"The last scud of day holds back for me"--Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
Gwen was
surprised when, instead of dropping her off first, Angel drove the whole
crew back to the Hyperion.
"You guys
go on," he told the others. "I'll take Gwen home."
The stiff
British one--Wesley--looked like he wanted to say something as he got out
of the car, but he didn't. Angel pulled sharply away from the hotel, heading
back toward Gwen's place.
"You could
have just dropped me off."
He shook
his head, not looking at her. His face was as grim as she'd ever seen it.
"I need to talk to you."
She folded
her hands in her lap, unaccountably nervous. "What about?"
"You understood
what they were talking about back there? About bringing Angelus?"
"Yeah,
I guess--"
"You need
to understand." His voice came so hard she flinched. "You need to
understand exactly what might happen."
"So explain
it to me." She wasn't stupid. She didn't understand why he seemed so--intense.
His eyes
flicked toward her then, almost apologetic. "Not here. At your place. If
that's okay."
She shrugged.
"Sure. It's fine."
It was
strange, driving through the dark LA streets when she knew it was, at best,
mid-afternoon. The sun looked strange, strangled by serpentine black clouds,
and she was chilly in her sleeveless, belly-less shirt. She rubbed her arms,
not really thinking about it, as he pulled up in front of her building. He
stopped the car and got out, pulled off his long cashmere coat, then took
off the black hooded sweatshirt and handed it to her.
It seemed
a little silly--they were only a few yards from the building, after all--but
the gesture touched her. She took the sweatshirt and put it on as he shrugged
back into his coat.
He joined
her on the other side of the car as she got out and, somewhat to her surprise,
took her hand. As she let her palm settle against his, she wondered, for
some reason, if this might be the last time.
They were
halfway up the stairs when she said, suddenly, "They think you killed Manny."
He nodded
grimly. She swallowed, remembering what had been left of the odd but apparently
mystical man--blood, bits of brain and flesh all over the inside of her panic
room. "That's--you could never do anything like that."
"I used
to do things like that all the time. Worse, even."
She stopped
at her door, opened it. Strangely, she didn't want to let go of his hand.
After what he'd just said she should want to let him go in more ways than
one, but his strong hand on hers was somehow still comforting.
"But you
were evil then. You weren't...Angel. You weren't you."
"Something
might be accessing that part of me. Making me be Angelus without my being
aware of it."
He followed
her as she walked into the apartment. Belatedly, she realized she was heading
for the bedroom. Oh, what the hell? She kept going.
"So they
want to access that part of you on a more permanent basis, to see if they
can figure out what's going on."
"Right."
He touched her shoulder, clasped it, turned her around. "You need to understand
this. It's important."
His eyes
were hard, but not angry. She didn't understand the emotion she saw there--only
that it was incredibly intense, and it frightened her, because she could
see all too clearly that it frightened him.
"I know."
His eyes alone told her how serious this was. "I'm taking us where we can
sit and talk."
He nodded
and fell silent again, following her.
Cordelia
had gotten it on the nose when she'd said this apartment was unreasonably
large. Gwen wasn't even sure why she'd decided on such a huge place. It just
made her feel that much more alone.
As did
the giant, king-sized bed in her bedroom. She led Angel in. He made no comment,
but twitched an eyebrow. She gestured toward a chair--the bedroom was large
enough for the giant bed, a sitting area, and a wet bar.
He sat.
"Can I get you a drink?" she asked.
"Got any
whisky?"
"Glenfiddich."
"God,
that would be perfect." He leaned back in the chair, his body loosening a
little.
She poured
him a few fingers of whisky and gave him the glass, not bothering to get
anything for herself. He sipped the drink reverently, swirling it in his
mouth as she tucked herself into a chair, wrapping his sweatshirt closer
around her shoulders. It smelled like him. She had grown to like that smell.
"I can't
taste much," he said after a time, "but I can taste this." He took another
careful sip. "I haven't had a single malt in ages."
"Expensive
as hell, that stuff." She rubbed her cheek against the neck of the sweatshirt,
breathing that distinct Angel smell. "Explain this thing to me, this thing
about Angelus that has you wetting your pants."
He set
the whisky tumbler down gently on the small glass table next to his chair.
"Angelus is a vicious, evil monster. If they bring him, you'll be in danger."
"You think
they'd set him loose?" This made no sense.
"They'll
make every possible effort not to. But if something were to happen, he'd
go after you."
"Why?
What possible threat could I be to him?" If she couldn't hurt Angel, she
couldn't possibly hurt his evil alter-ego. So why would--
"He'll
want to hurt everyone I care about."
His words
brought her thoughts to a screeching halt. Everyone Angel cared about. She
didn't know what to say.
"I--"
She stopped, swallowed. "What should I do?"
"You were
planning a trip to Tahiti, right? Do that."
That stung,
for some reason. "Are you sending your crew off to Tahiti?"
"No, because
they at least know what they'll be facing. Cordy and Wes--they've seen me--seen
him. And Fred and Gunn have seen--" He broke off. "You have no idea what
I would be."
He was
scared, and that alone was enough to make Gwen back off any challenge she
might be tempted to make. She'd never before seen him scared of anything.
"Okay,"
she said. "I'll go to Tahiti, if it'll make you feel better."
Relief
softened his eyes, his face. "It would."
"I mean,
hell, I was going, anyway."
He nodded,
then pushed to his feet. "I should go back."
She stood,
too. "They'll be expecting you."
"I need
to see if I can talk them out of this, come up with another way." But there
was a bleakness in his eyes that made her think he had little confidence
in this as a possibility.
"Angel--"
She stopped. There was nothing to say, not really. There had been so much
between them and yet so little.
He smiled
sadly, as if he understood. "Take care of yourself."
He turned
to go. She stared, desperate, wanting him to stay. She knew he had to go,
but God, couldn't he at least kiss her goodbye, in case he died or something?
"Wait!"
He turned back, eyebrows lifted a little in question. His eyes were so deep
and big and dark when they weren't obscured by his brows. She pulled at the
sweatshirt. "Your shirt."
He shook
his head. "Keep it." Reaching toward her, he pulled the big shirt back into
place. Then his hand stilled, his face stilled, and he lifted a finger to
trace the curve of her cheek. "If anything goes wrong," he said slowly, "they
may have to kill me."
She swallowed
hard, thinking of his small circle of friends having to face that. Before
she could say anything, he went on.
"I'm sorry
I couldn't...be more for you."
"Angel,"
she said again, realizing this time that this was all she'd meant to say,
that she just wanted to feel his name in her mouth.
The tips
of his fingers settled against her cheek, a spark snapping there. She could
hear it, but felt it as only an odd, vague tingle. She wondered what it felt
like to him, though she knew it didn't hurt him. His eyes searched her. She
could almost feel his gaze trace her skin.
If he
died, no one would ever touch her again. Tears sprang to her eyes at this
realization. How could she lose this now, so soon after finding it? It wasn't
right. He didn't love her--and she understood why, that even if the feelings
had been there, he simply couldn't allow himself to-- but that didn't matter.
What mattered was that he could touch her, hold her, make love to her--
"Gwen,"
he whispered, and leaned into her. "Don't."
She opened
her mouth to speak--How can I not? How can I not grieve this?--but
his lips closed over hers before she could say anything.
Tears
rolled hot down her face now. He shifted his mouth, touched the tears one
by one with the tip of his tongue, then went back to her lips, soft, comforting
her.
She didn't
want to be comforted. She cupped the back of his head with one hand and pulled
him closer, pressed his mouth open with hers.
She had
never been fond of whisky, but she liked it this way, licking the taste of
it out of his mouth. He started to draw back, then abruptly he clasped his
hands around her waist and lifted her.
Automatically,
she clamped her legs around him, thighs against his waist, embracing him
with her legs as her arms went around his neck. He spun around and put her
back against the wall, supporting her that way as he dove deep into her mouth,
as if tasting her for the first time.
Or the
last.
She pushed
that thought out of her head. She had lost control of her current; blue sparks
arced between them, outlining his face, his body. He made no effort to pull
away. With her back against the wall, he didn't have to hold her up anymore.
Bracing one hand next to her head, he brought the other down and dragged
up the bottom of her tight midriff top, palmed her breast. Sparks, more sparks,
pouring off her, flowing off her breast like milk. He made a satisfied noise
in the back of his throat and adjusted his hand, rolling her nipple between
thumb and forefinger as electricity skittered up his arm.
She choked
at the sensation, her throat still thick with tears, thick with the thought
of losing him. So selfish, that she might be willing to let the whole world
fall into darkness just so she could writhe under the magic of this man's
hands. But it was all she had, the only contact she'd ever been allowed.
She couldn't bear the thought of never feeling this again.
Suddenly
he let go of her mouth, kissing down her neck, his tongue cool and wet as
he devoured her pulse. He always did this, always gravitated to the places
where the blood flowed the strongest under her skin.
"Angel,"
she said, yet again, and he paused with his lips just above her collarbone.
"Please."
He didn't ask, "Please what?" He knew what she wanted. The one thing she
wanted from him more than anything else, the one thing only he could give
her. His skin, his touch, his body.
It was more than that, though. She cared about him, probably too much. And,
after what he'd said before, she was certain it meant something to him, too.
He lifted
his head and looked into her eyes, studying her. "I don't have time for this."
His voice was quiet.
"Can't
put the apocalypse on hold for five minutes?"
His mouth
quirked. "Gwen. You know me better than that. I take considerably longer
than five minutes."
He slid
a hand over her hair, brushing it back from her face, and kissed her, deep
and long and slow. He was right--with him just the kissing lasted more than
five minutes.
She moaned
softly, all need and want, pushed at his coat. Steadying her against the
wall with his body, he moved his arms back so the coat fell off him.
"The apocalypse
isn't going anywhere," he said, and let her slide to the floor. "I hate these
weird plastic clothes. They're too hard to get off."
"They're
not plastic--" she started, but stopped when he grabbed her shirt and pulled
it off over her head. It was probably a waste of time to try to explain different
varieties of leather-like synthetics to him. Especially not when he had her
waistband in his big hands and was peeling her pants down her legs.
He went
to his knees in front of her as he drew the tight, clingy pants down. She
toed off her shoes, stepped out of her pants, and before she could think
about how odd it felt to be standing there naked in front of him, he clasped
her buttocks in his hands and pulled her to him, nuzzling into her belly,
her groin.
She would
never get used to this, no matter how many times she might be privileged
to feel it--the cool, moist movement of his mouth against intimate skin that
even in a non-freak sort of woman didn't experience frequent contact. The
lowest curve of her belly, the highest curves of her thighs, the dark curls
that covered their juncture. She really had no idea what the hell he was
doing down there, but damn if it didn't feel like heaven.
"Get your
clothes off," she said suddenly, not thinking about it, not even considering
it might be rude to order him around.
But Angel,
much to her surprise, just peeled off his shirt, unbuckled his pants, and
stripped in front of her, apparently without a second thought. She stared
down at him, crouched naked at her feet. He had his tongue in her navel now,
then his mouth worked up her belly, sparks dribbling in its wake. Gwen clutched
his shoulders, pressing her thighs forward against the wide, cool expanse
of his chest. He had his eyes closed, his big hands splayed against her back.
She could barely think over the pounding of her heart, the quickening of
her breath.
"Against
the wall," she said. "Put me back up against the wall."
Folding
his hands around her waist, he did exactly that, but this time as he positioned
her against the wall he shifted his hips, just so, and slid inside her. It
was effortless, her body slick and open and ready for him, and he was sheathed
to the hilt before she quite realized what he was doing.
She gasped
with the shock of it, but he closed his mouth hard over hers, breathing the
sound of his pain into her as her body sizzled against his. She reached under
his arms, where they supported him against the wall, and clasped his shoulders,
cleaving to him, clenching his hips with her legs as he started a hard rhythm,
pushing her into the wall with each deep thrust.
His eyes
were closed, drawn with lines that could have been pain, desire, or a mixture
of both. She clutched his shoulders hard and whispered his name and he opened
his eyes, slowly, as if it took an effort, and looked at her. His mouth moved
a little, almost into a smile. Then he dipped his head forward and kissed
her.
His lips
moved soft and tender and the pulsing of his hips slowed a little. She realized
then he wasn't going to pull out this time, regardless of the current. He
was going to ride her this way right to the finish. The thought made her
feel like she was melting down into his body, fusing, flesh welding to flesh
there where he had joined himself to her.
He kissed
her harder, stroked her deeper, and she tried hard to control the flow of
current while still letting herself loosen enough to feel the heat growing
inside her. It was a complicated balancing act--control here, relax there,
tighten down on him hard to feel the friction, the movement, the deep intensity
of penetration. It was coming, the slow rise of spiraling sensation, and
he thrust faster into it, a deep, masculine sound thrumming in the back of
his throat, vibrating against her tongue.
Then he
freed his mouth and pressed his face against her throat, her shoulder, shoving
her hard into the wall, his body stiff and taut. His hips jerked into her,
short, hard movement now, then stillness except for the pulsing she could
feel inside her, and he moaned out a long breath into her shoulder.
Her own
body clenched, feeling his climax, and followed him. This was incredible,
perfect, this was glory and power and surrender all at once, and suddenly,
with the last of it sliding off her skin like water, she sobbed, unable to
stop it, with the fear that she might never, ever feel this again.
He gathered
her against him, cradling her now, still holding her against the wall. Embarrassed,
she pressed her face into the wide curve of his shoulder. She didn't want
him to see her cry.
"Gwen,
shh, it's okay. It'll be okay." He petted her hair, stroked her neck.
"What
if you don't come back?"
He said
nothing, which gave her no comfort, but somehow made it easier for her to
pull herself back together. She sniffed until the tears stopped, then tipped
her head back against the wall so she could see his face. He met her gaze,
making no move to maneuver her away from the wall, or even to pull out. They
were still connected, still joined, and she wasn't sure if that made it easier
or harder.
"I don't
know if I can go back to the way it was," she said. "Not touching anyone,
ever, not feeling anything. You gave me this and now I don't think I can
live without it."
His eyes
had gone sad and distant, and she remembered then how he, too, had given
up the one thing that had made him feel more human than he'd ever felt before.
She remembered the story of his golden Slayer girl, and it made her ache,
because he had lost so much. If it had been anything like this was for her--suddenly
being able to feel, then having that ripped away--then he had lost more than
anyone should ever have to bear.
"Maybe
you'll find another way," he said gently.
"Then..."
She swallowed hard. "You're not coming back?"
"I don't
know. I hope so. But so much could go wrong." He shook his head and finally,
gently, eased her down to her feet. "I need to go."
"I know.
I'm sorry--"
"Don't
be. Just--promise me you'll stay away from me until you know for sure it's
me."
She nodded,
though she didn't know exactly how she could do that.
"Call
the hotel. Talk to Wesley. He'll tell you what's going on. Don't come by
unless he says it's okay. Will you do that for me?"
She nodded.
He kissed her again, taste of lust and whisky and vampire, and began to pick
up his clothes.
Watching
him move in front of her, still sleek and naked and seemingly unselfconscious
about it, made her feel that much more exposed. She found his zippered sweatshirt
and her panties and put them on. Meant to hug his big shoulders, the sweatshirt
was huge on her, covering her almost to a point of modesty.
He straightened
and looked at her, zipping his pants. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
She chose to pretend she didn't know what he really meant. "Are you? I hit
you with some pretty heavy current."
He smiled
a little. "I'll live." He picked up his shirt and she moved to him suddenly,
slid her hands over his chest, his stomach, his back, as he pulled the shirt
on. There was very little current now; she had it under control, and he shifted
into her touch, eyes closing.
"You're
warmer than most people," he said. "Did you know that?"
She shook
her head as he opened his eyes again, looking into hers with an almost-smile.
"How would I? I know I'm warmer than you. That's all."
"Everybody's
warmer than me. I'm dead."
"You move
around a lot for a dead guy."
His smile
deepened a little, and he touched her face. "I think I figured out how you
can repay me for that Axis thing."
"How?"
"You come
live at the hotel, I hook you up to the wiring, give you a couple orgasms
a week, and I never have to pay for electricity again."
She laughed,
surprised she could, surprised he could joke. But then the smile fell off
his face. "Be careful, Gwen."
She nodded.
"I will."
He finished
dressing, picked up his coat. Gwen walked him back to the door, still wearing
just his sweatshirt and her panties.
"I've
never been to Tahiti," he reflected when they reached the door.
"It's
mostly sunshine, beaches." She fought to keep her voice steady. "The full
effect would pretty much be wasted on you."
"Yeah,
I guess it would."
"I'll
get you a souvenir."
"Thanks.
That'd be nice."
"Anything
in particular you like?"
"You know
me. Bright colors. Happy things." Suddenly he grabbed her and kissed her,
hard, his tongue chasing her current into her mouth. When he drew back, he
pressed his forehead against hers. "If they change me, Gwen, please, just
don't let me hurt you. I couldn't live with that."
He left
then, too abruptly, slamming her door behind him. She stared, tasting him
in her mouth. The sun had gone out all over LA, but, until that moment, it
had not gone out in this apartment. She turned her face into the collar of
his sweatshirt and breathed him deep.
END.
