Fic: Escape Me Never (Willow/Angel) 7/10 FRAO/NC-17
Title: Escape Me Never (Chapter Seven)
Author: Gabrielle
Pairing: Willow/Angel
Rating: FRAO/NC-17 (for references to rape and explicit sex)
Summary: A disturbing dream leaves Angel in need of comfort.
This was written for the whichwillow ficathon for the prompt: "What if nobody had been there to save Willow when Angelus grabbed her in the hallway?"
Feedback: Please. Thank you.
Distribution: For now, just here and my site. (Oh, and whichwillow, of course)
Disclaimer: I own nothing. It all belongs to Joss and a bunch of other people who are not now and have never been me.
Author's Notes: This fic is dedicated, in its entirety, to purplefeen and lilbreck. They know why. Thanks also go to sexymermaid and kitty_poker for being such great cheerleaders through the writing of this chapter and again to lilbreck for her beta skills and willingness to put up with me.
Chapter Seven
She was still asleep. Angel was glad she hadn’t noticed his absence, hadn’t gotten up to look for him, hadn’t overheard him on the phone. He wasn’t sure if she would be happy with his plans, if she would willingly accept his decision about their future. For that matter, he wasn’t completely sure he did either. Was he really doing what was best for Willow? Or was he as selfish as his demon, taking her away from her friends, her family, the only home she had ever known, in order to keep her with him?
The slippery slope, the road to Hell.
He’d been so well-intentioned when this began, when he’d taken her in to help her heal after his demon had left her a broken shell. But then he’d fallen in love with her, allowed -hell, encouraged- her to fall in love with him, and it seemed that he became more like his demon each day, each hour. He had to admit to himself that part of Willow’s current aversion to her friends was his doing. Both overtly and indirectly, he had influenced her to see them as the enemy, had never tried to bring back any good memories of them or reawaken her old feelings of love and friendship for people who had once been her nearest and dearest. He had kept her isolated, induced her to trust only him. She was as much his creature now as she had once been Angelus’, and he hated himself for it. He hated himself because, God help him, he wouldn’t do anything to change it, no matter how far from redemption his actions had left him. Willow was his and he couldn’t make himself regret that.
But for all that she clung to him now, for all that she shied away from the people who had once been closer to her than her family, would she always feel this way? Or would she wake up one morning despising him for cutting her off from any chance of reclaiming the life she’d had before Angelus had ripped her from it and torn her apart in the process? Would she hate him for taking away her opportunity to regain the friendships she’d once shared with Buffy, with Jenny and Giles, with Xander? He didn’t know. But no matter the guilt he felt over taking away her choices, over doing everything he could to bind her to him regardless of what she might feel in the future, he knew he wasn’t going to stop what he had set in motion. No calls to undo what was being done even as he got back into bed beside Willow. Guilt was something he should be well used to, after all. So he curled up against Willow’s warm body, delighting in her soft sigh as he pulled her close, and he joined her in slumber.
For a small town, Sunnydale seemed overly endowed with dark alleys, and here he was walking down one of them. With Willow, which wasn’t unpleasant. And Xander, which was. Why on Earth had Willow insisted on letting that useless twerp in on their search for the truth about Billy Fordham, anyway? They could have accomplished this mission just fine on their own.
Willow’s voice broke through his annoyed reverie.
“The only thing I could track down was this address. The Sunset Club. Still didn’t find anything incriminating.”
“He leaves no paper trail, no records. That’s incriminating enough.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna have to go with Deadboy on this one.”
Why couldn’t Xander be his usual idiotic self? As obnoxious as it was to argue with the boy, it was even *worse* to have the moron actually see things his way. Especially since he had to be irritating, even in concordance.
“Could you not call me that?” He realized the request was a mistake the moment the words left his lips. He just knew that “Deadboy” would be his permanent nickname from now on. Great. Just great.
They approached a door with a small, closed window in it. Could this place *be* any more cliched? He thought that sort of thing had faded away with the passage of the speakeasy. Let’s see just *how* stereotypical this place actually was.
He knocked and the window slid open. “We’re friends of Ford’s.” The man with the laughably contrived attempt at a menacing stare opened the door. Angel almost couldn’t contain his mirth. “Joe sent me,” or at least a variation on it, had actually worked. What clowns.
The place was a ludicrously over the top attempt at a gothic vampire lair. Black light, droning music, everyone wearing black lipstick and attempting to look disinterested... it was every bit the joke the doorman had led him to expect. He wondered if any of these pathetic wannabes were wearing plastic fangs. It wouldn’t surprise him. He just hoped that he didn’t look like these people when he was brooding. Maybe he needed to smile more often or something. It was so difficult to work on your facial expression without being able to see yourself in the mirror.
“Boy, we blend right in.”
Willow was right, of course. Her cheerful sweater and brightly-coloured skirt glowed like neon in the artificial gloom. Of course, had they been *alone*, he could have passed her off as his date, a newbie he was introducing to the nightlife. But with Xander along...
“No way do we stick out like sore thumbs.”
Thanks for restating what Willow just said, boy. But then, Xander always had to say *something*. He could never just shut up. For all that Buffy talked about Willow babbling, at least the girl always had something to say. Xander was another matter entirely. He had to get away from the boy before he forgot he had a soul and drained him dry.
“Let’s look around. You guys check out downstairs.”
“Sure thing, Bossy the Cow.”
Angel ground his teeth. The boy just had to get the last damn word.
He looked out over the balcony, trying to remember why the hell he was even here. Buffy. That’s right. He was here to make sure Buffy was safe, to uncover the truth about her old flame. The old flame that, even now, she was out gallivanting around with in yet another of the childish games she liked to play with his emotions.
‘I want you.’
‘I don’t want you.’
‘Come to me.’
‘Go away.’
‘I love you.’
‘I hate you.’
Angel was getting sick of it all. Sometimes it was hard to remember why he loved Buffy when she wasn’t right in front of him. Of course, when she was there, it didn’t seem to be a problem. Then again, when she was in front of him, he was usually too distracted by her generous display of her charms to do a great deal of thinking.
After all these years - centuries, in fact - it seemed that Liam hadn’t grown up one bit. Still an easy mark for blonde hair and uncovered flesh, still a boy with greedy appetites and a taste for an easy meal. How long before he became a man?
But then again, remembering the dream he’d had that day after visiting Willow last night, maybe he had...
Better to shake loose of these thoughts and get back to business. He looked down over the balcony, scanning for Willow, hoping that nothing had happened to her while he had left her alone with no one but Xander to keep an eye on her.
His eyes latched onto her striped sweater. She was standing close to Xander, touching him, obviously looking to him to keep her safe, and Angel’s gut clenched. What on Earth would make a smart girl like Willow see Xander as any sort of protector? For that matter, what did she even see in him as a friend?
He walked down the stairs to join them as they chatted with a voluptuous and incongruously cheerful girl who was dressed as some sort of amalgam of bar wench and Drusilla. Something bothered him. Maybe it was the look of adoration in Willow’s eyes as she gazed at Xander, a look the oblivious boy didn’t even notice. Or perhaps it was the way some of the male patrons were ogling Willow as if they, like the vampires they pretended to be, could smell her purity and ached to corrupt and devour it, just the way Angel had dreamt of doing only a few short hours ago. But whatever it was, it wasn’t what *should* be bothering him and Angel decided that he had to do something, anything, if only as a distraction from his increasingly troubled thoughts.
“Don’t be ashamed. It’s cool that you’re open to it,” the awkward girl chirped as Angel approached. “We welcome anyone who’s interested in the lonely ones.”
“The lonely ones?”
“Vampires.” He cut off Willow’s inquiry.
“Oh, we usually call them the nasty, pointy, bitey ones.”
Nice one, Xander, way to blend in.
The girl seemed unfazed. “So many people have that misconception. But they who walk with the night are not interested in harming anyone.” She took her eyes off Willow for a moment to collect her thoughts and Angel almost got the impression that she was trying to remember her lines. “They are...creatures above us, exalted.”
He couldn’t take it anymore. One more minute of listening to this incompetent poseur and he was going to be tempted beyond endurance to show her what those vampires she idolized were *really* like. Screw the mission. He already knew the important stuff anyway. Ford bad, Slayer stupid. No, not stupid, misguided, trusting. Yeah, that was the girl he loved: sweet, naive, trusting. His eyes never left Willow, until he spoke.
“You’re a fool.”
Willow and Xander turned back to look at him as the girl reacted.
“You don’t have to be so confrontational about it. Other viewpoints than yours may be valid, you know.” She turned on her heel and walked away.
“Nice meeting you,” Willow called after her. Something inside Angel grew tight. Sweet, naive, trusting...
“You really are a people person.” Trust Xander to act as though he hadn’t started it with his ‘nasty, pointy, bitey ones’ crack.
“Now nobody will talk to us.” Willow sounded disappointed. She still clung to Xander’s arm and Angel’s mood grew more sour.
“I’ve seen enough. I’ve seen this type before. They’re children making up bedtime stories of friendly vampires to comfort themselves in the dark.”
“Is that so bad?”
Why was Willow disagreeing with him? She was the clever one, the brains of the gang. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t see things clearly, the way he saw them. He found himself becoming argumentative.
“These people don’t know anything about vampires. What they are, how they live, how they dress.”
And of course, that was the moment that a young man dressed nearly identically to Angel came walking down the stairs, making him look a fool in front of Willow and Xander. He told himself that it bothered him more to look ridiculous in front of *Xander*.
“You know, I love a good diatribe,” the boy said. “But I’m still curious why Ford, the bestest friend of the Slayer, is hanging with a bunch of vampire wannabes.”
“Something’s up with him. You were right about that.” This time, Willow was addressing Angel and his mood lightened. He ignored the slight tingling of apprehension he felt as they left the club, the sixth sense that told him they had been overheard, shaking it off as an aftereffect of his lingering irritation. Time to walk the kids home.
Xander, true to form, didn’t shut up the entire way to his house. On and on and on about Buffy and Ford and what the hell did she see in him and why couldn’t she tell he was a bad guy. He was pathetically and obviously jealous and Angel could see just how much it hurt the beautiful girl walking beside him, her eyes shining with the wish that Xander would feel just a little bit of that passion for *her*. It was enough to make Angel sick. And angry. Both with Xander for being so stupid and oblivious and not returning Willow’s feelings and with Willow for wasting something as precious as her devotion on an ignorant buffoon like Xander. He was relieved when they reached the boy’s home at last. Maybe he could use the walk to Willow’s house to talk some sense into the girl.
She was uncharacteristically subdued as they made their way to her house, not responding to his attempts to converse with her, and Angel struggled to control his irascibility. He had no right to be upset with her, he reminded himself. But he stopped even trying to conjure up his feelings for Buffy to keep himself in line. What was the point? Without her barely-covered form in front of him, his passion for her couldn’t be re-evoked and he was tired of making the effort.
“Here we are.” She spoke for the first time since they had left Xander’s house.
“What will your parents think of you getting home so late?”
“Oh, don’t worry. They won’t know. They left for a conference this morning and they’ll be gone for a week. At least I think it’ll be a week. It might be longer. They said they’ll call if their plans change.” Her tone told Angel that this was far from the first time she’d been left alone this way.
She looked a bit forlorn and Angel had to restrain himself from taking her in his arms to soothe away her pain. He wanted nothing more than to break her parents’ necks for leaving her like this. Didn’t they love their daughter, want to spend time with her? Didn’t they at least realize that Sunnydale wasn’t safe?
“Can I come in for a minute?”
Willow gave an almost imperceptible sigh and Angel knew she thought he wanted to talk about Buffy.
“Sure, Angel.”
Her shoulders slumped slightly as she unlocked her front door and motioned for him to follow her in. He’d never seen her living room before and it was...sterile. It looked like a picture from a catalog; even the personal touches seemed perfunctory and decidedly *impersonal*, the photographs displayed because one was supposed to display family photographs, the knickknacks chosen for their monetary rather than sentimental value. He felt a pang for Willow; the room told him so much about her parents and her upbringing. No wonder she endured Xander’s disinterest. It was what she knew best.
They walked upstairs to Willow’s room in silence; he figured that Willow probably thought he wanted her to put her computer skills to work on the mystery of Billy Fordham once more. He waited ‘til they were past her door, then he spoke.
“He doesn’t love you.”
Willow whipped around and stared at him, her mouth hanging open.
“W-what do you mean?”
“Xander. He doesn’t love you, Willow. He never will.”
He saw tears form in her eyes and he hated himself for being the one to put them there. But dammit, he had to make her see that she was wasting her time on that fool. She would only be *more* hurt in the future if he couldn’t make her see reason *now*.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Angel. But I’d like you to leave now. Please.” On the last word, her voice almost broke and Angel could hear the pleading tone in her voice. She wanted him to leave before breaking down and crying herself to sleep. He wasn’t going to let that happen. Xander didn’t deserve her tears.
“He doesn’t deserve you, Willow.”
“You know, Buffy says the same thing. But it’s easy for you guys to talk. You don’t know what it’s like. Being me. The girl nobody wants. The girl nobody ever will.”
Angel couldn’t stand it for another moment. Hearing her say those things, knowing she meant them, knowing that, when she looked in the mirror, she was as invisible to herself as he was. So he did the only thing he could do to show her the truth. He caught her up in his arms and kissed her.
For a moment she struggled, her hands pushing futilely against his chest as she tried to get away, but soon she gave in. His passion overwhelmed her and she melted into him, returning his kiss, letting his hands roam over her body. After a few moments, he felt her need to breathe, so his mouth left hers and moved to her neck. He felt her breath against his ear and heard her soft whisper.
“Xander.”
Angel awoke, sitting bolt upright, panting for unneeded breath as he became aware of reality once more. It was a dream, that was all, just a horrible, terrible dream.
Still, he had never had a dream like that before, one so vivid, so real. One that mingled fact and fancy, memory and mirage so skillfully that he wasn’t sure which was which. There were things in the dream, Willow’s living room, for instance, that he had no way of knowing about. Yet he knew that, were he to go to Willow’s house right this minute, he would see the exact room he had seen in his sleep. There was something about this dream that told him that it was more than just a feverish nightmare, a projection of his insecurities. It carried prophecy and warning in its depths and Angel feared what it was telling him.
As he came back to himself, he realized that Willow wasn’t there beside him and he was confused by a seductive aroma that soon filled his nostrils.
Blood.
Willow’s blood.
He scented the air frantically, trying to determine where the smell was coming from, and he realized she was in the bathroom. The sound of her crying carried through the door and he became terrified that she was injured in some way. He got out of bed hastily and burst into the room, immediately seeing a pajama-clad Willow crouched down on the tile floor, no apparent injuries, but obviously in pain.
It took a moment, but he realized what was wrong. She was menstruating. Something that he recalled hadn’t happened to her since Angelus had taken her prisoner, her captivity having caused her body, like her mind, to shut down in some ways. Her obvious distress caused him almost as much agony as it did her, and the sight of her curled up on the floor in tears was more than he could take. He knelt down next to her, wrapping his arms around her and tamping down his demon. The last thing Willow needed right now was to be forced to deal with his appetites.
“Shh, sweetling. It’s alright now. I’m here.”
He saw some torn plastic wrapping on the floor and was suddenly grateful that Jenny had brought the necessary accouterments for just this eventuality when she’d initially helped stock the mansion for what she’d believed was going to be Willow’s short stay with him. He never would have thought to buy them.
“Hurts,” she whimpered, sounding like a little girl wanting someone to make it better. “Ow.”
He held her close and stroked her hair, murmuring soothingly in her ear. Then he lifted her up in his arms, wincing as she made some pain-filled sounds, and carried her back to the bed. The smell of her blood, thick and warm, filled his nostrils and it was all he could do to keep his true face from emerging, so strong was the desire he felt. It was obvious to him, however, that any overtures of that kind would not be welcome now, so he fought to control himself as he laid her gently on the bed, tucking her in like a child, making sure she was warm, asking her what he could do to make her more comfortable.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Willow?”
She looked positively miserable, her agony clearly etched on her features.
“Hold me?” She spoke so softly that he almost didn’t hear her.
He smiled at her, trying to hide the fact that he’d been hoping she’d ask him to cook for her and afford him an excuse to get out of the room and away from the scent of her blood.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
He climbed back into bed beside her, stifling a groan as she laid her head on his chest. He stroked her hair, murmuring soothingly to her, and she soon fell asleep. Angel wasn’t nearly so lucky. The warmth of her body, the way she smelled...it was torture for him to be next to her right now and it brought forth a fresh wave of self-hate. The girl he loved was lying in his bed, wracked with pain, and all he could think about was tearing off her nightclothes, spreading her legs, and burying his head between her thighs, no matter what she wanted. Was it because his soul was anchored that his demon and its desires seemed so much harder to repress than they had the first time he’d been cursed? Or was it that Willow was the common obsession of both halves of him that made it so difficult to be anything but selfish when it came to her?
Then there was the dream. The dream that he knew was more than just a dream. But what was it trying to tell him? Was it warning him that Willow still had feelings for Xander? He knew that, before his demon had taken her, she’d loved the boy desperately. That it was, ironically enough, her unrequited love for Xander that had put her in harm’s way and led, by such a twisted and tortuous path, to her being here with him right now. Still, Angel thought, she had told him that she loved him and he couldn’t make himself even consider the idea that those words had merely been the product of her breaking at the hands of his soulless counterpart. She meant them. She had to have meant them.
Was it trying to make him aware of some other threat? Was it telling him that Xander would try to take Willow away from him? That was a ridiculous notion. Xander barely visited. As far as Angel could see, he cared little for the girl who’d been his friend almost all his life. He was almost certainly focused only on the fact that he might now have a chance with Buffy and he hardly seemed concerned if Willow lived or died. After all, if he cared about Willow even half as much as he had formerly claimed to, he wouldn’t be so absent. The idea that there might be less ignoble reasons for Xander’s infrequent visits, reasons having to do with guilt and fear rather than unconcern and selfishness, entered and left his mind in a trice. Angel refused to give Xander credit for a depth of feeling sufficient to make such a notion at all credible. He’d never evinced any kind of real devotion before and Angel could not credit him with developing the capacity for such caring now.
But if it wasn’t Willow’s feelings or Xander’s interference he needed to apprehend, then what was it?
He couldn’t take any more. Between his fears, his uncertainties, and the seductive scent of his sleeping lover, his need became overwhelming.
“Willow.” He shook her softly, hoping that a gentle approach would at least seduce her into wanting to give him what he was about to take. “I need you.”
She awoke at the first sound of his voice, and her eyes grew wide; for a moment there was a look of pleading in them. But he knew there was too much intense want shining from his own for her to persist. She got out of bed and Angel wondered what she was doing. He understood when he saw her enter the bathroom, reemerging a moment later naked, wrapped in a towel, and walking awkwardly with her legs close together.
“It’s alright,” he soothed. “You’ll feel so good, I promise.”
She was still uncertain, he could tell, and he wished she was as eager to be tasted as he was to taste her, but she wasn’t resisting and that was good. Once he’d shown her how much ecstasy this would bring them both, he knew that she’d be glad she’d given in.
He got up and stepped behind her as she stood by the bed. He unwrapped the towel and positioned it on the bed, knowing that she’d be more comfortable with it there.
He kissed her neck, then spoke softly once more. “Lie down, sweetling.”
She did as he asked, making sure that her bottom rested on the towel. She blushed under Angel’s gaze and he smiled. He loved her blushes.
He rejoined her on the bed, spreading her legs gingerly, not wanting to frighten her with the fierceness of his desire, and better able to restrain his demon now that he knew he was going to satisfy his thirst.
He closed his eyes and nearly drowned in the scent of her. It was the pure female essence of his love. Here between her thighs he had found the closest thing to heaven he would ever know and he wanted to revel in every sensation.
When his tongue found her center, he could hardly restrain himself. He fought his demon for control with all his might, wanting to keep his attentions gentle, to pay as much attention to Willow’s pleasure as his own, but the battle was a hard-won thing. The flavour of her was extraordinary. Powerful, pure, glorious. He felt as though he could taste her love for him in the mixture of blood and burgeoning arousal that flowed from her. He needed more, as much as he could coax from her, trickle though it was. Only in her blood could he find relief for the dread that still clouded his thoughts after that horrible dream. Only her blood could give him the certainty that she was his, all his.
Soon she was screaming out her release As she came down from the high of her orgasm, he knew from the way she looked at him that she was surprised that he didn’t stop, didn’t give himself to her, fill her. But that wasn’t what he needed. He needed her to fill him. So he continued to drink, to drown his fears in what blood her body was willing to give him as if it were the liquor he’d been so wont to imbibe in his human days, and she was soon too caught up in the pleasure he gave her to question him again. If each drop of her blood that now flowed through him and each orgasm he gave her weren’t links in a chain that would bind her to him forever, at least it felt that way for now. And that was what mattered.