FIC: BtVS Three Times Angel Didn't Kiss Buffy... Teen
Title: Three Times Angel Didn't Kiss Buffy: And One Time He Did
Author: SunnyD_lite
Prompt tamingthemuse prompt:Aroused
Wordcount: 974
Set: Scene 3 BtVS: Scenes from Beauty and the Beasts, Revelations, The Zeppo, and Graduation Day II
A/N: Thanks bunches to cordelianne for the brainstorming and Spiralleds for betaing!
The Return
The cold iron bit into his wrists, but he struggled against the chains. This was not a good place, especially when She wasn't here. She brought him blood. She radiated warmth. Her presence and absence were his only time markers. Good was when She was there. Bad was when She was not.
He wanted to be where She was.
So he broke free.
He followed Her scent, even as the way became polluted with the scent of so many others. Then he noticed something different; a tinge of fear. This tinge aroused his anger; She shouldn't fear. She was good. He could help her.
Running faster he found what he sought.
Something was fighting her. That was wrong. He attacked, moves and plans forming where before had been only confusion. Using the chains still hanging from his wrists, he stopped the bad one. His anger turned to satisfaction; he had protected her. He was always to protect her. Her name was Buffy. She was his Buffy. The memories flooded back and all Angel -- he now knew he was Angel -- could do was hold on to her and weep.
## ##
The Realization
They knew, they both knew, what couldn't happen. But he'd fought his way, or found his way, he couldn't remember, out of hell to get back to her.
He wasn't going to leave her. So he needed a reason to justify his staying, to let them spend time together. To let her see him, and not Angelus, when she looked his way. After a few weeks, as he slowly came back to himself, he thought he found one.
His role was to assist her. She wouldn't let him fight her battles, but he could help her train. She was wrestling with her instincts: thinking not reacting. She needed to integrate her mind and body, and he thought that Tai Chi might give her focus as it had done for him.
When he'd left Darla in China, he'd been lost in so many ways. But this training - its simple form so easy to learn so hard to do well - had become a touchstone for him. A focus point when he was pulled in directions he no longer wanted to go.
Like he was again.
She mimicked his moves. Not languid; there was too much tension running through them both for that, but slow and smooth. It was almost a dance, mirroring each other until she fell out of step.
He moved forward to correct her stance. That was all. But when their bodies were that close together, the serenity of the moves morphed into a tighter, more powerful force. It zinged through his skin, multiplying at each point of contact, burning to escape. She turned and tilted her head back to look at his face.
Her lips were so close. His own were drawn towards them. Three inches away, two, one.
She broke free of the trance, of his embrace, of him.
They both knew it couldn't happen.
## ##
The Repentance
He couldn't let her hurt, so he made the decision. It was a chance to do something only he could do. He could help her by buying them enough time.
It was a logical plan, he was expendable and she knew that. He was ready to die to save her, but she wouldn't let him.
Their argument was interrupted as Xander stumbled into the mansion. The teen's appearance broke the fight, but not the tension. Her tears hurt Angel hurt him more than sunlight, more than the thought he might die tonight.
But her tears aroused his protective streak. He stepped forward to offer her comfort, but she glared up at him even as her words of love rang in the air.
"You can't offer to die and then try to hug me. I am not losing you and we will win tonight." She spun on her heels and stormed out of the mansion.
The kiss he'd wanted to give her died on his lips.
## ##
The Rejoicing
His mother had tended him the last time he'd had a fever. Then the cure had been blood letting.
Buffy, if it was Buffy, was telling him that this time the cure was the same. But it was her blood that was to be spilt.
And that was a price he wasn't willing to pay. She didn't need him now. He had decided to leave her and did it matter if it was by death or distance? Death would actually be the less painful option.
But she wanted him to live. And one trait made her the Slayer she was: she didn't give up.
He blamed the fever. She was too close; her scent, cloying with love and concern and fear and hope, called to him. His soul fought, his demon fought back and she was rooting for the demon, the blood lust.
It won. The unique resistance of fangs piercing flesh, with the welling of life, thick and potent. A part of him whimpered even as the rest relished a taste he'd never savored: Slayer's blood. Buffy's blood.
Buffy! He shook off the thrall of power, looking at her broken figure laying on the ground. He'd done this. Listening closely, he could still hear a heart beat, slow and irregular. Thank God that he'd stopped in time. He could still save her, even if it meant saving her from himself.
She was too light in his arms, too small for such a warrior. She had given up everything for him and this only solidified his decision to leave her to her own life.
While every second counted, he paused and placed one kiss on her forehead.
And almost dropped her, when all that remained there was a smear of her own blood from his lips.
Author: SunnyD_lite
Prompt tamingthemuse prompt:Aroused
Wordcount: 974
Set: Scene 3 BtVS: Scenes from Beauty and the Beasts, Revelations, The Zeppo, and Graduation Day II
A/N: Thanks bunches to cordelianne for the brainstorming and Spiralleds for betaing!
The Return
The cold iron bit into his wrists, but he struggled against the chains. This was not a good place, especially when She wasn't here. She brought him blood. She radiated warmth. Her presence and absence were his only time markers. Good was when She was there. Bad was when She was not.
He wanted to be where She was.
So he broke free.
He followed Her scent, even as the way became polluted with the scent of so many others. Then he noticed something different; a tinge of fear. This tinge aroused his anger; She shouldn't fear. She was good. He could help her.
Running faster he found what he sought.
Something was fighting her. That was wrong. He attacked, moves and plans forming where before had been only confusion. Using the chains still hanging from his wrists, he stopped the bad one. His anger turned to satisfaction; he had protected her. He was always to protect her. Her name was Buffy. She was his Buffy. The memories flooded back and all Angel -- he now knew he was Angel -- could do was hold on to her and weep.
## ##
The Realization
They knew, they both knew, what couldn't happen. But he'd fought his way, or found his way, he couldn't remember, out of hell to get back to her.
He wasn't going to leave her. So he needed a reason to justify his staying, to let them spend time together. To let her see him, and not Angelus, when she looked his way. After a few weeks, as he slowly came back to himself, he thought he found one.
His role was to assist her. She wouldn't let him fight her battles, but he could help her train. She was wrestling with her instincts: thinking not reacting. She needed to integrate her mind and body, and he thought that Tai Chi might give her focus as it had done for him.
When he'd left Darla in China, he'd been lost in so many ways. But this training - its simple form so easy to learn so hard to do well - had become a touchstone for him. A focus point when he was pulled in directions he no longer wanted to go.
Like he was again.
She mimicked his moves. Not languid; there was too much tension running through them both for that, but slow and smooth. It was almost a dance, mirroring each other until she fell out of step.
He moved forward to correct her stance. That was all. But when their bodies were that close together, the serenity of the moves morphed into a tighter, more powerful force. It zinged through his skin, multiplying at each point of contact, burning to escape. She turned and tilted her head back to look at his face.
Her lips were so close. His own were drawn towards them. Three inches away, two, one.
She broke free of the trance, of his embrace, of him.
They both knew it couldn't happen.
## ##
The Repentance
He couldn't let her hurt, so he made the decision. It was a chance to do something only he could do. He could help her by buying them enough time.
It was a logical plan, he was expendable and she knew that. He was ready to die to save her, but she wouldn't let him.
Their argument was interrupted as Xander stumbled into the mansion. The teen's appearance broke the fight, but not the tension. Her tears hurt Angel hurt him more than sunlight, more than the thought he might die tonight.
But her tears aroused his protective streak. He stepped forward to offer her comfort, but she glared up at him even as her words of love rang in the air.
"You can't offer to die and then try to hug me. I am not losing you and we will win tonight." She spun on her heels and stormed out of the mansion.
The kiss he'd wanted to give her died on his lips.
## ##
The Rejoicing
His mother had tended him the last time he'd had a fever. Then the cure had been blood letting.
Buffy, if it was Buffy, was telling him that this time the cure was the same. But it was her blood that was to be spilt.
And that was a price he wasn't willing to pay. She didn't need him now. He had decided to leave her and did it matter if it was by death or distance? Death would actually be the less painful option.
But she wanted him to live. And one trait made her the Slayer she was: she didn't give up.
He blamed the fever. She was too close; her scent, cloying with love and concern and fear and hope, called to him. His soul fought, his demon fought back and she was rooting for the demon, the blood lust.
It won. The unique resistance of fangs piercing flesh, with the welling of life, thick and potent. A part of him whimpered even as the rest relished a taste he'd never savored: Slayer's blood. Buffy's blood.
Buffy! He shook off the thrall of power, looking at her broken figure laying on the ground. He'd done this. Listening closely, he could still hear a heart beat, slow and irregular. Thank God that he'd stopped in time. He could still save her, even if it meant saving her from himself.
She was too light in his arms, too small for such a warrior. She had given up everything for him and this only solidified his decision to leave her to her own life.
While every second counted, he paused and placed one kiss on her forehead.
And almost dropped her, when all that remained there was a smear of her own blood from his lips.