Author: Lucey
Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the mistakes since this baby is not beta-ed.
Rating: R-ish, I guess.
Pairing: B/Aus
Distribution: my lj, Denialhaven, the usual suspects hosting my stuff. Others? Ask.
Feedback: pretty, pretty please?
Dedication: This one's for the amazing Leni! *smooch* Happy Birthday, sweetie!
Summary: Takes place during BtVS 2x17 "Passion". Angelus starts torturing Buffy. Or himself? *wg*
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Jealousy. Were did that come from? Hate he knew. Anger. Cruelty. Pleasure, oh he knew pleasure. But jealousy? That was new. Sure, the soul had known it. Maybe it was her influence, still embedded somewhere inside his body or brain after a hundred years.
Was he jealous? Oh please…as if he had to be afraid of competition! No, not when it came to her. He knew she wasn't over him yet. She couldn't kill him at the mall and a few weeks wouldn't make a difference. He knew her good enough for that. He had watched her cry her heart out every night in bed. He had watched her on patrol, always aware of his presence. It didn't escape his attention that she was wearing a lot of dark colours lately, as if she was mourning someone's death. Did she look at it that way? Her precious Angel now dead?
And yet here she was, dancing, almost looking like she was enjoying herself. Moving sensuously to the beat. But not for him. Xander. God, how he hated the boy. He didn't even like him when he still had a soul! The boy's barely hidden lusting after what was his, even now when he was apparently dating that bitch Cordelia. Why did Buffy even let him being around her? Oh right, they were friends. So what was up with these two dancing like that? Again.
Was he really jealous? No, it was more than that. As much as he wanted to rip the boy's head off, what bothered him even more was that apparently, she was moving on. She's moving on while you're still after her. A little voice inside his head whispered. Nonsense. Now he was the one who couldn't forget? That was unacceptable. There had to be another reason.
So he followed her back to her house. He didn't care if she noticed him. He watched her enter the dark house and waited until she switched on the light in her bedroom. The blinds were down, so no peep show for him tonight. But it didn't escape his attention that she looked out of the window. So she did sense him. What would she do now? Come down for some banter, maybe even a fight? Maybe that would burn off some of the tension inside his every muscle.
But she just turned around and walked away from the window.
Now, that was disappointing.
So she was just going to bed and let him stand out here all night?
She knew he was out there. She had sensed him, lurking in the shadows, following her. What was he up to? A fight? Would he finally try to kill her and end the torture that her life was right now? She tried to move on, go out and have fun. Dancing with Xander was nice but she knew it was just out of pity for her. Being the fifth wheel wasn't fun. Willow had Oz. Xander had Cordelia. And what did she have? A cradle- robbing-creature-of-the-night-ex-boyfriend. A vicious killer. An ex-lover. A stalker waiting outside her bedroom window.
While she slipped into bed, she could still feel him. And just for a minutes she allowed herself the comfort of denial, just for a minute she gave in to the feeling of having him close to her. The body was a traitorous friend. While her mind was constantly occupied with the things he did, her body wanted nothing more than lean against his, cherish she feel of his body against her own, relax in the comfort his arms once had provided. Sometimes the urge was so strong she had to bring up all her strength not to give in to it. Why did he still feel the same? Why was her body still attracted him, why didn't it see the danger? Maybe because, deep inside you, you still want him. Was that true? Sure, he was still forbiddingly gorgeous. But he was evil. So why spend time wondering about things that would never happen? Could never happen. Shutting off her mind, she concentrated on the feel of him. Her Angel, almost there, beside her.
After a few minutes she was sound asleep.
He watched her through the window. He could tell the exact minute she slipped off into dreamland, softly whispering his name every now and then. She looked so peaceful there, so beautiful and so young. Not like the Slayer she was. He knew he was playing with fire when he slipped through the window inside her room. Every moment she could wake up and who knew what would happen then. She was, after all, his mortal enemy, born to kill him. It was dangerous to let his guard down and yet there was something about her that made him forget about all these worries. Before he knew it he sat down on the bed next to her. She didn't move, didn't make a sound. Her breathing was still even and he wondered when he had seen her so relaxed the last time. Had to be the hell of a nice dream she had there.
He knew he should walk away now. Find something to kill, somebody to drain. It would be so easy to kill her now. She would never know what was going on until his fangs would pierce the soft skin on her neck. Oh, she would struggle, sure, but the pleasure he could add to the pain would convince her. She wouldn't deny him. So why was it that he didn't do what his nature commanded him to do? He could tell himself that it would be too easy. That he wanted her to suffer, to die slowly and painfully. Torture was his expertise, that's why he didn't just kill her. It lacked poetry. So why couldn't he stop his own hand from coming up and gently trace her face, tucking some hair behind her ear? Why did it feel like he was watching himself when he leaned over and placed a soft and gentle kiss on her eyebrow?
Shocked, he jumped up when she leaned into the caress. Oh no, she'd wake up. What the hell had he been thinking? Was he insane? Angrily he wiped his hand and lips with his shirt, as if the contact with her skin had poisoned him. This couldn't be happening, what was wrong with him? His own gentleness made him sick. It was her; it had to be her doing this to him. He had to kill her. Had to end this before it drove him insane.
He approached the bed, ready to strangle her, do anything to stop this torture. But he couldn't. The second he realized that he couldn't kill her, his rage grew to no end. The urge to smash something was unbearable. But he couldn't make a sound. Hell, he couldn't even growl without waking her up.
She turned in her sleep and he was once again captured by the sight of her. How could this one little girl make him feel this way, make him feel at all? He didn't ask for this. Anger. Jealousy. Passion. And now what, love? God, he was disgusting! She…she had to pay for this. He would make her suffer. Oh yeah, she would regret it. He would drive her insane, just like was driving him insane.
"Payback's a bitch, lover…" he mumbled.
Inside her drawer he found some paper, charcoal and crayons. Good thing soul boy left some things. Maybe he wasn't so useless after all. Sitting in a chair, he started sketching, eternalizing her peaceful face on paper. Oh, she was up for a nice little surprise in the morning. Not only would she realize he had been inside her bedroom without her noticing it, no she would also realize the utter peacefulness on her features while he could have easily slit her throat.
Having the sketch finished to his satisfaction he carefully placed it beside her on the pillow. It was almost a shame he wouldn't be around to watch her face when she discovered it. Maybe some other time.
"Sleep tight, lover…" he whispered before he slipped out of the window.
He needed to feed before the sun came up.
So he had been in her bedroom. And she didn't notice. God, what kind of a Slayer was she? He could have killed her while she was dreaming happy dreams of her Angel. The picture…it was beautiful. Wrong, wrong thoughts. But she looked good. So peaceful. Damn her body for not alerting her to his presence! Oh god, he could have done Lord knows what with her last night and she wouldn't have noticed. Why, would you have complained? This had to end. There had to be a way to revoke the invitation. She couldn't risk having him come to her house again. There was no way she would trust him to keep this up. Or is it that you don't trust yourself? Giles. She had to tell Giles. He would tell her what to do. For once she was looking forward to school, anything that would distract her from Angel or her own thoughts.
Killing Willow's fish had been almost fun. A welcome distraction. Anything to leave her in the dark about his next move. He wanted her to be afraid. What he didn't want was the girl staying at his lover's room for the night. The garlic they had put up was wafting through the window, making him cringe. Not that it would be enough to stop him from entering the room. For a moment he thought about leaving the redhead's body as a little souvenir for Buffy to find in the morning. That was until he came up with a way more wicked idea, something that would really hit her hard.
Ignoring the god-awful smell he entered through the window. Careful not to step on Willow lying on the floor in her sleeping bag, he once again placed a chair next to the bed and drew out the paper and pencil. It was time to test both his and her limits.
Carefully he moved over to her, the bed sheets pooled at her hips, helping him to no end. She made no move as he approached her, didn't stir as he moved her arm from across her chest until it came to lie beside her. He held an unneeded breath as she made a small sound. But she didn't wake. Too peaceful her features, once again lost in dreamland.
Then, ever so slowly, he started to unbutton her pajama jacket. One button after another, all the way down to her waist. With utter carefulness he finally pulled the jacket open to reveal her breasts to his gaze. They were perfect. Small, but just the right size to fit into his hands, as he vividly remembered while his erection grew inside his leather pants. No, he couldn't let himself be carried away. He wasn't here to play. Torture. He wanted her to suffer, to cringe, to be shocked. So he resisted the urge to touch her. That was for later, maybe. A little reward for his patience.
Back in the chair he started to sketch, trying to capture every detail. She didn't move, lying there like a model posing for him. A slight breeze came through the window, wafting across her chest, making her nipples harden. Oh god, this was perfect. She wasn't just beautiful now, but looking slightly aroused. She'd never know about the air, she'd be busy wondering what exactly had happened during the night. Wondering what he might have done, blaming herself for not waking up to stop him. And embarrassed, oh she would be so embarrassed. All the things that might have happened while Willow was in the room. This was indeed priceless.
The picture was finished, almost too soon for his taste. He could have spent the whole night sketching her. Preferably fully naked, but he knew he couldn't risk that. She could wake up, for once. But he also knew that he wouldn't be able to stop once he had her there, ready to be taken, right in front of him. They had all the time in the world for that. He could stand a little waiting. Once again he carefully folded the picture and put the chair back to its original place. The smell of the garlic he had been able to block out all the time now hit him with full force. But he wasn't finished yet.
He sat beside her on the bed again, only to find that she still hadn't moved. Almost as if she'd been waiting for him. Being so close to her intoxicated him, clouded his thoughts, chasing away all rationality. Could he dare to…? Once again he felt like he was watching himself as his hand slowly came up to trace her collarbone. No reaction from her. He grew more confident, his hand moving lower until his fingers circled her breast. She sighed then, moving closer, brushing her once again hardened nipple against his thumb. How could he resist her then? Gently, he brushed across her aureole, earning a whimper from her. Oh god, he had to stop before she'd wake up.
"Angel…" she sighed, wiggling on the bed.
He drew back his hand in shock. Now his nice plan was going to be ruined. She'd catch him and try to stake him on the spot. He had to kill her, kill her now.
But she only sighed again at the loss of his skin on hers, didn't wake up.
Carefully he buttoned her pajama jacket again, before he'd do something he'd regret later. Regret? Why the hell was he thinking about regret?
He placed the picture beside her and fled through the window, running from her house as fast as he could.
Another picture? No, this couldn't be. The garlic, the crosses…oh god, Willow! They had been so careful! How...? Buffy leaned over to glance at her friend, still sound asleep on the floor. But breathing, oh thank god. She sat up and reached for the envelope. With trembling fingers she pulled out the sheet only to let it drop like it was on fire the next second. Oh god. This…this couldn't have happened. No way she would have let that happen. She would have noticed…should have noticed. This time he didn't just watch her…he had touched her. Images of last night's dream floated back into her mind. She had been dreaming about Angel again. Always, always about him. That's what made waking up ten times more painful. But last night's dream had been so real. And the picture in her hand was the evidence that it could have happened for real. Tears welled up in her eyes. Why was he doing this? To torture her? Because it was working. How could she go to sleep ever again when he could to whatever he wanted with her? Come on; admit that you want it to. Just a little…What had she done to deserve this? Not only was the only man she ever loved running around as a soulless shell, no, now he was even visiting her at night, touching her in every way he wanted without her waking up to stop him. A wicked voice inside her head found the idea incredibly tempting, thrilled by the possibilities, sending images of guilty pleasures through her brain.
"Buffy?" Willow stirred and she quickly tucked away the envelope. No need to alert her friend even more. No need to explain the inexplicable. No need to admit to her, what she wouldn't admit to herself. That a part of her still got thrilled by the idea of being at his mercy, that a part of her didn't want this nightly visits to end.
This had to end. One way or another. Spike was mocking him already and even Dru was starting to wonder about his behaviour. He couldn't keep up the routine of climbing through her bedroom window night after night, sketching her, a part of him hoping that she would finally wake up to confront him, whether with violence or passion he didn't care. That's what it always came down to, passion.
He also knew that in the tradition of real torture, he needed step up to the next level. Willow's fish had been nothing, a pointless footnote. It was time to bring in the big guns, to drive her to the edge. What would she do when she found the picture? Send Joyce out of town? And take away his opportunity to assault her on another front? No. The mother had always been a precious pawn in this game. She didn't have to know that Joyce's picture was just a product of his fantasy.
Good thing Giles had come up with a spell. Or Jenny. Casting the spell on Cordelia's car, as ridiculous as it had been, had worked out fine. Now it was time to make her friend feel safe again. And then she found the picture of her mother. Had he watched her, too? Through all of this, she had never really thought about him, wandering around the house. She had never thought he'd bring her mother into this. How stupid she had been! She had only thought about herself, debating whether to revoke the invitation or give in to the traitorous thought of having him near her again. How could she even have considered that? This wasn't just about her. She had to protect her mother. And maybe even herself.
"Sorry Angel, changed the locks".
The look on her face. Cold. Almost emotionless. That little bitch! He never thought about the possibility that she might be able to lock her house against him. So much for his plan. Maybe she was less intimidated than he thought. Maybe she was too tough. All he would have needed were a few more nights and she would have crumbled.
Fine, if she had to take away the fun, so would he.
He would make her suffer. For resisting him. For calling him "Angel". Suffer for still dreaming about soul boy when all she should care about was him. Oh, she would suffer for real this time. She'd be sorry for denying him, feel sorry for making him have all these feelings for her.
God, how he hated her. Her and her little group of friends. Why didn't he kill Xander right away, before Dru could protect him? Why didn't he kill Joyce on the way to the door or why didn't he kill Willow instead of her stupid fish? Because it lacked poetry. Because he'd kill them out of rage, not out of passion. Passion for the kill.
Something poetic. Something different.
The watcher?
No, too simple.
What about the gypsy? Watcher's lover. Buffy's friend. Fucking gypsy-techno-witch. He knew she was up to something.
Maybe it was about time to settle old scores…
The end.