The Nature of Love
by
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Joss Whedon, you are king. Please, please don't sue.
Author's Note: If you read a lot, or even a little of my work, you'll notice that I like this motif. Dark and moody, usually from a vampire's point of view. Usually a typical vampire's. Well, I decided to leave the box just a little, and write this. Let me know how you like it!
P.S. The other pieces in this vein are Child of Darkness (Spike POV), and Vampiress (Darla POV)
Summary: This is set on the night of Buffy's seventeenth birthday, or very early in the morning the next day, after they make love, and before Angel's soul is taken. It's from his POV.
Rating: PG-13, R if you want to be stuffy. But seriously, it's not that bad.
Her golden hair is spilled over the pillow, framing her face, looking as much like perfection as I had imagined it would. As I had known. Known it had to. Because there is no person on this Earth stronger, more capable, more pure, than her.
She carries a dark place in her soul, as most of us do. Hers is darker than most, scarred and stained from years of the endless battle between good and evil, but her heart is so innocent. Like a child, she knows the world has dangers, and accepts that, but never considers succumbing to them. In that way, she might as well be five.
My soul is pure. Though tainted many colors with guilt, it does not carry the dark wickedness of true evil. But my heart, it is black, through and through, charred until no goodness remains in it. A battle constantly rages. For now, my soul prevails.
How, you must wonder, can I love her so much with no righteousness left in my heart?
It's simple. Love is not born of decency or good or righteousness. Not all kinds, anyway. Love for a stranger, care for his fate, even though you know not of who he is, that is the kind of good that has been burned from my heart.
But I can still feel love for those who earn it. Even Angelus, however twisted and evil he was, loved two people in his own way: Dru and Darla.
Darla was my sire, my better. Someone to learn from, someone to look up to. In time, she became my lover, my friend, and my partner, but when I was a newborn, she was my teacher. At first I treated her as though she was the adult and I the child, but eventually we settled into the more comfortable role of partners. That kind of love, she earned from me.
Dru. Well, Dru was my project. My sadistic, tormented, devious project that causes me more guilt than almost anything else in my past. I drove the poor thing crazy. And then I cursed her with immortality in a life of demons and the spawn of Satan.
At first, I played what had been Darla's role to me. Confidant, maybe teacher, but never, ever, to be considered a friend. But her charming evilness that makes me shudder now had actually helped to earn my love for her then. The little things, the way darkness rolled off of her in waves, it captured me, and I was hooked. She, too, became my lover, although there was no passion, just thrill of the act. That all stopped when I allowed her to turn Spike, anyway.
They were both sex toys for me. But then, the way they saw it, I was their sex toy. They were just getting what they wanted passively, and I was willing to be upfront. Either way, it didn't matter. We all got sex eventually. It was just the manner in which we communicated our desire that differed.
My personal preference was to sweep them off their feet and into the bedroom. Couldn't get much blunter than that, could I?
They, on the other hand, enjoyed tight little dresses, from which their cleavage usually almost slipped, combined with dry little nippy kisses around my neck, and then rubbing their hands all over me. This method didn't usually require a lot of time getting me into bed, either.
Darla was particularly fond of this one dress that she got in the 1790's, I think, that there were no shoulder straps of any kind on. She would push my head, my mouth, between her breasts, and the material would slide down her, revealing her cool flesh to me. I always pretended to be surprised, because she delighted in the game. Dru was less sophisticated, alternately acting either quite childlike, or rather animalistic.
So, I've learned over my extensive years, that love is not always an act of kindness and caring. It can be born out of the most selfish, dreadful act. For love simply means compassion for another, and just because vampires feel nothing for humans doesn't mean they feel nothing for each other.
But anything and everything I ever felt for Darla, Dru, or dozens of other women I'd seduced over the centuries, felt like absolutely nothing compared to the anguish my heart would hold if I ever heard Buffy tell me she didn't want me.
I don't deserve her.
She stirs a little in her sleep as I brush a strand of hair away from her nose, where it was obviously tickling her, and murmurs something that sounds a little like, "I love you, Angel." Either she's dreaming, or she knows she's here in bed with me, having shared all that she has to give with me on this wondrous night. And I don't just mean the sex, or her virginity.
She has given me her heart, her trust, her soul and her life. There is not one thing that she would not do for me, all I have to do is ask. I am not proud of this fact, because it often puts her life on the line, when it should be mine, only, but it is gratifying. To know that I share in something so miraculous.
Tears well surprisingly in my eyes as I just watch her, envying her the humanity which causes her chest to rise and fall with soothing regularity. In a situation where people are aware of vampires' existence, and yet must not know about me, I can do a pretty good impersonation of a rhythm, but I must concentrate. My instincts are to breathe only when trying to talk.
Her lips are paler, now that the lipstick has rubbed off. Most of it is on me, or my belongings, and I consider it a gift. I never once cared that it's harder than hell to get off fabric. Her skin is still covered in a silky gloss, not quite shine, and the sheets are wet with sweat and... other... bodily fluids.
Suddenly I can't stand allowing her to sleep in the stickiness and ick of our bed, so pick stand up, pick her up, and carry her carefully to my couch. Both of us are nude, but I hardly take notice. The fiery passion has calmed, and I feel soul-deep love, but not the burning lust that possessed us both earlier.
Her body is warm. I revel in the sensation, letting her constantly pumping and efficiently heated blood warm and soothe me. Once upon a time, this would have created an insatiable bloodlust, but now it nothing more than instinct, which I quickly shove to the back of my head.
I never much liked holding human women before. They were too hot, to fiery. Made me feel as though I was burning up. But vampires have no core temperature, and therefore, are comfortable at any heat. Therefore, it was only inborn, or in-changed dislike of humanity that provided my mentally-created discomfort.
After I set her softly down, I changed the sheets quickly and go recover her from the couch. She has curled into a fetal position, and I have trouble convincing her unconscious body to straighten. She wakes briefly as I'm carrying her back, and mumbles, "Wha's going on?"
I kiss her forehead lightly, and smile. "Nothing. I just changed the sheets. Go back to sleep, we're going to bed now." She nods, and snuggles herself against me, making me wish I didn't have to put her down when we got to the bed. She probably won't even remember any of this in the morning.
But I do, this time onto clean, soft sheets. I lay down beside her, and cradle her body, and then, for probably the first time ever, I cross myself, whispering a prayer to the gods. Asking them to keep Buffy safe. Because Buffy is all that there is of my life. Without Buffy, I don't want life.
Without Buffy, there is nothing.
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