Chapter 7: Face to face, my lovely foe

At the sound of her voice a hoarse, shuddering sound, unlike anything she had heard him utter before, escaped him and he staggered backwards blindly, horrified. Buffy's head was throbbing and her legs trembled as she stepped forward.

'Angel,' she repeated softly, but he flung himself away from her.

'Stay away!' His voice broke and to Buffy's shock his hands flew to his face, moving in irregular starts and fits, before his fingers closed spasmodically around locks of his hair at either side of his face, jerking his own head downward. ''Shut up! Shut up-shut up- I didn't – it wasn't my fault!'

The last bit was screamed into the room, the shrill edge to his voice chilling Buffy to the bone. She was shaking all over, wanting to run to him but at the same time afraid, wanting to forget but also understand; and torn she simply stood watching Angel break down before her eyes.

He was so thin, so pale, and the tight-fitting shirt he wore hung baggily from his shoulders, the deep shadows cast by the faint lighting hinting at the concave stomach underneath. But the worst was his voice. His calm, slow, soothing voice that could make everything seem okay even though the world was ending no longer held the confidence, the restraint, the self-control, none of the serenity of her Angel; but only naked fear and a strange irrationality that frightened her more than anything else. His jerky movements were spontaneous and graceless, his voice falling to a low, continuous mumble that was interrupted only by the quiet sobs that jolted through him.

Buffy had found Angel but she had never felt so hopeless, so alone.

She took a step closer to his cowering form, and he immediately recoiled, flinging himself against the wall where his knees slowly gave way and he tumbled to the ground. Buffy stared at him through burning eyes as a palm was placed against the wall on either side of his head, his trembling back turned to her. She became dimly aware that she had lost feeling of her legs.

The rags he wore were too big for him, leaving his left shoulder uncovered. There was blood on his pale skin but Buffy could not see whether it was his own or the humans' he had slaughtered. Her head throbbed and she felt cold, suddenly remembering she was soaked, and yet for some reason it did not seem to matter. Her body felt too heavy for her legs and ever so slowly she sank down against the wall, watching Angel as he stirred at the opposite side of the room.

'Angel,' she whispered, only to try his name, to feel it in her mouth again, and he trembled.

The sound was quiet at first, merely a low moan at the back of his throat but then his shoulders began to shake and the chuckling grew prominent. Buffy stared at him in disbelief as he pushed himself to his feet, shaking his shoulders nonchalantly. His forehead was ridged as he turned to her and as their eyes met, the laughter turned into a manic cackling. It made Buffy's blood run cold.

'It never stops with you people, does it?' he cackled, grimacing as he pulled the remains of a bolt from his shoulder. 'Can't kill me, can't live with me.' He pulled a face as though something just occurred to him. 'Ya know, I think that must be the only thing we've got in common. No wonder it didn't work out.' He was speaking to the room now, completely oblivious to Buffy's presence.

Her eyes burned and her chest felt strangely empty, as though she had a weightless vacuum instead of a heart.

Suddenly he recoiled as though he had been struck, blinking frantically as his human face returned. 'No,' he mumbled in terror, all hints of laughter gone from his voice, 'no, I didn't -'

Buffy stared at him, feeling the tears slip silently down her cheek. 'Oh Angel, what did they do to you?'

He went rigid, his face ever so slowly turning her way. 'Buffy.' Her name was spoken so softly, so quietly, Buffy could hardly hear it. She almost smiled as relief washed over her.

'Yes,' she said, getting to her feet laboriously. 'I'm here now -'

But she was cut off as he flung his head back and an inhuman cry left him; it sounded as though someone was tearing his heart out. There was so much pain in his scream, so much fear and anger and hurt, so little of Angel.

The scream subsided little by little until he was left cowering on the ground, crying silently. Buffy licked her lips which had suddenly gone dry; it was quite a feat considering the rest of her was half-drowned. A strange hiss made her jump and spin on her feet to the radio which rested on the spot on the floor where she had dropped it. It was making spitting static noises and blinking green; Buffy's eyes travelled over the lifeless shapes of the Council soldiers and came to rest on Angel's trembling, kneeling form.

They had to go. It was in itself strange that a Squad had not arrived already to survey the situation. To kill Angel.

But you came to kill him, a snide voice at the back of her mind snickered. And yet you didn't because it was your darling boyfriend. What if it hadn't been? What would you have done then?

She would have taken the Pet out without a second thought, Buffy realised. She would have done what the Council, what Mark, wanted her to. She would have done her duty.

Was this a test? Some sick practice of Mark's to see if she would snap? Was this whimpering, broken creature really her Angel? – or was he simply this reality's version upon whom the one she had known had been based? If so, what was going on? He had recognised her. He had known her name but if she decided to trust Mark's claim then that did not prove anything. As far as she could discern the Slayers held some sort of local celebrity status and the area's Pets would naturally know her. It did not prove anything.

Yet, Buffy thought as she pocketed her stake, she was not going to stand by and watch while they murdered Angel.

'Angel,' she tried again. He did not move. 'Angel. We have to go.'

He was kneeling with his back to her but when he answered his voice was strangely steady, almost monotonous. 'Don't go,' he said. He got to his feet and turned to her, his anguished face burning into hers. 'Don't go again.'

'I'm not going,' Buffy said. 'We are.'

He looked at her for a while as though he was trying to read her face. Then he said quietly, ponderously as though to himself: 'Are you alive?'

That frightened her. It was not the sort of question you asked if you were perfectly sane. Buffy opened her mouth twice before finally finding her voice. 'Yes,' she whispered. 'And so are you – or well, sort of anyway - but we have to go.'

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. 'Where?'

'I don't know. Yet. But anywhere but here would be nice.' Buffy wanted to grab his hand and drag him out of the Gallery but she was under the distinct impression that he would not appreciate the gesture.

Angel took a slow step backward. His voice became cold, animalistic. 'What did you do to her?'

Buffy did not understand what he meant. 'Who?'

'She is gone – don't do this – I can't -'

She had to break him off. 'Angel, I need your help.'

His face shot upward. 'Buffy?'

'Yes,' she repeated insistently. 'And we really, really need to go like in this instant.'

He shook his head, once again speaking to the room. 'I don't care anymore. It doesn't matter.' His voice dropped to a whisper as his gaze fell to the floor in defeat. 'I don't care.'

Suddenly his head jerked upward and Buffy froze. She had heard it too. Footsteps. Voices.

The Council had finally arrived.

'Come on.' The door at the end of the room said 'No Admittance' and was locked. Buffy kicked it in and watched Angel follow her through. The passage was narrow and dark, and Buffy felt the strangling sensation of claustrophobia kicking in; it reminded her of a coffin. She tried to push the thought from her mind as she ran, finally reaching a door on the right. Hoping the sign above it read exit when the lighting worked she grabbed the doorknob and yanked it open. She turned to see how far back Angel was and jumped to find his face inches from her own. He glared at the metal stairway that wound its way downward from the door.

'That way?'

At the opposite end of the corridor a flickering light danced across the opposite wall and the sound of voices rose higher and nearer than before.

'Yes,' Buffy hissed and pushed him through before closing the door after them. Immediately she felt the raindrops lash against her from above and thunder rumbled once more as she found herself on top of a metal staircase; probably an emergency exit. Angel had suddenly stopped dead and Buffy saw how the staircase ended a good three metres above the rain-drenched street. Before she could say anything Angel jumped, his blurry grey form briefly suspended between the drops of water that lashed against the street before tumbling over as his feet struck the tarmac. Swearing at the architect who chose to design a staircase a floor too short, Buffy jumped, feeling the moment of detachment that came with nothing but gravity controlling the motion of her body. She connected agilely with the ground, and with knees bended slightly she rolled to her feet.

Angel was staring at her from the opposite side of the street. He stood hunched forward with his right arm hanging limply by his side, panting violently. Buffy felt a sudden urge to know just how badly he was injured; she would have to take him somewhere and get him patched up.

From the front of the building came the noise of frantic activity, shouting, screaming, flashing lights, and Buffy felt the familiar rush of adrenaline surge through her. They could not stay any longer.

Indecision seized her. Where would they go? He was bloodied and beaten and if that was not enough the hideous clothing he wore was enough to give him away. As far as she had been able to tell from her stroll along the streets the establishments that catered for Pets could be counted easily on one hand. Buffy did not know exactly how she looked herself but she was willing to bet it wasn't pretty. The only good thing was that, unlike Angel, she did not look like a butcher's apprentice.

She did not know what to say to him. He was watching her strangely, rapidly shuffling backward as she took a step nearer. Sighing in frustration and confusion, Buffy paused.

'I don't know where to go,' she said, not knowing what else to say to him. Angel had retreated so far back he was enveloped in the deep shadows cast by the opposing wall and she could not see his face.

Water ran into her eyes. 'Do – do you have a place – or something – where we can go?'

Silence. Impatience washed over her; anytime now the Council could come charging into the alley and that was not exactly a contestant for her Top Ten Situations to Come.

A brief flash of blue-white light charged along the alley and her voice was nearly drowned out by the rumble that followed. 'OK. I guess that means I'll have to come up with something.' As far as she could tell right would lead her to the main road and the front of the Gallery, but considering the occupation of the Council's squad at that end, she quickly made up her mind to take the left.

There had to be some greasy motel somewhere who would take them without question. It was simply a statistical impossibility that there wasn't; all she had to do was find it.

The tarmac was wet and smooth underneath her feet as she ran and water sprinkled her legs and ankles as she indifferently charged through the puddles that lay invisible in the utter blackness of the alley. Behind her she could hear the irregular rhythm of Angel's limping run; it was strange. She had never been able to hear him before.

Suddenly she was blinded and she only had time to register the flashlight that met her eyes, the blinding light shielding the Council soldier behind it. He was so close she could have reached out and touched the muzzle of the gun which reflected the light with a cool glint. But she didn't. She just stood and watched in numb shock as the weapon was raised until it was level with her chest. She stared as the dark-clad attacker's finger shifted to the trigger in slow-motion, whilst voices where screaming in her ears but it was as though she heard them through the dull rumble of a waterfall. She could not react to them.

Then there was a flurry of grey clothing and flashing light and it was as though time speeded up to recover what it had lost. The gun was shoved upward, the shot charging to the sky, the deafening crack that ensued nearly drowning out the animalistic roar Angel gave as he slammed his fist repeatedly into the masked face with brutal ferocity. Bones cracked.

Cold dread washed over her.

'Angel stop!'

He did not mark her but merely placed a hand on either side of the attacker's head, and before she could react, he had twisted his arms in a flash and the neck snapped with a sickening crack. Buffy felt her chest go numb as she watched the body slump lifelessly to the tarmac. Angel stood with his back to her, his body trembling with rage and she felt the slayer stir inside of her. Fighting the instinct that boiled within her Buffy hesitantly stepped forward and spun him around, not caring that he jerked his arm away from her touch. Her eyes lingered momentarily on his ridged forehead, the feral eyes, before she allowed the anger to flood her hurt and confusion.

'We have to go. Now.'

Her gaze flickered through the surrounding darkness and she strained her hearing to the utmost to catch a hint of any other attackers, but the blackness lay empty and silent. Finally satisfied, she picked up the flash-light from its place by the dead man's limp hand be fore turning, and without looking at Angel, she broke into a run.

Unmoving, Angel stood watching as her sleek form was devoured by the darkness of the alley. Now the mind-numbing terror had subsided the pain was returning once more and his head felt strangely light.

His gaze lowered to the sunken form of the man at his feet. The clothes were being soaked by the falling rain and the face was rapidly growing pallid but he could not care. He could not feel grief. Nor sorrow. Nor guilt.

Rain-drops lashed against the open wound in his shoulder and he could smell his own diluted blood as it ran down his back and chest. It was almost funny; all that time spent wishing the ceaseless pain away and the moment it disappeared he was too afraid to notice. Too consumed by his fear for someone who was not even there to notice anything else.

A fear of hurting someone he had murdered long ago.

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A/N: Thanks so much to all you lovely readers who responded to the last chapter! And lookie, I kept my promise - a new, shining chapter out before the weekend. Lemme know what you think! :-)

Khim