Our Own Sort of Happiness
A/N: Just a short little PWP angst piece. My muse attacked me from behind, and had Angel and Buffy in tow. They started going on abotu true love, and how they were miserable, and I couldn't refuse them. So this was born. I like it, I hope you do too.
And yes, it is supposed to be all mixed up.
Rating: R, I suppose.
Disclaimer: I don't own Angel, or Buffy. It's OBIVOUS I don't. If I did, they would always be together. sniff
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We don't talk about it, because that's the deal.
My friends don't know. I just tell Mom I'm going patrolling. Things are easier now that she knows. Well, they're supposed to be easier. But they're not. Not for me. Everything is just more confusing.
When I go to him, we don't talk. I don't sneak up on him. I don't wear my slaying gear. No cross necklaces. No bottles of holy water stashed in my back pocket. And he seems to know, because he doesn't attack. He used to growl, but he never attacked.
He always knows.
He's still Angel, after all, somewhere deep down. I don't know if his soul is trapped, or if it's gone forever, but he's got some of the Vampire I used to love in him. He remembers everything. Every single intimate moment we ever shared. He knows me better than I know myself.
I suppose he would know, then.
I'm lying here, in his lair. In his bed, and I should be dead right now. He should have torn my insides out long ago and rubbed them against the walls of this room so that the smell of my blood-my death, would linger and never be forgotten.
But I'm not.
Angelus didn't drag me here. He didn't capture me. This isn't the end of the line. I came by myself, without weapons or even a plan to try and once again defeat him.
And he knows that.
That's why his legs are tangled with mine. That's why the sweat has just finished drying off our bodies. That's why it's a little hard to breathe, because his face is so peaceful when he's sleeping, (not to mention to fact that he's laying half on top of me.) I remember when he was…when he was good; I liked to watch him when he slept.
Angel always looked so sad. The very first time I saw him I thought something was wrong; some tragedy had happened and he was coming to me for help, because he couldn't take it anymore. That wasn't it, of course. I know now why he always looks so glum, even when he smiles.
But when he sleeps, it all goes away. His hair sticks up even more than it normally does. The creases around his eyes and the furrows in his forehead smooth out and nearly disappear. He'll take up the whole damn bed if you let him, too.
No one knows this, but Angel talks in his sleep. Well, more like mumbles. And he's sweet. Occasionally incoherent, but sweet.
I can feel his cool breath against my neck, because he's burrowed his head down into the crook of my shoulder now. He's muttering something about Buffy and rain and love you. For a second, I can just pretend he is my own sweet Angel. Angelus dosen't tell me he loves me, he dosen't whisper sweet nothings in my ear like Angel did. But Angel's soul was in control for a long time. It must have left some sort of impression on Angelus, because he's so different in his sleep. Whoever gave him the name Angelus decided to give it to him while he was sleeping, for he really does have an angelic face.
And I smile.
Like I said, Angelus and I don't talk much when I come to him, or when he comes to me. We don't come to each other with weapons, company, or the intent to kill. He would never admit it, but somewhere deep down we still need each other like we did before- we never stopped. And we'll keep needing, and keep hurting, until one of us is dead.
Angelus could mock me with this. He could taunt me about it in front of everyone. But he doesn't. And he sure doesn't have qualms about mocking me about everything else he knows.
That's how I know he secretly needs this.
Because Angelus has a big mouth, yet he keeps this is a secret. That and he doesn't try to kill me when I come. He looks at me standing in his door way, with those glowing yellow eyes. Sometimes he'll lick his lips and step back, so I can walk in. Other times he'll just yank me in and rip my clothes off so fast I can't remember which he did first. But I don't get scared, or angry like I do when I'm trying to kill him. This is an old rhyme. It's our little secret, our little game.
If Giles found out, he would kill me. But if I wasn't doing this, I'd already be dead.
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I look up.
Someone's knocking at my door. Judging by the sound, soft and hesitant, it's not a man. And it certainly isn't Dru. She doesn't knock.
I growl. If it's one of those annoying younglings I'll have to twist a couple of its fingers off- a good object lesson for the others, you see. Angelus likes his beauty sleep. What he doesn't like, is…
Buffy.
She's here. And she looks so innocent and lost in that little white sweater of hers, the way she plays with her sleeves and bites her lip while she looks up at me.
Oh.
I take her by the forearm and guide her inside, shutting the door firmly with my other hand. She comes willingly, and I'm excited already just from that fact. She should be scared to death of me; brandishing a stake and fighting back. Trying to get away. But she's not. She came, and she came without weapons. She's a Slayer. I know Slayers. They don't like to go anywhere without weapons. Much less into their arch-enemies home.
My mouth comes down hard over hers, and I remember that I'm supposed to be biting her throat right about now. Her hand starts wrestling with the fly on my leather pants and I know that I could snap her in half like a twig while I'm clutching her shoulders hard. She's so small, so utterly breakable.
And I want to. God, how I hate her. But I only hate her because that idiot Angel fell in love with her, and dragged me into it.
Her top shreds in my hands and now I'm sitting atop her on my bed, and her fingers are everywhere.
But I need her. All the time. If we're not fighting then we're fucking. I'll kill her one day. It's not like she's got a separate agenda.
But the only reason I'm killing her (besides the fact that, hello, vampire?) is that she made me love her. And that hurts more than my goddamn soul ever did. She's writhing and sweaty and suddenly I'm inside, and everything is warm and wet and perfect. She's working her hips up and down, moving hard with my rhythm and suddenly she tightens, stiffens, finding her own climax, and that's good enough for me. My vision whites out for a second from the ecstacy of release, and we begin to slow down.
I like being on top of her. Come to think of it, I don't mind being on the bottom all that much either. As long as I get to be inside; where it's warm and tight and perfect.
I lick a long, slow trail around her collar bone and up that sweet, pulsing neck, until I'm close enough to pull on her plump lips with sharp teeth, and glean just a little blood from her. And she dosen't even protest this time. It's a familiar ritual, and if you look at the inside of her lower lip it'd be scarred from where I've bitten it so many times.
We lay there for a long time. I couldn't tell you how long. We don't talk; we never do. Eventually she falls asleep, and I know Buffy feels safe. I know her like Angel, (the fucker), knew her. She only sleeps when she feels secure. That's a sign if there ever was one.
She's starting to move, I think she might wake up. But I don't care. If she feels safe while I'm awake then I'm sure she'll return the favor of not murdering me in my sleep. My bed is never warm, except for now it is, and I have a soft, willing body to hold, and some one I love, (God, have I gone soft?) and hate, right here. I'll kill her tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever the scent of sex has worn off.
If Spike ever finds out, I'll never hear the end of it. Then again, I could always kill him. He is getting annoying...
What the hell. I'll think about it later. I throw one leg over her hip possessively and sidel up close. I inhale the scent of her hair as I nestle into the crook of her neck, her pulmonary just an inch away.
Her heart beats so soundly...
Thump thump. Thump Thump. Thump thump.
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The first time it happened, it was an accident.
Angelus snuck up on her when she was on her way home from the Bronze, alone, despite Xander's protests.
She'd been doing well. She had a stake out and was ready to use it.
But she hesitated, and that was her undoing.
Angelus flipped her around so she was the one pinned up against the wall, not himself. And he was going to kill her. He swore. He was going to kill her now. Or now. Okay, he'd kill her right….now.
He waited too long. He looked into her eyes, and as one they moved in, and their lips met in a kiss. It only lasted a moment. Angelus was the first to pull back, spitting and swearing.
But that was how it started, and neither of them could find the strength nor the will power to end it. So it progressed to this.
She ended up coming straight to his door, with no weapons of any kind. He growled and threatened and finally drew her inside, still kissing obscenities into her warm mouth. He was one twisted monster. He should have killed her. But he didn't want to. Some days he would still be nursing some injury she had inflicted the day before, and she would show up. Occasionally he would seek her out himself. They had rituals. They had rules that were unspoken, but were never to br broken if this arrangment was going to work.
Angelus couldn't come to her house. If he wanted to kill her, then he showed up where ever and whenever he wanted. But if he simply wanted her, then they had a spot. Under the old oak a block from the cemetery. It was a path Buffy often patrolled. And they both knew it.
It could be called some sort of truce. Invoked by pure need and cemented by sex. Whatever the reason, Angelus sought Buffy out, and she him, and they spent long nights together, in secret, in hiding.
And she knew she was safe, and he knew he was safe, and on some nights, some nights when both of them thought they had to kill each other or kill themselves, they took it into their own hands to make their own kind of happiness.