Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy, Angel, or any of the characters in Buffyverse. They are solely Joss Whedon's property. Though I don't think he would be as morbid as me.
Author's Note: As it says in the summary, this is a deathfic. Actually my first one in BtVS. t doesn't nesscessarily fit into any particular plot of Whedon's, nor is it an AU. It's in Buffy's point of view, but centers mostly around her feelings and not so much of her actions. I wanted to see how I could portray Angel and Angelus as separate beings and yet combine them into one (if that makes any sense at all).Hope you enjoy. Please review, they help out a lot.
In the back of my head, I heard my dearest, closest friends calling my name through the wall. Part of me wanted to scream back and run. Run so hard and fast that nothing -- not this night, please -- could get to me. The other part of me remembered these strong arms. The scent of battle and fire and comfort. The lingering need of him that emcompassed my entire being. And I was crying. I felt the tears pouring down my cheeks. There was pain in every inch of my body, though so much more internally than my scratches and bruises.
Seemed like a moment ago, it was an ordinary night. Or rather, as ordinary as it gets. I was just fighting a lackey, a young vamp who just risen and hadn't had a moment yet to brush the dirt off him. In anguish, in despair, I beat him to a pulp. I punched and kicked out my longing for Angel onto the young man's dead body. Why had he disappeared? Why couldn't he be here, with me, now? Unable to injure him any further, I turned the poor kid to dust. A second later, I hit the ground, plunging into darkness.
When I came to, I was running backwards. No, I was being carried. Fast. I looked down at a wide back and hard shoulders. I recognized this shape and for the briefest, my heart leapt with joy. Then stopped mid-throat when realization sunk in. This was not who I'd been waiting for, this was the one I wanted to never see again. The shape made it all the harder.
I began to sob; he didn't seem to mind. I'd given up fighting myself out of his arms, given up fighting back in general. When my eyes had cleared enough of tears to see, I saw nothing but a room. A simple, run-of-the-mill room. Dimly lit, sparsely furnitured. He shut the door and I heard the click of a lock. He set me down on the edge of a bed. I couldn't stop crying.
I looked up at him. The tall, dark, handsome figure looked back at me. He kneels down at my feet, his eyes soft and oh so familar. He took my hands in his larger ones and spoke. He told me that everything was going to be okay, that he was here. Was he really? No, I knew this somewhere inside of me. Or outside of this room. We were staring at each other. I didn't feel his soul anymore, didn't see it through his eyes, but the threat of losing him if there was a fraction of a million-to-one possibility that he was here was too much to chance. I gave in.
I carressed his cold cheek with my palm. He mirrors my action with his hand. He moves close to me as he winds his arm around my waist. He brushes my tears away as I continue to stare at him. One emotion rush after the next. I was experiencing pain, yearning, hope and hopelessness, and an overwhelming fear. He gently smiles and I choke. He threads his fingers into my hair, and touches his lips to my forehead. He was careful to do everything he knew Angel would have done. He tilts my head back and my eyes are wide. He's running his thumb over my lips and saying things that make me want him so badly. It's my last chance to push him away and break open the door. To run into my friends' arms and know I lost him. To grab the spare stake and watch him disappear. I don't.
Shutting my eyes and giving into my heart's fantasy, I feel Angel's lips take my own. I pulled him closer to me, bracing my hand on the back of his neck. His broad chest touches my own and I open my mouth for him. He tasted so right -- and yet screaming from a far corner of my mind, so wrong. I squeeze his waist with my knees, my body begging to be closer to his. So close that it hurts. He murmurs my name, taking a quick breath and I know this is treason against our love. Thought it felt like he was saving me from the horror, saving me from my desperation. I shut out the voices -- the despairing one in my head, the frantic ones behind the door -- any and all.
Angel's kisses were ebbing away from mine and I welcome the desire that was heating up. Enough to help him strip me of my shirt and his. His hands feel up my bare skin, setting my nerves on fire. I ran my hands through his hair, tugging for more contact, more pain than I could handle. I fell back onto the bed, Angel quickly following me. With my fingertips, I trace the line through his chest, down shaped abs to the metal of his belt. I undid it with determination, with thoughts of only him. I made him naked, my subconcious damning me.
After pushing my skirt and shoes away, Angel began to explore my lower half, tingling and tasting and tantalizing. With a moan of appreciation, I pull him on top of me and between my legs. There was a throbbing in the pit of my stomach that I won't ignore, even if it means my undoing. I whisper for him to take me, not yet aware of how much he could take. Without a second thought, he enters my inner most region, making me bite my lip and sound out as he filled me. Hot and cold, frightened and needing, I let him overcome me. There was a shattering of glass that felt very much like my heart breaking.
I imagine that it was Angel who kissed me this way. That it was him mere centimeters above me. That I was holding him, touching him. That it was Angel making love to me. It was not. The fact that it wasn't our passion, but a demon's selfish desire, brought tears to my eyes. I was desperate for Angel, so I shut my eyes again, losing myself one more time. He moves inside of me, every stroke the right angle, every touch the exceptional way, every word the perfect one. It was easy to betray him and my spirit ached because of it. Because I finally knew what was coming, because I wanted him more than I could stand, because I knew it was too late.
We were so close to our climax and Angel makes my ear vibrate with such meaningful words. His own sick, but poetic way of saying goodbye. My body was shaking and trembling and I hold him to me as I'm crying out in the ultimate form of pleasure. He releases and I am fully aware of what the look in his eyes means. It means the end. I'm not going to fight back. He takes my mouth with his own and I pour as much passion into as I can. Then he drifts to my neck and I hold his hand. I feel sharp teeth slide into my flesh and my pulse goes overtime. Life was draining from me quickly, but still all I could think about was him. I call out Angel's name before letting go of the demon's hand and sinking into oblivion. Somehow I knew it would end this way.
The others would find me moments later. They were the best friends anyone could've asked for. They saw my naked form, droplets of my blood sprinkling my paling skin and didn't revolt. Instead, they petted my hair and kissed my hands and weeped in my dying. My eyes were closed and the smallest of smiles rested on my still-pink lips. They would assume that he took me quickly, that I didn't feel any pain. That I didn't give in. They would also think that it was truly Angel that was the cause of my death. In a way, it was wrong and sinful to think that Angel would destroy me. In my way -- through shards of glass and heart -- it is always Angel who is my destruction and my salvation.