her reach as she tries to grab it and Jenny laughs even louder than the rest of the class. After a fruitless attempt to regain possession of her textbook, Willow sits down at last, defeated, as Angel takes the book up to the front of the room and holds it up for everyone to see.

The page has only a few bold characters on it, but they are large enough for everyone to read:

2 + 2 = 22

Jenny looks at her with disgust. “Since it’s obvious you can’t learn, I will have to ask you to leave my class.”

This is the most humiliating experience of Willow’s life and there’s nothing she can do about it save to do as she’s told. But as she stands to leave, Angel speaks up. “Miss Calendar, I’ll tutor her. She’ll learn.”

“That’s very generous of you, Angel.” Jenny smiles at him fondly. “Say thank you, Willow. It’s very kind of him to teach you what you should already know.”

Angel takes her arm and Willow is overwhelmed by terror. “No! I don’t care if you expel me and if I never get into college. I don’t want Angel to tutor me.”

There’s laughter again, more sinister this time, and the room grows darker. Willow breaks free from Angel and tries to leave, but she can’t seem to find the door. She looks around frantically, but it isn’t there, and everyone is ignoring her now. In fact, they seem oblivious to what is happening. It’s as if the only people in the room are Willow and Angel and Jenny.

Angel comes up behind her, pulling her against him. She can feel his erection against her back. “I have so much to teach you, little girl.”

She’s struggling against Angel. Jenny has to help her. She can’t leave Willow in the hands of this monster, can she? “No! I don’t want Angel to tutor me. Please!”

“And since when did you have a say in the matter?” Jenny’s voice is harsh and cold. “I gave you to Angel. It’s up to him to say what becomes of you.”


With those words ringing in her ears, Willow awakens, breathing heavily and shaking. The clock on the bedside table tells her it’s 7:14 AM. Her room should be filled with light by now, but it isn’t. There’s a blanket tacked up over the french doors and her room is as dark as it ever is at night. Not that she needs the blanket to remind her that she’s not alone. At least one aspect of her dream was borrowed from her waking reality: Angel is holding her close and his erection is indeed pressed against the small of her back.

“Nightmare?” His tone isn’t actually conveying the intensity of concern she can feel from him. To his credit, it somehow occurs to him that she might not be finding the evidence of his desire terribly comforting. He releases his hold on her and allows her to lie on her back.

“What else would it be?” She’s too tired and confused to care that she might anger him with those words.

“Willow, I...”

“Just save it, Angel, okay? I don’t want to talk about it. It was a nightmare. Big deal. I have them every night.” That’s true, actually, though this one is very different from the others. Not that she’s going to tell Angel that. But until now, her nightmares have always been basically straightforward replays of the first rape or scenarios where it happened again. This nightmare...it was full of symbols and secrets and Willow is certain there are things she’s supposed to learn from it. Of course, she’s not likely to get the chance to mull it over. Not with Angel’s oppressive concern and even more oppressive presence in the way.

“I’m sorry.” He’s looking down at her, his eyes full of sorrow.

Maybe if Willow hadn’t locked so much of her anguish over last night’s rape away in that box, she’d be more wary, but numbness passes surprisingly well for courage. “What are you sorry for? That I have bad dreams? They’re nowhere near as bad as my life, thanks to you, and I somehow don’t think you’re sorry for that.”

He’s silent for a moment, though he reaches down to brush a strand of hair away from her face. The way she flinches hits him like a punch in the jaw. A part of her revels in having caused him pain. “I am sorry, Willow. There’s nothing in this world I’ve ever done that I regret more than hurting you.”

“But you’d do it again, wouldn’t you? If it was the only way to get what you want?”

He looks away. There’s her answer. Written in the curve of his jaw as it sets in an uncomfortable line and in the waves of...some feeling she doesn’t quite understand. There’s something about that which makes her think of the dream.

He’s different. Maybe she never really understood that before. Because he has a demon inside him, as well as a soul, and that makes him something quite unlike her, quite unlike anyone she’s ever known. Even Oz wasn’t like this. His demon was a separate entity, more like an alternate personality or perhaps demonic possession than a part of him. But Angel’s nothing like that, his demon is a part of him. He’s an alien creature.

2 + 2 = 22

Knowledge slams into her like a train. All this time, she’s let the fact that Angel has a soul confound and confuse her; she’s been treating this whole terrible relationship as something occurring between two people. It isn’t. It isn’t like that at all.

“You’re not human, are you?” The words are softly-spoken, but he hears her.

He looks into her face, surprised and a bit bewildered, but she knows that her feelings will show him what she means. They do. “No, I’m not.”

“And this,” she ‘s speaking of what’s happened between them - all of it, “it’s love to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” His voice is almost as soft as hers, but there’s steel in it.

“I’m human, Angel.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Do you really?” She’s searching his eyes and his feelings, but she’s not finding what she needs. Maybe because her bond is with his soul...and that’s not all he is.

“Yes, I do. It’s just...it’s different for me.”

“Because you’re a demon.” She’s not asking a question. But she’s not accusing him either. It’s a simple statement of fact.

“Yes.” Funny the way that she can tell that reply means he respects her. But the next words he speaks chill her to the bone. “You’re hiding from me.”

“Yes.” What point is there in lying? Perhaps the respect she’s garnered might allow her to hold back something as long as she’s honest.

“I can find you, you know, no matter what you do.” Another simple statement of fact, devoid of menace.

“I know.” And she does know, finally. Because Angel is more than she is, and always will be, and there will never be equality between them. The box was and is a fool’s conceit. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hears Jenny’s mocking laughter. She has not yet learned all of her lessons, even now.

“You can keep your secrets, at least for the time being.” He pulls her to him again and Willow is terrified she’ll have to pay for the boon, but nothing happens. She feels no surge of desire from him, just sorrow and concern and the obsession that is always there.

“I love you.” Willow doesn’t bother to contradict him this time. Useless to call the truth a falsehood anymore. She just lies there, still and silent, feeling so very small and helpless.

She wonders if Buffy ever felt like this with Angel, but even as the thought occurs to her, she knows it’s ridiculous. Buffy never knew the truth and never will. And maybe being a Slayer gave her an equality Willow will never have. Or maybe it at least gave her the luxury of believing.

Of course, all those musings are academic. Idle distractions that aren’t really very distracting at all. What is distracting, however, is the doorbell. Who could be here this early in the morning on a Saturday?

She looks at Angel, praying for him to tell her that it isn’t Buffy. For once, her prayers are answered. He shakes his head, knowing precisely what she’s afraid of - after all, it doesn’t take telepathy for that.

Willow gets out of bed, putting her finger to her lips in a childlike ‘shushing’ gesture. She grabs her robe off the hook on her closet door and makes her way out of her bedroom, ignoring the look of amused curiosity on Angel’s face...and the predatory feelings she’s picking up from him as well. He’s not happy that their solitude has been broken in on, she can tell, for all his face belies his emotions.

As she approaches the front door, she tries to think of a good way to get her visitor to leave as quickly as possible. Her visitor, however, is precisely the kind of person who can’t be maneuvered. Willow opens the door and is met with the imposing figure of Cordelia Chase.

“Hi.” To say that Willow’s shocked would be an understatement. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see you. It’s just...”

“I was worried about you, being alone here and all. I have to be at work in an hour,” she says, barging right past Willow and into the living room, “but I figured I would stop by and check on you first. Are you okay?”

Good question, not that Willow can answer it. Not honestly, anyway. She’s also rather anxious. What if Angel’s listening? She’s pretty sure he’s not on the list of people Cordelia wants to share her newfound economic and employment status with.

“I’m, um...fine. It’s kind of a bad time now, though.” Truer words were never spoken. She struggles not to fidget, but she’s pretty sure she looks like she’s had too much caffeine.

“Willow, what’s wrong with you? You’re acting really strange and...oh my god! Is Faith here? Did she come back? Because if she did, I am so calling Buffy right now.” Cordelia gets something out of her purse and speaks far more loudly than before, nearly shouting, in fact. “Because I have a cell phone you know. So whoever’s here better watch out. I have the Slayer on speed dial. The real Slayer.” Willow’s touched at Cordelia’s bravado. Especially after her next words, delivered considerably more softly. “Is Faith here. Because if she is, we’re both in trouble now. My phone’s been turned off.”

“It’s not Faith, Cordelia.” Angel’s voice can be heard at the foot of the staircase. He’s fully dressed, much to Willow’s relief. “I stayed here last night to watch over Willow. To make sure she was safe in case Faith or The Mayor decided to try anything.” He walks into the room as he speaks, the look on his face clearly indicating his disdain at Cordelia not thinking to worry about Willow until this morning.

“Oh.” Cordelia looks chastened, but there’s a shrewd sort of something in her eyes that has Willow worried. “That was thoughtful of you.” She looks at her watch. “You know, normally I’d stand around and play some conversational games for a minute or two, but I have somewhere I have to be so I need to get right to it...Willow, would you excuse us for a moment? Angel and I need to talk.”

Willow is no longer worried. She’s traveled right past that and straight to paralyzing fright. What on Earth does Cordelia want to talk to Angel about? Is it wrong of her to hope that Cordelia is reborn into shallow and wants to rip him a new one for wearing last season’s shirt?

“Sure thing.” Angel is answering for both of them. The cocksure predator she feels will brook no refusal from Willow, so she moves to leave them alone, obedient to the last - and this may well be the last.

“See you later, Cordelia. Have a good day at...” She stops before she says ‘work’, though she’s positive Angel already heard Cordelia talk about it.

“We’ll talk later, Willow.” Cordelia’s voice follows her, sounding more like a threat than a farewell, but that could just be Willow’s terror colouring her perceptions. She hopes so.

A part of her wants to eavesdrop from the stairs, but she’s too apprehensive of what she might hear to linger, so she heads back to her room. She will wait. Soon enough, too soon, most likely, she’ll hear the answers to her questions: What is Cordelia saying? What is Angel telling her? Does Cordelia know the truth? Is Angel making it worse? Will Buffy find out?

Willow’s not at all sure she really wants to know the answers, truth be told. Ignorance, while not genuine bliss, is at least a happier state than understanding. Willow’s learned that the hard way. But, like or not, she knows that knowledge is inescapable. Deep down, she knows it’s the only true friend she has, though Cordelia is doing what she thinks is her very best to be her friend as well. She only hopes those efforts don’t cause harm to come to Cordelia...or to her.

Tbc...