Fic: Five Names Angel Called Buffy
A couple of weeks ago, I asked for five thing suggestions. I am busy writing them (i'm in the midst of four of them) and this is the first one I'm putting out there. It's unbetaed, which is probably a mistake, since the damn thing grew to 2500 words.
For tkp.
I don't own. If I did, you can bet your life, Angel would have been wearing a lot less clothes.
Rating: G to R, depending on section
I suspect that some of these sections are cheating, but maybe not. Also, mushier than usual. Or not, your call.
Five Names Angel Called Buffy
1. "Dearest, duck!"
Buffy dropped to the ground instantly, seconds later she was showered in ash. As she got up, shaking her head in an effort to remove vampire dust, she couldn't help the giggle that bubbled up. "Dearest?"
Angel stood stock still, hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets, hunched over even more than usual, eyes shifting up, down, to the sides, everywhere except focusing on Buffy. Mortified Angel was quite the sight.
"Didn't that word go out of style a couple of hundred years ago?" she asked innocently.
"I was trying to be affectionate," he grumbled.
She felt a bit guilty. It hadn't been her intention to make him feel bad; it was that generally she tended to forget that he was from a time when people did say stuff like that. She took a step so that she was directly in front of him. She let her fingers follow the line of his cheek, down to his jaw. She let them softly trail across his chin and then teased his lower lip with her index finger. Angel's eyes had closed and a soft sigh escaped. She placed one hand on his chest to steady herself while she pushed herself up on tiptoe. She bit his earlobe lightly and Angel groaned. Then she whispered quietly, "my dearest studmuffin of love."
Angel's eyes flew open and saw Buffy barely suppressing a loud snicker. "Oops,” she yelled as Angel got a wicked gleam in his eye and lunged for her. As he began to chase her through the cemetery, she reflected that she had learned one interesting fact. Vampires couldn't blush.
2. Buffy is flying, than falling and seconds before she crashes back into her body she is flying again, leaving herself behind, a being made solely of whispers that kept getting louder. The world is gone until she feels the firm pressure of his hands teasing her skin and then she is falling once more, aware of his knees poking into her thighs, his hands skipping across her breasts, his eyelashes tickling her cheek as he bends over her body.
"Buffy," he murmurs. Her eyes have closed. She forces them open to find him looking intensely at her face. She has never seen him like this, living only in the here and now, the past not a part of him for once. She lifts her head and kisses him, letting her lips slide over his and there is only sweetness instead of the undertone of bitter regrets and the tang of salty tears.
He shifts his hips the tiniest bit and she can feel him, dragging across her flesh and the sensation both terrifies her and excites her. sogoodsogoodsogood is what she wants to say, but all she manages is a tiny bird cry dragged from deep inside. He pulls back and she panics that he's changed his mind, there are a thousand good reasons to change his mind, but then she looks at his face. It's like looking at the sun.
"Mo chroí," he whispers tenderly. "Tá mo chroí istigh ionat." She doesn't understand the words but as he pushes into her, it doesn't matter. His body surrounds her and she'll never need more.
3. Angel's long legs are scrunched on his couch; his head snuggled into Buffy's lap. The silk she's wearing glides against his cheek. It's his shirt but it looks a damn sight better on her.
His hands are resting under the shirt on her unclothed thighs. Her skin is soft but underneath he can feel a warrior's coiled strength. He shifts a tiny bit, pushing his mouth and nose against the slope of her belly. He can smell her now; sharp, tangy, musky. His cock twitches a bit in reaction, and he's amazed at how addicted he's become in these few hours. He contemplates sliding his hands over the shirt, letting the material glide over her skin, feeling the small tremors of her body. For now, he's content to just lie here, breathing her in.
He pulls back a tiny bit, so he can see her face. He wants to memorize it, so he can draw it later. He doesn't want to forget any of this, from the taste of her sweat on his tongue, to the way her fingers tighten and loosen on his ribs as she comes. Her smile once she notices he's looking at her doesn't reach her eyes. He can see the fear in her eyes and he doesn't know why. He goes perfectly still, except for the rise and fall of his chest. "Buffy?" It's a question and an entreaty, both.
"Do you think this will be ok?"
It would be so easy to give her glib reassurances, but she's stronger than that. "I don't know."
Her hand tightens around his waist involuntarily and he can feel the bruise forming. She can break him into a thousand pieces now, without even trying. "I spent 250 years in the shadows. I don't know how to be in the light."
"You're going to be fine. Fine." Something passes over her face and Angel realizes that his fears are not her fears. "You can have a regular life now."
"No. You're mine." He moves his hand up along her body until he finds her hand and entwines their fingers together. "Mine," he repeats. "It doesn't matter what could be or what was, you're inside of me."
Her face is serious, but her eyes are shining once more. "It's the same."
Nothing could ever make him let go, he thinks.
4. The words "I'm sorry" escape his lips before he even has time to think about it. Being sorry is pretty much an automatic state of mind for him and if he gave it the proper amount of contemplation he's sure he could figure out how he's to blame for World War 2, the Kennedy assassination and polyester leisure suits. But one second later he comprehends that he's not sorry at all and his only emotion is a bright blazing anger.
Buffy stands before him, eyes glazed with tears, hand pressed to her mouth in shock and the urge to hit her again makes the world roar in his ears like a jet engine breaking the sound barrier. He doesn't need her attempting to make him feel guilty when she's the one in the wrong. Instead he carefully speaks, using a tone of voice he hasn't used on her since those first few weeks in Sunnydale. Then it was because he was trying to keep his muddled emotions in check. Now it's because if doesn't say something using that detached, bored, ironic tone he's afraid of what might tumble out of his mouth.
She however doesn't pull her punches, she never has and her snotty anger enrages him because all she's doing is assuming that he's too stupid to handle Faith. It's nice to know that she has zero confidence in him. He can smell her boyfriend all over her and that just makes it worse. She's moved on without a second thought.
He's about to say something he can't take back after all; she's pushed him past the point of caring when Wes interrupts. There are more important things to worry about. Bitch floods his mind. She's a self centered bitch. He turns a little and catches a glimpse of her unguarded face. She's terrified for him. And worried that his feelings for her have evaporated. This time the guilt and sorrow don't disappear.
5. Forty-one days.
The first two weeks were spent fighting around the clock. The sky was permanent twilight; ash and smoke and grit obliterating the sun, kill one demon only to find three more in its place. Every available slayer had been sent to fight. She didn't have time to think, so Buffy didn't, just carried her dread around with her, as if it was something that needed careful tending.
Forty-one days.
On the eighteenth day, the sun pushed through in the middle of the day. It was only for a few hours, but for that brief period a truce was declared. Demons and demon killers alike stayed inside, resting up for further exertions later. Except for Buffy. She spent her time crawling into collapsed buildings, marking likely sites of rubble on a map. No one said anything.
Forty-one days.
On the thirty-third day, a survivor was found. It was plastered all over the news and hailed as a miracle. Unspoken was the knowledge that there will be no more found. Buffy didn't speak for the rest of the day. When Willow placed her hand on her arm, Buffy shrugged it off. "It's different," she snapped. "He's different. Time doesn't mean anything." Willow didn't answer.
Forty-one days.
"B." Faith is quiet and Buffy wonders when Faith's brashness got burnt out of her. "Ready to go back to Rome tomorrow?"
And that's when Buffy remembers. Six weeks. While L.A. still needs years of rebuilding, the demon threat has been reduced to manageable levels. A team of three slayers is staying behind, but everyone else is going home. She has a sudden urge to scream but the compassion in Faith's face makes that impossible. Instead, she opens the door of their hotel room and slams it behind her.
She walks the streets, bypassing buildings she's already checked, collapsed streets she's rummaged through. She initially concentrated her efforts on the area immediately surrounding Wolfram and Hart convinced that was the heart of the apocalypse but days and nights of searching have revealed nothing. A small voice tells her that because there's nothing to find. She closes her eyes and pushes it away just like every other day. She chooses a direction and begins walking. After twenty minutes she's past the circle of streets that she's so carefully combed through.
The devastation is notably lessened here. Windows are shattered, a structurally iffy building needs shoring up, but obviously this isn't the epicenter. She curses softly, there's no time and she's wasting what little she has. She's about to turn around when something on the next block catches her eye. The way it moves, she thinks demon and hurries over.
By the time she gets there, it's gone, but she's not sure she cares. The next block is flattened. She's no longer sure she believes in anything, but she says a silent prayer of thanks anyway. This alley is where it started, she's positive.
It's so bad here that there's only been a cursory attempt to make the area passable. She surveys the area trying to decide how best to proceed. It reminds her of the game "Booby Trap", one miscalculation on her part and she could easily slip and break her neck. She steps cautiously on each pile of debris, leaning her weight carefully forward until she commits herself. She's standing in the middle of a building, half demolished ceiling, walls and floors all around her. She makes her way to a staircase that's still standing, even though it now goes nowhere. She cranes her neck, trying to determine what to do when she sees it. A hole in the ground. It takes her forever to creep over to it. Switching on her flashlight, she can’t make out the bottom. Her stomach tightens and without further hesitation, she jumps down.
Her knees bend deeply as she hits the concrete floor. The sound of skittering nails makes her flesh crawl. Slowly, she swings the narrow beam of the flashlight around. A broken pipe in the corner is slowly dripping water. Underneath is a dark shape. Cautiously, she steps closely.
The stench is so overwhelming that her stomach immediately heaves and it’s only due to a supreme act of will that she doesn’t vomit all over the floor. A second later all she wants to do is cry.
The bundle is barely recognizable as a person. One arm is at an awkward angle, the clothes are filthy and ripped with dirt and blood. The face is swollen and misshapen, one eye completely invisible. Every bit of exposed skin appears to have a cut or a bruise or a rat bite. The body itself is emaciated. The broken pipe spits out a few drops of water onto the dry lips.
It doesn’t matter. She’ll never not know him instantly. “Angel?” She fights to keep her tears at bay. She pulls her knife out of boot. Slayer blood will go a long way toward healing him, the thought that could be dangerous for her doesn’t figure in her calculations any more than it did all those years ago.
She gets closer and the smell hits her full force. Blood, decay, piss. And that’s when her subconscious pushes to the forefront. Vampires don’t use the bathroom. She moves his arm slightly and the noise he makes is the rusty hinge sound of every front door in every horror movie every filmed. She hates hurting him, but she doesn’t know what else to do. She lays two fingers on his wrist and there it is. A pulse, weak and fading, even as she kneels there. He’s dying right in front of her.
Buffy stands up and screams. She yells at the world, at G-d, at Angel, at Giles, at herself and everyone else she can think of who might possibly have a hand in this. And then she jumps. It takes three tries, but she manages to propel herself high enough that she grasps the edges of the hole she fell though and pulls herself back out. She says a silent prayer, promising that she’ll never do anything the least bit bad in her entire life, if only. If only.
The cell phone comes to life and she speed dials Faith. She barks out the address and demands that everyone get there as quickly as possible. When she hangs up, she realizes she forgot to say why. Then she dials 911, describes exactly where he can be found, explains his injuries as much as she can and tells them they might also need equipment to get him out. And then she jumps back down.
She’s talking a mile a minute, about anything and everything, fear telling her if she stops, he’ll stop too. His lips are moving soundlessly and when she notices; her words stop so suddenly it’s as if she’s been knocked unconscious. He’s struggling to take a deeper breath and she leans into him, worried.
“Angel, don’t. The ambulance is going to be here. Don’t hurt yourself. ‘
He puffs the word out, a feather in the breeze, lighter than air.
“Buffy.”
It is statement and question, promise and prayer. It’s the way he always says her name, through apocalypses, through their own deaths, through the deaths of loved ones. They’ve never needed endearments; their names carry everything they are. She whispers his name back to him.
She can hear the sound of the siren now. It’s going to be all right, she thinks. Whatever happens, it will be all right.
Author's note: The Gaelic translates as "My heart. My heart is within you." (I couldn't resist people, I'm not made of stone.)
For tkp.
I don't own. If I did, you can bet your life, Angel would have been wearing a lot less clothes.
Rating: G to R, depending on section
I suspect that some of these sections are cheating, but maybe not. Also, mushier than usual. Or not, your call.
Five Names Angel Called Buffy
1. "Dearest, duck!"
Buffy dropped to the ground instantly, seconds later she was showered in ash. As she got up, shaking her head in an effort to remove vampire dust, she couldn't help the giggle that bubbled up. "Dearest?"
Angel stood stock still, hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets, hunched over even more than usual, eyes shifting up, down, to the sides, everywhere except focusing on Buffy. Mortified Angel was quite the sight.
"Didn't that word go out of style a couple of hundred years ago?" she asked innocently.
"I was trying to be affectionate," he grumbled.
She felt a bit guilty. It hadn't been her intention to make him feel bad; it was that generally she tended to forget that he was from a time when people did say stuff like that. She took a step so that she was directly in front of him. She let her fingers follow the line of his cheek, down to his jaw. She let them softly trail across his chin and then teased his lower lip with her index finger. Angel's eyes had closed and a soft sigh escaped. She placed one hand on his chest to steady herself while she pushed herself up on tiptoe. She bit his earlobe lightly and Angel groaned. Then she whispered quietly, "my dearest studmuffin of love."
Angel's eyes flew open and saw Buffy barely suppressing a loud snicker. "Oops,” she yelled as Angel got a wicked gleam in his eye and lunged for her. As he began to chase her through the cemetery, she reflected that she had learned one interesting fact. Vampires couldn't blush.
2. Buffy is flying, than falling and seconds before she crashes back into her body she is flying again, leaving herself behind, a being made solely of whispers that kept getting louder. The world is gone until she feels the firm pressure of his hands teasing her skin and then she is falling once more, aware of his knees poking into her thighs, his hands skipping across her breasts, his eyelashes tickling her cheek as he bends over her body.
"Buffy," he murmurs. Her eyes have closed. She forces them open to find him looking intensely at her face. She has never seen him like this, living only in the here and now, the past not a part of him for once. She lifts her head and kisses him, letting her lips slide over his and there is only sweetness instead of the undertone of bitter regrets and the tang of salty tears.
He shifts his hips the tiniest bit and she can feel him, dragging across her flesh and the sensation both terrifies her and excites her. sogoodsogoodsogood is what she wants to say, but all she manages is a tiny bird cry dragged from deep inside. He pulls back and she panics that he's changed his mind, there are a thousand good reasons to change his mind, but then she looks at his face. It's like looking at the sun.
"Mo chroí," he whispers tenderly. "Tá mo chroí istigh ionat." She doesn't understand the words but as he pushes into her, it doesn't matter. His body surrounds her and she'll never need more.
3. Angel's long legs are scrunched on his couch; his head snuggled into Buffy's lap. The silk she's wearing glides against his cheek. It's his shirt but it looks a damn sight better on her.
His hands are resting under the shirt on her unclothed thighs. Her skin is soft but underneath he can feel a warrior's coiled strength. He shifts a tiny bit, pushing his mouth and nose against the slope of her belly. He can smell her now; sharp, tangy, musky. His cock twitches a bit in reaction, and he's amazed at how addicted he's become in these few hours. He contemplates sliding his hands over the shirt, letting the material glide over her skin, feeling the small tremors of her body. For now, he's content to just lie here, breathing her in.
He pulls back a tiny bit, so he can see her face. He wants to memorize it, so he can draw it later. He doesn't want to forget any of this, from the taste of her sweat on his tongue, to the way her fingers tighten and loosen on his ribs as she comes. Her smile once she notices he's looking at her doesn't reach her eyes. He can see the fear in her eyes and he doesn't know why. He goes perfectly still, except for the rise and fall of his chest. "Buffy?" It's a question and an entreaty, both.
"Do you think this will be ok?"
It would be so easy to give her glib reassurances, but she's stronger than that. "I don't know."
Her hand tightens around his waist involuntarily and he can feel the bruise forming. She can break him into a thousand pieces now, without even trying. "I spent 250 years in the shadows. I don't know how to be in the light."
"You're going to be fine. Fine." Something passes over her face and Angel realizes that his fears are not her fears. "You can have a regular life now."
"No. You're mine." He moves his hand up along her body until he finds her hand and entwines their fingers together. "Mine," he repeats. "It doesn't matter what could be or what was, you're inside of me."
Her face is serious, but her eyes are shining once more. "It's the same."
Nothing could ever make him let go, he thinks.
4. The words "I'm sorry" escape his lips before he even has time to think about it. Being sorry is pretty much an automatic state of mind for him and if he gave it the proper amount of contemplation he's sure he could figure out how he's to blame for World War 2, the Kennedy assassination and polyester leisure suits. But one second later he comprehends that he's not sorry at all and his only emotion is a bright blazing anger.
Buffy stands before him, eyes glazed with tears, hand pressed to her mouth in shock and the urge to hit her again makes the world roar in his ears like a jet engine breaking the sound barrier. He doesn't need her attempting to make him feel guilty when she's the one in the wrong. Instead he carefully speaks, using a tone of voice he hasn't used on her since those first few weeks in Sunnydale. Then it was because he was trying to keep his muddled emotions in check. Now it's because if doesn't say something using that detached, bored, ironic tone he's afraid of what might tumble out of his mouth.
She however doesn't pull her punches, she never has and her snotty anger enrages him because all she's doing is assuming that he's too stupid to handle Faith. It's nice to know that she has zero confidence in him. He can smell her boyfriend all over her and that just makes it worse. She's moved on without a second thought.
He's about to say something he can't take back after all; she's pushed him past the point of caring when Wes interrupts. There are more important things to worry about. Bitch floods his mind. She's a self centered bitch. He turns a little and catches a glimpse of her unguarded face. She's terrified for him. And worried that his feelings for her have evaporated. This time the guilt and sorrow don't disappear.
5. Forty-one days.
The first two weeks were spent fighting around the clock. The sky was permanent twilight; ash and smoke and grit obliterating the sun, kill one demon only to find three more in its place. Every available slayer had been sent to fight. She didn't have time to think, so Buffy didn't, just carried her dread around with her, as if it was something that needed careful tending.
Forty-one days.
On the eighteenth day, the sun pushed through in the middle of the day. It was only for a few hours, but for that brief period a truce was declared. Demons and demon killers alike stayed inside, resting up for further exertions later. Except for Buffy. She spent her time crawling into collapsed buildings, marking likely sites of rubble on a map. No one said anything.
Forty-one days.
On the thirty-third day, a survivor was found. It was plastered all over the news and hailed as a miracle. Unspoken was the knowledge that there will be no more found. Buffy didn't speak for the rest of the day. When Willow placed her hand on her arm, Buffy shrugged it off. "It's different," she snapped. "He's different. Time doesn't mean anything." Willow didn't answer.
Forty-one days.
"B." Faith is quiet and Buffy wonders when Faith's brashness got burnt out of her. "Ready to go back to Rome tomorrow?"
And that's when Buffy remembers. Six weeks. While L.A. still needs years of rebuilding, the demon threat has been reduced to manageable levels. A team of three slayers is staying behind, but everyone else is going home. She has a sudden urge to scream but the compassion in Faith's face makes that impossible. Instead, she opens the door of their hotel room and slams it behind her.
She walks the streets, bypassing buildings she's already checked, collapsed streets she's rummaged through. She initially concentrated her efforts on the area immediately surrounding Wolfram and Hart convinced that was the heart of the apocalypse but days and nights of searching have revealed nothing. A small voice tells her that because there's nothing to find. She closes her eyes and pushes it away just like every other day. She chooses a direction and begins walking. After twenty minutes she's past the circle of streets that she's so carefully combed through.
The devastation is notably lessened here. Windows are shattered, a structurally iffy building needs shoring up, but obviously this isn't the epicenter. She curses softly, there's no time and she's wasting what little she has. She's about to turn around when something on the next block catches her eye. The way it moves, she thinks demon and hurries over.
By the time she gets there, it's gone, but she's not sure she cares. The next block is flattened. She's no longer sure she believes in anything, but she says a silent prayer of thanks anyway. This alley is where it started, she's positive.
It's so bad here that there's only been a cursory attempt to make the area passable. She surveys the area trying to decide how best to proceed. It reminds her of the game "Booby Trap", one miscalculation on her part and she could easily slip and break her neck. She steps cautiously on each pile of debris, leaning her weight carefully forward until she commits herself. She's standing in the middle of a building, half demolished ceiling, walls and floors all around her. She makes her way to a staircase that's still standing, even though it now goes nowhere. She cranes her neck, trying to determine what to do when she sees it. A hole in the ground. It takes her forever to creep over to it. Switching on her flashlight, she can’t make out the bottom. Her stomach tightens and without further hesitation, she jumps down.
Her knees bend deeply as she hits the concrete floor. The sound of skittering nails makes her flesh crawl. Slowly, she swings the narrow beam of the flashlight around. A broken pipe in the corner is slowly dripping water. Underneath is a dark shape. Cautiously, she steps closely.
The stench is so overwhelming that her stomach immediately heaves and it’s only due to a supreme act of will that she doesn’t vomit all over the floor. A second later all she wants to do is cry.
The bundle is barely recognizable as a person. One arm is at an awkward angle, the clothes are filthy and ripped with dirt and blood. The face is swollen and misshapen, one eye completely invisible. Every bit of exposed skin appears to have a cut or a bruise or a rat bite. The body itself is emaciated. The broken pipe spits out a few drops of water onto the dry lips.
It doesn’t matter. She’ll never not know him instantly. “Angel?” She fights to keep her tears at bay. She pulls her knife out of boot. Slayer blood will go a long way toward healing him, the thought that could be dangerous for her doesn’t figure in her calculations any more than it did all those years ago.
She gets closer and the smell hits her full force. Blood, decay, piss. And that’s when her subconscious pushes to the forefront. Vampires don’t use the bathroom. She moves his arm slightly and the noise he makes is the rusty hinge sound of every front door in every horror movie every filmed. She hates hurting him, but she doesn’t know what else to do. She lays two fingers on his wrist and there it is. A pulse, weak and fading, even as she kneels there. He’s dying right in front of her.
Buffy stands up and screams. She yells at the world, at G-d, at Angel, at Giles, at herself and everyone else she can think of who might possibly have a hand in this. And then she jumps. It takes three tries, but she manages to propel herself high enough that she grasps the edges of the hole she fell though and pulls herself back out. She says a silent prayer, promising that she’ll never do anything the least bit bad in her entire life, if only. If only.
The cell phone comes to life and she speed dials Faith. She barks out the address and demands that everyone get there as quickly as possible. When she hangs up, she realizes she forgot to say why. Then she dials 911, describes exactly where he can be found, explains his injuries as much as she can and tells them they might also need equipment to get him out. And then she jumps back down.
She’s talking a mile a minute, about anything and everything, fear telling her if she stops, he’ll stop too. His lips are moving soundlessly and when she notices; her words stop so suddenly it’s as if she’s been knocked unconscious. He’s struggling to take a deeper breath and she leans into him, worried.
“Angel, don’t. The ambulance is going to be here. Don’t hurt yourself. ‘
He puffs the word out, a feather in the breeze, lighter than air.
“Buffy.”
It is statement and question, promise and prayer. It’s the way he always says her name, through apocalypses, through their own deaths, through the deaths of loved ones. They’ve never needed endearments; their names carry everything they are. She whispers his name back to him.
She can hear the sound of the siren now. It’s going to be all right, she thinks. Whatever happens, it will be all right.
Author's note: The Gaelic translates as "My heart. My heart is within you." (I couldn't resist people, I'm not made of stone.)