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Best Souvenir
A/N: Since ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
a2zmom is in some way a clone of me I'm having difficulty discerning whether it was she or I who wrote this chapter. But for now I'm going with both and crediting her with the truly brilliant ideas and the funniest lines (because they're hers). Her feet should be kissed, and pronto. And am taking the time to her: thank you thank you thank you.
A/N2: The rating on this might have just moved up to "R" (for imagery). I'm not sure, though.
Chapter 9
“Later tonight?” Buffy repeated, after Angel had related his conversation with the bank to her. EEK had proven amenable to him bringing a human companion, and had arranged for them to meet with their Manhattan executive at three-thirty a.m. “Angel, that’s called early tomorrow morning. It’s the early bird not getting any worms because the worms are still asleep. It’s . . . primordial, is what it is. Three-thirty is the primordial ooze of tomorrow, and tell me again why we can’t do this tomorrow night?”
“Their executive will only be here tonight.” He sat with his arms on the arm-rests of the chair, staring blankly in front of him. His voice was very flat. “They extended the meeting time as a courtesy.”
“Courtesy to who? The ooze?”
“To me.”
“To hell with you,” Buffy pouted. “I need my beauty sleep.”
Angel stared at her for several seconds. “No, you don’t,” he said softly, and looked away. “EEK—the account manager—they didn’t want to inconvenience me by interfering with my . . . hunting.”
“Hunting?” Buffy repeated. “Oh. Right. They don’t know you’re neutered.”
His grip tightened on the arms of the chair. “I am not neutered.”
“Whatever you want to call it. If they’re going to have such a problem with me being the Slayer, then you’d better not tell them about your little problem either.”
Angel remained immobile, scowling. Buffy was referring to the chip he didn’t have, but she was right. EEK wouldn’t be nearly as hospitable to them if they found out he had a soul. Corporations, firms, and institutions who dealt with demons—including all the big names: Weyland-Yutani, Wolfram and Hart, EEK, etc,—had this thing for evil, and were wary of ensouled clients, as a rule. They always thought they were out to get them.
Buffy went on discussing her plans as she sorted through her clothes, searching for an outfit to wear that night. Angel watched her from the shadows. Dresses, shirts, skirts, slacks and accessories were strewn about the bed and radiator so willy-nilly that it looked as though there’d been an explosion in her suitcases, and Angel was all too certain he’d caught glimpses of satin—nightgowns, negligées, slips—was that lingerie? His fingers curled into a fist, his face a study of displeasure as he avidly followed her every move.
He wanted to change his mind, to take it all back, to tell her he couldn’t put on this act she was asking him to play. But it wasn’t true. He knew with sudden certainty that he would do anything she asked, merely because she asked it.
He regarded the revelation with both resentment and a certain kind of reverence. He had stopped caring about anything; he hadn’t wanted to have to care about anything. She was giving him a task, something to do—someone to work for. He found it disgruntling, invigorating, overwhelming, inspiring—frightening.
Angel opened his fist, staring at his palm, stark in the shadows. She had said she wanted to meet with Banque EEK so she could get rid of him sooner. That would be best for both of them, he supposed, and yet . . . He didn’t want it to be over. He wanted to go on helping her, protecting her. She could use him. She might . . . need him.
“I don’t think it’ll take that long for the Immortal to track us down,” Buffy said, and Angel focused completely on what she was saying. She was outlining what she thought they should do after the meeting while they waited for the Immortal to find them. “But in the meantime we should spend your money. Find more ways to call attention to ourselves.” She frowned, doubtfully examining a pink sundress before tossing it aside. “It would’ve been so much simpler if we could’ve just kicked some demon ass to let the Immortal know the Scourge of Europe is back in business. Except for you’d be like, the Scourge of Manhattan, and there aren’t any demons in the Big Apple to, you know, scourge.” Her nose wrinkled as she dug around in her suitcase. “Maybe Giuliani scared them off.”
“There are demons in New York.”
“Well, yeah. A couple. There’s you,” she pointed out, turning from a pile of halter tops to roll her eyes at him. “And I’ve staked a few other vampires since I’ve been here—a very few, which is the problem. I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Willy the snitch.” At his blank look, she explained, “He had a bar. Willy liked to cater to demons. And I liked to beat Willy up.”
Angel looked thoughtful. “There was a demon club in Chelsea. It’s probably still there.” He drummed his hand on the chair, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Buffy had gone very still. “Except it never was as popular as the bar off 44th near seventh,” he went on. “That one attracts a theater-loving crowd though, which is for the most part harmless. Unless there’s another Sondheim versus Lloyd-Webber feud. That can get a bit . . .” He trailed off. Buffy had stood and taken a step closer, and her features were hard. “There’s another one uptown that attracts the worst kind,” he said, his tone deferential. “That would be best for what you’re looking for.”
Buffy took another step forward. “All this time, you knew where these places were, and you never said anything?”
Angel regarded her mildly. “You never asked.”
Buffy scowled and pointed to the phone resting beside Angel on the table. “Call your bank back. Tell them we’re not going.”
Angel glanced at the phone, then slowly turned his gaze back up to her. “That would be unwise.”
“No. What was unwise was not telling me you knew where these demon hang-outs were before now. The whole EEK charade idea is to get information. If I can walk into a bar and knock some heads together to find out what I need, I—” Buffy stopped suddenly, as if choked. “I can go home that much sooner.” She put her hands on her hips in an authoritative way and leaned forward. “Call them back. Now.”
Angel simply stared at her for a long time. “What do you want me tell them?” he asked finally, not quite meeting her eyes.
“Tell them—I don’t know,” she said bitterly, waving a hand. “Tell them your play-mate doesn’t want to play.”
Something like hurt flashed across his eyes at the accusation in her tone, and then his gaze turned hard. “It’s too late to cancel,” he said crisply. “It would be suspicious. They won’t like it.”
She looked like she was about to stamp her foot. “I don’t care what they like.”
“Buffy.” His tone was a gentle reprimand.
“Angelus.”
He flinched. From the brief surprise in her eyes, he could tell she hadn’t meant it to sting. He looked away again. “Do not ask me to do this.”
She gave him a long, hard look—but she did not ask. Instead she spun on her heel to face the clothes she’d spread on the bed, tossing them about before grabbing something black and leather. Then, without another glance in his direction, she whisked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
Angel stared at the shut door for a long time. He had hated her plan before, but at least he had thought he was being useful. Now it seemed he had only made things worse, and he wondered if he should have somehow known that he couldn’t possibly be of help to her. He should have realized she was planning the meeting with EEK because she hadn’t seen another way to access the demon network of New York to get the Immortal’s attention. He should have figured out that she hadn’t sussed out those few, well-hidden demon hang-outs that still thrived on Manhattan, despite numerous Slayers who had managed to make the city cleaner than most.
But he hadn’t. And he dreaded that the reason he hadn’t was because there was a part of himself that wanted to play a game with Banque EEK—because there certainly was a part of himself that was very interested to see what Buffy would look like, draped across his arms, limp, pale, begging, his little human bistro. Or maybe he hadn’t because some small part of him knew that if she had a quick way of getting the information she wanted, she would be done here, and leave . . . him.
It made him sick. It didn’t matter if he was going to be helping her. He couldn’t make up for the things he’d done; he wasn’t capable of being the sort of man who deserved—anything at all. He was a demon who wanted to fuck her, ached to drink her dry, thought she might look cute naked and bruised and acting like his little pet. He was that person, and he was going to have to show it to her—this woman, who brought his poor, beleaguered soul its first ray of sunshine, first moment of hope.
His body ached at the thought of her, his mind a mass of confusion as he tried to figure out what she was, how she could do the things she did to him—and the door opened.
It was almost dusk, and the light was gray, but he could see quite clearly. Her dress was short, exposing more than half her thighs, and there was a slit up one leg. The black leather snaked up her waist, hugging, sinuous, enviable, reaching up to cup her breasts and display just enough of them for anyone looking to perfectly imagine the rest.
She had selected this dress on purpose, thinking it would go a long way to convincing EEK that there was nothing wrong with him and that she was just a hot little piece on his arm. She was right, he guessed, but what he saw when he looked at her was a woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to get it. If he hadn’t known what she was wearing it for, he might have had to guess that what she wanted and knew how to get was a long, hard night up against a wall, but he knew that this was business. She was dressing to play a part, to get information, and eventually, save the world. The bright, hard-edged determination in her made both wonder and admiration surge in him in a warm, unexpected way.
It also made him want to gather her up and never let her go, to protect her, to keep her safe from this world. He saw a blade-like creature, hard and sleek, dress stitching aggression into every part of her and emphasizing her tight, lithe muscles, but he had also seen warmth in her—pity, trust, understanding. Underneath the hardness, the lines, and her sheer will-power there was a softness that made the outside seem brittle in comparison. She looked sexy, powerful and strong, and it made his mouth go dry and need stir deep inside him, but she also seemed somehow vulnerable, and that made him ache.
She stood there for a moment, gauging his reaction. Then she tossed her head, put out a leg, and stuck her hand petulantly on her hip. Her expression was seething with resentment. “Gonna tell me you like my dress?”
“No,” he said, and then met her eyes. “I mean . . . I forgot . . .”
The darkening room was silent for a very long time. Slowly, she closed her legs, and looked down. “Well?” she demanded, her voice smaller, now. She wrapped her arms around herself. “What did you forget?”
“To tell you . . . you—should have worn something with a neck.”
“Huh?”
“Your neck is unmarked. Vampires . . .”
“Oh.” It was gross, but she got it. She went over to the bed, still strewn with the contents of her suit cases (except the underwear, which she’d hidden), and found a stylish scarf. It was flimsy and gauzy and baby blue, not such a match with the outfit, but it might do. She hung it around her neck. “Will this work?” she asked, turning towards him again.
He was silent for a moment, still looking at her neck. Then he came to her and took the ends of the scarf, wrapping the cloth around her throat with a few complicated twists and ties that very effectively covered the spot vampires liked the most. He put the long end of the scarf over her shoulder, scowled, and tugged the other end of it out, trying two longer ends, one over each shoulder. He did not touch her—not even a casual brush of his hand—the entire time.
Buffy was trying not to shudder. She should have thought about the fact that there were supposed to be bite marks. Riley had—
She was not going to think about Riley.
She was going to think about the meeting with EEK—just as she had been telling herself she would ever since it had occurred to her that it would be impossible to play this part without thinking of Riley. When she had conceived this plan, she hadn’t let herself consider him at all. She had a job to do; she knew how to get it done quickly. She wanted it over and that was that.
As it turned out, the plan was all in vain. If Angel had told her before hand that there was an easier way to get the attention of demons in Manhattan—and thus the Immortal’s lackeys—she wouldn’t have to be doing this. It was his fault, and—and she was determined not to think about the fact that he wasn’t a mind-reader, and that she hadn’t been exactly clear as to why she’d thought EEK was their last resort.
It was still, she had to acknowledge, a good way to grab the Immortal’s attention. But memories of Riley aside for the moment, it irked her that she hadn’t packed for the occasion. Hooker boots and fishnets were definitely lacking, and it was sheer luck she happened to have the dress. She’d thrown it in her suitcase at the last second, even though what Xander tactfully called “her whoring days” were over. It was trashy, something she’d only worn once or twice, but it seemed the right thing to wear when dressing up as a vampire play-mate.
Of course, it wasn’t as though anyone had to wear anything special to attract a vampire. Giles, in a short lecture she remembered yawning over, had told her they were drawn to bright colors—but you could wear anything, really. You could be wearing drab olive—military issue, the kind with reinforced elbow and shoulder patches and a high neck. A man wearing that could be bitten, and his girlfriend, whirling around from dusting the three other vampires she’d been fighting, could smile at him and a job well done—at first, not noticing he’d been bitten at all. He might smile back a little, wavering where he stood.
Then Riley fell, and Buffy rushed to his side. She touched his forehead—sweaty, pale, cool; then she touched his neck, and her hand came away wet. She had let him come on this patrol. She had let her guard down, and the man she loved was wounded, perhaps dying, because of her. She was so busy tearing off her coat, using it to stop the bleeding, crying and blaming herself, that she didn’t notice anything else. The hand not applying pressure touched his lips, assuring herself he hadn’t drunk; she dragged desperate fingers over various pulse points, eager to feel again that the beat was healthy, strong. She was so concerned with his head, his throat, his life and life force she so feared were still pouring out of him, that her hands didn’t wander farther down.
It was dark, and the forest was shadowy, and she had been so busy fighting her three vampires that she hadn’t noticed the fourth, hadn’t noticed the vampire attacking her boyfriend, sinking her fangs into his throat. It was dark, and the forest was shadowy, and maybe that was why she hadn’t noticed afterwards that it had given him an erection.
Angel was clutching the blue cloth he had tied around her neck, staring down at her with eyes that seemed to her hot with promise. Buffy’s own eyes refocused and settled on his insolently. “Humans who do this are sick,” she announced with a hiss.
He instantly loosened his hand, startled, and stepped away from her again. Buffy stood there for a moment, her eyes narrowed and defiant. Then she squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and resolutely turned to find a suitable pair of shoes. A part of her believed what she had said. Vampires were sick. The idea of this mate schtick was sick. Riley was sick—and yet, here she was, continually glancing at Angel as she rooted around for her strappy heels, thinking he was quite possibly the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The idea that she was going to pretend to be his lover made her pulse continue to notch up despite her slight nausea at the thought.
She had loved Riley. She had wanted him and made love to him, but that hadn’t been enough for him. She had known, on some level, that she wasn’t giving him everything, that he needed more, that love should be bigger, better, more all-consuming than this—but in the end, he had wanted the things she could never give him. He had been bitten on patrol and had liked it more than anything she could ever do for him, so much so that he had needed more of it, and he had had to go to—
She had been inadequate. That was the long and short of it. She wasn’t even able to interest a demon, which seemed to her an all time low. She’d tried to dress for this EEK meeting in a way that she thought might be attractive to a vampire, but she had elicited zero reaction from Angel. He had only pinned his eyes to her neck in a way that made her skin crawl.
What disgusted her more than anything was that she could be at all disappointed by that, by the thought that maybe she wasn’t the sort of woman a vampire liked. She didn’t want to be that sort of woman. She wanted them to fear and to loathe her. She wanted to be the Slayer.
But a Slayer didn’t let her boyfriend get bitten in the midst of what should have been a simple patrol. A Slayer didn’t have a boyfriend who had to slip off in the middle of the night to get what he needed from someone else. She didn’t ache at the thought of the vampire standing across from her touching her, kissing her—using teeth.
Angel was silently watching her put on the shoes she’d finally found, his attentive gaze missing none of her fumbling movements. At last he said, quite gently, “Some humans do it for protection, Buffy. Some areas get to be so run down that being a vampire’s mate saves your life. It was like that in Trannyslvania in the nineteenth century.”
Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “Did you—”
“I stayed away from there in those days,” Angel said hurriedly. “Those guys were way too into parlor tricks. And absinthe.”
Grimacing, Buffy said, “I’ll bet Dracula had plenty of mates.”
“Yes, but absinthe. And opium.” Angel’s voice was quick. “He had vast quantities of opium.”
“He wasn’t thinking about opium last time I saw him,” she said bitterly.
“You mean you met—”
“Come on. This isn’t the first time I’ve done the scarf thing.” The Master had bitten her, Dracula had bitten her, and she hadn’t enjoyed it. Well, she had enjoyed it—a little—when Dracula had bitten her, but it hadn’t been the biting, it had been the . . . the thrall thing, and his eyes, and the way she barely felt it when he sank into her, his fangs were that sharp—but she hadn’t enjoyed it. No, not her. Not the Slayer.
In the shadows, Angel was silent. Then: “Dracula bit you?” His voice was a low.
Buffy glowered, hating him for giving her something else to remind her of Riley. “No need to get jealous,” she snapped. She stood up and began to empty her purse, slamming one thing after another down on the little table by the door to make sure she had everything. She’d sometimes bitterly wondered whether Riley had been jealous of Dracula’s power over her—or had it been the simple fact that she’d gotten to be bitten, while he had merely nearly been seduced by three undead concubines?
Maybe his taste for being a donor had started then, and she could blame herself a little less for that patrol gone so terribly wrong. And yet, believing that didn’t make her feel any better. She still hadn’t given him what he needed. She’d still awakened one night to find him gone—after a series of nights of half-waking and being sleepily puzzled by the empty space on the bed beside her. She’d been awake enough, that time, to hear the front door opening, awake enough not to drowsily assume he was in the bathroom, or scavenging the left-over pizza in the refrigerator downstairs. She’d thrown on her clothes, and followed him.
She tracked him across town, curiosity and a slowly tightening suspicion in her stomach keeping her from overtaking him. She reached Crawford Street, and suddenly, she knew. She knew well enough not to follow him to the mansion, not to open the door, not to climb the steps to the sounds she heard. She knew well enough that she would see him, punctures in his throat, chest, wrists, his head lolling back in ecstasy, fine rivulets of blood tracing muscle on his beautiful body and smeared across his thighs. She knew who would be between those thighs, whose teeth were gently latched at his testicles, whose blonde, blood-matted head that was, bobbing back and forth to lick him clean and dry.
Darla had always had abysmal taste in men.
“I thought vampires liked to kill people, not keep them around,” Buffy muttered acerbically, trying not to think about it too much. Darla, off course, hadn’t been able to kill Riley. She could only give him as much pain as he wanted—or as much as he could stand, because Buffy guessed that sometimes he even wanted more than he should have—and then the chip kicked in.
“For the most part,” Angel answered uncomfortably. “But keeping a human partner provides a ready supply of . . .”
“Blood.”
“Yes.”
His answer was clipped, short, not giving an inch. When he remained silent, Buffy knew what he was thinking about. Blood was not the only thing a vampire could get from a human. Darla’s hand had been working Riley’s blood-and-cum soaked dick for him, even as he covered her hand with his so she could turn and lap at the veins she’d opened in his wrist. Darla’s other hand had been between her own legs, and she had been loving it as much as Riley.
They had needed Darla. She had a network of demon contacts more useful in figuring out Glory than the Watcher’s Council ever would be—but that wasn’t why Buffy didn’t stake her just then. Riley had tipped his head forward, opened his eyes, seen her standing there, and jerked the hand he had wound in Darla’s hair. He’d pulled her up beside him and behind him, and said—cracked voice bleeding with agony, shame, guilt—“It’s not her fault. It’s mine.” But that wasn’t why Buffy hadn’t staked her, because it wasn’t his fault either.
It was hers.
Darla had stepped away from him, and smirked. Had she not been so keen on self-preservation, Darla would have laughed. Darla, Buffy reminded herself, with a sudden stinging burr of realization, was Angel’s Sire. How many times had Angel sat in Riley’s place, and loved it? He was standing there, silent, expressionless. “And?” Buffy prodded, goading him now. “What else does a human partner do?”
He was very silent for a long time. At last he said, his voice empty and toneless, “A living person is very warm.”
“You’re talking about sex.”
“Yes.” Simple.
“Got one thing to say. Ew.” And it was ew. Every time Buffy thought about the scene she’d walked in on between Darla and Riley, she felt a little ill. If she had happened to be so unlucky as to have that image pop into her mind in the middle of having one of the countless other men she’d screwed since coming back to life, her sex drive had morphed into nausea, and the night had ended in vomiting as opposed to orgasm.
And yet, now, the memory seemed blurred somehow, and the feelings of sickness were dulled. What did make her feel ill was the fact that she was sure it was Angel making her feel this way. Just being around him did a bunch of things to her body she wasn’t even sure could happen to someone as used as she was. Maybe, in the end, a vampire was all she was fit for. Her mouth a flat line, she began slamming her things back into her purse.
“But sometimes it is reciprocal,” Angel volunteered suddenly. His voice surged in the darkness, as he stood up. With alarm, she realized that he was coming closer. “Blood-letting can be very—”
“Don’t you dare say orgasmic,” she snapped, turning around swiftly.
He stopped, his face blank of all expression. “I was going to say arousing, but okay.”
Buffy knew that better than anyone. She’d seen Riley’s face.
Angel was standing so close. He could reach out and touch her, but he radiated no heat. His skin would feel strange against hers, cool against her heat, his hands smooth, skilled, too white in the darkness, his mouth—
Humans and vampires sometimes got together because of the sex, he’d said. A living human is very warm, he had said. Is that what vampires liked?
“You look really pretty,” he said finally. His voice was full of longing and vaguely surprised, as if he hadn’t seen anything but ugliness in a long, long time.
The word threw her. She’d been going for sexy, not pretty. Pretty was something innocent that had to do with pink bows, frilly socks, and pure girls with bright smiles—nothing to do with Darla sucking off Riley or with this deep, revolting ache tugging at her belly when Buffy looked at Angel. Pretty felt too personal, as if he wasn’t seeing her breasts or dress or make-up but her, as if he could see right into her. Buffy felt the blood rush out of her face almost as soon as it rushed up. She was blushing from a compliment, something she hadn’t done in forever. And the compliment was from a vampire.
“I need to . . . check my hair before we go,” was all she said. She bit her lip and went back to the bathroom, trying to steady her thoughts. She’d found Angel poor and defenseless, unwilling to raise a hand against her. She’d learned several things about him since then, but none of them seemed to indicate that he was at all interested in sucking her blood or making her his toy. In fact, he was only going to play this whole act with her because she’d told him to, never mind that it might’ve been avoided. Then he’d told her she looked pretty.
Buffy looked at herself in the mirror, suddenly seeing something different than the morbid perversion that had been dancing behind her eyes. She touched the scarf on her throat. It looked cute, all tied up like that. The innocence of the wisp of fabric and the bright color made her look softer somehow, open and more trusting. Angel had tied the scarf. Was that how he saw her?
She swallowed, patted her hair, and exited the bathroom. She crossed the room and opened the door, not bothering to even look at Angel. “Let’s go.”
Go to: Chapter 10
a2zmom is in some way a clone of me I'm having difficulty discerning whether it was she or I who wrote this chapter. But for now I'm going with both and crediting her with the truly brilliant ideas and the funniest lines (because they're hers). Her feet should be kissed, and pronto. And am taking the time to her: thank you thank you thank you.A/N2: The rating on this might have just moved up to "R" (for imagery). I'm not sure, though.
Chapter 9
“Later tonight?” Buffy repeated, after Angel had related his conversation with the bank to her. EEK had proven amenable to him bringing a human companion, and had arranged for them to meet with their Manhattan executive at three-thirty a.m. “Angel, that’s called early tomorrow morning. It’s the early bird not getting any worms because the worms are still asleep. It’s . . . primordial, is what it is. Three-thirty is the primordial ooze of tomorrow, and tell me again why we can’t do this tomorrow night?”
“Their executive will only be here tonight.” He sat with his arms on the arm-rests of the chair, staring blankly in front of him. His voice was very flat. “They extended the meeting time as a courtesy.”
“Courtesy to who? The ooze?”
“To me.”
“To hell with you,” Buffy pouted. “I need my beauty sleep.”
Angel stared at her for several seconds. “No, you don’t,” he said softly, and looked away. “EEK—the account manager—they didn’t want to inconvenience me by interfering with my . . . hunting.”
“Hunting?” Buffy repeated. “Oh. Right. They don’t know you’re neutered.”
His grip tightened on the arms of the chair. “I am not neutered.”
“Whatever you want to call it. If they’re going to have such a problem with me being the Slayer, then you’d better not tell them about your little problem either.”
Angel remained immobile, scowling. Buffy was referring to the chip he didn’t have, but she was right. EEK wouldn’t be nearly as hospitable to them if they found out he had a soul. Corporations, firms, and institutions who dealt with demons—including all the big names: Weyland-Yutani, Wolfram and Hart, EEK, etc,—had this thing for evil, and were wary of ensouled clients, as a rule. They always thought they were out to get them.
Buffy went on discussing her plans as she sorted through her clothes, searching for an outfit to wear that night. Angel watched her from the shadows. Dresses, shirts, skirts, slacks and accessories were strewn about the bed and radiator so willy-nilly that it looked as though there’d been an explosion in her suitcases, and Angel was all too certain he’d caught glimpses of satin—nightgowns, negligées, slips—was that lingerie? His fingers curled into a fist, his face a study of displeasure as he avidly followed her every move.
He wanted to change his mind, to take it all back, to tell her he couldn’t put on this act she was asking him to play. But it wasn’t true. He knew with sudden certainty that he would do anything she asked, merely because she asked it.
He regarded the revelation with both resentment and a certain kind of reverence. He had stopped caring about anything; he hadn’t wanted to have to care about anything. She was giving him a task, something to do—someone to work for. He found it disgruntling, invigorating, overwhelming, inspiring—frightening.
Angel opened his fist, staring at his palm, stark in the shadows. She had said she wanted to meet with Banque EEK so she could get rid of him sooner. That would be best for both of them, he supposed, and yet . . . He didn’t want it to be over. He wanted to go on helping her, protecting her. She could use him. She might . . . need him.
“I don’t think it’ll take that long for the Immortal to track us down,” Buffy said, and Angel focused completely on what she was saying. She was outlining what she thought they should do after the meeting while they waited for the Immortal to find them. “But in the meantime we should spend your money. Find more ways to call attention to ourselves.” She frowned, doubtfully examining a pink sundress before tossing it aside. “It would’ve been so much simpler if we could’ve just kicked some demon ass to let the Immortal know the Scourge of Europe is back in business. Except for you’d be like, the Scourge of Manhattan, and there aren’t any demons in the Big Apple to, you know, scourge.” Her nose wrinkled as she dug around in her suitcase. “Maybe Giuliani scared them off.”
“There are demons in New York.”
“Well, yeah. A couple. There’s you,” she pointed out, turning from a pile of halter tops to roll her eyes at him. “And I’ve staked a few other vampires since I’ve been here—a very few, which is the problem. I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Willy the snitch.” At his blank look, she explained, “He had a bar. Willy liked to cater to demons. And I liked to beat Willy up.”
Angel looked thoughtful. “There was a demon club in Chelsea. It’s probably still there.” He drummed his hand on the chair, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Buffy had gone very still. “Except it never was as popular as the bar off 44th near seventh,” he went on. “That one attracts a theater-loving crowd though, which is for the most part harmless. Unless there’s another Sondheim versus Lloyd-Webber feud. That can get a bit . . .” He trailed off. Buffy had stood and taken a step closer, and her features were hard. “There’s another one uptown that attracts the worst kind,” he said, his tone deferential. “That would be best for what you’re looking for.”
Buffy took another step forward. “All this time, you knew where these places were, and you never said anything?”
Angel regarded her mildly. “You never asked.”
Buffy scowled and pointed to the phone resting beside Angel on the table. “Call your bank back. Tell them we’re not going.”
Angel glanced at the phone, then slowly turned his gaze back up to her. “That would be unwise.”
“No. What was unwise was not telling me you knew where these demon hang-outs were before now. The whole EEK charade idea is to get information. If I can walk into a bar and knock some heads together to find out what I need, I—” Buffy stopped suddenly, as if choked. “I can go home that much sooner.” She put her hands on her hips in an authoritative way and leaned forward. “Call them back. Now.”
Angel simply stared at her for a long time. “What do you want me tell them?” he asked finally, not quite meeting her eyes.
“Tell them—I don’t know,” she said bitterly, waving a hand. “Tell them your play-mate doesn’t want to play.”
Something like hurt flashed across his eyes at the accusation in her tone, and then his gaze turned hard. “It’s too late to cancel,” he said crisply. “It would be suspicious. They won’t like it.”
She looked like she was about to stamp her foot. “I don’t care what they like.”
“Buffy.” His tone was a gentle reprimand.
“Angelus.”
He flinched. From the brief surprise in her eyes, he could tell she hadn’t meant it to sting. He looked away again. “Do not ask me to do this.”
She gave him a long, hard look—but she did not ask. Instead she spun on her heel to face the clothes she’d spread on the bed, tossing them about before grabbing something black and leather. Then, without another glance in his direction, she whisked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
Angel stared at the shut door for a long time. He had hated her plan before, but at least he had thought he was being useful. Now it seemed he had only made things worse, and he wondered if he should have somehow known that he couldn’t possibly be of help to her. He should have realized she was planning the meeting with EEK because she hadn’t seen another way to access the demon network of New York to get the Immortal’s attention. He should have figured out that she hadn’t sussed out those few, well-hidden demon hang-outs that still thrived on Manhattan, despite numerous Slayers who had managed to make the city cleaner than most.
But he hadn’t. And he dreaded that the reason he hadn’t was because there was a part of himself that wanted to play a game with Banque EEK—because there certainly was a part of himself that was very interested to see what Buffy would look like, draped across his arms, limp, pale, begging, his little human bistro. Or maybe he hadn’t because some small part of him knew that if she had a quick way of getting the information she wanted, she would be done here, and leave . . . him.
It made him sick. It didn’t matter if he was going to be helping her. He couldn’t make up for the things he’d done; he wasn’t capable of being the sort of man who deserved—anything at all. He was a demon who wanted to fuck her, ached to drink her dry, thought she might look cute naked and bruised and acting like his little pet. He was that person, and he was going to have to show it to her—this woman, who brought his poor, beleaguered soul its first ray of sunshine, first moment of hope.
His body ached at the thought of her, his mind a mass of confusion as he tried to figure out what she was, how she could do the things she did to him—and the door opened.
It was almost dusk, and the light was gray, but he could see quite clearly. Her dress was short, exposing more than half her thighs, and there was a slit up one leg. The black leather snaked up her waist, hugging, sinuous, enviable, reaching up to cup her breasts and display just enough of them for anyone looking to perfectly imagine the rest.
She had selected this dress on purpose, thinking it would go a long way to convincing EEK that there was nothing wrong with him and that she was just a hot little piece on his arm. She was right, he guessed, but what he saw when he looked at her was a woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to get it. If he hadn’t known what she was wearing it for, he might have had to guess that what she wanted and knew how to get was a long, hard night up against a wall, but he knew that this was business. She was dressing to play a part, to get information, and eventually, save the world. The bright, hard-edged determination in her made both wonder and admiration surge in him in a warm, unexpected way.
It also made him want to gather her up and never let her go, to protect her, to keep her safe from this world. He saw a blade-like creature, hard and sleek, dress stitching aggression into every part of her and emphasizing her tight, lithe muscles, but he had also seen warmth in her—pity, trust, understanding. Underneath the hardness, the lines, and her sheer will-power there was a softness that made the outside seem brittle in comparison. She looked sexy, powerful and strong, and it made his mouth go dry and need stir deep inside him, but she also seemed somehow vulnerable, and that made him ache.
She stood there for a moment, gauging his reaction. Then she tossed her head, put out a leg, and stuck her hand petulantly on her hip. Her expression was seething with resentment. “Gonna tell me you like my dress?”
“No,” he said, and then met her eyes. “I mean . . . I forgot . . .”
The darkening room was silent for a very long time. Slowly, she closed her legs, and looked down. “Well?” she demanded, her voice smaller, now. She wrapped her arms around herself. “What did you forget?”
“To tell you . . . you—should have worn something with a neck.”
“Huh?”
“Your neck is unmarked. Vampires . . .”
“Oh.” It was gross, but she got it. She went over to the bed, still strewn with the contents of her suit cases (except the underwear, which she’d hidden), and found a stylish scarf. It was flimsy and gauzy and baby blue, not such a match with the outfit, but it might do. She hung it around her neck. “Will this work?” she asked, turning towards him again.
He was silent for a moment, still looking at her neck. Then he came to her and took the ends of the scarf, wrapping the cloth around her throat with a few complicated twists and ties that very effectively covered the spot vampires liked the most. He put the long end of the scarf over her shoulder, scowled, and tugged the other end of it out, trying two longer ends, one over each shoulder. He did not touch her—not even a casual brush of his hand—the entire time.
Buffy was trying not to shudder. She should have thought about the fact that there were supposed to be bite marks. Riley had—
She was not going to think about Riley.
She was going to think about the meeting with EEK—just as she had been telling herself she would ever since it had occurred to her that it would be impossible to play this part without thinking of Riley. When she had conceived this plan, she hadn’t let herself consider him at all. She had a job to do; she knew how to get it done quickly. She wanted it over and that was that.
As it turned out, the plan was all in vain. If Angel had told her before hand that there was an easier way to get the attention of demons in Manhattan—and thus the Immortal’s lackeys—she wouldn’t have to be doing this. It was his fault, and—and she was determined not to think about the fact that he wasn’t a mind-reader, and that she hadn’t been exactly clear as to why she’d thought EEK was their last resort.
It was still, she had to acknowledge, a good way to grab the Immortal’s attention. But memories of Riley aside for the moment, it irked her that she hadn’t packed for the occasion. Hooker boots and fishnets were definitely lacking, and it was sheer luck she happened to have the dress. She’d thrown it in her suitcase at the last second, even though what Xander tactfully called “her whoring days” were over. It was trashy, something she’d only worn once or twice, but it seemed the right thing to wear when dressing up as a vampire play-mate.
Of course, it wasn’t as though anyone had to wear anything special to attract a vampire. Giles, in a short lecture she remembered yawning over, had told her they were drawn to bright colors—but you could wear anything, really. You could be wearing drab olive—military issue, the kind with reinforced elbow and shoulder patches and a high neck. A man wearing that could be bitten, and his girlfriend, whirling around from dusting the three other vampires she’d been fighting, could smile at him and a job well done—at first, not noticing he’d been bitten at all. He might smile back a little, wavering where he stood.
Then Riley fell, and Buffy rushed to his side. She touched his forehead—sweaty, pale, cool; then she touched his neck, and her hand came away wet. She had let him come on this patrol. She had let her guard down, and the man she loved was wounded, perhaps dying, because of her. She was so busy tearing off her coat, using it to stop the bleeding, crying and blaming herself, that she didn’t notice anything else. The hand not applying pressure touched his lips, assuring herself he hadn’t drunk; she dragged desperate fingers over various pulse points, eager to feel again that the beat was healthy, strong. She was so concerned with his head, his throat, his life and life force she so feared were still pouring out of him, that her hands didn’t wander farther down.
It was dark, and the forest was shadowy, and she had been so busy fighting her three vampires that she hadn’t noticed the fourth, hadn’t noticed the vampire attacking her boyfriend, sinking her fangs into his throat. It was dark, and the forest was shadowy, and maybe that was why she hadn’t noticed afterwards that it had given him an erection.
Angel was clutching the blue cloth he had tied around her neck, staring down at her with eyes that seemed to her hot with promise. Buffy’s own eyes refocused and settled on his insolently. “Humans who do this are sick,” she announced with a hiss.
He instantly loosened his hand, startled, and stepped away from her again. Buffy stood there for a moment, her eyes narrowed and defiant. Then she squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and resolutely turned to find a suitable pair of shoes. A part of her believed what she had said. Vampires were sick. The idea of this mate schtick was sick. Riley was sick—and yet, here she was, continually glancing at Angel as she rooted around for her strappy heels, thinking he was quite possibly the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The idea that she was going to pretend to be his lover made her pulse continue to notch up despite her slight nausea at the thought.
She had loved Riley. She had wanted him and made love to him, but that hadn’t been enough for him. She had known, on some level, that she wasn’t giving him everything, that he needed more, that love should be bigger, better, more all-consuming than this—but in the end, he had wanted the things she could never give him. He had been bitten on patrol and had liked it more than anything she could ever do for him, so much so that he had needed more of it, and he had had to go to—
She had been inadequate. That was the long and short of it. She wasn’t even able to interest a demon, which seemed to her an all time low. She’d tried to dress for this EEK meeting in a way that she thought might be attractive to a vampire, but she had elicited zero reaction from Angel. He had only pinned his eyes to her neck in a way that made her skin crawl.
What disgusted her more than anything was that she could be at all disappointed by that, by the thought that maybe she wasn’t the sort of woman a vampire liked. She didn’t want to be that sort of woman. She wanted them to fear and to loathe her. She wanted to be the Slayer.
But a Slayer didn’t let her boyfriend get bitten in the midst of what should have been a simple patrol. A Slayer didn’t have a boyfriend who had to slip off in the middle of the night to get what he needed from someone else. She didn’t ache at the thought of the vampire standing across from her touching her, kissing her—using teeth.
Angel was silently watching her put on the shoes she’d finally found, his attentive gaze missing none of her fumbling movements. At last he said, quite gently, “Some humans do it for protection, Buffy. Some areas get to be so run down that being a vampire’s mate saves your life. It was like that in Trannyslvania in the nineteenth century.”
Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “Did you—”
“I stayed away from there in those days,” Angel said hurriedly. “Those guys were way too into parlor tricks. And absinthe.”
Grimacing, Buffy said, “I’ll bet Dracula had plenty of mates.”
“Yes, but absinthe. And opium.” Angel’s voice was quick. “He had vast quantities of opium.”
“He wasn’t thinking about opium last time I saw him,” she said bitterly.
“You mean you met—”
“Come on. This isn’t the first time I’ve done the scarf thing.” The Master had bitten her, Dracula had bitten her, and she hadn’t enjoyed it. Well, she had enjoyed it—a little—when Dracula had bitten her, but it hadn’t been the biting, it had been the . . . the thrall thing, and his eyes, and the way she barely felt it when he sank into her, his fangs were that sharp—but she hadn’t enjoyed it. No, not her. Not the Slayer.
In the shadows, Angel was silent. Then: “Dracula bit you?” His voice was a low.
Buffy glowered, hating him for giving her something else to remind her of Riley. “No need to get jealous,” she snapped. She stood up and began to empty her purse, slamming one thing after another down on the little table by the door to make sure she had everything. She’d sometimes bitterly wondered whether Riley had been jealous of Dracula’s power over her—or had it been the simple fact that she’d gotten to be bitten, while he had merely nearly been seduced by three undead concubines?
Maybe his taste for being a donor had started then, and she could blame herself a little less for that patrol gone so terribly wrong. And yet, believing that didn’t make her feel any better. She still hadn’t given him what he needed. She’d still awakened one night to find him gone—after a series of nights of half-waking and being sleepily puzzled by the empty space on the bed beside her. She’d been awake enough, that time, to hear the front door opening, awake enough not to drowsily assume he was in the bathroom, or scavenging the left-over pizza in the refrigerator downstairs. She’d thrown on her clothes, and followed him.
She tracked him across town, curiosity and a slowly tightening suspicion in her stomach keeping her from overtaking him. She reached Crawford Street, and suddenly, she knew. She knew well enough not to follow him to the mansion, not to open the door, not to climb the steps to the sounds she heard. She knew well enough that she would see him, punctures in his throat, chest, wrists, his head lolling back in ecstasy, fine rivulets of blood tracing muscle on his beautiful body and smeared across his thighs. She knew who would be between those thighs, whose teeth were gently latched at his testicles, whose blonde, blood-matted head that was, bobbing back and forth to lick him clean and dry.
Darla had always had abysmal taste in men.
“I thought vampires liked to kill people, not keep them around,” Buffy muttered acerbically, trying not to think about it too much. Darla, off course, hadn’t been able to kill Riley. She could only give him as much pain as he wanted—or as much as he could stand, because Buffy guessed that sometimes he even wanted more than he should have—and then the chip kicked in.
“For the most part,” Angel answered uncomfortably. “But keeping a human partner provides a ready supply of . . .”
“Blood.”
“Yes.”
His answer was clipped, short, not giving an inch. When he remained silent, Buffy knew what he was thinking about. Blood was not the only thing a vampire could get from a human. Darla’s hand had been working Riley’s blood-and-cum soaked dick for him, even as he covered her hand with his so she could turn and lap at the veins she’d opened in his wrist. Darla’s other hand had been between her own legs, and she had been loving it as much as Riley.
They had needed Darla. She had a network of demon contacts more useful in figuring out Glory than the Watcher’s Council ever would be—but that wasn’t why Buffy didn’t stake her just then. Riley had tipped his head forward, opened his eyes, seen her standing there, and jerked the hand he had wound in Darla’s hair. He’d pulled her up beside him and behind him, and said—cracked voice bleeding with agony, shame, guilt—“It’s not her fault. It’s mine.” But that wasn’t why Buffy hadn’t staked her, because it wasn’t his fault either.
It was hers.
Darla had stepped away from him, and smirked. Had she not been so keen on self-preservation, Darla would have laughed. Darla, Buffy reminded herself, with a sudden stinging burr of realization, was Angel’s Sire. How many times had Angel sat in Riley’s place, and loved it? He was standing there, silent, expressionless. “And?” Buffy prodded, goading him now. “What else does a human partner do?”
He was very silent for a long time. At last he said, his voice empty and toneless, “A living person is very warm.”
“You’re talking about sex.”
“Yes.” Simple.
“Got one thing to say. Ew.” And it was ew. Every time Buffy thought about the scene she’d walked in on between Darla and Riley, she felt a little ill. If she had happened to be so unlucky as to have that image pop into her mind in the middle of having one of the countless other men she’d screwed since coming back to life, her sex drive had morphed into nausea, and the night had ended in vomiting as opposed to orgasm.
And yet, now, the memory seemed blurred somehow, and the feelings of sickness were dulled. What did make her feel ill was the fact that she was sure it was Angel making her feel this way. Just being around him did a bunch of things to her body she wasn’t even sure could happen to someone as used as she was. Maybe, in the end, a vampire was all she was fit for. Her mouth a flat line, she began slamming her things back into her purse.
“But sometimes it is reciprocal,” Angel volunteered suddenly. His voice surged in the darkness, as he stood up. With alarm, she realized that he was coming closer. “Blood-letting can be very—”
“Don’t you dare say orgasmic,” she snapped, turning around swiftly.
He stopped, his face blank of all expression. “I was going to say arousing, but okay.”
Buffy knew that better than anyone. She’d seen Riley’s face.
Angel was standing so close. He could reach out and touch her, but he radiated no heat. His skin would feel strange against hers, cool against her heat, his hands smooth, skilled, too white in the darkness, his mouth—
Humans and vampires sometimes got together because of the sex, he’d said. A living human is very warm, he had said. Is that what vampires liked?
“You look really pretty,” he said finally. His voice was full of longing and vaguely surprised, as if he hadn’t seen anything but ugliness in a long, long time.
The word threw her. She’d been going for sexy, not pretty. Pretty was something innocent that had to do with pink bows, frilly socks, and pure girls with bright smiles—nothing to do with Darla sucking off Riley or with this deep, revolting ache tugging at her belly when Buffy looked at Angel. Pretty felt too personal, as if he wasn’t seeing her breasts or dress or make-up but her, as if he could see right into her. Buffy felt the blood rush out of her face almost as soon as it rushed up. She was blushing from a compliment, something she hadn’t done in forever. And the compliment was from a vampire.
“I need to . . . check my hair before we go,” was all she said. She bit her lip and went back to the bathroom, trying to steady her thoughts. She’d found Angel poor and defenseless, unwilling to raise a hand against her. She’d learned several things about him since then, but none of them seemed to indicate that he was at all interested in sucking her blood or making her his toy. In fact, he was only going to play this whole act with her because she’d told him to, never mind that it might’ve been avoided. Then he’d told her she looked pretty.
Buffy looked at herself in the mirror, suddenly seeing something different than the morbid perversion that had been dancing behind her eyes. She touched the scarf on her throat. It looked cute, all tied up like that. The innocence of the wisp of fabric and the bright color made her look softer somehow, open and more trusting. Angel had tied the scarf. Was that how he saw her?
She swallowed, patted her hair, and exited the bathroom. She crossed the room and opened the door, not bothering to even look at Angel. “Let’s go.”
Go to: Chapter 10