Fourteen.
It's been fourteen
hours since she was here, wineglass in hand and bravado to spare.
Thirteen hours
since he'd walked her home and forcibly bit his tongue to keep from begging her
to come back, to spend the night and let him show her everything he wanted to
do to her, but knew he couldn't if he wanted to be fair and give her time to
make sure of what she was feeling.
It had been that
long since he'd kissed her at the door, touched her arm, clasped her fingers in
his and again had to obey that voice of conscience telling him to let her go.
It *just* managed to scream louder than the demon who begged him to spill her
blood right there on the doorstep. And that was what had scared him enough to
make him drop her hand. The demon always used to speak in guttural tones inside
his head, rasps of language that he'd never studied, but just *knew* the
meaning of. He hadn't heard it that clearly in decades, and he'd stepped
quickly away from her when the first rolling R's of the demon's word for murder
began pounding in his temples, afraid for an instant that the only way to
exorcise it was carry out its command.
She'd said
goodnight and went inside, and he'd spent the next four hours running through
the cemetery, legs pumping as he wound his way through the intricate pattern of
gravestones at inhuman speed, afraid that if he stopped, the demon's voice
would return, and he'd find himself at her door, proving his efficiency in the
sport he'd been trained for one hundred and forty four years to excel at. When
the sun had risen finally, he'd been forced into the small square footage of
his apartment, left to pace restlessly. And that's when the manic accusations
came speeding along.
They easily
overpowered every argument about how the idea that she could love him wasn't so
unusual, that by loving her, he could find the redemption he craved, that he'd
been a man once, before the demon had eaten the humanity by claiming his soul.
None of these seemed very convincing, because when he looked back at his pre
demon days, there wasn't a lot to recommend him. Rarely did he let his human memories dislodge and come to the
fore of his mind. Most of them are either too faded or surreal to have any
meaning to him now, and the vivid ones are not the kind of memories anyone *
wants* to savor. It's one of the latter sort that found him when he tried to
find the calm before sleep, picturing Willow's face, the glint of incandescent
light on her hair, the berry smell of her.
~*~*~*~
The flies were almost as thick as the smell
of manure. He grunted again as he hefted the saddle once more, setting it aside
tae take care of later. Right now he was focusing on the sheen of white lather
that covered the gelding's sides. When he reached for a cloth tae dry the fur,
a flask tumbled out.
"Well Falim,
what do we have 'ere?" He patted the horse's side as he picked up the
liquor, and then unscrewed the top. A quick whiff, and he wrinkled his nose.
"That's the stuff then, is' inna?" Liam took a long swig and wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand. "If ye can't get fucked, at least get
drunk 'eh?" By the time his horse was finished, the bottle was too. And he
was feeling every drop of it.
He put the curry
brush down and was about to break into a bawdy song, when he looked up and
noticed one of the maids watching him. The girl started when she realized she'd
gained his attention. She was one of the new ones, only been there a month.
Anne, he thought her name was. Yeah, Anne, that was it.
"Are you gonna
stand there all day looking girl, or are ye gonna say something?" He felt
a belch try to come up, and his mouth was inundated with the taste of partially
digested hops. But he was able tae keep what wee food was in his stomach down.
"Back from the
party already Master Liam?"
"It was utter
shite," he complained. He intended tae walk out of the stall, but ended up
stumbling into Anne, who offered him her arm and guided him to a bench along
the wall. "Decided to come home instead."
Anne was smiling as
she came back and offered a cup of water to him. He took it, drank deeply and
then questioned the wisdom of that action when he felt the liquid sloshing
around in his stomach, making him slightly queasy. He did look up at her as she
hovered over him. "What are ye doing out here anyway. I dinna think me
mother has any good silver out here tae polish."
She swallowed and
shrank back from the question, adding in a quiet voice, "My work is done.
I saw yer horse returning and wondered what the party was like. That's all.
I've never been tae a party like that before."
He tossed the rest
of the water in the cup out over his left knee. It hit the wall and splattered
drops into the hay covering the floor. "Well, they're nothin' tae be
hankerin' after, if ye ask me. I'd much rather stay home."
The girl was staring
at him sae intently, that he wiped his sleeve over his face. "Is there
something on me?"
Her cheeks went
pink. "No Master Liam, I was just...I was..."
She really did have
pretty blue eyes, and she must have been his same age. Fifteen or sixteen. A
suspicion started tae form in his mind, and he said, "There was a girl
there, but she wasn't as pretty as you are."
The deepening of
the color in her cheeks rewarded his intuition, and he smiled beguilingly,
cocking his head to one side. "I think I'm going tae kiss ya lass, what
d'ya think about that?"
She looked down at
the floor, giggling nervously and shuffling her feet, kicking a little pile of
straw there. But when he stood up, she didn't move, just raised her chin and
let him kiss her. He easily backed her into one of the stalls and laid her down
on the freshly cleaned floor, so close to his full height now, all the lasses
tiny compared to him. His balls felt about ready tae bust, and he needed
relief, or it felt like he'd explode. The straw rose above them as his weight
pushed her down, and he fumbled tae free himself.
He didn't give her
a chance tae protest, just covered her mouth with his and flipped her skirts
up. His erection really hadn't subsided even for all the disappointments of the
evening, and he quickly sheathed himself in her. He felt a resistance, and
thrust swiftly. "Sorry Anne, it hurts a bit the first time."
"Anne? I'm
Mary," the girl wailed in horror.
It was too late tae
be apologetic, he felt his cock shoot and that was that.
~*~*~*~
An odd one to cull
for him now. He wasn't sure if he'd thought of that maid in all the time since
the event had occurred. No, there was the time a few months later when she was
sent away, and his mother was even more disapproving for close to a fortnight.
Angel turns on his
side and lets out the kind of sigh he reserves for the times when he's
completely alone. Doesn't let anyone else hear him expel the self-loathing and
world-weariness.
He'd been wary of
Willow from the first time he'd seen her. Whistler had sent him here to
Sunnydale for a chance at redemption, some vague hope that good deeds could
make an indentation in the dark Karma he'd built for over a century. At first,
he'd half suspected it was a fool's mission, but even that small hope was
enough to keep him here. And because Willow was here, he found he couldn't
leave now even if he wanted to. He'd tried once, when he'd
been unable to save
her friend Buffy, the first slayer. The tears in her eyes at the news, the
sight of her holding Xander's unconscious body like the shock stricken survivor
of a train wreck, that was the moment that made his failure complete, and he
knew he'd been wise fearing her.
Mainly because she
embodied everything that Angelus used to delight in consuming: innocence,
trust, the desire to help others. He'd been so uncomfortable standing next to
her-twinge of faces he only vaguely remembered, images of blood and broken
bodies, and eyes that pleaded for mercy, but found none. She was an
ever-present reminder of the demon who shared his body, and a bittersweet cue
as to why he couldn't live among humans. Not entirely, not like one of
them...because he wasn't. One hundred and forty four years as the scourge of
Europe? He wondered if his payment would be equal to those years, was he
looking towards another generation of wandering the earth? Angel thought he'd
broken himself of the habit of getting close to humans, befriending them, then
watching them die. And he had when Whistler found him wallowing in the sewers
and alleys of Manhattan, clinging to the solitude that would protect him from
feeling.
That's why he was
afraid these feelings for Willow were all in his head, that he'd created some
kind of self-fulfilling epiphany. Wasn't he just trying to justify something
that couldn't be? He'd never been able to love a woman, not as Angelus
certainly, and not even when Liam existed. Every incarnation he'd been so far
had succeeded in one thing: the selfish destruction of everything around him.
If only he had the
love of a good woman. And wasn't that the biggest cliché ever written?
He has to admit
that she'd shown a lot of courage coming here last night. For all that the
others had seemed to accept him, he didn't really see Wesley or Giles coming
over here without the thought of a crossbow crossing their minds first. And
Xander Harris, he'd probably bring a lit torch and a lynch mob if he thought he
could get away with it.
He didn't hate
Xander, not entirely, but he did think he was ultimately stupid for not
noticing the obvious crush that Willow had been harboring since the vampire had
come to Sunnydale, and probably before. That had been another factor
contributing to his caution, he'd waited months to see if Xander would wake up,
if Willow would get someone better suited for her. Although Xander was an
idiot, and Willow could do so much better.
In fact, he should
be thanking Harris for being such a dolt, and sending flowers to Faith for
keeping him occupied, because Angel realizes in that second, that he'll never
accept Willow being with anyone else. He sighs at what a hopeless case he is,
and on the inhalation, the scent of her arousal mingling among the sheets wafts
across his palate, and he feels a rumble of need deep in his chest.
What is it, three hours
until she's out of school? And then another three until sunset?
************************
Xander wakes up
fuzzyheaded. He lurches up from the bed thinking he's late for work, sun is
streaming in the window to his left, and it takes several seconds for him to
realize where he is, and aside from the fact that it's Saturday, he doesn't
work anymore. The smell of coffee wafts down the hallway into his room, and he
can hear Giles singing along with the oldies station as he fixes breakfast.
Waffles or pancakes?
He needs a shower,
grime, vampire dust and bodily secretions cover him. Didn't want to wake up the
old guy when he came in at two in the morning by running the water. He fell
into bed in his boxers and hoped Giles didn't bustle in to get him up for
something he didn't know about today, and his luck held out for once.
He pulls himself to
his feet, grabs some clothes from the dresser across from his bed and picks his
way down the hall. Tired and sore from another night with Faith. Three rounds
of sex, seven vamps, and he doesn't know how he'll keep up with her or why he
wants to so badly. Wonders again if Faith might be his shot. This Faith, not as
damaged as before, full of life and need and all of it pointed in his
direction. Considers the other possibility as well as he stands under the hot
spray of the shower: Angel, or his Royal Wickedness, Angelus. Thought he was in
the free and clear on that one with the no Buffy thing until last night. Feels
the pang for his friend who *isn't *, just doesn't exist here, and lets the
sadness in.
Xander thinks about
Joyce. And Dawn. Even though he knows his memories of her aren't real, not that
he believes in all that real shit anymore, his vision of this time in his life
is even more incomplete without her as well as Buffy. No leopard on Halloween.
No sparkly gel in his hair when he babysat her. No babysitting at all. Imagines
himself in Joyce's place, and his heart lurches. Joyce might not have even
known about the slaying gig. Just her daughter dead from gang related activity
before she went to the prom. And that hurts him so much he wants to collapse in
a bundle in the tub. Cry his eyes out and then just die too. Because Sheila and
Joyce were his surrogate mothers, and no matter that she might not even know
him in this world, he wants to find Joyce and hug her one more time. That
chance at touching the dead stolen from him, and he wants to run to the
Rosenburg's right now and have some coffee with cinnamon in it and talk about
Sheila's new paper. But he knows she's at a conference and doesn't even know if
they are that close here.
As he towels off,
he brings his mind around to Willow. That much is the same. Except not, at the
same time. She feels isolated from him because of Faith, and he sees the
Cordelia thing all over again. Considers that he might have a real shot at
going down the Willow-road this time: true love married to true friendship,
love with depth of years, maybe together forever and all the ridiculous engaged
out of high school stuff he's only seen on TV and in the movies. Then he trips
back over Faith. And Angel. Decides it's time to talk this out as best he's
able without giving up the secret. She was pissed at him last night, but she's
Will, and she'll get over it.
It was pancakes
after all. The fat, bloated kind that are like an inch thick and soak up half a
bottle of syrup when you pour it over them. His favorite, and apparently the
favorite of *this * Xander too, hence with the G-man slappin' 'em down this
morning. God bless some things never changing. Xander sits down at the table,
and Giles flips a plate to him.
"Late
night?" Giles asks, scraping the sides of the bowl and directing the
batter into the skillet for another batch.
"Yup."
"Did you get
any actual patrolling in?" The Watcher pokes at some bubbles with the
spatula. A little too nonchalantly?
"Seven ashes
to ashes types." He spreads a lot of butter on top of the stack on his
plate and reaches for the sticky bottle of syrup.
"Pretty good.
You let Faith do the slaying part, correct?"
"Hey now. I
don't have to be bait boy all the time." Xander has to grip the fork
harder, wiggle the edge against the spongy disks on the plate and really use
his biceps to get enough force to cut through them.
Giles joins him,
but doesn't share Xander's carbohydrate repast, opts for toast and tea and one
egg fried sunny side up. He sets the plate, adjusts the silverware, lays the
newspaper alongside. "Maybe not, but I would prefer you to not go at all
in the first place, so attempt to humor me."
"I am a shiny
lure guy."
One shake of salt,
two of pepper. The forks edge cuts the rubbery whites into ribbons until the
yellowy center oozes out onto the plate "Right. Willow called while you
were in the shower."
"What did she
say?"
"That she was
mad at you. Something about you being a 'big stupid dumb dumb who needs to mind
his own glass house' and then she continued for a while, I wasn't listening
really."
"Ah, great.
I'm in for it now, those were the big guns." It's always trouble when Willow
starts using the metaphors.
"What ever did
you do now, Xander?" Giles thumbs through the paper, finding the section
that catches his eye, removes it and folds it into a square manageable enough
to hold in one hand while the other is occupied with breakfast.
"Nothing, I
just told her to stay away from Dead Boy."
He forsakes the
paper for a second and looks up in surprise. "Dead Boy meaning Angel? What
on earth for?"
"Because,
she's got the hots for him, and I don't like the way he looks at her."
Because it's a little too close to the way Angel used to look at Buffy, and
he's trying to save them all from the horizontal happy, and someone taking the
last train to hellville.
"Xander,
surely you're imagining, or exaggerating Angel's, well, he's two hundred and
forty some years old, and Willow's...she's a child. I'll admit that he might
seem mysterious and exciting to a teenage girl, but do you think he'd really
initiate some...some kind of relationship? He's a vampire; she's human. "
"Oh, I *think*!"
"Be that as it
may, Xander, I think you really should mind your own glass house as Willow
says. Stay out of it, meddling in situations like this usually causes serious
discord in friendships, besides, Angel is an intelligent, er, individual, he
will act with utmost decorum, I'm sure."
"Uh huh.
Whatever. He better keep his room temperature mitts off her." He stabs the
last forkful and mops it around the bottom of the plate, gathering the last
drops of the sweet, brown liquid.
"Are you
jealous?" Giles abandons all pretence, lays the crossword on the table and
fixes the boy with an inquisitive stare.
"Jealous?
What? No. She's my best friend, that's all." He tells that part of his
brain to shut up. The one that sends him flashing images of Will lying
full-length against him in his bed, arms wrapped around him, comforting him
when he tells her about Anya. It's probably related to the part that sends an
uneasy, restless energy through him when he thinks about it now, some
vestigial remnant
of what could have been, what should have been.
"Convince
yourself, and then come back and tell me that again. Right, I have to go. Jenny
and I are going down the city for the day. I'll be back by eight or so tonight.
Will you be alright?"
"I wasn't
planning to stick my finger in a light socket."
"Well, if you
were, don't do it. There's some money under the toaster. Leave Angel alone
while I'm gone at least. I don't want to come back to mass chaos."
"No chaos
raising or electrocution, check."
"Cheeky little
bugger. Be careful. Bye."
"Have a good
time with Jenny."
Xander watches
Giles shut the door behind him, heaves the most put-upon sigh ever heard, and
picks up the telephone. Three rings, and the other line engages.
"Hello?"
Time to face it
like a man. "Hey, Wills."
"Oh, it's Mr.
I Know Everything About Everyone." He knows she's nursing her anger. It's
wrapped around every syllable, and she's just too nice to hit him over the head
with it. So different from Faith.
"I mainly go
by Harris."
"Ha ha, I
don't hear you apologising."
"I was getting
to it."
"Ok."
"I didn't mean
to go all nuts on you or hurt your feelings last night. I'm just worried about
you, you know, getting in over your head. It's not like you like some college
guy, Angel's like prehistoric."
"Not exactly.
History was in full swing in the 18th century."
"You know what
I mean! I'm worried he might hurt you. I would have to try to kill him them,
and well, it wouldn't be pretty."
"Uh, no. You
would be very un-pretty after that. But, you don't have to worry about that.
He's not like that. You just don't know him."
"If you say
so." If only he could tell her the truth without looking all fortune
teller.
Willow must have
forgiven him, because her next words are curious, lighter. "What are you
doing today? Giles went down to L.A., huh?"
"He just left.
Don't know, I don't think I have any plans."
"You're not
gonna, uh, spend time with Faith."
That's very smooth.
"I'm sure she'll be asleep for several more hours. Did you want to do
something?"
"How about
work on your Chem?"
"You should
have been alive during the Inquisition."
"I think I
might have been a little toasty."
"Oh, right,
witch. All right, I guess we can do the studying thing. You come over
here?" He pulls away from the table and starts clearing it off, receiver
tucked under his chin as he piles plate with silverware, syrup bottle,
everything in one trip, no matter how precarious the balance.
"Um, sure. Let
me get my stuff together and take a shower, and I'll be over."
"You mean
after you call Angel and tell him where you'll be."
"What?
Xander...why would you think that?"
"Nothing,
forget it. So, an hour?"
"Yeah, an
hour."
"See you then.
Bye."
"Bye"
************************