Rating: R (heavy sexual references…vague references to drinking/drugs/self-mutilation/bloodplay)
Spoilers: B/A canon; BtVS S5 finale; BtVS S6 premiere; reference to BtVS S3 ep. Band Candy; A:tS S2.
Synopsis: Buffy comes back and she and Angel run away – I know, I know…its been done before…but whatever, I like this song. bad…angst. Ha.
Distribution: E-mail me (numairsgirl@netscape.net) and tell me where it's gonna go…I'll prolly say yes
Disclaimer: Pavlov's Bell written and sung by the incredibly talented Aimee Mann, and the chars belong to Joss, David, WB, UPN, etc. Dun sue…all I have is a journal and cards. Like, seriously.
She called as soon as she could form coherent thought; before then even. She called the instant she remembered…remembered him and how alive she felt with him. She needed to feel alive. And when he answered the phone, his liqueur-smooth voice touching her soul, she remembered, also, that she had once wanted to live for him. (("the one freaky thing in my freaky world")) She was so caught in the rush of feeling, the pain and the love and the blinding heartache, that she didn't answer him, and he had to repeat himself.
"Hello?"
"A-A-Angel?" It was so hard to force the word out. It hurt. It hurt more than anything had since she came back – even more than it had hurt to come back. (("is this hell?")) But it was worth it, just to feel something.
There was a silence on the other end and her heart skipped a beat. She could sense his shock, hope that she was really speaking to him, and fear that this wasn't real. Finally she heard him take in air. His breath hitched and he sobbed, harshly. "Buffy? Buffy . . . Buffy."
She swallowed, hard. "I – they brought me back, Angel. I, I need – "
"To hold you," he cut in, desperately. He needed to feel her, tangible in his arms, to believe. To believe in anything, ever again, he needed to touch her, kiss her, feel her beneath him and around him and with him in his head, heart, and soul once more. ((fill me up with you))
She nodded; realized he couldn't see her; and wet her lips a little, out of habit. "I need you so badly," she murmured. "I need you with me. Now." (('say that you need me'))
"I'm coming," he told her. "I'll leave right now. Be ready."
And then they'd hung up, both of their minds reeling with the prospect of seeing one another. Angel arrived an hour later, having driven in a form reminiscent of Buffy's motor vehicle skills during the town's stint with the drugged band candy. He didn't care what happened, as long as he got there, got to her. (('that's you and in a hurry')) When he reached her house, he stopped the car, only to start it again when he saw her quietly open the door and lock it behind her. She held her slayer bag and her purse and, with a final glance up to where he knew Dawn's room would be, she turned to face him. Their eyes met, and she slowly walked towards him. She was like a vision, he thought. He needed to touch her to prove she was real. He needed to touch her, feel her.
She reached the car, walked around to her side, opened the door. Dropping her black bag into the car, she slid in. Not bothering to buckle her seat belt – she didn't really care if she died or not – she stared out the windshield. "Let's go," she whispered.
Frenzied at the thought of losing her once more, he reached around her to fasten her seat belt. At his touch, her stomach muscles contracted painfully. Her entire being screamed for him and her skin inanely mumbled, AngelAngelAngelAngelAngel. Her head was dizzy with him and her fingers tingled with his coolness.
They drove off and didn't look back.
That had been yesterday, and they had driven without talking, without the radio on, barely even breathing, until they reached the first motel past the Sunnydale town limits. Angel had silently paid for their single room, turning to take her hand afterwards, ignoring the lewd but approving look graced them by the motel employee. She followed him to their door and waited for him to unlock it. Once inside, they faced each other. Still wordless – because of the shock or the intense, burning love of it all? – they reached out, hands reacquainting themselves with places longed for and remembered, but not felt, touched, for so long.
Angel moved to unbutton her shirt, but she pushed his sweater – dusky blue; when had he given up the monochromatic color scheme? Had she missed that too? So much was gone, now. Including her. – up off his stomach and over his head first, only then allowing him to brush hers off her shoulders, while her hands spread over his chest, pausing at his unbeating heart, and finally dropping lower to his stomach. His own hands touched her breasts. She was braless, and absolutely the same as he remembered her. ((in my dreams, I hold you every night)) His fingers danced over a pale, faded scar near her belly button, which he remembered was from a Graylack demon. They had fought together ((it's like they're dancing)) the night she'd received that scar.
He cupped her and gazed at the expression on her face. As he continued to caress her chest, she scraped her nails over his own nipples. She pushed his hands away, after a moment, and leaned her face into his chest, pressing wet, openmouthed kisses over him. (("what do you wanna do?")) She lingered over his nipples, grazed her teeth over them, and finally settled just where his heart ought to be pumping, tenderly licking his cool skin. At the same time, her hands came to rest at his waistband, unbuckling his belt, and unzipping him. She forced the black slacks down his thighs.
Angel's hands, too, migrated to her sweats. He made short work of them, simply shoving them off her too-thin hips and watching them fall to the ground. ((Fallfallfall like she fell)) Then he stepped out of his pants, leaving both of them in their underwear. In unison, they reached out to remove the other's last remaining piece of cloth; the only thing separating them. Angel held her steady as he drew her panties down, fearing she might break if he wasn't gentle; fearing she might fall again. Buffy, however, desperately tugged at his boxers, until they finally gave in and tore off his body. Literally.
They stood there like that for a while; neither could say how long. In an instant, though, as if they'd never stood still, they were in each other's arms and kissing, mouth to mouth ((bouche à bouche)), tongue to tongue, lip to lip, and soul to soul. It was gentle, it was rough, it was deep and powerful and insane. It was giddy and terrifying and joyful, all the same. It was necessary and it was impossible to avoid. It was real. It was life; it was living. They needed to live; touch was living, with them. It always had been. That was why it hadn't worked; why he'd had to go away. They were killing each other. Were still killing each other. But at least they could pretend to forget, then.
Angel lifted Buffy off the ground and she curled her legs around his waist, clamping onto him for dear life. He grounded her; kept her in the moment, in the world. She finally spoke once more: "Don't let go. If you let go, I'll fall."
He froze in his kisses and fluttering touches. "I'll catch you." His voice caught, choking him in its tar-y fears. "I'll always catch you."
No more was said after that. At least, nothing intelligible. ((no more words…and the silence burns))
Angel carried her over to the disgustingly musty, rank cheap motel bed, but neither cared about its appearance. Settling her among the sheets, he looked her over, loving her even more, if he even could. He crawled in next to her.
As soon as he'd stilled in his position, she straddled him, kissing him deeply. Her mouth opened, drawing his tongue in to swirl around hers, gently and furiously all at once. Mostly just desperately.
They were caught up in the touch and the exquisiteness of it all, and their hands and lips and skin was everywhere. Furiously, they met each other, sweat mingling between arms and stomachs and at the heart of their desire. Saliva spread over their bodies in a frantic attempt to meld and entwine and become one; to sink into one skin and forever (("I'm not getting any older.")) share it.
Only then did he allow her to yank him overtop her and drive himself into her. He rocked into her, face pressed into her shoulder, kissing her neck and ear and collarbone. Nuzzling the scar he'd given her. Buffy reveled in the feel of him against her, crushed to her, inside her. Her hands gripped his shoulders like a lifeline, needing him to anchor her to this moment, so she didn't lose herself, not now, not when everything seemed right for the first time in as long as she could remember. (('I will remember you; will you remember me?'))
In the last instant, before all the secrets between them were shattered and they cried out in ecstasy, Angel pulled his head from the crook of her neck and leaned on her forehead. Their eyes met, and as Angel entered her one last time, she pulled his face down onto hers. They lightly brushed lips, keeping their eyes open while Angel filled her with coldness. (('wake me up inside')) But it was a different kind of cold than the one she'd been growing used to experiencing. It was a loving cold, and she never wanted it to go away.
Sighing softly and breaking away from her, Angel rested his head on her chest, looking up at her. She stroked his hair, thinking she ought to be the one being held and having her hair stroked. Thinking she was the one who had just been pulled out of heaven and dropped into this hellish world. And then she remembered what she'd felt when she had sent Angel to hell, all those years ago. (('back when i was young')) How it had taken her going to hell to be able to deal even a little bit, and return home. And she knew that Angel had already experienced his hell, and needed comfort as much as she did. (("let me worry about the needy. I can handle it."))
They slept that night, holding each other, and when they awoke, things were alright (('it's not okay but it's alright')) for the first time since they'd separated. And in the evening, they had carefully dressed and gone back to the car, where Angel had turned away from both Sunnyhell and the City of Angels ((because it was his city)) and plotted a new course, holding her hand the entire way.
Oh Mario – sit here by the windowStay here 'til we reach Idaho
And when we go
Hold my hand on take-off
Tell me what I already know
That we can't talk about it
No, we can't talk about it
She wanted, so badly, to tell him everything. To explain the pain she felt, to explain that she had been at peace. Not happy, not truly, for he had not been there to hold her and kiss her and love her, but she had been content. She wanted to tell him she still loved him; had never stopped loving him; that her teeth ached to be around him. She wanted to reveal Dawnie's true form, and her traitorous thoughts about her sister – terrible thoughts that blamed her and were bad and wrong (("you're wrong")) but god she couldn't help them. She couldn't help that. She wanted to whisper to him, the truth: that she wanted to die. ((let me go)) That the blood, Dawn's blood – her blood – being the key to closing the portal, was merely an excuse. Saving her sister's life, sacrificing herself for her baby sister who wasn't really her baby sister, but who knew nothing else, was purely instinct and blind emanating love. But the truth was, it came second to the fact that she wanted it. She welcomed death with open arms. After all, it was her gift. Her gift to the world – or, in another view: the world's gift to her.
Only it hadn't lasted. The world had given, taken it back. Just as every other good thing in her life had been taken back . . . this time, though, it had been her death that was taken. She shouldn't have expected her peace to last; shouldn't have expected to stay content forever. Shouldn't have expected to be happy. It never lasted before, why should it last now?
And, god, that hurt to admit. ((cuts like glass, shattered mirrors pressed into skin, broken lives bleeding out))
Because nobody knowsThat's how I nearly fell
Trading clothes
And ringing Pavlov's bell
History shows
There's not a chance in hell – but –
She couldn't tell him, though. If she spoke, if he spoke, if they spoke, the silence would be broken, and they'd have to face the rest of the world and fight so hard for themselves, harder than they already were, to survive. ((tear me into pieces)) She couldn't say the words that rose into her mouth like bile and burned, screaming to be told. She couldn't, because if she did, he would have to go home. He would have to leave her; if they acknowledged there was anything out there but the two of them and that stretch of highway, they'd have to return. And if they went back, she knew they would die.
Oh Mario – we're only to OhioIt's kinda getting harder to breathe
I won't let it show –
I'm all about denial –
But can't denial let me believe
That we could talk about it
But we can't talk about it
Angel had never been to Nevada. Las Vegas, specifically. Buffy remembered this from a time, long ago ((so many years ago, so many lifetimes ago in the 'once-upon-a' times)), in Restfield Cemetary. Curled up beneath the oak tree ((mommy was there mommymommymommy mommy come back, I wanna go home…home….home…)), barely touching Angel's oatmeal stomach with the tip of her tongue, leaning into the lingering chill of fingers at her waistband, Buffy had mentioned the many showgirls Angel must have been with, in his day. ((been with in the way we could never be, not after…)) It had been in a more innocent, teasing time…touch was teasing, kisses were teasing – speaking of things to come. ((and she came and he came and it felt so good but it was so, so wrong and she didn't care)) Talk was teasing, sometimes erotic but more often simply holding underlying truth – but nothing was ever revealed in its entirety.
It was like this when Buffy suggestively yet casually ((I'm multitasking)) equated her own experience to that of a Vegas hooker. Somehow the conversation involved a pink feather boa and the theme to Gilligan's Island.
That had been the night Angel had helped her to have her first orgasm with him. She remembered so clearly ((because it was Angel…it was always Angel)) because neither Pike nor Tyler had ever been able to bring her to climax. Whether it was because she was so young, and they were so young, and they hardly knew their own bodies let alone the others…she liked to think it was because it was Angel.
She'd always been curious to know what it felt like to have a guy go down on you, but never been able to overcome her aversion to having that intimacy, that wetness inside her. (("you're wet…you're so wet…I love you…")) Yet she overcame it that night. Because it was Angel.
And, god, was she ever glad.
He was so…(("good with your hands"))…loving and it was beautiful, to be able to stare down at his face, watch as his tongue flicked out to touch her; his nose pressed against her lower belly. To watch his reaction to her climax, the way it almost seemed it had been he who came; his eyes drifted back in their sockets, his muscles clenched, and he ground his teeth for long moments. And then fell limply at her side. ((tastes like Eden))
It was exquisite.
She never had let anyone touch her that way since Angel left. She'd once nearly allowed it of Scott, (("are you being careful?"…"with scott?!")) but had shoved his face away from her thighs the instant he touched her and he was so hot, so wrong. That night, she'd locked her bedroom, shut herself in her closet, and hugged Mr. Gordo close as she held the knife to her wrist. And how she'd cursed her Slayer healing that night. And how she'd cursed herself.
She never told anyone, not even Angel. (("DRINK ME.")) But the blood got her off. It did its job that night…the night Angel took her life force which she willingly offered…at the skating rink…
It was sick, she thought. And wrong, so wrong.
But everything was wrong.
Because nobody knowsThat's how I nearly fell
Trading clothes
And ringing Pavlov's bell
History shows – but rarely shows it well
Well, well, well –
That was where they went – Vegas. (('hey, baby, let's go to vegas'))
Oh Mario – why if this is nothingI'm finding it so hard to dismiss
If you're what I need
Then only you can save me
So come on baby – give me the fix
And let's just talk about it
I've got to talk about it
Time passed in a world of sweat and candy, sweet earthly pleasures which simply astounded Buffy in the mere fact that they could exist without repercussion. It was an entirely new sensation, not to fear gratification.To be free to experience and taste and see. To love.
Days were spent in a tangle of sheets and Thai noodles and decks of cards. ((go fish)) Musky and smelling of sweat, showers were forgone until even the beloved and longed for scent of one other was hidden. And even then, it was not a time to be alone. There was no time to be alone, anymore. It was too hard. And after so much time apart, there could not ever be enough time together to make up for it.
Nights were harder, held more memories. Nights were casinos and tequila, salt licked off skin and fingertips pressed into flesh. Limes drizzled over pulse(less) points and eyes watching, always watching. Nights could not be just them, not until the light was pressing upon them and the danger was so real they could feel the buzz from the cigarettes and the liqueur and the heat. It was hard to care, even then. (('does anyone even notice')) The only thing to be done was to return to the shrouded windows and hide once more.
Not that the hiding was difficult. It lead to very pleasurable moments, certainly. Yet, it was a constant reminder of the constant sense of wrongness which pervaded their love. A Slayer and a vampire. Nothing could have been more wrong.
Nothing could have been more right.
They still did not speak. They touched and held and cried. Each other's bodies, their moans, their keening, their blood, all passed through their lips, but never words. Not until he found her.
It had been building for a long time. There was no way to avoid it, and underneath the passion and the blood and the sex, they had known it. But neither could have expected it when it happened.
It was dark ((dark inside, so dark…can't get out)), which was a given, and they were passing through an alley. Looking back, it was stupid and they should have known what to expect. But at the time there had been only the leftover powder and the white angels.
The hooker, of course, had been rather grateful to find that she was not alone in her nightmare. Buffy and Angel, however, cursed their destinies, the fates, each other. The vampire got away, because they just didn't care enough. But, the hooker got away too so that, at least, counted. Or, at least it should have.
Except it didn't. And maybe that was the problem.
Something broke between them, then. For the first time, they were apart, physically and not just emotionally: upon their return, Buffy locked herself in the bathroom. Angel paced outside, feeling her tears as if the salt were running down his own cheeks ((blood tears)), and he heard the crash. He felt the crimson rivulets flowing, and slammed into the door, panic being the first real emotion to invade the haze of indifference that had been around them this whole time.
Buffy leaned into the sink, her stomach forcing the truth out. Angel froze at the sight of her broken reflection in the sink, over her arms and face, on the floor. Vomit mixed into the blood in the sink and everything turned pink. Buffy couldn't help but giggle. So pretty.
Angel carefully approached her and lifted his hands to her shoulders. She pushed backwards into him, and for the first time, there was nothing remotely sexual about it. The tears came, then, for both of them. And all the others were nothing compared to these. They did not hold back, they shook and sobbed and heaved against the tide of the world, tearing time apart at its seams. Blood and tears and vomit churned and they only held each other closer, finding no other way to react. The tiny pieces of mirror pressed into their skin, sliced into their lives, and still they held on, because it was the only thing to do.
A long while later, when the sun had come and gone, they found themselves curled up on the floor amidst crunched glass: A golden girl ((babygirl, don't cry)) with her cheek resting among biting shards, bleeding drops sliding down her face and a dark angel ((never a man)) tasting her tears.
"Buffy."
And it was over. They knew it in a place so deep inside that they had only touched it twice before, (("shh…don't. just kiss me." … "I want my life to be with you." "I don't.")) but never really entered. Until now.
Because nobody knowsThat's how I nearly fell
Trading clothes
And ringing Pavlov's bell
History shows –
Like it was show and tell
So tell me Mario
"Tell me, Angel. Tell me everything's going to be okay," she pleaded. "I – if I don't hear it, I might die."
He said nothing, only held her.
((cuts like glass, shattered mirrors pressed into skin, broken lives bleeding out))
A/N: Please review, folks. I'm sending subliminiminal messages through the computer screen. Yoooouuu muuust reeevieeew....
Disclaimer: Once more, I DO NOT own Buffy or Angel. I suppose the vamp and the hooker could be mine but, ya know, I don't really want them...Song excerpts are from: Say You Love Me by Deep Purple; Four Thirty by Sara Evans; I Will Remember You by Sarah McLachlan; Bring Me to Life by Evanessence; I Keep Looking by Sara Evans; Emotionless by Good Charlotte; Let's Go to Vegas by Faith Hill; Dawn's Lament by Michelle Trachtenberg (A.K.A. Dawn's song in OMWF)
Love,
Dani