fic: home (6/7) (buffy: the vampire slayer) (angel: the series)
Classifications and warnings available here.
Continued from Chapter 5.
* * * * *
Home by anr
* * * * *
6. THE APARTMENT
They don't talk on the way back to LA. Like, at all.
In the drivers seat, Angel sits with one arm propped against his door, fingers light on the steering wheel. He drives faster than the speed limits, guiding the car like it's all reflex and autonomous and there's not a chance in the world he'll ever crash.
Curled against the passenger door, she watches him and wonders when he got so brave.
He likes this life, she knows. Even with all his broodiness and people-saving-failures and tortured past, he likes it here. Likes his underground batcave and his collection of wicked sharp weapons and the satisfaction that comes from successfully beating on a demon and winning.
Likes her.
Is he right? Is the rest of the world not worse off because of what she did? By creating an apocalypse five years ago, has she somehow averted a nastier one? By sacrificing her hometown, has she given a second chance to another?
What she did... does it -- should it -- even matter?
For a second she tries to think about what her life could be like. Not in her own reality, safe and sane, but here. In this reality. Without her plan.
Could she be happy?
"We're here."
Blinking, she looks out the windscreen and realises he's right. They're in her street, and outside of her building. They're here.
"What would I do?"
"I'm sorry?"
"If I didn't fix things. If I didn't make them right." In the distance, she watches something short and stumpy -- a dog? a hobgoblin? -- dart across the road and disappear into some undergrowth. "With no purpose -- what would I do?" She looks back at him. "What do you do?"
He looks confused. "What do you mean?"
She waves a hand. "This car, your apartment, your weapons and blood and electricity and clothes -- which, okay, they're not Calvin Klein, but they're kind of natty nonetheless. Do you steal them?"
He frowns. "How do you steal electricity?"
How the hell would she know? "You have money, right?" she persists. "To pay for things?"
"... yes."
"And that money comes from...?"
"Oh," he says, his expression clearing. "Oh! Well," he shrugs. "You gave me money."
Five years ago, she did, and definitely not enough to live or die off every day since then. "And?"
"And there was this group of Nahdrahs a couple of years ago. Came across them trying to cut off this girl's head, only she ran off while I was busy, leaving behind this metal case full of money. And then, at the Hyperion --"
"The what now?"
"The Hyperion Hotel? You helped me kill the Thesulac demon feeding off of it? Well, before then, there was money hidden in the basement, and --"
"Oh my god," she says, cutting him off. "You make money from fighting demons! You're totally, like, a demon profiteer! Or a member of a demon fight club... is there a demon fight club? Are you not allowed to talk about demon fight club? Is this a rule thingy?"
"What? No! I just..." he shrugs, "... you know, take -- look, it's not like anyone else needed it."
"Relax, Soul-boy. Your non-philanthropia is of no never mind to me." She actually can even sort of admire his opportunism -- it's not like he can get a regular day job or anything and, hey, if it were possible for her to do the same, she'd probably be all over that demon cash too.
Hell, she'd do a lot of possible things if she could.
"Cordy?"
"Hmm?" Closer now, the dog-goblin is back. She watches it circle a couple of trashcans next door.
"I'm... sorry. That you didn't find what you wanted. In Sunnydale."
Surprised, she turns back to him, taking in the way he's sitting all still and not-looking-at-her, staring straight ahead. "I thought you didn't want me to."
He shrugs. "Doesn't mean I'm not sorry."
One night this man is going to kill her dead with his ability to make her feel simultaneously awful and loved and selfish and worthy of anything so much more.
"Angel." Biting her bottom lip briefly, she meets his eyes and says something she hasn't for five years or more, something she hadn't ever planned on saying ever again. It's a little heady. "Come in."
*
As she unlocks her front door and pushes it open, he says, "you don't have to do this. There are spells -- you can uninvite me."
She knows. "I know," she says.
Taking his hand, she leads him inside.
*
By the time they get to her bedroom door, most of their clothes are gone, a shedded path through her apartment.
She feels like she's drowning a little, her limbs turning heavy and needy, her lungs pulling for more air than she can find. His hands are in her hair, on her breasts, her back, between her thighs. She can feel him everywhere.
Lying back on her bed, she pulls him down after her. His weight settles on top of her, holding her down, holding her close.
Not close enough.
More, she thinks, echoes, every other time and every wanted time blending and bending and mending...
His cock slides into her slow and sweet.
Soft, soft thrusts, susurrations of movement, as he pushes her down and pulls her up again. Looping her arms around his neck, she kisses him and holds him and wants him and needs him and --
Happy, she thinks, right now and right here and right with you, I.
Her body tightens and tenses.
"Angel," she breathes out, breathes into him.
She's starting to come and the kiss fades as his back arches, his eyes closing, and the look -- the expression -- on his face as he rises above her...
Oh, she thinks. Oh, I do, I do, I do too...
When she falls, she takes him with her.
*
In the quiet of her bedroom, she mirrors him.
"That night," she says, her cheek shifting on the pillow they're sharing, "in the alley?"
His hand tightens briefly on her hip before smoothing to the small of her back and pulling her one more inch closer, body to body. "Hmm?"
She stares at his mouth. "Did I really say your name?"
"Yes."
She smiles, soft and sleepy, and closes her eyes. "I'm glad," she whispers.
"Mmm." He leans forward and brushes his lips over her forehead. "So am I."
*
Her arm itches.
Rolling over, she reaches for one of her pillows and curls around it, not ready to wake up just yet. Sleepy, she thinks. I'm sleepy and... alone?
Opening her eyes, she blinks in surprise at the empty space beside her.
"Cordelia."
Wait -- not alone. Pushing herself up, she looks around briefly before realising he's standing in the corner near the window. "Wha--" Clearing her throat, she tries again. "Hey."
He doesn't say anything.
Yawning, she runs a hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face. "What's with the sudden wallflowering?"
Moving, he steps out of the corner and walks back to the bed, sitting down on the edge.
His uber-quietness is a little weird. "Hey," she repeats softly. "You okay?" When he still keeps with the silence, her sleepy-contentness begins to fade. "Ang--"
Reaching out, he tugs on the sheet covering her, pulling it back from her legs. His hand hovers over her thigh, fingers all but tracing the scar there. "Why do you have this?"
A faint pulse of unease ripples through her. "What do you mean?"
His hand darts to her arm and wraps lightly around her bicep. "Your arm," he says, dragging his palm up her arm and over her shoulder. "Your neck." He spreads his fingers over the skin in question. "Why not your thigh too?"
Oh! Oh. Relief trickles over the unease as she realises what he's asking. What she's -- honestly -- kind of surprised that he hasn't asked before now. Shrugging, she reaches out and rests her hand on his thigh, matching his gentleness. "Didn't want to."
Couldn't, mores the thing. Gru had offered -- had asked her too, actually, a fully clean body slate -- but she hadn't been able to. Willow and Xander's bites... Larry and Oz's burns... those scars had been unnecessary, the memories of how she'd obtained them more than engraved into her psyche. Angel's touch -- his bite -- on the other hand...
Her memory hadn't been enough. Wouldn't have ever been enough.
He growls softly, vamping out.
"Hey," she smiles, "what is this?" She moves her hand from his thigh to his face, brushing her fingertips over the sharp jut of his cheekbone. "Did you have a bad dream or --"
Quicker than she could have thought possible, his free hand snaps up and grabs her fingers. Almost simultaneously, he pushes her down into the pillows, pinning her left arm under her body as he holds her by the throat. The hand he's holding he stretches up to lie on the pillows above her head.
Panic spikes hard. "Angel!" Struggling, she tries shift his sudden weight. "What are you --" He presses harder. She sucks in a quick, frantic breath. "Get off of me!"
He grins, wide and wolfish. "Why?"
What the --? Twisting, she gets her left arm free from underneath her and tries to pry his hand off her collarbone, slapping wildly at his grip when he doesn't shift. "Get -- Angel!"
Before she has time to process, both of her hands are above her head, locked in his grip. Bending down, he licks a straight line up the length of her neck and hovers his mouth above hers.
He raises an eyebrow, all devil. "Who?"
*
Not possible. Not possible. Not possible.
Fear-frozen, she watches as he moves so he can hold both her hands with one of his. His other hand trails down the side of her body, fingernails scratching, until he reaches her thigh. Hooking his hand around her leg, he tugs her open and presses his palm against her scar.
"Gotta say, baby. Never expected you'd be right."
She stares, wide-eyed.
"Soul certainly didn't. Heard your sweet little lullabies and threw them out with a grain of salt and sand every single time."
Not possible.
"But now? Now. Well." Grinning still, he stretches and leans down and nips at the curve of her hip, humming. "I'm a believer," he sing-songs.
Dream. Nightmare. More cogent than usual, maybe, but still. Dream. Nightmare. It has to be.
Not possible.
Soon. If she doesn't fight, if she just lets it happen, just gets it over and done with, then soon enough he'll be all bitey on her and she'll be able to wake up. She'll wake up and find Angel beside her in bed and he'll touch her and look at her like she's worthy and she'll think, okay, okay, maybe that was it, maybe that was the last one, the 'the end' nightmare, and --
He lets go of her hands.
She doesn't move.
Frowning, he snaps his fingers in front of her face, his expression clearing when her eyes track to his. "That's better," he says, softly, dangerously. He shifts on top of her, moving down her body until his mouth is brushing her thigh.
"Angelus," she breathes out. Not possible.
Looking up at her, he smiles, slow and wicked. "Hey, baby," he says.
He bites down hard.
*
Any thoughts of this being a dream or nightmare or non-actuality vanish the instant his fangs tear through her scarred flesh.
As the pain shreds through her shock, she bucks violently and sits up, her hands finding the curve of his shoulder and shoving with more adrenaline than she ever could have imagined to have. His mouth pulls from her thigh messily as she pushes him away, blood spraying across her leg and the bed sheets.
Growling, he backhands her across the face, knocking her back down again.
She hits the wall and headboard skull first, her arms pinwheeling wildly and catching at her bedside table, sweeping the alarm clock and lamp from its surface. Legs, she thinks. She needs to get her legs free of the sheets and his grabby hands. Needs to plant her feet against his body and push him away with all the lying-down-and-gravity-hurdled strength that she'll never get from her own arms right now. Needs to get to a weapon. Needs to --
Too fast, he palms her body roughly and grips her hard around the waist, dragging her back the few inches of freedom her struggling had won. One hand returns to her throat, while his other shoves against the fresh bite on her leg. Pain flares bright and brilliant as his fangs gleam in the moonlight streaming through her curtains.
Four years, she manages to think, and how many vampires? How many savate classes? He's just another bloodsucker, damnit, stakeable and --
"Aww, c'mon," he says, pulling up his hand and licking a stripe of blood off his palm. With a sudden, wrenching move, he grips her shoulder and moves the hand on her throat to her nape, pulling her upright, splaying her against him, yanking her head to the side and baring her neck. "Just one more."
NO! NO! FIGHT, DAMNIT! FIGHT HIM! FI--
He lunges for her neck.
*
She's falling.
Her back hits the mattress with a bounce, thigh smarting as her muscles pull on the torn flesh. Uncomprehending, she raises her head and watches as Angelus flies across the room and out through her bedroom door.
The door slams shut before she can see where he lands.
"Well," says a voice from near the foot of the bed. "This is a surprise."
She's going to pass out. Or faint. Or faint, pass out and --
The figure steps into the moonlight.
She screams. "I WISH BUFFY SUMMERS HAD COME TO SUNNYDALE! I WISH BUFFY SUMMERS HAD COME TO SUNNYDALE! I WISH BUFFY SUMMERS HAD COM--"
With two steps, Anya reaches out and backhands her just as hard as he had.
"Sorry, Cor," she says. "No refunds."
*
Anya turns on the overhead light and leans against her dresser, toying with her amulet.
Watching her from her position still on the bed, she can't stop whispering, "-- Summers had come to Sunnydale. I wish Buffy Summers had come to Sunnydale. I --"
"You know, as much as I appreciate the persistence and all?" says Anya. "Not gonna happen."
She'll stop when it's done, she thinks, tightening her grip on her thigh and pressuring down on the bite. "-- to Sunnydale. I wish Buffy Summers had come to Sunnydale. I wish --"
Quick-like, Anya steps forward and sucker-punches her hard in the chest.
Gasping mid-word, she falls back against her pillows, hands loosening around her thigh as pain radiates all over, chest and head and face and thigh and everything. She sucks desperately for oxygen.
"Finally!" Holding out a hand, Anya makes a show of checking her nails. Satisfied, she drops her arm again. "So," she smiles cheerfully. "Hey!"
Hey? Wheezing, she stares blankly.
"Gotta hand it to you, Cor. Never ever saw this coming." Sitting on the edge of the bed, Anya pokes her fingers into the smears of blood on the sheets. "I mean, repeat customers? Generally not a possibility for me once their wish kills them dead."
"I summoned you," she whispers.
Anya looks up. "Hmm?"
"I summoned you," she repeats, louder, coughing a little. "A hundred times, I --"
"Fifty-three, actually," interrupts Anya. She laughs. "Actually -- kind of a funny story -- the accounting department has taken to using your call as the end-of-month cut off signal for the filing of expenses. It's a little embarrassing, you know? But, still. Flattery."
"You --" She swallows hard. "They worked? You knew --"
Wiping her bloody hand on her pants, Anya rolls her eyes. "Well, duh. I mean, it's not like I have a one-eight-hundred number or anything. 'Come before me' isn't exactly a tongue twister."
"But you never --"
Anya looks startled. "What? Answered? Hell no!" Standing up from the bed, she heads for the door. "The satisfaction guarantee is for the wish, not the wishee. You got exactly what you asked for."
Oh, as if! She never wished for this.
Opening the door, Anya sticks her head out. Nodding, she pulls back and shuts the door again.
"Is he --" Adjusting her grip on her thigh, she grits her teeth as blood oozes between her fingers. "Is he dead?"
"Well, yes." Turning around, Anya gives her a confused look. "He is a vampire, after all." She leans against the door. "But if you mean, 'is he dust to dust', then, no. He's out cold for the moment -- vampires are so damn fragile, you know? -- but he'll be back in here shortly enough."
She's feeling a little lightheaded -- blood loss, most likely. She needs to get to a doctor. To Anya, she repeats, "back in here?"
Anya shrugs. "To finish what you two were doing before I got here, I guess."
Oh. Right.
"I think --" Clearing her throat, she tries again. "Could you -- I think I need an ambulance."
"Probably," agrees Anya, nodding. "Another ten seconds and this would have been Malice's gig, not mine. You're lucky I didn't drink as much as she did at our Christmas party."
Malice, she thinks, the years of Demonology 101 studying she's put herself through churning forth all kinds of not so trivial trivia. The Unforgiving One. Born in olden Greece, she became the VD of death bed wishing some time before time was worth talking about.
She looks at Anya. "He was going to kill me." She's surprised by how unsurprised she is at uttering those words.
"Likely still will," says Anya cheerfully. "But -- you know -- kudos! Perfect bliss and true love in our brave new world? I honestly didn't think you had it in you."
Neither did she. After so long -- it just doesn't speak to any sort of intelligence that he could lose his soul now, here, tonight. Not when the original deed was five years and a hotel room ago. "It's a spell," she says. "Or a trick. Maybe a drug."
Anya rolls her eyes. "Uh huh, sure. I'm here because of a placebo. Makes perfect sense." She scoffs. "Please!"
Her hands are cramping up; she forces herself to keep them where they are. "Not to be the bearer of the obviously bleeding obvious here, Anya, but he hasn't broken up with me -- he's trying to break me."
"And doing a totally awesome job of it, too," Anya agrees. "That metaphorical crack you felt earlier when Salty Goodness out there shattered your heart into teeny tiny irrevocably broken pieces and created a vacuum of nothing inside you? Five star heartbreak that."
"You're wrong." So wrong. She didn't feel anything of the sort. Not anything at all.
Closing her eyes, she licks her lips. Hot -- she's starting to sweat, and itch, and her hands are really starting to burn now...
Her leg's kinda cool, though. Not ice-like or anything, but definitely less than warm.
Shifting, she reaches for her sheet, tugging it up and around her. It's hard work, her arms and hands all stiff and achy, and the fabric feels a little damp as it tangles around her legs, but that's probably the perspiration talking. With difficulty she brings up her right hand and wipes her brow.
Anya's talking again. Opening her eyes, she tries to focus. "What?"
"Oh, for Plrtz Glrb's sake. You could at least pretend to stay alive, you know! Rude, much?"
"Sorry." With effort, she pushes herself up the bed a little, leaning her head against the headboard. Little stars flare around Anya's head like a halo. "Whoa." Pretty...
Muttering something unintelligible under her breath, Anya pushes away from the door and walks across to the bed. Without warning, she slams her fist onto her thigh.
Molten fire explodes through her body. Screaming, she bolts upright, hands latching onto her leg and pressing hard against the hurt. Her heart pounds with sudden adrenaline.
From the other room, a responding roar of noise, of anger and fury. Angelus...
"That's better," says Anya, nodding. Clapping her hands together, she bounces on her heels a little. "So -- what's it going to be?"
Gasping, she says, "be?"
Anya looks at her like she's retarded. "Your wish," she says slowly. "You do remember how this works, right? One betrayed heart -- one wish?"
Remember? She's never not once ever forgotten! As quickly as she can, she blurts out, "IwishBuffySummershadcometoSunnydale!"
Anya deflates visibly.
"Did you hear me?" she says, leaning over her hands, using her body weight to keep the pressure up. "I said, I wish --"
Holding up her hand, Anya nods. "Oh, I heard you. Heard you till my ears bled, I heard you. And now you're going to listen to me -- no. No, no, no, no, no. Look --" Stepping forward, Anya leans down. "Let me be as clear as Swarovski crystal here -- Buffy Summers already came to Sunnydale, remember? All non-Prada and vampire bait? That Slayer has sailed."
Something fragile-sounding shatters against her closed bedroom door and is immediately followed by the cracking thud of something oppositely heavy.
"No." She shakes her head, frantic. "No -- I get anything, right? Anything I want. The world turned purple, dinosaurs roaming this fair land -- anything."
"Purple dinosaurs?" Anya nods emphatically. "Not a problem. Entertaining and, possibly, educational. You want that? Wish and it's done. But I will not play Buffy Summers bingo with you and ruin perfection." Standing up straight, Anya gestures widely. "Look around! Look at you! The love of your life is killing you dead and you're bitching about a girl you once went Mean Girls on. I mean, come on, Cor. We won Best New Reality of the year together! You're no unoriginal Harmony -- give me something good here! Revenge away! Boils and burns and splinters on all the penises in the world. On Angelus' penis --"
Angelus.
Angel.
The Bronze, a thousand years ago, cars and flaky dates, laughter and coffee. The Plaza and a whirlwind of cosmetics, the first time he ever held her like he cared. Studying in the library like it's a Buffy Research Party Redux, and drinking bad coffee night after night just to see him again -- I've never met anyone like you -- and staking vampires together, side by side -- you're amazing, you're good for me, I think you're very brave...
His voice, that second first night, sitting on the bottom step in his apartment -- I can't not love you...
Heavy, heavy bangs; her bedroom door shudders in its frame, and a splintery-crack suddenly appears in the center.
Anya's still talking. "-- or whatever you want for him. You name it and I'll give it to you. Just do it now, Cor, because this world? This world isn't going nowhere." Anya smiles. "You are."
Yes, she thinks, digging her fingernails into the skin around his bite. Yes, she is.
All the Scoobies from Sunnydale die...
Looking up, she realises Anya's suddenly very far away -- very small -- almost doll-like on the other side of the room. She panics. "No! No, wait! Wait! I'll do it! I will! I wish --"
With a roll of her eyes, Anya's face melts away to reveal Anyanka. "Done," she hisses.
And the world flares white again.
* * * * *
Continued in Chapter 7.
SOUNDTRACK: Home
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
Continued from Chapter 5.
* * * * *
Home by anr
* * * * *
6. THE APARTMENT
They don't talk on the way back to LA. Like, at all.
In the drivers seat, Angel sits with one arm propped against his door, fingers light on the steering wheel. He drives faster than the speed limits, guiding the car like it's all reflex and autonomous and there's not a chance in the world he'll ever crash.
Curled against the passenger door, she watches him and wonders when he got so brave.
He likes this life, she knows. Even with all his broodiness and people-saving-failures and tortured past, he likes it here. Likes his underground batcave and his collection of wicked sharp weapons and the satisfaction that comes from successfully beating on a demon and winning.
Likes her.
Is he right? Is the rest of the world not worse off because of what she did? By creating an apocalypse five years ago, has she somehow averted a nastier one? By sacrificing her hometown, has she given a second chance to another?
What she did... does it -- should it -- even matter?
For a second she tries to think about what her life could be like. Not in her own reality, safe and sane, but here. In this reality. Without her plan.
Could she be happy?
"We're here."
Blinking, she looks out the windscreen and realises he's right. They're in her street, and outside of her building. They're here.
"What would I do?"
"I'm sorry?"
"If I didn't fix things. If I didn't make them right." In the distance, she watches something short and stumpy -- a dog? a hobgoblin? -- dart across the road and disappear into some undergrowth. "With no purpose -- what would I do?" She looks back at him. "What do you do?"
He looks confused. "What do you mean?"
She waves a hand. "This car, your apartment, your weapons and blood and electricity and clothes -- which, okay, they're not Calvin Klein, but they're kind of natty nonetheless. Do you steal them?"
He frowns. "How do you steal electricity?"
How the hell would she know? "You have money, right?" she persists. "To pay for things?"
"... yes."
"And that money comes from...?"
"Oh," he says, his expression clearing. "Oh! Well," he shrugs. "You gave me money."
Five years ago, she did, and definitely not enough to live or die off every day since then. "And?"
"And there was this group of Nahdrahs a couple of years ago. Came across them trying to cut off this girl's head, only she ran off while I was busy, leaving behind this metal case full of money. And then, at the Hyperion --"
"The what now?"
"The Hyperion Hotel? You helped me kill the Thesulac demon feeding off of it? Well, before then, there was money hidden in the basement, and --"
"Oh my god," she says, cutting him off. "You make money from fighting demons! You're totally, like, a demon profiteer! Or a member of a demon fight club... is there a demon fight club? Are you not allowed to talk about demon fight club? Is this a rule thingy?"
"What? No! I just..." he shrugs, "... you know, take -- look, it's not like anyone else needed it."
"Relax, Soul-boy. Your non-philanthropia is of no never mind to me." She actually can even sort of admire his opportunism -- it's not like he can get a regular day job or anything and, hey, if it were possible for her to do the same, she'd probably be all over that demon cash too.
Hell, she'd do a lot of possible things if she could.
"Cordy?"
"Hmm?" Closer now, the dog-goblin is back. She watches it circle a couple of trashcans next door.
"I'm... sorry. That you didn't find what you wanted. In Sunnydale."
Surprised, she turns back to him, taking in the way he's sitting all still and not-looking-at-her, staring straight ahead. "I thought you didn't want me to."
He shrugs. "Doesn't mean I'm not sorry."
One night this man is going to kill her dead with his ability to make her feel simultaneously awful and loved and selfish and worthy of anything so much more.
"Angel." Biting her bottom lip briefly, she meets his eyes and says something she hasn't for five years or more, something she hadn't ever planned on saying ever again. It's a little heady. "Come in."
*
As she unlocks her front door and pushes it open, he says, "you don't have to do this. There are spells -- you can uninvite me."
She knows. "I know," she says.
Taking his hand, she leads him inside.
*
By the time they get to her bedroom door, most of their clothes are gone, a shedded path through her apartment.
She feels like she's drowning a little, her limbs turning heavy and needy, her lungs pulling for more air than she can find. His hands are in her hair, on her breasts, her back, between her thighs. She can feel him everywhere.
Lying back on her bed, she pulls him down after her. His weight settles on top of her, holding her down, holding her close.
Not close enough.
More, she thinks, echoes, every other time and every wanted time blending and bending and mending...
His cock slides into her slow and sweet.
Soft, soft thrusts, susurrations of movement, as he pushes her down and pulls her up again. Looping her arms around his neck, she kisses him and holds him and wants him and needs him and --
Happy, she thinks, right now and right here and right with you, I.
Her body tightens and tenses.
"Angel," she breathes out, breathes into him.
She's starting to come and the kiss fades as his back arches, his eyes closing, and the look -- the expression -- on his face as he rises above her...
Oh, she thinks. Oh, I do, I do, I do too...
When she falls, she takes him with her.
*
In the quiet of her bedroom, she mirrors him.
"That night," she says, her cheek shifting on the pillow they're sharing, "in the alley?"
His hand tightens briefly on her hip before smoothing to the small of her back and pulling her one more inch closer, body to body. "Hmm?"
She stares at his mouth. "Did I really say your name?"
"Yes."
She smiles, soft and sleepy, and closes her eyes. "I'm glad," she whispers.
"Mmm." He leans forward and brushes his lips over her forehead. "So am I."
*
Her arm itches.
Rolling over, she reaches for one of her pillows and curls around it, not ready to wake up just yet. Sleepy, she thinks. I'm sleepy and... alone?
Opening her eyes, she blinks in surprise at the empty space beside her.
"Cordelia."
Wait -- not alone. Pushing herself up, she looks around briefly before realising he's standing in the corner near the window. "Wha--" Clearing her throat, she tries again. "Hey."
He doesn't say anything.
Yawning, she runs a hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face. "What's with the sudden wallflowering?"
Moving, he steps out of the corner and walks back to the bed, sitting down on the edge.
His uber-quietness is a little weird. "Hey," she repeats softly. "You okay?" When he still keeps with the silence, her sleepy-contentness begins to fade. "Ang--"
Reaching out, he tugs on the sheet covering her, pulling it back from her legs. His hand hovers over her thigh, fingers all but tracing the scar there. "Why do you have this?"
A faint pulse of unease ripples through her. "What do you mean?"
His hand darts to her arm and wraps lightly around her bicep. "Your arm," he says, dragging his palm up her arm and over her shoulder. "Your neck." He spreads his fingers over the skin in question. "Why not your thigh too?"
Oh! Oh. Relief trickles over the unease as she realises what he's asking. What she's -- honestly -- kind of surprised that he hasn't asked before now. Shrugging, she reaches out and rests her hand on his thigh, matching his gentleness. "Didn't want to."
Couldn't, mores the thing. Gru had offered -- had asked her too, actually, a fully clean body slate -- but she hadn't been able to. Willow and Xander's bites... Larry and Oz's burns... those scars had been unnecessary, the memories of how she'd obtained them more than engraved into her psyche. Angel's touch -- his bite -- on the other hand...
Her memory hadn't been enough. Wouldn't have ever been enough.
He growls softly, vamping out.
"Hey," she smiles, "what is this?" She moves her hand from his thigh to his face, brushing her fingertips over the sharp jut of his cheekbone. "Did you have a bad dream or --"
Quicker than she could have thought possible, his free hand snaps up and grabs her fingers. Almost simultaneously, he pushes her down into the pillows, pinning her left arm under her body as he holds her by the throat. The hand he's holding he stretches up to lie on the pillows above her head.
Panic spikes hard. "Angel!" Struggling, she tries shift his sudden weight. "What are you --" He presses harder. She sucks in a quick, frantic breath. "Get off of me!"
He grins, wide and wolfish. "Why?"
What the --? Twisting, she gets her left arm free from underneath her and tries to pry his hand off her collarbone, slapping wildly at his grip when he doesn't shift. "Get -- Angel!"
Before she has time to process, both of her hands are above her head, locked in his grip. Bending down, he licks a straight line up the length of her neck and hovers his mouth above hers.
He raises an eyebrow, all devil. "Who?"
*
Not possible. Not possible. Not possible.
Fear-frozen, she watches as he moves so he can hold both her hands with one of his. His other hand trails down the side of her body, fingernails scratching, until he reaches her thigh. Hooking his hand around her leg, he tugs her open and presses his palm against her scar.
"Gotta say, baby. Never expected you'd be right."
She stares, wide-eyed.
"Soul certainly didn't. Heard your sweet little lullabies and threw them out with a grain of salt and sand every single time."
Not possible.
"But now? Now. Well." Grinning still, he stretches and leans down and nips at the curve of her hip, humming. "I'm a believer," he sing-songs.
Dream. Nightmare. More cogent than usual, maybe, but still. Dream. Nightmare. It has to be.
Not possible.
Soon. If she doesn't fight, if she just lets it happen, just gets it over and done with, then soon enough he'll be all bitey on her and she'll be able to wake up. She'll wake up and find Angel beside her in bed and he'll touch her and look at her like she's worthy and she'll think, okay, okay, maybe that was it, maybe that was the last one, the 'the end' nightmare, and --
He lets go of her hands.
She doesn't move.
Frowning, he snaps his fingers in front of her face, his expression clearing when her eyes track to his. "That's better," he says, softly, dangerously. He shifts on top of her, moving down her body until his mouth is brushing her thigh.
"Angelus," she breathes out. Not possible.
Looking up at her, he smiles, slow and wicked. "Hey, baby," he says.
He bites down hard.
*
Any thoughts of this being a dream or nightmare or non-actuality vanish the instant his fangs tear through her scarred flesh.
As the pain shreds through her shock, she bucks violently and sits up, her hands finding the curve of his shoulder and shoving with more adrenaline than she ever could have imagined to have. His mouth pulls from her thigh messily as she pushes him away, blood spraying across her leg and the bed sheets.
Growling, he backhands her across the face, knocking her back down again.
She hits the wall and headboard skull first, her arms pinwheeling wildly and catching at her bedside table, sweeping the alarm clock and lamp from its surface. Legs, she thinks. She needs to get her legs free of the sheets and his grabby hands. Needs to plant her feet against his body and push him away with all the lying-down-and-gravity-hurdled strength that she'll never get from her own arms right now. Needs to get to a weapon. Needs to --
Too fast, he palms her body roughly and grips her hard around the waist, dragging her back the few inches of freedom her struggling had won. One hand returns to her throat, while his other shoves against the fresh bite on her leg. Pain flares bright and brilliant as his fangs gleam in the moonlight streaming through her curtains.
Four years, she manages to think, and how many vampires? How many savate classes? He's just another bloodsucker, damnit, stakeable and --
"Aww, c'mon," he says, pulling up his hand and licking a stripe of blood off his palm. With a sudden, wrenching move, he grips her shoulder and moves the hand on her throat to her nape, pulling her upright, splaying her against him, yanking her head to the side and baring her neck. "Just one more."
NO! NO! FIGHT, DAMNIT! FIGHT HIM! FI--
He lunges for her neck.
*
She's falling.
Her back hits the mattress with a bounce, thigh smarting as her muscles pull on the torn flesh. Uncomprehending, she raises her head and watches as Angelus flies across the room and out through her bedroom door.
The door slams shut before she can see where he lands.
"Well," says a voice from near the foot of the bed. "This is a surprise."
She's going to pass out. Or faint. Or faint, pass out and --
The figure steps into the moonlight.
She screams. "I WISH BUFFY SUMMERS HAD COME TO SUNNYDALE! I WISH BUFFY SUMMERS HAD COME TO SUNNYDALE! I WISH BUFFY SUMMERS HAD COM--"
With two steps, Anya reaches out and backhands her just as hard as he had.
"Sorry, Cor," she says. "No refunds."
*
Anya turns on the overhead light and leans against her dresser, toying with her amulet.
Watching her from her position still on the bed, she can't stop whispering, "-- Summers had come to Sunnydale. I wish Buffy Summers had come to Sunnydale. I --"
"You know, as much as I appreciate the persistence and all?" says Anya. "Not gonna happen."
She'll stop when it's done, she thinks, tightening her grip on her thigh and pressuring down on the bite. "-- to Sunnydale. I wish Buffy Summers had come to Sunnydale. I wish --"
Quick-like, Anya steps forward and sucker-punches her hard in the chest.
Gasping mid-word, she falls back against her pillows, hands loosening around her thigh as pain radiates all over, chest and head and face and thigh and everything. She sucks desperately for oxygen.
"Finally!" Holding out a hand, Anya makes a show of checking her nails. Satisfied, she drops her arm again. "So," she smiles cheerfully. "Hey!"
Hey? Wheezing, she stares blankly.
"Gotta hand it to you, Cor. Never ever saw this coming." Sitting on the edge of the bed, Anya pokes her fingers into the smears of blood on the sheets. "I mean, repeat customers? Generally not a possibility for me once their wish kills them dead."
"I summoned you," she whispers.
Anya looks up. "Hmm?"
"I summoned you," she repeats, louder, coughing a little. "A hundred times, I --"
"Fifty-three, actually," interrupts Anya. She laughs. "Actually -- kind of a funny story -- the accounting department has taken to using your call as the end-of-month cut off signal for the filing of expenses. It's a little embarrassing, you know? But, still. Flattery."
"You --" She swallows hard. "They worked? You knew --"
Wiping her bloody hand on her pants, Anya rolls her eyes. "Well, duh. I mean, it's not like I have a one-eight-hundred number or anything. 'Come before me' isn't exactly a tongue twister."
"But you never --"
Anya looks startled. "What? Answered? Hell no!" Standing up from the bed, she heads for the door. "The satisfaction guarantee is for the wish, not the wishee. You got exactly what you asked for."
Oh, as if! She never wished for this.
Opening the door, Anya sticks her head out. Nodding, she pulls back and shuts the door again.
"Is he --" Adjusting her grip on her thigh, she grits her teeth as blood oozes between her fingers. "Is he dead?"
"Well, yes." Turning around, Anya gives her a confused look. "He is a vampire, after all." She leans against the door. "But if you mean, 'is he dust to dust', then, no. He's out cold for the moment -- vampires are so damn fragile, you know? -- but he'll be back in here shortly enough."
She's feeling a little lightheaded -- blood loss, most likely. She needs to get to a doctor. To Anya, she repeats, "back in here?"
Anya shrugs. "To finish what you two were doing before I got here, I guess."
Oh. Right.
"I think --" Clearing her throat, she tries again. "Could you -- I think I need an ambulance."
"Probably," agrees Anya, nodding. "Another ten seconds and this would have been Malice's gig, not mine. You're lucky I didn't drink as much as she did at our Christmas party."
Malice, she thinks, the years of Demonology 101 studying she's put herself through churning forth all kinds of not so trivial trivia. The Unforgiving One. Born in olden Greece, she became the VD of death bed wishing some time before time was worth talking about.
She looks at Anya. "He was going to kill me." She's surprised by how unsurprised she is at uttering those words.
"Likely still will," says Anya cheerfully. "But -- you know -- kudos! Perfect bliss and true love in our brave new world? I honestly didn't think you had it in you."
Neither did she. After so long -- it just doesn't speak to any sort of intelligence that he could lose his soul now, here, tonight. Not when the original deed was five years and a hotel room ago. "It's a spell," she says. "Or a trick. Maybe a drug."
Anya rolls her eyes. "Uh huh, sure. I'm here because of a placebo. Makes perfect sense." She scoffs. "Please!"
Her hands are cramping up; she forces herself to keep them where they are. "Not to be the bearer of the obviously bleeding obvious here, Anya, but he hasn't broken up with me -- he's trying to break me."
"And doing a totally awesome job of it, too," Anya agrees. "That metaphorical crack you felt earlier when Salty Goodness out there shattered your heart into teeny tiny irrevocably broken pieces and created a vacuum of nothing inside you? Five star heartbreak that."
"You're wrong." So wrong. She didn't feel anything of the sort. Not anything at all.
Closing her eyes, she licks her lips. Hot -- she's starting to sweat, and itch, and her hands are really starting to burn now...
Her leg's kinda cool, though. Not ice-like or anything, but definitely less than warm.
Shifting, she reaches for her sheet, tugging it up and around her. It's hard work, her arms and hands all stiff and achy, and the fabric feels a little damp as it tangles around her legs, but that's probably the perspiration talking. With difficulty she brings up her right hand and wipes her brow.
Anya's talking again. Opening her eyes, she tries to focus. "What?"
"Oh, for Plrtz Glrb's sake. You could at least pretend to stay alive, you know! Rude, much?"
"Sorry." With effort, she pushes herself up the bed a little, leaning her head against the headboard. Little stars flare around Anya's head like a halo. "Whoa." Pretty...
Muttering something unintelligible under her breath, Anya pushes away from the door and walks across to the bed. Without warning, she slams her fist onto her thigh.
Molten fire explodes through her body. Screaming, she bolts upright, hands latching onto her leg and pressing hard against the hurt. Her heart pounds with sudden adrenaline.
From the other room, a responding roar of noise, of anger and fury. Angelus...
"That's better," says Anya, nodding. Clapping her hands together, she bounces on her heels a little. "So -- what's it going to be?"
Gasping, she says, "be?"
Anya looks at her like she's retarded. "Your wish," she says slowly. "You do remember how this works, right? One betrayed heart -- one wish?"
Remember? She's never not once ever forgotten! As quickly as she can, she blurts out, "IwishBuffySummershadcometoSunnydale!"
Anya deflates visibly.
"Did you hear me?" she says, leaning over her hands, using her body weight to keep the pressure up. "I said, I wish --"
Holding up her hand, Anya nods. "Oh, I heard you. Heard you till my ears bled, I heard you. And now you're going to listen to me -- no. No, no, no, no, no. Look --" Stepping forward, Anya leans down. "Let me be as clear as Swarovski crystal here -- Buffy Summers already came to Sunnydale, remember? All non-Prada and vampire bait? That Slayer has sailed."
Something fragile-sounding shatters against her closed bedroom door and is immediately followed by the cracking thud of something oppositely heavy.
"No." She shakes her head, frantic. "No -- I get anything, right? Anything I want. The world turned purple, dinosaurs roaming this fair land -- anything."
"Purple dinosaurs?" Anya nods emphatically. "Not a problem. Entertaining and, possibly, educational. You want that? Wish and it's done. But I will not play Buffy Summers bingo with you and ruin perfection." Standing up straight, Anya gestures widely. "Look around! Look at you! The love of your life is killing you dead and you're bitching about a girl you once went Mean Girls on. I mean, come on, Cor. We won Best New Reality of the year together! You're no unoriginal Harmony -- give me something good here! Revenge away! Boils and burns and splinters on all the penises in the world. On Angelus' penis --"
Angelus.
Angel.
The Bronze, a thousand years ago, cars and flaky dates, laughter and coffee. The Plaza and a whirlwind of cosmetics, the first time he ever held her like he cared. Studying in the library like it's a Buffy Research Party Redux, and drinking bad coffee night after night just to see him again -- I've never met anyone like you -- and staking vampires together, side by side -- you're amazing, you're good for me, I think you're very brave...
His voice, that second first night, sitting on the bottom step in his apartment -- I can't not love you...
Heavy, heavy bangs; her bedroom door shudders in its frame, and a splintery-crack suddenly appears in the center.
Anya's still talking. "-- or whatever you want for him. You name it and I'll give it to you. Just do it now, Cor, because this world? This world isn't going nowhere." Anya smiles. "You are."
Yes, she thinks, digging her fingernails into the skin around his bite. Yes, she is.
All the Scoobies from Sunnydale die...
Looking up, she realises Anya's suddenly very far away -- very small -- almost doll-like on the other side of the room. She panics. "No! No, wait! Wait! I'll do it! I will! I wish --"
With a roll of her eyes, Anya's face melts away to reveal Anyanka. "Done," she hisses.
And the world flares white again.
* * * * *
Continued in Chapter 7.
SOUNDTRACK: Home
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*