Nine Points of the Law

Nine Points of the Law

He has saved the world again, or at least saved the woman he loves. He should be sitting here with her in his arms, holding her, kissing her, suffused with the exhilaration of the brave knight who rescued his lady fair.

He’s not.

He’s sitting here alone, and confused, and slightly afraid.

There was another demon inside him tonight, rousing his own demon to the surface in a way that leaves Angel all too painfully aware of what he is. A part of him wants to cry out for Buffy to take him in her arms and make the world disappear, and a part of him wants to send her away forever.

He’s a vampire, an evil thing. She is pure and good and charged with the task of ridding the world of unholy creatures such as he. He’d forgotten that somehow, but tonight has brought it all home to him, reacquainted him with reality - it’s neither comfortable nor comforting, and he’s all alone with it. All alone and craving the solace of warm arms and soft skin.

There’s a knock at his door and it startles him. Buffy’s not one for knocking. She’s more a “march right in” kind of girl, which works since Angel’s never felt a need to lock his door. Why bother? He doesn’t have much worth stealing, and even if he did, when was the last time there was an ordinary burglary in Sunnydale?

So who’s paying a call on him, and at what he realizes isn’t the safest hour for anyone but the Slayer to be roaming the streets? There’s more than one way for him to find out, really, but the easiest one and the one least reflective of his demonic nature is to go the door and answer it.

Just like a human.

Just like who he wishes he was.

Just like who he isn’t.

Like it or not, his senses kick in before he even reaches for the doorknob; the scent tells him it’s Willow. Her second visit in nearly as many hours. It’s a surprise. For a moment, he considers not answering. But that would mean she’d be making yet another dangerous trek across town all alone, and he simply can’t allow that. So he’ll have to let her in for at least long enough to exchange a few pleasantries before he accompanies her home.

“Hey,” he says as he opens the door. It’s polite - in the current, casual sort of way he knows she’s familiar with - but it’s not an encouragement to come in and sit a spell either. Exactly the balance he’s hoping to strike, keeping her just uncomfortable enough to leave her coat on and head back from whence she came in a moment or two.

She’s nervous. He doesn’t even need his enhanced perception to tell him that. She’s shifting her weight from one foot to the other and she’s chewing her bottom lip ever so slightly. That’s something she needs to stop doing. He can smell the blood her teeth are bringing to the surface and this is not the best time for such a thing..

“Hey,” she replies, though in a vastly different tone and with eyes darting everywhere but where they’d fix on him.

It occurs to him her nerves may have more to do with him being imposingly male than with his status as one of the undead. He wonders about that. After all, it was her idea to use his demonic nature to defeat Eyghon. She’s more aware of what he is, and seemingly more comfortable with it, than anyone. Including Buffy. Including himself.

How can it be that his humanity discomfits her more than his inhumanity? How can it be that she’s calm as anything when facing his demon and near to trembling when facing him as a man?

He steps back, the gesture an obvious invitation for her to enter his apartment - obvious, that is, to anyone but Willow, who remains standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Come in,” he says, taking another step back and sounding a bit more exasperated than he’d intended.

“Oh, okay, thanks.” She seems to be oblivious to anything insulting in his manner. The uncomfortable realization that her lack of awareness is more than likely a defense mechanism built to withstand the constant slights and taunts of the intellectually inferior but socially superior hits him. He’d enjoyed focusing his pity on himself tonight and he’s almost comically annoyed with Willow for polluting the purity of his self-absorption.

That’s terrible of him, of course, and he feels a sudden need to compensate Willow for an injustice she’ll never know she endured. “Would you like to sit down? Are you thirsty? I have water, tea...” He raises an eyebrow in hopeful invitation.

Amazingly, that’s one nuance Willow does pick up on, though Angel realizes he should hardly be surprised. For all her attempts at following the laissez-faire rules of modern behaviour, deep down she’s polite in almost the old-fashioned way and she knows that accepting hospitality is as important as offering it.

“I’d like a glass of water. If it’s not too much trouble.”

The idea that getting a glass of water might be too much effort would make him laugh if he didn’t recall just who was making that statement. Willow and he might not be the closest of friends, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know her. In fact, bringing his knowledge to the surface, he knows her very well - better, even, than he’d ever realized.

Of course, that actually makes sense. He’s a demon and a predator, one who always knows as much as he can about everyone and everything around him. The world is a hostile environment and he can’t help but treat it as such, for all his soul and his conceits.

He goes to the kitchen and fetches a glass of water. He’s back in seconds; it’s not like his apartment is what one would call spacious.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.” She stands there, coat on, glass in hand, looking as if she has no idea what to do next.

“Would you...would you like to sit down?” He’s mirroring her awkwardness, he’s surprised to note. Another predator’s trick - lulling prey into a false sense of safety. How is it that she draws his demon’s subtlety from him?

“Oh. Sure.” And she does, almost collapsing onto the couch. It’s obvious she feels silly for having stood there with her glass.

There is, unfortunately, a question he should have asked first, one he’ll make her feel worse by asking now. Still, it has to be said. “Can I take your coat?”

She’s up in a flash, blushing and acting as if she’s done something stupid. “Yeah, of course. Thank you.” Unbuttoning her coat, she almost gets tangled up in it as she removes it. Her blouse gaps slightly and he gets a short but unexpected glimpse of pale skin.

Shockingly, he has to will his body not to respond. He doesn’t see Willow that way...does he? Well, he had a dream or two (or more) after rescuing her from the boiler room, but those were dreams. Dreams don’t really mean anything.

Willow is back on the couch, holding her glass and using her sleeve to mop up the ring it left on the table. He pulls her arm away. “It’s okay, Willow.”

“I don’t want to ruin your table.” She’s looking around for a coaster. There aren’t any. How often does Angel need one?

He’s distracted by their brief contact. Damn it. He should have known better than to let her in tonight. With his demon so close to the surface, he’s reacting to her in all the wrong ways. Touching her just now...well, it’s a good thing his trousers are a loose fit.

Still, good manners demand that he sit down as well, so he does. On the couch. With her

“It’s not an antique or anything. Believe me, setting a glass on it doesn’t matter at all.”

“Are you sure?” She seems irrationally worried about his generic, worthless table. It’s oddly touching.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know why she’s here. That might be a good question to ask. Luckily, he doesn’t have to after all.

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, huh? I mean, it’s not like I just come over and hang out all the time or anything and last time I was here, I was asking you to let yourself get possessed by a demon, so...”

How could she talk for so long without breathing?

“It’s okay, Willow,” he interrupts, “But I am curious.”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright. I wasn’t going to come here tonight, actually, but Buffy called me and I was surprised, because I thought she’d be here, with you, you know? But she isn’t, and I sort of thought someone should check up on you, after you risked your life - or well, your unlife - for us, so, here I am. Are you alright?”

Of all the things she could have said, that’s the most shocking. He would have bet every dime he had on her coming here looking for Buffy. He’s not sure how he feels about her being here because she’s concerned about him. He needs to hear more. Or maybe not to have heard her explanation at all.

She continues. “It must have been kind of scary, having a demon inside you and all, a different one, I mean, because you’re probably already used to the one you have, although, maybe not. I don’t actually know what it’s like to have a demon inside me and...”

He doesn’t have to stop her this time. Her voice trails off. She looks frightened - not of him, though, but of having said something wrong.

She hasn’t...or has she?

“Thank you,” he says, not quite sure that he means it. She “gets” him - gets him in a way that Buffy doesn’t seem to - and it’s troubling.

Buffy never asked about how he felt having another demon inside him. She had expressed her own fear of being possessed, but she never asked him about his own experience. Of course, he tells himself, that’s probably because she has confidence in him, in his strength, and that she respects him enough not to want to pry, knowing how private he is about his feelings. And after all, in front of the others, he’d acted as if everything was just a lark. She had no reason not to believe that.

Sadly, that explanation isn’t entirely convincing. Willow, after all, had confidence enough in his strength to come to him in the first place in order to ask him to allow Eyghon to possess him. She believed in his goodness and his ability to win the dayand she’d heard what he’d said when it was all over. Yet, here she is, not taking it for granted that the battle was easily fought, not assuming that it was all in a day’s work for him. Is that accidental? Because she doesn’t know him? Or is it really because she does?

He can’t help himself. He’s honest. “It was...hard.”

Her hand is on his arm now and he gazes into her eyes. There’s so much concern there. “I’m sorry, Angel. If I’d thought there was any other way, I...but it was Buffy’s life and...”

He smiles at her, or tries to, anyway. “It’s okay. It was a brilliant idea, actually. I’m sure I’m not the first one to tell you that, but...”

The look on her face stops him short. Oh. He is the first one to tell her that. The only one to tell her that. It’s not fair. Buffy is the Slayer and Angel has over a century of butchery to atone for, but Willow? She’s in the fight out of the goodness of her heart and it doesn’t seem like her contribution gets the respect it deserves. Not even from him, he acknowledges.

“Thanks,” she says, a bit dispiritedly.

“I think everyone just takes your brains for granted. You’re incredibly smart and people just expect it from you.”

“Or maybe it just doesn’t matter.” The words are soft, but she’s said them and it’s obvious from the red in her cheeks that she’s ashamed of that. He’s the one reaching out to touch her this time.

It’s almost a slap in the face to realize how hurt and bitter she is and it makes him more ashamed of himself than ever. It’s not that he shouldn’t have noticed long before now. She’s human, she has feelings, and those feelings aren’t given nearly the consideration that they should be.

“It matters. Believe me. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“That’s me, good old dependable Willow.”

There’s something more going on than just being depressed at being taken for granted. He looks back on tonight and remembers that she left with Xander. Xander, the boy it’s obvious to everyone but (seemingly) Xander that she loves with all her heart...the boy who probably spent the whole evening talking about Buffy.

“He’s an idiot, you know.”

Her eyes go wide. “W-what do you mean?”

He smiles at her in what he hopes is an understanding way. “Xander.”

“I... it’s that obvious, huh?”

He stays silent. There’s no good way to answer to that question.

“It’s just...everyone says that being smart is such a good thing, but they don’t mean it. Because it’s not true. Sure, you get good grades. But does any of that matter? Because when you’re smart, everyone makes fun of you, or makes you do other people’s homework, and your best friend, who you’ve been in love with forever, practices asking out Buffy on you, and...”

Willow stops talking. Because there’s something preventing her from speaking another word. Angel is kissing her.

He can’t help himself. There’s something sweet and sad and vulnerable about her, something that, combined with the attraction he was already feeling, makes it impossible to resist her.

Her lips are soft and she seems too surprised to do anything but kiss him back. He’s waiting for her guilt to kick in, or his, but it’s not happened yet, so Angel just keeps kissing Willow, enjoying her innocence, her responsiveness, the way she feels in his arms.

It occurs to him that he’s going to hate himself for this later. He’s not thinking about his love for Buffy right at this moment, but he will soon and then... And of course, there’s Willow to consider. She’s going to be terribly hurt at having betrayed one of her closest friends.

Still, he thinks, as his hand moves to caress her breast through the fabric of her blouse and bra, they might as well have something worth feeling guilty about, rather than tearing themselves to pieces over a chaste kiss.

He pulls her closer and his lips move to her neck.

“Angel?” she asks, “What are we doing?”

Is it wrong that Angel finds her choice of pronoun encouraging?

He lets her go and looks into her face, feigning confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...this. You know? Your lips, my lips, your hands...oh gosh!” She leaps up from the couch. “Oh no! What have I done? I’m a bad friend! I’m a bad Willow!” She’s pacing frantically and she almost knocks over a vase as she gesticulates wildly.

Angel gets up quickly and grabs her arms. He’s rather fond of that vase, actually, and he’d prefer it not wind up in a million pieces.

“Willow, it’s okay. You’re not a bad friend or a bad person.” And she isn’t. Though even Angel isn’t any more sure than she is why they are doing this, he knows one thing: she’s a good girl. None of this is her fault. Later, he’ll do everything he can to keep her from blaming herself.

“I am! What kind of girl...with her best friend’s boyfriend...and...”

She can’t even say the word kiss. Something about that is actually quite arousing. His mind travels back to his old obsession, Drusilla. Willow makes the would-be nun look like a madam. Displaying that degree of purity around a demon? More dangerous than Willow could ever realize.

He pulls her into his arms once more and kisses her again. How could he not?

For all her wild protestations, she doesn’t resist him any more than she did before. In fact, she seems to have exhausted her opposition entirely. Instead of fighting him, she wraps her arms around him and kisses him back. He moans into her mouth. The dichotomy she’s proving to be makes her more tempting than ever. For a girl who can’t say the word “kiss”, she’s more than adept at the act itself. If he had not been sure of it before, Willow proves it: Xander is the world’s biggest moron. Oh well. His loss, Angel’s (temporary) gain.

It might have been a long time since he’s seduced a true innocent (though he may love her and she may be a virgin, Buffy’s no sheltered maiden), but Angel remembers well how to maneuver a lass off her feet. Not a moment later, he and Willow are back on the couch. She’s giving him free reign over her body, arching into his touch. He’s almost frightened by how obvious her desire to be desired is and how vulnerable it makes her.

He makes a promise to himself that, no matter whether she would let him or not, he’s not going to take her, not completely. He can’t do that to her.

That does not mean, however, that he’s going to end this right now. There’s a world of pleasure he can show her that stops short of making love. He begins to unbutton her blouse.

That brings her fears and guilt to the fore. He cuts her off before she can say a word. “We won’t go any farther than you’re comfortable with, I swear. I just want to show you how beautiful you are.” Of course, the last part is this close to an outright lie. Making her aware of her desirability as a woman for her own sake is part of his motivation, that’s true, but it’s hardly the main reason.

The truth is something far darker and more selfish. He wants to be the one to awaken her. The one she’ll compare everyone to, even her first lover, forever after, the one who shapes her notions of who she is as a sexual being.

He is a demon...and he is a man. With Willow, for the first time perhaps ever, he is both. He loves Buffy, he has to love Buffy. She’s his redemption and his light. But a part of him already regrets the fact that he can’t have Willow, not really, and not ever after tonight. It’s not permitted him, the hypocrisy of keeping a mistress.

Her blouse slides easily down her shoulders, exposing creamy, scarlet-tinged skin to his gaze. “It’s okay,” he reassures her, as he reaches behind her, unfastening her bra. Now she’s nude from the waist up and he’s almost in awe.

He’s the first man to see her like this. The knowledge makes his cock almost painfully hard. While he’s still determined not to take her virginity, he’s certainly going to need some relief and soon. She moves to cover herself and he takes her hands, pulling them away from her body. He can think of far better uses for them, anyway.

He brings her hands to the hem of the t-shirt he’s wearing, encouraging her without words to help pull it over his head. Her breath catches as she sees him without his shirt for the first time and she seems at last to forget her own near-nudity. He doesn’t.

How could he? She’s exquisite. Her breasts, while not large, are actually fuller than her baggy clothes had ever indicated and they fill his hands nicely. She closes her eyes as he strokes her skin. Her nipples harden against his palms

“So beautiful,” he murmurs. Her eyes open then and her blush, which has never really left, intensifies. His lips meet hers again. The last thing he wants is to give her a chance to think. There’s more he wants from her before he’s forced by circumstance and conscience to let her go.

Time to make more use of those slim, white hands of hers. He takes one and guides it to his aching cock, encouraging her to stroke him through his trousers. She’s as quick a study at pleasing him as she ever was in a classroom. For a moment, he truly hates having a soul. Oh how much more he’d like to teach her, how much more of her willingness to please he’d like to explore.

He decides on a compromise, pushing the boundaries a bit further than he’d first intended. The thumb of his other hand finds its way into her mouth. Instinctively, she sucks on it and he moves it in and out. Does she realize what he hopes she does, understand what this means he wants from her?

He’s a little too close at the moment and he needs a bit of a respite from her delicious stimulation. Time to return the favour, anyway. His hand finds its way between her thighs and begins to stroke her through her tights and panties. Unconsciously, she spreads her legs wider for him and leans back, her eyes closed again as she loses herself in the sensations he’s creating within her. It’s amazing how expressive her face is, even when he can’t see her eyes.

She moans as he feels her wetness soaking all the way through the fabric of her tights, and he slips his hand underneath them and then under her panties. He finds her clit and her back arches as he touches her. She’s almost there. He takes her over the edge.

Crying out her pleasure, she comes, her eyes still closed, the most beautiful expression of bliss he’s ever seen on her face. He licks his fingers, savoring the taste of her, envying the one who’ll have her next. He only hopes it isn’t Xander.

Watching her heightens his own need. She’s only barely come down from the high of her orgasm, opening her eyes at last, as he undoes his pants. It’s a good thing he never bothers with underwear. The sooner he’s free of his clothing, the better.

Willow gasps as she sees his cock. It does Angel’s ego no end of good.

There’s more delight in store.

Without being asked, Willow gets down on her knees in front of him. Angel does his best to keep his shock off his face. Fate could hardly be more cruel, handing him such a willing and malleable concubine, knowing he has to hand her right back.

He strokes her face, guiding her to his cock. She opens her mouth and takes him inside. The heat of her is indescribable. “Oh yeah.”

She seems encouraged by his approving words and begins to move up and down his length. Normally, her slow pace would be wonderful - he usually prefers to savor such encounters - but right now, he needs release. He threads his fingers tightly in her hair and takes control, setting a much faster pace and hoping she doesn’t choke on him as he thrusts hard and deep.

He shouts as he comes, his release filling her mouth before she instinctively swallows. She’s perfect, so perfect...and she’s not his.

He’d like to return the favor, bury his head between those smooth thighs and taste her until she nearly dies from the pleasure, but he knows better. If her panties come off, he’ll never be able to stop himself from fucking her senseless, and if he does that, lives will be altered forever, perhaps even ruined. If he takes Willow’s virginity, there’s no going back to Buffy. He’s selfish enough to think there’s at least a chance for things to return to normal as it stands.

Willow gets up, the reality of what she’s just done having obviously hit her. “I...I need to go home now.” She looks down at the ground, unable to meet his eyes.

He hands her the bra and blouse lying crumpled on the floor next to him and gets up, tucking himself back into his pants and fastening them. “I’ll walk you.”

She wants to protest, he knows, but his tone brooks no argument. She gets her clothes back on far too quickly for his liking and is at the door faster than he expected. He slams it shut as she opens it.

“You have done nothing to feel badly about, Willow.”

“I...” She still won’t look at him. He takes her chin in his hand and forces her to look up, to look at him.

“We’re friends. You came over to check on me, to comfort me, and that’s what you did.”

Her eyes are filling with tears. He just can’t leave things like this. Pushing her back against the door, he kisses her, harder this time. “I wish things could be different,” he says as he finally lets her go, “But they can’t.”

“I know,” she replies. The tears are still heavy in her eyes.

She opens the door again and this time he doesn’t stop her. She walks out into the hallway and he follows. There’s nothing but silence as he accompanies her back to her home. That’s all there will ever be now. And while a part of him is glad that he can count on her discretion and her willingness to slip back into her old role of trusty sidekick and leave him in the arms of her best friend, a darker part of him wishes he could have her again...and again...and in every way possible.

That, he supposes, will fill his fantasies for many a long day.

Somehow, thinking of Buffy does nothing to banish the dreams of what might have been.


The End.