"It is
never over. I won't let you die."
He couldn't
do this, couldn't drink her, but he could see in her eyes that was exactly
what she intended to make him do. He should run, out the door,
into the sun, before she made him kill her. But he couldn't move.
Partly because he was so weak he could barely stay on his feet.
Partly
because he wanted her.
"Please
. . ." One last try but he knew she wouldn't listen. So
why was he still standing here? Why didn't he run? Wouldn't
he rather die than see her die?
Please don't do this to me.
She hit
him, hard, and his head spun. He felt the rage come up but he
fought it back and faced her again. You can't do it you can't
do it you won't make me . . . She hit him again. Again
he fought, though the taste of his own blood in his mouth made him want hers.
He could barely think through the pain and he felt disconnected from his
body, the result of the fever and the poison raging through him.
She hit
him the third time and something rang in his head. A voice, the
demon, using Jenny Calendar's face. "Sooner or later, you will
drink her."
He changed
with a lurch but even then the demon inside wasn't enough to make him take
the final step. She had to do it for him, grabbing him and shoving
his face against the curve of her throat.
Still,
he hesitated. Even with the smell of her skin in his nostrils, the
beating sound of her blood in his ears. But the weakened state of his
body roused his instinct, the need to live, and the animal inside him could
smell only one thing in her blood--survival.
He bit.
He hadn't
tasted live human blood in a long, long time--not as himself, not as Angel.
Now it poured down his throat, hot and thick, not cold and sticky like the
animal blood he'd survived on. And not just live human blood.
Slayer blood. It had a muskiness to it that reminded him of the
smell of Buffy's skin.
God, it
was good, and he felt the poison and the pain subside as he drew more and
more of it into his mouth. It came so fast he couldn't swallow
it all and it oozed hot against his lips. He clutched her small body
to him, bound to the pulse in her throat.
When he
felt her begin to weaken he bore her down to the floor. Too much
too much you're taking too much let her go . . . But the poison
wasn't gone yet. He needed more blood and the instinct that made him
want to live made him bite harder and deeper into her. Her pulse slowed
inside his mouth. She struggled weakly under him, her knees pressing
against his hips. What he wouldn't have given to be inside her
right now but this was almost as good, almost as good as being snugged deep
inside her body while her pulse beat around him there instead of here against
his tongue. . .
Who was
he kidding? This was better. This was what he was made for.
She had
stilled beneath him. The fact struck him suddenly, like being
slapped across the face. He shoved himself away, her blood still
filling his mouth. He swallowed the last of it as the animal
faded and he felt his face change. He turned toward her, barely registering
the absence of pain in his own body.
"Buffy?" She
lay still but her lips were still pink. He allowed himself a moment
of relief before pushing across the floor to her side. "Buffy.
. ."
Her lips moved,
shaping his name, but no sound came out. The awful wound at her
throat still oozed blood. He scooped her up in his arms and ran
with her, out into the darkness.
END.