Aestus

Aestus

By Snow
Author's Notes

Every cold night,
Every whisper,
Every silent scream,
And you never listen.
And you say what?
…It's alright,
Well it's not alright, no, no.

Every last time,
Every shiver,
Every dirty game.
Well it just isn't right,
It just isn't right.

She wakes at the dawn of the day,
And takes my heart from me.
Leaves me with nothing to say,
Nothing left for me,
But the fever of final good-byes,
She spins away from me,
So I can go on...

I can go on

~ Let It Be ~ Kane

He had always dreamt of her.

For so long, it had to have begun even before he met her. Before Whistler guided him. Before he spoke to her. Before he knew her. Before he hid in the shadows and watched her in the sunlight. Before he touched her. Before she died saving the world. Before he dealt with that unbelievable, unending, searing pain.

Before he loved her.

She was there in his thoughts, sometimes forcibly pushed to the back of his mind. A mild distraction when he was working. A constant, calming presence when he wasn’t. And there, walking through the halls of his hotel. Followed him through the maze that was Wolfram and Hart. Heels clicking on the wet concrete of the sewers beneath LA while he hunted and tracked and fought and killed … and saved.

Angel knew he’d done something good when he would turn and see her smile. He knew he’d screwed up when he could feel her disapproval, the cutting flash of her eyes as she dismissed him before he could explain.

But never like this. Never this strong, never this real.

If Angel were pressed to put a timeframe on the change, if he was made to really think when Buffy became less than a loving ghost and more of a painful, haunting presence – he’d have remembered the sound of Lindsey’s screams and the smell of blood in the air. Copper and salt mixed with black magic. Latin chants that echoed in the marble tomb where Angel had confronted the lawyer and separated his hand from his body. Saved his precious scroll and prophecy to give to Wesley, ignored Cordelia’s constant questions, walked past Gunn and closed the door to his bedroom suite. Stripped as he walked to his bed and crawled over the blankets while the sun rose and the room heated behind thick drapes.

That was the last day Angel had slept without dreaming at all.

“Stay on your knees, pretty Angel.”

She smelled of earth, minerals and incense. Expensive shampoo and lotions made with silk fibers and he was naked in front of her. Watching as she walked out of the shadows of this dream. Pale gray satin clung to her hips and waist and breasts. Bare as he was underneath, the material only emphasized that fact, so fragile and thin that Angel could see the curls of her pubic hair mar the shimmering surface just above the hem.

He opened his mouth to speak and Buffy shook her head. She placed one finger over his lips and pressed down. One perfectly manicured nail, longer than Angel remembered, traced the curve and slid between. Her thumb pushed on his jaw and Angel opened, his tongue curled around the cool skin and he shivered as the taste of her skin filled his senses. So long … it had been so long but he never forgot this… hunger.

“Do you dream of me, Angel?”

Another finger followed the first, and then another. Angel felt her touching each one of his teeth, from the molars to the front, top to bottom. The gently callused pads rubbed over each blunt edge and left a wet smear from Angel’s lips over one cheek, across the bridge of his nose, up to his closed eyes. Her thumb pressed over one lid and Angel could still see her, luminous, staring down at him.

“I could blind you now. Here.”

Uncomfortable pressure and Angel didn’t move. Held without tethers in this dream, his hands behind his back, his fingers wrapped around his wrists.

“Would your eye grow back if I popped it out?”

The pressure became pain and still Angel didn’t move from under her hand. Locked in place until he felt the scrape of her nail over his eyelid to his temple and the brush of air as she suddenly moved. Walked away from him. Angel opened his eyes and the calm that had enveloped Buffy was gone. She fidgeted and twitched, satin shifted as she paced and moved further away from him. Wringing her hands and making fists and reaching up to run her hands through her hair and pull as her face twisted and she moaned.

“That’s not what they want. No blinding. No maiming. No stakes through your heart, no blades across your throat through your spine. No morning strolls into the sunshine.”

She was in the shadows again when she finally turned back to Angel and he thought he could see tears on her cheeks.

“They can’t have what they want until you give me your soul, Angel. I can’t have what they want until you give me… take me…”

“Run into a door, Angel? I mean, you have been distracted lately, but seriously. You need to watch where you’re walking.”

Angel glanced up from the case file he was reading and tilted his head at Cordelia’s concerned expression. When she reached for his face, Angel had to force himself to not flinch.

“Your eye. You’ve got a cut.”

Angel was in bed again before six hours had passed and he didn’t know if it was day or night or dusk or dawn. He didn’t care.

Chains held him down. Thick metal links from his shoulders to his wrists to the hard wood floor and bolts that were made to withstand more strength than he possessed. On his knees again, naked again. Head down and when Angel looked up, Buffy was there. Standing in front of him. Denim covering, clamping to, the curve of her hips this time, an ivory camisole with tiny straps that slipped down the silk of her shoulders. The heels of brand new leather boots made every step she took an auditory experience.

“I kept you in chains once.”

She walked around behind Angel and once again he was mute in her presence. Unable to do anything but watch as she stalked and stared and he felt no shame, only this slowly intensifying desire.

“You were nothing more than an animal.”

In front of him again and her hand was under his chin. She lifted his head higher and Angel saw her looking for the cut on his face she’d made the last time he dreamed of her.

“You heal so fast. Too fast.”

Her painted lips curled and her voice was flat and expressionless. Angel wanted to weep for this Buffy, he wanted to see her smile again. He wanted to make her happy. Make her proud. Make her want him. Make her need him. Make her love him.

“Would you be my animal again, Angel?”

There was a whip this time. Straps of leather across Angel’s back. Stripes of red and ribbons of welts that leaked drops of blood from his shoulders to his hips to his ass. And when Angel was biting back more than low groans, more than growling moans, just when he was fighting off the need to scream and dislocate his shoulders and thrust his hips forward and come … and come … Buffy stopped.

She stroked her fingers through his sweat-damp hair and leaned down so close that Angel could taste her breath when she spoke.

“Give me… take me… love me… Angel … be my animal.”

He woke with the sound of his own voice. A harsh guttural cry of …Yes, yes … yes ….

His sheets were wet with sweat, his back hurt and Angel didn’t even try to look after he showered and dressed and went through the motions of his day. He forced himself to interact with the others and he couldn’t get back to his bed fast enough. He couldn’t get his clothes off fast enough. He closed his eyes and drifted off with the flavor of cold animal blood on his tongue and Buffy on his mind. In his mind.

He waited, it seemed, for hours. Kneeling and naked and hard. He ached to touch his cock and release himself from the agony and Angel wondered, for only a moment, why it mattered. Why he waited. Why he wanted … what power this dream had over him and before he could follow that train of thought Buffy was there.

She looked tired. Dark circles under her eyes like bruises and she moved with a carelessness that made Angel’s muscles tighten. Prey. Hunter. Owner. Slave. Master. Animal. Lover. Need …

She pulled a chair out of the shadows and sat down. She kicked off her shoes and curled her feet under and she looked all of ten years old with her hair falling around her face and her arms hugging around her knees.

Angel waited. A drop of sweat trickled down from his hair to his neck to his collarbone to his chest and he waited, silent. Never taking his eyes off of her. Not able to take his eyes off of her.

“I miss being alive, Angel.”

She whispered and if Angel weren’t a vampire he wouldn’t have heard her speak at all. He was filled with the bleakness of her mind.

“I miss my mom.”

He watched her through half-open eyes. Through thick eyelashes that shaded her brilliant pain.

“I miss my sister. I miss my friends. I miss going to school and fucking up on tests and doing homework and sneaking out after dinner to walk through the cemeteries. I miss training and Giles and shopping and the mall and new shoes and passing notes and talking to Willow late at night. I miss finding you in the dark. I miss you, Angel … I miss you.”

“I’m here, Buffy. I’m here … I’m here.”

Angel wanted to shout. He wanted to scream. He wanted to get up off of his knees and stand on his feet and grab her. Pull her out of that chair and into his arms and up against his body. He wanted to kiss her lips and taste her breath and feel her shiver and drink her blood … her blood. And all he could do was whimper and moan.

“I miss where I was. I miss that heaven. I was happy, for once … for too long … I was happy. Without them. Without you. There was no pain. No worry. No pressure, no fighting.” She sobbed and pressed her face into her knees and wept, her shoulders shook as the grief filled her and spilled out in the space between them.

“I hate this place.”

All he could do was silently beg. With a down turned glance and the curve of his back. With the supple twist of his hips.

“Please … please …”

She wasn’t sane. Angel knew that. This Buffy in his mind, in his dreams … this Buffy that had overtaken the other … this Buffy was not the Buffy Angel had known. She was hard and unfeeling. She was twisted and dark. She was hurt and hate. She smelled like dirt and wood and she wanted something that Angel didn’t know how to give her. She smelled like Buffy. She tasted like Buffy. She looked like Buffy and she hurt him in every way that only Buffy would know.

The only person that would know how to truly hurt him.

“Did you fuck Spike, Angel?”

Her fingernails curved around his cock. He could feel the dildo she had strapped from a thin leather belt around her hips. She pushed forward and it bumped behind his balls. Her breasts against Angel’s back and her nails pressed into his dick as she held him still, positioned and thrust and the hard, thick plastic filled him.

“Isn’t that what you vampires do? Ambiguous sexuality and all that?”

One hand on his cock, the other in his hair, Buffy lifted Angel’s head. She bent his neck and watched his face as she fucked him. She twisted her hips and arched her back and pushed in deeper and harder and Angel rocked with her as she jerked his dick. He trembled and shook. Low, deep moans spilled out of his kiss-swollen, bitten lips. It hurt and it felt so fucking good.

The pattern continued. Buffy took him to the very edge, to the last sane thought that he had in his mind. Then she stood up, circled around him and pulled his face between her legs. She brought his mouth to her pussy and clamped her thighs around his head. Angel lapped and sucked and listened to her scream his name and demand his soul and beg for her release as she came. And came and came.

Buffy’s nails raked up his back.

“Did you fuck that cowboy lawyer? Did he fight back? Is that why you cut off his hand?”

She slapped his face when he stopped.

“We didn’t know how to tell you this, Angel …”

“You’ve been so weird lately.”

“You never leave your room and you’ve been drinking more than usual. More blood, I mean.”

“I’m sure it was just some sickos. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Buffy’s grave was desecrated. Willow called us last week. Her coffin is missing. She’s … her body. Everything. Gone.”

“Angel … what’s wrong with you? Don’t you care?”

Angel watched the sliver of sun work its way across the floor of his bedroom. When the beam touched the skin of his bare foot, he watched the smoke curl up through the light and felt the pain move through him. He didn’t inhale to smell the burning flesh, he simply sat in his chair and let the agony compete with the hunger for his attention. He hadn’t drunk any of the blood in the downstairs refrigerator since … the morning before this one.

After dusk, the sun already below the horizon and the Hyperion empty of everyone living, Angel watched as Buffy walked in through the unlocked door. If his being awake confused her, she didn’t show it. She simply smiled and closed the door behind her and moved closer to him.

“On a diet today?”

“You drugged my food.”

Buffy shrugged, stepped with a dancer’s grace, a Slayer’s grace to the table and poured a tumbler of Irish whiskey from the bottle.

I didn’t.”

“You used me.”

“I fucked you.”

“I loved you, Buffy. I love you.”

“I remember, Angel. I remember everything. Now.”

She drank the alcohol and Angel watched as she shuddered, wrinkled her nose at the taste and emptied the glass. He was numb. He moved his foot and woke up the pain from the burn left by the sun. He reflected with curiosity that feeling even that was better than nothing at all.

“What do you remember?”

“I remember what I shouldn’t. Coming to see you and that demon and the feel of your heart beating under the palm of my hand. The feel of your love for me. I remember being in your bed and I remember ice cream and peanut butter and your kiss. I remember making love to you and the way you took it all away from me, Angel. I remember.”

“You were dead, Buffy. They brought you back to use you against me.”

Two more steps and she was only inches from Angel. Bending down and looking in his face. Angel didn’t have to wonder what she searched for in his eyes.

“I know.”

In one smooth, effortless motion Angel stood and picked Buffy up. Her legs wrapped around his hips and her mouth was on his before he could even walk the short distance to the bed. Four hands ripped the material that separated their bare flesh and as Angel laid her down and spread her out, Buffy writhed under him. Reaching for his cock and pulling him down and into her with a tight, desperate, feverish grip that was nothing like the first time.

There was no hesitation.

There was no innocence to be lost here.

They came together with madness and unrequited passion. Teeth found lips and skin, nails left spilling trails and bruises. Buffy arched her spine and tilted her head back and Angel’s kisses found her throat and the fast, pounding vibration of her heart as it pumped blood through her veins. Her skin tasted of sweat and salt and perfume and she never stopped talking. She never stopped begging.

One razor sharp tooth scraped and blood flowed into Angel’s mouth. It coated his tongue and warmed his throat. Slayer’s blood. Buffy’s blood. He pushed deeper inside the slick, constricting heat of her body and heard *felt* the moans come up from her chest. So much like his own had, every night for … too long.

He drank and he fucked and he loved and this was Buffy under him. Around him, holding him, owning him.

Loving him. Despite everything … she loved him.

Angel felt the hard knot of guilt and pain, the coiled chains that held Angelus deep down inside him dissolve and disappear. He felt the demon fill him and his touch changed from loving to grabbing. His fingers curled into claws and his brow ridged against the softhardimpossible muscles of Buffy’s chest as he moved above her and clamped his lips around one nipple and reached for her neck. His grip slipped on spilled blood, but it only would only take a second to snap the bones of her spine, to break the chain. To kill her. To give Buffy what she wanted, to let her sink back into the paradise she’d come from and to feel her last breath on his cheek, on his lips. Only a second to see the light fade from her eyes. Angelus kept fucking her even as her body cooled and her hands fell from his shoulders to the mattress. He would keep her as a trophy until her body became nothing but bones and dust.

Finally. Free. Both of them.

And the first thing Angelus would do would be to track down the asshole that brought back Buffy from the dead. Back from where she belonged. Back from heaven. And send him to hell.

Lindsey …

“Please, Angel .. please …”

She begged under him. Expectant. Desperate. Her heels kicked into the small of his back and Angel licked her blood off of his lips. His eyes flashed yellow, deepened back to brown and every muscle tightened as he came inside her in long, slow, deep strokes that matched each convulsion of her own orgasm.

Lightning and thunder and dawn, the sun rising above the clouds and Angel watched her sleep and he watched her wake. He traced her face with his fingers and kissed her before she opened her eyes.

“I would kill for you. I would die for you. You will forever have my heart and you will always own me … you know how to break me and I will always love you. But I can’t give you my soul, Buffy. I’m sorry.”

She slid out of the bed. Pulled on her jeans and shirt, toed on her shoes and Angel had to force her to meet his eyes before she opened the door and let in the sunlight over the bed that still smelled of them. Sex and blood and love.

“Go back to Sunnydale. Find your Mom. Find your friends. If Wolfram and Hart gave you anything here … it is a second chance. Take it.”

“Everything we did?”

“It never happened.”

“It did! It did! I know it did. I felt your heart beat.

I'll never forget. I'll never forget. I'll never forget. I'll never forget.”

“I’ll never forget, Angel.”

One kiss. One last kiss and she was gone. Angel could still taste her on his lips. He could still feel her touching him. Under him. Standing beside him.

“I’ll never forget, Buffy.”

The End

Feed Snow
Visit Snow

Author's Notes:
Rating: NC 17
Summary: What if Wolfram and Hart had brought back Buffy instead of Darla?
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.
Beta by Lostakasha.

Home Today's Story2005 Archive2006 ArchiveContact