WHEN SHE WAS BAD

        Buffy cried on Angel’s shoulder for a long time, while he just held her, conscious of the eyes of the others on him, conscious of exactly where his hands lay on Buffy’s small body. The smell of her tears filled his head, and he wanted to kiss her, kiss her hard, take away the pain that wracked her. He felt as if she were literally breaking to pieces in his arms.
        After a time, he heard the others finally gather themselves and come down from the upper level where they had been watching. Xander eyed him warily, and Angel flinched, remembering the way Buffy had ground herself into him at the Bronze. Xander hadn’t taken advantage, though. He was, perhaps, more perceptive than Angel was willing to give him credit for. He, too, had understood that Buffy wasn’t herself.
        Giles touched Angel’s shoulder. “Let me take her home,” he said gently.
        Reluctant, Angel loosed his embrace. Buffy moved back, looking up into Angel’s face.
        “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
        He touched her cheek. “It’s okay.”
        She smiled, vaguely, and turned to Giles. Xander gave Angel one last, hard look as they walked away, leaving him there alone.

#

        He walked home alone, hands shoved into his coat pockets. Did she care anything about him at all? There was a time when he’d actually thought she loved him. Then she had left for the summer without telling him, and come back someone other than herself.
        Her spurning would have hurt more, more than he could bear, except that he had smelled the fear on her. She had been terrified. Of him, of what he represented. Of her own death. She had faced and conquered that, but she really hadn’t. How could a sixteen-year-old girl of this era be expected to handle that kind of burden? The knowledge that her life was numbered by days, hours, that in all likelihood she wouldn’t live long enough to die of comfortable old age. And one of his kind would likely be the source of her demise.
        He understood that. But it still hurt. To see her turn away from him, to see the flash of revulsion in her eyes. You’re a vampire.
        Slowly, he pushed the door to his apartment closed behind him, walked toward his bed.
        Yes, he was. Not one damned thing he could do about it. She would never be able to understand all the implications of that. He had slaughtered his own Sire for her, had helped her slaughter the leader of his Order. He wasn’t sure even he understood everything that meant.
        He sank down onto the edge of his bed, rubbed his face. If he had known where it would take him, would he have gone with Whistler that day? He wasn’t even sure. But he did know that, until that day, when he had seen Buffy come down those stairs, bathed in sunlight, he had not understood what it truly meant to own a soul.
        A knock suddenly sounded through the small room, and he jumped, looked up. Someone was knocking on his door. No one ever knocked on his door. Except Xander, when he had come to tell Angel Buffy had gone to face the Master. And a girl once, selling cookies. He’d bought a box, but they hadn’t tasted like anything to him, and he’d thrown them away.
        He pushed to his feet, wondering who it was this time. Had he paid his rent? He wasn’t even sure.
        “Angel? Are you there?”
        He froze at the voice, small and a little shaky from the other side of his door. For a moment he considered not answering at all. It would be easier on both of them if she left, now, immediately.
        He went to the door. Opened it, looked down into Buffy’s face, her wide, green eyes, makeup still smeared from her tears.
        “Buffy,” he said, numb. She smelled of tears and catharsis and hot, female blood. Her heartbeat was a little faster than usual.
        Her shoulders shifted as she shrugged on her usual cloak of impudent bravado. “Can I come in?”
       Saying nothing, he stepped aside to let her in. She took in the spare surroundings, his cluttered desk, the paintings and the glass cabinet of miscellaneous artwork. “Nice,” she said.
        “It sucks,” he answered.
        She spun toward him, taking him in, everything about her defiant. “Better than the sewers where your brothers and sisters live.”
        “Stop it,” he said, not thinking, just blurting.
        “Stop what?”
        “Stop fucking talking to me like that.”
       She recoiled, as if he’d slapped her, and tears rose to her eyes, but she squared her shoulders and almost sneered at him. “Like what?”
        “Like you don’t give a shit about me.”
        “Maybe I don’t.”
        “Then cry on Xander next time. Leave me out of it.”
        He spun away from her but there was nowhere to go in the small space. He could hear her heart speed up, smell her sudden fear--but this time the fear was thickly mixed with arousal. No wonder she lashed out at him. Undoubtedly the intensity was as disconcerting for her as it was for him.
        “I’m sorry,” she said then, quietly. “I just-- I-- This is so hard for me. I don’t understand…”
        He closed his eyes, gathered himself. His forehead and his teeth ached from the thick, rich smell of her blood, her arousal. Slowly, he turned around. “Don’t understand what?”
        Her wide, green eyes devastated him. “I don’t understand what I’m feeling,” she said.
        He moved closer. She matched his step forward and they met in the middle. He closed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her.
        Gentle, careful. He had held her close and comforted her--this was more of the same. But she pushed hard into him, and her tongue touched his lips.
        His face and his teeth ached, and he fought hard to keep the demon back. He’d frightened her once already, with his loss of control. But he opened his mouth to her, let her hesitantly feel her way into him. She tasted sweet and edible, and she was so, so hot.
        Finally she drew back, looking up into his face. “I just…I don’t get it. You’re a vampire.”
        Involuntarily, his fingers dug into her shoulders. She flinched a little and he made himself release her. Then, anger bitter in the back of his throat, he let the demon have its way. She took a startled step back as his face changed.
        “Yeah,” he said, “I am. And as soon as you figure out what the hell you want to do about it, you let me know.”
        He turned away from her, fists clenched. She couldn’t just play with him like this, but she didn’t know any better. Behind him, he heard her draw a breath, but she said nothing. Finally, the door opened and closed, and he turned around, and she was gone.

SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED

       Angel had no idea why Cordelia--was that her name? It sounded right--had insisted he ride home with her. She seemed perfectly capable of handling the car--probably knew more about these new, fancy vehicles than he did. And there was no reason she should be in danger just driving home from the school.
       But as soon as she looped her arm through his, he felt a sinking sense of doom that told him he had no other choice. In spite of the smirk on Xander’s face, and the hurt in Buffy’s eyes, he was going to have to accompany Cordelia home.
       “I’m just so glad you’re here to escort me, you know?” She turned to him, still hanging onto his arm, and smiled. That smile was killer, almost enough to make Angel smile back. “I mean, with the vampires and the ghouls and whatever--Buffy really attracts a bad crowd, you know what I mean?”
       They stepped out of the school, into the parking lot, and Angel hoped she might let go of him, but she just tucked his arm a little tighter against her and kept walking.
       “Not you, of course. You’re not like those geeky freaks she hangs out with. You’re…” She gave him a look of coy embarrassment that he knew was put on. “I mean, you’re hot.”
       “I’m…hot.” He considered telling her he was actually ambient temperature, but something told him she wouldn’t get that.
       “Yeah.” She crinkled her nose. “And look at you, so adorable, don’t even know it.”
       Hard to judge your personal level of hotness, he thought, when you couldn’t see yourself in a mirror. Though he must not be particularly ugly, considering how many women he’d managed to lure into dark alleys with a smile and an eyebrow twitch. He resisted the urge to ask what color his eyes were. He was pretty sure they were brown, but it had been a long time.
       She stopped next to the car and opened the door for him. “So, what’s your story?”
       “My story?” With apparently no other option available, he got into the car.
       “Yeah. How come I haven’t seen you around before?” She circled the car and got in on the driver’s side. “I usually know all the hotties.” Winking at him, she started the car.
       “I’m pretty new in town.” Interesting, he thought, that she was coming on to him so hard, yet she wasn’t the least bit aroused. Interesting and possibly a little insulting.
       “Really? So where did you live before?”
       “Los Angeles.”
       The smile appeared again, cranked up a notch. She really was remarkably pretty. Good, slow heartbeat, like an athlete. O positive. A sweet, warm smell.
       She glanced toward him and their eyes met a moment, and, just for a second, that even, steady heartbeat stuttered. He smiled a little.
       “Oh!” she said, maintaining her outward composure. “You know Buffy from the LA days, then.”
       “No.”
        Her smile faded and she turned her attention back to the road. No fear, still. “So you two just met?”
       “Pretty much.”
       “So you’re not, like, steadies or anything.”
       “No.” He sucked his teeth. He had a sudden urge to grab her, tear into her throat. Talking to her--or, rather, listening to her talk--was a chore, but drinking her-- He studied her, taking her in, letting her smell fill his head.
       There it was, finally. Fear. A subtle waft of it, quickly quelled. And followed immediately by arousal. So, she liked the bad boys. Good to know.
       She laughed suddenly, almost nervously. “Here we go. Here’s my house.” She pulled into the driveway, parked, and turned to him with a look that oozed sex. These girls, none of them knew what they were playing with. “Silly me,” she went on. “I guess now you’re kind of stranded with all the oogly booglies out there in the dark. But I’m home safe, at least. You’ll be okay, though, huh? You’re a big guy, you can take care of yourself, right?”
        “I’ll be fine.”
       She got out of the car and he followed suit, watching her in the darkness. He had no idea if her bravado was the product of chutzpah, true courage, or plain stupidity.
       She tilted him a look over the top of the car, her bow-shaped mouth twitching toward hints of that devastating smile.
       “So, if you and Buffy aren’t actually a couple, maybe you and I could get together some time.”
       Old instincts took over--the smirk, the flirt, the look, all bait for the trap, and he leaned over the hood and caught her with that plus a quirk of one eyebrow.
       “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
       She tilted her body into a blatant invitation. “Yeah, I think I would.”
       Angel straightened, regarding her, sizing her up, then said quietly, “Maybe if you were nicer.”
       He turned to go, and couldn’t help smiling at the sound of her righteous indignation.

SCHOOL HARD

       Spike. Angel strode down the school corridors, hands shoved into his coat pockets, barely aware of where he was going.
       Spike.
       Spike was here, and if Spike was here, Dru wouldn’t be far behind. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories.

       “She’ll not be able to teach you, William. I saw to that before I Turned her. She sees things none of us can see, but the present’s not one of them. Her hunting ways can never be yours. I know this and so do you. So love her all you like, but remember what I can teach you, boy.”
       Dark nights watching while Spike’s lean, pale body claimed Dru’s, watching him take what had belonged to Angel by Sire-right--but Angel had claimed Sire-right to Spike, and let him have Dru.
       He’d had little interest in Dru, after breaking and Turning her. He’d taken what he wanted from her as often as he’d wanted it, had taught her to like pain and humiliation. Once she was broken, she bored him, and he went back to Darla.
       “Are you done with her? Are you finished with leaving me here while you fuck your little piece of crazy artwork? You’ll pay for this, Angelus. I’ll make you bleed.”
       And she had, and it had been very, very good.
       But now there was Spike. Spike who had come to them mewling and weak, but with some kind of fire in him that had come to the surface within weeks of having been Turned.
       Spike, who needed to be broken.
       As devoted as Spike was to Dru, it hadn’t taken him long to realize Angel was right. She couldn’t teach him. Her world was not a place where he could go, and she couldn’t come out of the web of her fractured sanity to meet him where he was.
       “You teach me, then,” he told Angel, his voice already dark and blunt, unlike the voice of the spurned poet Dru had found in the alleyway.
       “Of course.” Indolent, smug, he let his gaze sweep Spike’s lean form. “You’re mine, then.”
       “And you’ll give over your right to Drusilla?”
       “I will.”
       Spike nodded. Angel was certain the once-timorous poet had no idea what exactly he’d just agreed to.
       He found out that night, when Angel came to his bed.
       “You’ve given over Sire-right to me,” Angel told him, as he tied Spike’s wrists to the bedpost. “You’re mine now, every bit of you.” He ripped Spike’s shirt open and examined the smooth flesh. Licked his chest, his throat, his face. “Tomorrow, I teach you to hunt. Tonight--" He bared his fangs. “Tonight I teach you to bleed.”
        But Spike had never broken. As Angel had never completely yielded to Darla’s ownership, Spike never completely yielded to Angel’s. It became a game--how far could Angel push him before Spike’s temper snapped, how much could Angel force upon him before Spike responded with unacceptable violence. How many days could Angel spend in Spike’s bed before Darla brutally reclaimed him as her own. A game, and finally a frustration, until the play ended at the hands of an enraged gypsy elder.

       Spike had taken two Slayers. He wouldn’t easily pass up the opportunity for a third. Technically, Angel still owned him. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. He hoped he could. Otherwise, he didn’t hold out much hope for Buffy’s chances of coming out of this alive.

INCA MUMMY GIRL

       He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised to see her. It was the mall, after all, the Mecca of teenage girls. She probably spent half her life here.
       But for once he hadn’t come here looking for her. For once, he was actually trying to distance himself from her. Yet here she was.
       He slipped quickly behind a decorative pillar and watched her. She was with her mother, smiling as they walked toward the Food Court. They seemed comfortable together, and he almost envied their seemingly easy relationship. If only everything could be so simple as those looks between mother and daughter--
       But he remembered what he’d seen of her life in LA. It hadn’t been as easy for her then. It probably wasn’t easy for her now--he had simply caught her in a bubble of happiness, a moment of ease that might never be duplicated.
       They sat down at one of the tables in the Food Court, still chatting. He couldn’t quite pick out the words from this distance, but even through the roar of the other shoppers he could make out the timbre of her voice. He could just stand her and listen, enjoy the faint music of her laughter--
       And suddenly she looked right at him, and the smile slid from her face.
       She had spotted him so abruptly he didn’t even have time to react. Ducking behind the pillar now would just be stupid. So he met her regard evenly, and waited to see what she would do.
       She leaned toward her mother and said something, then got up and walked toward him. Stepping out from behind the dubious shelter of the pillar, he watched her approach.
       “What are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice was taut, almost brittle.
       “I was shopping.” It sounded lame, but it was the truth. That he hadn’t actually bought anything didn’t make it any less valid.
       She crossed her arms over her chest, regarding him coldly. “You were stalking me.”
       “I wasn’t.”
       She rolled her eyes. “Right.”
       “If I were stalking you, you never would have seen me,” he told her disdainfully.
       “I would have figured it out eventually.”
       He said nothing. She’d too obviously sussed him out too often for it to be worth arguing about.
       “So why did you come over here?” he said finally. “Was there something you wanted?”
       She drew herself up straight and haughty, looking up at him with firm, fearless defiance. Then, just as suddenly, the façade crumbled. “I don’t know.”
        He fought a smile. At least she was honest. “I asked you to tell me when you decided what you wanted. Have you worked that out yet?”
       Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, perhaps in an attempt to hide the uncertainty there. But he saw it. “No, I haven’t. It’s complicated.” He snorted softly, and she went on. “I mean you’re not just some boy inviting me to the Prom. You’re a--" She arrested the word, lowered her voice. “A vampire. And I’m the Slayer. It’s complicated.” She paused again. “And I have a feeling you’re asking for more than a Friday night date and a peck on the cheek.”
       Maybe she did understand. Or at least a little. He barely understood, himself, why his dead blood ran so hot in her presence, why he wanted her so desperately.
       He said nothing, just looked at her, into the sincerity of her green eyes.
       “You don’t know yet, then,” he ventured after a moment.
       She shook her head. “Not quite. Not yet.”
And then she reached a hand out to him and clasped his arm, gently. “I think I might need you,” she said. “Your help, I mean.”
       He nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”
       Her fingers dug more tightly into his arm. The utter sincerity in her eyes made his heart melt. “Thank you,” she said, and he was certain she really meant it.
       For now, it was enough.

REPTILE BOY (Rated R)

       Angel chewed on the inside of his cheek, watching Buffy leave the Bronze. She paused, but didn’t stop. He watched her all the way to the door, and after she had left, he could still smell her, the soft wafting of her sweet odor though the smells of coffee and teenage hormones.
       After a moment, he sensed Willow’s eyes on him and turned to look at her.
       “What did I do wrong?” he asked.
       She smiled, but uncertainty lingered in her eyes. “Hard to say.”
       “I saved her life. What more does she want?” He meant it jokingly--after all, by the time he’d gotten there, Buffy had taken care of most of the saving herself--and Willow’s deepening smile made him think she understood that.
       “I don’t know,” she said. “Women are fickle.”
       Angel almost laughed. He liked Willow; she had a certain way about her that made him comfortable.
       Xander was a different story, but Angel cast him a look, anyway, as he headed toward the door.
       “Later,” Angel muttered, not sure it was the right thing to say.
       “Yeah,” said Xander, and Willow added, “’Bye, Angel.”
       Angel headed home. He was tired, and after finishing off a pint or so of blood, he changed clothes and settled down to read. The taste of the pig’s blood lingered in his mouth. He was getting used to it, but he still couldn’t say he really liked it.
       It seemed odd, to be indoors at full dark, but he had no need to hunt, and for the moment he thought it would be best to stay out of Buffy’s way. She didn’t need his help, and he didn’t need to be spurned again. He didn’t like it.
       He couldn’t concentrate on his book. His mind kept casting back to the night of the frat party. There had been several horrible, wrenching moments when he’d been nearly certain he’d lost her. But he hadn’t. He had fulfilled his duty to protect her. And, by her actions at the Bronze tonight, that might be the only thing he could do for her. She didn’t want him the way he wanted her; he frightened her, and he didn’t blame her. In fact, that was good. She’d be safer that way.
       Pushing the thoughts aside, he finally managed to concentrate on the book, then jerked back out of his reverie when someone knocked on the door. Surprised by the intrusion, he pushed himself from the chair and headed for the door, yanked it open.
       Buffy stood in the hallway. Belatedly, he remembered he was wearing nothing but a pair of soft, cotton drawstring pants. They were comfortable, but not the best attire for meeting with high school girls.
       She took in his bare torso with a glance, then lifted her hands to display their contents.
       “Coffee,” she said.
       He stared at the paper cups she held--to-go cups from the Bronze. Slowly, he took one. “So,” he said. “You decided it’s time for coffee?”
       “I did.”
       The odor of the coffee drifted up to him, through the small hole in the plastic lid. Sweet, but bitter, tinged with vanilla. He studied Buffy’s face. She seemed calm, at ease, but he could make out the slimmest edge of fear, just barely coloring her scent.
       “You totally blew me off at the Bronze,” he told her, then had a sudden surge of panic, afraid he’d used the wrong phrase. Blowing him off--did that mean--no, that was the other thing--
       She smiled. He must have gotten it right. “I did. It felt good.”
       “Not so much from where I was standing.” Her expression crumpled, and he smiled. “But I understand. You want to be in control.”
       She considered that, her eyes shifting to the side as she mulled. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
       Sipping his coffee finally, he turned toward the chairs in his living area. The apartment seemed too small, grungy and more than a little pathetic. But he went to a chair and sat, and Buffy took the other chair, perching on the edge of it, as if ready to flee. But her expression was open.
       “How did you know that?” She asked.
       “Know what?” He sipped the coffee again. It didn’t taste like much of anything other than bitterness. But even mortals often said coffee smelled better than it tasted. The phenomenon was just exacerbated by his inability to taste much of anything except blood, flesh, skin.
       “That I want to be in control.”
       He considered his answer. “You were Chosen to be the Slayer. You had no control over that. You’re a teenager. In this society, you go where you’re told and you do what you’re told. You want to call the shots with me because you don’t want yet another part of your life careening out of control.” The speech surprised him, and apparently her, as well, because she frowned at him reflectively.
       “But I suppose you want to be in charge.” Her voice was edged with sarcasm. “Since you’re the big, strong man.”
       “No.” There was so much in that single word that she just couldn’t understand. Starting with Darla, ending with a gypsy girl whose thighs had tasted of smoke and terror. He was as uncertain here as she was, relieved more than offended at the thought she might want to be in the lead. It made things easier.
       He put the coffee down on the table next to the chair, with no desire to drink any more of it. She was regarding him with surprise on her face, and for a long moment they just sat, eyes locked. There was no challenge in the way her gaze held his, just evaluation, assessment.
       Then, finally, she rose from the chair and came to him, and he lifted his arms in surprise as she slipped into his lap.
       She was so slight, her weight nothing to him as she settled into his body. Her small hands spread flat across his chest, exploring his skin, and it was difficult, for a moment, to remember that those hands could snap him like a twig if she wanted them to.
       “Then I want to start like this,” she said, and leaned into him, until her mouth found his.
       He let her kiss him, lost in the taste of her. After a moment he realized his arms were still lifted in surprise; he lowered them, drawing his hands across her shoulders, over her back.
       So small. So lovely. So strong. His head spun with the musk of Slayer-smell, with the taste of her as she deepened the kiss, touched the tip of her tongue to his lips.
       As he opened his mouth to her, his hand moved, seemingly of its own volition, and settled on the curve of her breast. She flinched, and one hand closed around his wrist, as if to push him away, then her hand slid up until her palm lay against his fingers, and she pressed him deeper into her.
       She just kissed him for a long time, deeper and deeper, more and more desperate, until finally she drew back, gasping her need, her fingers digging hard into his hand where he still cupped her breast.
       “Too much?” he asked, his voice soft, when she seemed to have regained some control.
       She seemed flustered, embarrassed. But, “Not enough,” she answered, and shifted back in his lap, putting a bit of distance between them. Her eyes had darkened with desire, and her arousal rose in thick, heady waves around him. He wanted to let her go, but her fingers were clamped on his hand, holding it there against her breast. Her nipple was hard, taut, pressing into his palm.
       “Buffy,” he murmured. “Don’t do anything you don’t want.”
       “That’s the problem.” She let go of his hand, finally, and he let his palm slide down the side of her body, rest against the curve of her hip. “I want too much.”
       So do I, he thought, but he didn’t say it, because he knew it wouldn’t help anything. He wanted her, she wanted him, and the only thing standing between them was common sense.
       “I won’t hurt you,” he said, inanely, he thought.
       But she smiled. “I know.” And she kissed him again, brief and sweet, before lifting herself from his lap and going back to her chair.
       “Maybe we should stick to coffee,” she said, picking her cup back up. “Just for now.”
       He nodded, smiling. “For now.”
       Later, he thought, later, when she’s ready. And if she never was ready, then he would be content with this--the soft green eyes regarding him from across the slight distance between them, and the warm imprint of her body on his hands.

HALLOWEEN (NC17)

LIE TO ME

       He wasn't sure why it had surprised him so much to see Drusilla. He'd known Spike was here, after all, and where Spike was, Dru was bound to be. She barely even had her own smell anymore, she had become so covered with Spike's.
       Angel jammed his hands into his coat pockets, hunching against the cool night and the cold wash of memory. He remembered everything he had ever done with vivid, wrenching clarity, and what he had done to Drusilla had been cruel and vicious and . . . he wanted to shy away from it, not to have to relive the steady process by which he had emotionally, then physically, brutalized and violated her. He had made her, shaped her, molded her, Turned and damned her.
       And that tiny corner of his mind, the one he didn't want to acknowledge, the one he was often certain held the truth of him, as much as he didn't want to admit it--that little corner still took pride in the accomplishment.
       He stopped walking and, looking up, realized he was in front of Buffy's house. He should warn her about Dru. Dru could be every bit as dangerous as Spike. As Angel himself had been. And much less predictable.
       There was something dreadfully wrong with her, though, he had sensed that much. She was weak, drained. Only a few things could do that to a vampire, all of them mystical. What had she and Spike stumbled into? He would probably never know.
       He tried to tell himself he didn't care.

       The first time he had seen her, she had looked at him with night-dark eyes and he had seen the fear there. Later, he had wondered. If she had the Sight--and she'd proven more than once that she did--why had she allowed him to do what he'd done? Why had she not escaped, if she had known what was coming? Did she believe the future to be immutable? Was that why she had never fought him?
       Or, and this was perhaps even more horrible to contemplate, had she allowed it?
       When it had been happening, when he had been stalking her, killing her family, it had pleased him to think that. That she wanted it, because she wanted him. That he had ensnared her thoroughly, entranced her, beguiled her to the point where the knowledge that her family and friends would die brutally at his hands no longer mattered. She would know what he would do to her, as well, that he would break her and take her and own her and finally make her into a demon beyond the reach of any God she might swear herself to.
       He didn't believe that now. He wasn't certain what he did believe, but he didn't believe Drusilla had wanted anything he had forced upon her. He had stalked and brutalized women before he'd met Dru, but how much worse it must have been for her, knowing what was coming, knowing--or at least believing--that she couldn't stop it, or that using her powers to prevent it would be succumbing to Satan . . .
       He forced the thoughts back. He was still standing, still as shadow, in front of Buffy's house.
       Warn her, he thought. But to warn her, he would have to explain. And if she knew what Drusilla was, what he had made her...
       He could only imagine. Would she ever look at him again with that softness in her eyes? Ever let him touch her?
       He drew a long, shuddery, unnecessary breath. Only if he had to, would he tell her this truth. It was too big, too difficult, too...evil.
       He turned away from her house and headed home.

THE DARK AGE

       Angel had almost gotten used to having people knock on his door. He was beginning to grow accustomed to having people wonder where he was when he made himself scarce for a few days. He had begun to enjoy opening his door from time to time to see Buffy on the other side. She brought him coffee sometimes on her way to school, on days when her mother didn't drive her. He didn't have the heart to tell her he didn't really like it.
       But today when he heard the knock and opened his door, Willow stood on the other side. Her eyes were wide and she looked distressed, her hands straining against each other in front of her.
       "Willow, what's wrong?"
       He reached for her automatically; she looked so frightened and wounded.
       "It's Miss Calendar," she said. "We need your help."
       "Come in," he told her, moving aside. "Sit down and talk to me."
       Her hands continued to wring each other as she explained what had happened--that Miss Calendar had been possessed by a demon, and the only way to get rid of it was for it to move into another unconscious or dead body. As she explained her plan to eliminate the demon completely, Angel's eyes widened. This girl was smart. The plan made complete sense, and he wasn't entirely sure he would have thought of it, given the chance.
       When she had finished explaining, she regarded him with wide eyes. "So, do you think it'll work?"
       He mulled it over. "I think so. I can't think of any reason why not."
       "Do you think...I mean, could it kill you?"
       Angel shrugged. "How could it kill me? I'm already dead, right?"
       "But...if that demon kills your demon and your demon is what makes you not quite so dead as other dead people, then you'd be dead, is that right? And I don't think Buffy would be very happy with me if I made you dead--or deader--even if it did save Miss Calendar."
       Angel stared at her, trying to assimilate what she'd said. After a moment, it made sense. "I don't think that demon will kill my demon."
       "Are you sure?" He hadn't thought her eyes could get any wider, but they did. "I mean, it sounded like a really good plan when it was all in my head, but when I say it out loud I'm not so sure anymore."
       He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and smiled. "It's a good plan. And my demon is a murderous son of a bitch who'd be more than happy to take out this other demon. I don't think we have anything to worry about." He let his hand slide away from her shoulder, sobering. "And if something did happen to me, it wouldn't be your fault. Miss Calendar is a human being. I'm not. If I have to sacrifice myself for her, it's more than a fair trade."
       Willow looked like she was about to cry. "But Buffy loves you."
       He blinked. Yes, she'd said the words to him, when he'd asked her point-blank, but he hadn't really believed her. He'd practically bribed her to say it, after all, by dangling the information about Dru. It had been wrong of him, but something in him had needed desperately to hear it. Because he'd been certain that, after he told her what he had done, what he had been, that he would never hear her say it again.
       He'd made himself scarce since then, and Buffy hadn't sought him out. He'd assumed he'd been right, that the knowledge had been too much for her, that she'd decided to step away. But now Willow told him this...
       It was almost too much for him to absorb. Was it possible Buffy loved him? Even knowing what he had been capable of?
       "Does she?" he said, his voice vague, shaky.
       Willow just looked at him, as if afraid she might have said something she shouldn't. Angel swallowed and turned away from her. Could he do this? Could he let his own demon loose just enough to destroy the thing menacing Miss Calendar, then bring it back under control again? He wasn't at all certain. But Buffy would be there, so if it became necessary, he could die at her hand.
       "I'll be okay," he told Willow finally, and touched her shoulder gently. "Just tell me where to be, and when."

WHAT'S MY LINE

He looked like Daddy, sounded like him, felt like him when she pressed her body against him, but he wasn't her Daddy and hadn't been for a long time. It was the smell that gave him away, and that sickened her, made her hate him, but she had always hated him, hated the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, hated when he pinned her to the bed and pushed himself inside her, made her body respond even to pain, because he understood what she desired more than she did. Hated that he would not do that now, because he had a soul, and he reeked of it.

She could have told him things, too, told him that this love, this perverse desire for this girl, this Slayer, would be the death of him.

Spike had him now, sliding his pale hands over the smooth planes of Angel's body, watching him squirm, and Drusilla saw the waves and smoke-like pale tendrils of Angel's future wafting all about him, wrapping him up, and she saw her Daddy in the smoke, and smiled because she missed him, missed his brutal hands and his wicked smile and the way his mouth always tasted of fresh blood.

"Can't kill us now, can you?" Spike's tone mocked his grandsire, as Angel lolled there, still sun-weakened and broken, but there was hatred in his eyes and for a moment Dru was certain again that she saw Daddy, and wondered where he was and when he might be coming back, because she knew he was coming back, she could see him there and something would bring him to her, something horrible, hideous, wrenching, something her Daddy should never, ever do...

"You hurt me," she said suddenly, and Spike turned toward her, looking at her with gentle blue eyes. He had always been gentle, except when she hadn't wanted him to be, and he had tried so hard to understand her, but no one could understand, and now she looked at her Daddy, who was not her Daddy, and saw his body hunched over the delicate, broken form of her sister, the blood running down her neck and between her breasts, and Daddy's hands on her in places they shouldn't be, and she was dead dead everywhere all dead and all her blood running out...

She slapped him, hard, watched his head snap back as her hand made contact. "I want to hurt you," she said, and looked at Spike. He smiled and nodded, and she smiled, too, and bent to her Daddy and kissed him on his mouth.

TED

"Finally, something I want to do..."

He kissed her. A lot. As always, the moments seemed stolen.

He understood her concerns about her mother, but, at the heart of it, she was being selfish.

He wondered if she'd ever been truly lonely. He'd watched her with her friends and he understood how her Slayerness isolated her from them, but she was always surrounded with people. Never alone. Perhaps lonely, though. Maybe that was why understanding had flickered in her eyes when he had said what he did.

He'd been alone for decades. He knew what it was like to want to reach out, to make contact wiht people, and be utterly unable to. Of course Buffy's mother's situation wasn't as bad, but he could sympathize.

He wasn't lonely now. But, as he tasted her soft, girlish mouth, he couldn't help but wonder if he was deluding himself. As he had always wondered, since the day he'd first approached her. He loved her, but could she really love him? She was too young to understand.

He held himself back, kept his hands neutral this time, instead of daring to touch her, trying to coax her. She didn't seem to notice, and when she finally said goodbye, she smiled and kissed him again, her eyes shining.

It looked like love. He didn't dare believe it was.

BAD EGGS

He dreamed that day of babies. Small, warm bundles, with green eyes and tufts of blond hair. For the first time in a very long time, he didn't dream of them in the context of food. They were soft and sweet and warm, and he was certain he could love them, because they looked like Buffy.

It was one of many things he couldn't give her. He should back away before she convinced herself he was an appropriate partner. Because he wasn't. Soul or no soul, he was still a vampire. He couldn't give her a home, couldn't give her children. Could barely give her himself, because he was so unsure about what he even was, these days.

But, even knowing he should, even knowing it had no hope but to end badly, he couldn't walk away. She had become too much a part of him, and when she looked into his eyes with that obvious, open trust, he couldn't imagine being without her.

SURPRISE

He woke just before midnight. She was curled up against him, small and warm. One hand lay half-open against his chest, and a small smile curved her mouth.

He reached up to touch her hair, brushing a strand away from her face. So beautiful. Such trust in her eyes as she had slowly surrendered to him. He had been as gentle as he knew how to be--moreso, even, for he couldn't recall a time in his life, mortal or immortal, when he had ever touched a woman the way he had touched her.

He gently brushed a finger against the tip of her nose, then lay back against his pillow, watching her. It was strange to think of sleeping in the middle of the night, but after a time he closed his eyes again, thinking of what the future would bring, of the time they could spend together. Of what they could make together.

It was the last thing he remembered.

INNOCENCE

      So. Angelus was back. In his old glory, arrogant and annoying. In leather pants, no less.

      Spike flicked his cigarette across the room and half-hoped it would set something on fire. It would reflect his mood rather nicely, he thought.

      This was his place. His factory. He'd taken it from the Annoying One, and he and Dru were doing just fine, thank you very much.

      Well, except for the fact he hadn't been able to move his legs in weeks, and suspected it would be at least three weeks more, maybe a month, before he could get out of this damned wheelchair.

      "Isn't it lovely?" Drusilla said. "Daddy's back, and we can all be together. Just like old times..." She frowned. "Except for Grandmum. Do you ever miss Grandmum?"

      Spike scowled. "Yeah. Sure." Grandmum had tortured him a few times, but then she'd done that to all of them. Including Angelus. "So where has Daddy gone?"

      "Oh, he's gone out. To look at the Slayer and see how he would like to kill her. And I think he plans to kill her friends and eat them up."  Drusilla shivered, smiling with the thought. "Wouldn't that be lovely to watch? She could watch...maybe he'll bring her here and share her with us... Didn't you say Slayer blood was a lovely flavor?"

      "Yes." Spike watched her glumly. It had been nothing but "Daddy" this and "Daddy" that since Angelus had walked into the place. He'd forgotten how much he hated that, how much he resented Angelus' hold on Drusilla. Understood it, of course--Dru had the same kind of hold on him. But still hated it.

      He pulled out another cigarette and played with it while Dru continued her excited commentary.

      "Just like old times...." she said dreamily, and sank back onto her velvet chaise, arms spread dramatically, looking blissfully up at the ceiling. "Just like old times."

      "Yes," said Spike glumly. "Just like old times, indeed."

PHASES
 

      Daddy was back. Dru had stopped hoping a long time ago, until she'd seen him at the playground and had smelled the demon still inside him. Sharp and familiar, her daddy, her angel. She'd started hoping then, and something inside her had told her he would come back to her.

      Now he was here, and her head spun and swirled with his smell, his presence, his touch. Spike had taken care of her for a long time, and she loved him, he was her shiny silver knight, who looked after her, who had brought her food when she was to weak to hunt. But now he was broken and not strong--she had been protecting him, caring for him, which was right and yet wrong. She was his Sire, but he was weak, and in this world of blood and death, the strong survived. When the weak were coddled and nurtured, it was often seen as a sign of weakness on the part of the Sire.

      But Dru had never played by anyone's rules, and she didn't intend to start now. Not that she ever gave it any thought--it was just her, her instinct, her certain and very individual needs.

      And one of the things she needed, always, was her Daddy.

      She remembered how it had been, back then, to have him taking care of her, she herself broken, yet she had felt so strong. Grandmum had hated her so very much, but Daddy had protected her, and it had thrilled her in a way when he had taken her to his bed instead of Darla. It was worth even Darla's wrath--often expressed with whips and branding irons--to have him with her, inside her.

      She loved the way he hurt her.

      His smell drew her now, the acrid smell of recently perpetrated death. He was in the next room, and she could hear him softly humming.

      She left Spike behind, her poor, broken Childe, and went to Angelus.

BEWITCHED, BOTHERED & BEWILDERED

      They made no attempt to muffle the sounds from him. Given the keenness of vampire hearing, it would have been difficult, but even a human would have winced at the screams, the moans, the low, guttural laughter.

      He lay in bed and listened, unable to respond. Unable to get out of the bed to find a club to bludgeon Angelus into a bloody pulp.

      Unable to respond at all--even his dick didn't work at the moment.

      His ears did, though. He could almost hear the movement of Angelus' big hands over Dru's white, sweet skin.

      He lay there and listened, thinking about the way Angelus had undermined him, with the warm, bleeding heart he'd presented to Dru, and decided that, whatever it took, he would kill Angelus.

PASSION

          Angelus rolled off Dru, growling. He'd bloodied, bruised and satiated her, and now lay back in the bed, satiated, himself, full from the sex and the violence, remembering the look on Jenny Calendar's face, the look on Giles' face...

        But suddenly Dru asked, "What happened to Grandmum?"

      Angelus frowned, his mood shattered. Lighting a cigarette, he regarded her. Her eyes were wide and empty, but full of secrets, as they always were. She frightened him sometimes--she always had. He'd made her brilliant, cold, and ultimately dangerous.

      "I killed her," he said bluntly.

      Dru's eyes widened even more, a look of horror passing over her face, then morphing to amusement. "You did?"

      He took a deep drag on the cigarette, feeling the smoke sear his dead lungs. He liked the taste of it, and the nicotine buzzed him a little. "I was sick then."

      "Ah, yes." She stroked a hand over his wide chest, letting her nails track blood over his pale skin. "That soul of yours. Is that what made you do it?"

      He looked down at the trails of blood she'd left across his chest. "Yes." He didn't want to admit to the rest of it--that it had been an act of love, perpetrated for the little blonde Slayer. He still wanted her. Wanted to hurt her, take her, make her his as brutally as he could.

      He lifted a bloodied finger to Dru's lips and watched her suck it clean.

      "Tell me," she said. "Tell me how you did it."

      He shrugged. "I put a wooden arrow through her heart and she turned to dust."

      Dru nodded, smiling, her small, kitten tongue caressing his fingers, licking up his blood. "I wish I had seen it. Seen her face. I think it would have been quite funny."

      He smiled a little. "Yes. It was hysterical."

      She giggled, and lay back against him, and he stroked her dark hair, and remembered.

KILLED BY DEATH

Angelus came home angry and smelling of familiar humans. He'd been near the Slayer and her friends. Spike curled his lip at the odor.

Drusilla keened as Angelus entered the mansion, the sound piercing Spike's skull.

"You've been to see her," she cried, her eyes brimful. "You've been to see her again. You've left me and gone to see her--"

 Angelus grabbed her. Hard, by the arms. He sneered into her face for a moment, then shoved her against the wall. Dru's head hit the wood with a hollow sound and Spike lurched forward, so full of anger he thought it might carry him forward and out of the chair, might provide impetus and fuel enough to take him across the room.

But he only lurched, shifted his balance, and then fell back into the chair, unable to rise from it. He could do nothing as Angelus tore at Dru's skirts and impaled her into the wall, thrusting his anger into her, her keening rising with pain and need, until he finally growled release and let her go.

When he was done, he kissed her hard and glared at her, directly into her face. "I go where I please," he told her harshly. "And you mind your own business."

Dru regarded him with dark, deep eyes, and Spike saw them narrow a little, and he wondered what she saw.

"All right then. Let them spin. Let it all spin around and around and away."  She laughed and spun around, herself, her ruined dress twirling in a strange, ragged dance. "I won't tell you. You don't want me to."

Angelus stared at her, but finally just shook his head and said nothing.

I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU 

      Angelus and Dru returned that evening, fresh from the kill, laughing, holding hands. It was all Spike could do to keep from lurching forward out of the chair, to rip Angelus away from her, to reassert his claim in whatever way he could.

      But this was the time to wait. Surprise was a powerful weapon; he needed to wield it properly.

      Dru helped him into bed as she had for months now. When he looked over her shoulder as she tucked him in, he saw Angelus in the bedroom doorway, leaning against it, arms crossed over his wide chest, smirking.

      "Bloody bastard," Spike muttered, and Angelus chuckled. He pushed away from the door and stepped toward the bed. Dru stilled, looking at him, enthralled.

      Spike clenched his teeth so hard they ached. Angelus approached the bed and climbed into it, crawled to Dru and took hold of her arms, crawled on top of her.

      "You want me," he said. "You always do."

      "Yes," she said, smiling vacuously, but Spike saw the crazed need in her eyes. He was her Sire, and Spike understood that. He also hated it to the depths of his dead but still vulnerable heart.

      Angelus looked sidelong at Spike. "You could join us," he said. "Oh, but wait...I guess you can't. Suppose you could just lie there, though."  He leaned in, his lips inches from Spike's face. "Pretty much all you ever did, anyway."

      He laughed, and Drusilla echoed the laughter, and Angelus reached for her, and Spike closed his eyes.