Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1264219.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer
  Relationship:
      Rupert_Giles/Buffy_Summers, Rupert_Giles/Willow_Rosenberg/Buffy_Summers,
      Angel/Ira_Rosenberg, Angel/Spike, fantasies_included, listed_without
      regard_to_consent, Ambiguous_or_Implied_Relationship(s), Angel/Jenny
      Calendar, Angel/Rupert_Giles, B/G, Buffy_Summers/Angel_umm...fighting?
  Character:
      Buffy_Summers, Rupert_Giles, Ira_Rosenberg, Angel_(BtVS), Spike_(BtVS),
      Original_Minor_Characters, Willow_Rosenberg, Noncanonical_Ancestors,
      Minor_&_Original_Characters_having_a_field_day_and_becoming_major
      characters
  Additional Tags:
      Blood, Public_Nudity, Creepy_flirting, Emergency_Contraception, Vaginal
      Fingering, Making_Out, Lust, Murder, Dysfunctional_Family, Family
      Secrets, Sexual_Assault, Cock_&_Ball_Torture, Vampires, Action, What_Have
      I_Done, Shopping_Malls, Kidnapping, Lost_Panties, Not_Wearing_Underwear,
      Forgery, Revenge, Backstory, Suicidal_Thoughts, Not_Wearing_a_Bra, sexual
      innuendo, Sexual_Humor, Awkward_Conversations, Awkward_Sexual_Situations,
      Awkwardness, Flashbacks, What_Was_I_Thinking?, where_do_we_go_from_here,
      Bisexuality
  Series:
      Part 2 of Blood_Screaming
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-03 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 12030
****** It Must Have Been God's Day Off ******
by MyEvilTwin_(ProtoNeoRomantic)
Summary
     When Willow tries to help Buffy and Giles deal with the consequences
     of one crazy Friday night, Angel takes something from her that she
     can never get back.
Notes
     For more information on Canon Compliance/Divergence and Story
     Mechanics and Themes, see series description.
See the end of the work for more notes
  This work was inspired by
      Lady's_Choice by ProtoNeoRomantic, Who_Do_You_Think_You_Are? by
      ProtoNeoRomantic
***** Light Bulb *****
Chapter Summary
     "Sometimes a thing get's broke, can't be fixed."
     ~Kaylee Frye
     "Mistake! Bollix! It was a bloody revelation!"
     ~Spike
     "The answer to all of these questions is both yes and no."
     ~Pierre Abelard
The gray light of dawn filtered through Buffy’s bedroom window, waking her from
none too peaceful a sleep. Willow lay next to her, hugging her pillow, sighing
and muttering in response to her own disturbed dreams. Buffy dressed quickly in
a skirt and a tank top, grateful that her Slayer healing powers had erased the
marks left on her body by last night’s intimate encounter with asphalt. She
wished the rest of the events of last night could be erased as easily, that she
could un-have had sex with Giles, that Angel could un-have killed Jenny.
She walked out into the Saturday morning sunshine, wandering aimlessly, hoping
to clear her head; but it refused to be cleared. Jenny Calendar was dead. Angel
was responsible. Buffy was responsible. Giles was devastated and alone. She
longed to go to him. Yet, she couldn’t seem to make her footsteps wander in the
direction of his apartment. She wanted to be there for him, but she couldn’t
imagine being in a relationship with him. As sordid a light as it cast on the
events of last night, he was still more like a second father to her than
anything else.
Like a father! Guilt and fear stabbed Buffy in the heart. She thought again of
all those little sperm swimming inside of her. Had they gotten where they were
going by now? She knew that she needed to talk to Giles. She also knew that she
didn’t want to call him from her home and risk her mom or even Willow
overhearing. Right or wrong, the conversation they needed to have was between
lovers. It was intimate, private. She regretted having told Willow as much as
she had about the sex they had had. She had just been so in shock. It hadn’t
seemed real. Giles was not the kind of person who would have sex with a teenage
girl. Not the kind of person who might accidentally get someone pregnant. Even
when she’d put her hand on his big, beautiful, amazing cock and begged him to
put it inside her, she’d never really thought he would actually do it. But he
did. And it was a moment she could not un-live, could not un-feel. And there
were deep, dark scary parts of her that longed to feel it again.
****
The dream fled quickly as Willow was rudely yanked from sleep by the ringing
phone at Buffy’s bedside. Shreds of scattered images, sensations, ideas
fluttered through her consciousness: soft, gentle lips pressed to hers, their
mouths mutually opening to one another as the dark, starry night at the hinge
of her thighs was opened to admit an interlocking universe exploding into
being. Blonde hair brushing her neck. A man’s rough hands grasping her breasts.
Round full breasts rising under her grateful hands, familiar, but not her own.
Also something about a woman turning into a cat. Willow’s nightgown was soaked
with sweat. She felt oddly disappointed to find that she was alone. Hesitating
only a moment she picked up the phone, having the vague, sleepy idea that it
might be Buffy.
She didn’t even get the chance to say ‘hello’. “Buffy?!” Giles cried out, his
voice desperate and shaken.
Willow did her best to suppress a sudden, furious wave of anger that welled up
within her at the sound of him, an overwhelming resentment, as though he was
withholding something that belonged to her. “No!” she said, shocked by the
hardness of her own voice, trying hard to convince herself that what she felt
was only protectiveness towards Buffy, concern that she would be hurt by their
affair. “It’s Willow,” she said, deliberately softening her tone.“I... just
woke up, but I can see if Buffy is here.”
“Would you, please?” said Giles gratefully. “I... I need to talk to her, right
away. I—she—I just... need to talk to her!”Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with
pity for him. She wanted to put her arms around him, to comfort him, to tell
him it would be alright. But she still held a firm conviction that someone
should be looking out for Buffy. Someone not Rupert Giles. Someone whose
judgment wasn’t clouded by even the tiniest particle of desire to fuck her.
She put the receiver down on the bedspread and walked across the room to
dutifully peer out into the empty hallway. “Buffy, telephone,” she called
softly. No response, of course.“I’m sorry,” she told Giles, returning to the
phone after what she judged was a decent interval. “She must have left while I
was still asleep.”
She heard Giles muffled cursing through the hand he’d placed over his
mouthpiece. “Do you know where—did she...did she have any...erm plans today,
that you know of?” he asked. He was making a valiant but unsuccessful effort to
sound less desperate.
Willow felt guilty but no less resolved. “I’m not sure,” she hedged, which was
true, “I have to go soon though,” which was not, “but I’ll try to let her know
you called... if I see her,” a blatant lie.
Giles’ tone sharpened slightly in spite of him. “Willow,” he asked, “Did Buffy
tell you anything...erm... strange...about last night?” Like the fact that we
had sexual intercourse against the peace and dignity of the State of California
he dishonestly failed to add, infuriating her again.
“No!” she said much too quickly, then, “I can’t talk right now. Bye.” She
slammed down the phone. Damn. That had not gone well. Giles wasn’t an idiot. He
had to know that she knew something about last night. He could probably guess
that she knew everything.
Willow found Buffy two hours later sitting alone at the Espresso Pump, staring
glassily into her coffee. She must have gotten dressed without really thinking.
She was practically nude to the waist, wearing a white cotton tank top with
neither a shirt nor a bra. “Just happened to be passing by?” she joked, looking
up as Willow sat down.
Willow shook her head, feeling ‘embarrassed’ again. She was so ‘embarrassed’
that she had to sit with her legs tightly crossed, trying hard to suppress the
feeling that her vagina was exposed and humming like some kind of beacon,
broadcasting a signal to the world: Attention All Dicks! Horny Available Virgin
Pussy Dead Ahead!“I’ve been looking for you,” she admitted. “I’m worried about
you.”
Buffy looked down thoughtfully at her coffee.“Yeah,” she said grimly, “I’m
worried about me too.”
“Are you still worried about Giles... wanting a relationship?” she guessed.
Buffy shook her head. “I’m a big girl,” she said, “I can ‘just say no’ to
really amazing sex. I think. And he’s a big boy, too, for that matter.”
“Yeah!” said Willow, maybe a little too keenly. “You mentioned that last
night.”
Buffy rolled her eyes, blushing just a little. “I’m not talking about the size
of his dick gutter brain. I just meant... last night was a fluke. There were
circumstances. On a normal day, he’s way beyond grownup enough to keep it in
his pants. He’s probably shaking his head right now going ‘Wow, what the Hell
was I thinking?’I’m really more worried about... what’s already happened.”
“Well... what’s done is done,” Willow pointed out, feeling inept for having
nothing better to say. Feeling childish for wanting to hear more about the ins
and outs and in agains of sex with Giles and his reportedly gigantic penis.
“True...” Buffy murmured pensively. Could she really, she wondered, just say
no? Like repeatedly, every single day, forever? “...but that doesn’t mean there
might not be...”He’s still Giles, she tried reminding herself, but that didn’t
do much counteract the memory of the intense sexual pleasure he’d given her, it
just made her feel majorly weird about it.“consequences.”
“Such as?” Willow asked.
“Well,” Buffy reminded her nervously, “He cameinside me. Plus I started my
period like exactly two weeks ago today. I’m worried I’m gonna get pregnant.
God, how bizarre would that be! I could be pregnantby Giles!”
Willow was shocked. Then she was shocked at herself for being shocked. Why
hadn’t she thought of such an obvious problem? She was such an idiot! “Wow,
Buffy,” she stammered, “I never—I mean, Giles is so... responsible. I guess—I
mean, I would have thought—”
“What?” Buffy challenged sardonically, “That he’d bring along a box of condoms
on an arson and revenge killing spree, in case it turned into a romantic
evening?”
“Well...no,” Willow had to admit. “I guess not, but what about—I mean you’re
not on the Pill?”
Buffy shook her head. “Well you know An—vampires, you know, they can’t. And I
never thought—I mean I haven’t even thought about having sex again since—”
Buffy’s voice broke off miserably. Since she had burned the humanity out of her
last lover with the power of her touch, Willow realized, horrified on her
behalf.
“It’s, okay, Buffy,” Willow said, brightening, realizing that it probably was,
“I mean, it takes a few days after sex to actually get pregnant. I’m pretty
sure you can still take something to stop it.”
“Seriously?” Buffy asked hopefully. “Is there really something I can do?”
“I think so,” Willow said, “I know the hospitals where Dad has privileges have
something they give to... to...” Willow averted her eyes, “rape victims. I’m
sure it would work in this situation too. I bet I can find out what it is. My
parents have tons of medical books. And we can look on the net. Why don’t you
come over now?”she suggested. “Mom’s at a conference, and Dad’s probably at the
clinic.”
Buffy sighed. For once, heading into deep research mode actually sounded like a
relatively attractive option, but she knew she was just putting off the
inevitable. “I don’t know, Wil,” she said. “At this point, it kind of feels
like I’m avoiding Giles. I mean, I told him I would call him this morning, and
it’s already after ten.”
“Maybe you should call him,” Willow suggested, her voice high pitched and
forcibly bright, “you know, on the phone, from my house.”She had a gut feeling
that Buffy and Giles meeting, alone was a bad idea, that it might in fact lead
to yet more sex, and yet more trouble.
“Tell, you what,” Buffy suggested. “Why don’t you start working on it, just go
ahead and dive right in, and I’ll come over later and help you finish.”
“I could come with you,” Willow offered.
“To make sure we don’t rip each other’s clothes off again?” Buffy laughed, “I
think I’d better risk it, otherwise he’ll know I told you about the sex.”
Willow looked suddenly pale. “Actually,” she admitted, turning almost green, “I
think maybe he sort of ... already knows. Well, suspects anyway,” she back
peddled quickly. “He called this morning, looking for you... and he was sort
of... fishing to see if I knew anything, you know, without telling me
anything...”
“Willow!” Buffy demanded, horrified, “when were you going to tell me about
this?!”
“Well,” Willow stammered, “I... um... I guess I just... didn’t...um...”
“He must be going crazy wondering who else knows about this,” Buffy railed,
exasperated. “Willow, this is a felony for Christ’s sake! Giles could go to
prison! Or get thrown out of the country! He must be scare to death! I’d better
get over there.” As she rushed off, she added over her shoulder, “I’ll...come
by later... I guess... about the... Pill thing.”
****
Bath, England, June,1956
“It worked,” Andrew said when he felt her enter the room, “She’s coming.” His
voice was blank. He did not turn. Instead he picked up his cigarette and took a
long drag.
“I told you it would,” said Helena matter-of-factly, then added, somewhere
between scolding and concern. “I wish you hadn’t taken those things up again.
They’re bad for your health you know.”
“Fuck you, Mother,” he said just as blankly as before. Then he smiled
sardonically and shook his head. Helena chose to ignore all of that, including
the relatively subtle insinuation that being a frigid bitch was what made her
such a monster, pretending to have heard what she might have expected her son
to say instead. She set a small bottle of liquid on the table, an eyedropper
lid screwed into the top.
Andrew felt he could have drunk the whole thing off then and there and had no
really strong objection to the result. But that would only be leaving someone
else to finish what he’d started. This whole damn disaster was his doing, his
responsibility. Responsibility. That was what his life was reduced to.
Responsibility to boot and responsibility in over plus. A father, after all,
must be a man. He hasn’t the right to kill himself.
****
Giles opened the door before Buffy could even ring the bell. “Thank God you’re
here!” he declared breathlessly. He looked worse than she’d ever seen him,
worse than last night, worse even than the time she had found him on his living
room floor slumped over a bottle, wallowing in self-pity over Jenny’s
possession by Eyghon. Now, as then, he had been drinking heavily and had not
changed his clothes from the night before. His filthy oxford shirt hung open
over his relatively less filthy T-shirt. His grimy face was covered with
stubble. Beneath the strong aroma of alcohol, he stank of sweat and soot and
just the faintest hint of dried semen. But when he rushed to put his arms
around Buffy and usher her into his home, her heart leapt in spite of all that
with a dizzy, undeniable excitement that frightened and confused her, without
making her want it to stop.
“I haven’t slept a wink,” he informed her earnestly, his eyes shining madly. He
steered her to the sofa, and they sat. She made sure to put about eighteen
inches of space between them even though it made her feel silly. As if he were
some guy with whom she had to be concerned about her sexual safety or social
etiquette! As if this were some kind of ‘date’!
“I didn’t sleep well either,” she said, mostly to fill the silence. Her heart
was hammering. She was almost sure he could hear it. She glanced self-
consciously down at her breasts, wishing she’d worn something a little less
revealing, she’d just been too distracted this morning to think about what this
moment might be like. Her skirt was a little short for that matter, showing a
little too much thigh. She looked up to find that Giles’ eyes had followed her
gaze. They both blushed, averting their eyes. Giles shifted uncomfortably and
made an elaborate throat clearing noise, trying by sheer force of embarrassment
to overcome his sudden partial erection.
He looked back at her face again, miserably, longingly. Somehow the space
between them had been reduced to six inches. It was much too close. They would
each have had to shift only a little for their thighs to touch. His brain,
already clouded by alcohol and lack of sleep, was now having to make do with
less blood, less oxygen. “God, I want to—!” he broke off his impulsive
exclamation in mid-sentence, breaking eye contact again.
“Kiss me?” Buffy guessed with guilty desire.
“For a start!” he admitted, reaching for her hand. Which was in her lap.
Resting on her thigh. Which was where his hand ended up. Because, her hand was
gone. It was on his shoulder, pulling him towards her. His other hand, the one
that wasn’t feeling its way up Buffy’s inner thigh, found her breast. He
squeezed it, thumbing her hard nipple through the ribbed cotton of her tank
top. Why had she chosen not to wear a bra? Had she come here wanting to have
sex again? Was this all some elaborate plan?
Suddenly they were kissing. Had he kissed her or had she kissed him? It didn’t
matter. They had to stop. He slid both his hands under her clothes, groping her
bush through her panties and her breasts directly, skin to skin. He moved his
kiss downward, along the curve of her jaw to her neck. She bit his earlobe,
sucking it into her mouth. They had to stop now. His fingers wriggled up
through a leg hole and into her panties, stretching and tearing the seam just a
little bit. Her coarse hairs were damp under the sensitive pads of his fingers.
She spread her legs wider. The seam of her panties ripped wider as his whole
hand was thrust inside them. He’d be stopping any second now.
Her hands were on his back. She slid them lower, inside his pants, inside his
shorts and grabbed his functionally bare ass. Any second now. He slid his first
two fingers deep inside Buffy’s cunt, rubbing her lips against her clit with
his thumb. Her internal musculature squeezed his fingers in a friendly, eager,
welcoming way as they stroked her and wriggled inside her.His erection was less
and less partial, blood to the brain less and less his heart’s priority. He
shifted forward, trying to lay Buffy down, to climb on top of her. It was an
awkward maneuver on the narrow couch, bounded as it was on one side by its
high, stiff back.
The worst of many good reasons why they didn’t just move to the much more
comfortable bed upstairs, hit him like a fifty gallon drum of ice water,
sobering and deflating him, boosting his IQ by about two standard deviations.
With an anguished sigh, Giles sat up, disentangling himself from Buffy.
“Hey!” she objected as his hand abandoned her pussy, leaving it empty and in
need, then shifting in mid objection, “What are you doing?”
“What am Idoing?” he countered, suddenly feeling a bit resentful. “The same
thing you were doing, apparently!”
“Well stop it!” she scolded.
“I have!” he pointed out. “Just you remember to keep your... your... hands to
yourself, and I think we’ll be alright!
“My hands?” Buffy shouted back. “Gee, it kinda felt like you were the one
fingering me just now!”
“Well, you stuck your hands down my pants!” Giles shouted back, “And for God’s
sake, woman! What’s the idea of coming over here half dressed? After last
night, you ought to know how weak I am!”
Buffy favored him with a guilty almost-sort-of-smile. “I really ought to,
shouldn’t I,” she admitted sheepishly. They both let themselves laugh at little
at each other and at themselves.
Giles got to his feet, pacing, running his hands through his hair,
uncomfortably realizing that he was adding Buffy’s vaginal juices to the long
list of things he needed to wash out of it already.“Bloody Hell,” he murmured.
“What are we going to do about this? This can’t—We can’t—I can’t—Sex is not a
normal, healthy part of a Slayer/Watcher relationship.”
“I know that!” Buffy acknowledged, a little defensively. “It’s—It was— a
mistake. We just have to... not do it anymore.”
“Yes,” Giles agreed eagerly. He sat in a chair, facing the couch at what he
hoped was a safe distance. “A mistake.”
***** Plan B *****
Chapter Summary
     "To everything there is a season," but when life happens at the wrong
     moment, sometimes you need a back up plan.
Somehow or other, Giles glasses had gotten into his hands and he was cleaning
them frantically. “Buffy, let me come to the point,” he said, putting them back
on and forcing himself to look Buffy in the eye, “before I lose my nerve.
About... last night:I don’t really know how to ask you this, but you haven’t...
told anyone, have you? That we... made love last night?”
Now it was Buffy’s turn to look pointedly away, and notjust because of what the
answer to his question was. She also wasn’t sure that ‘making love’ was exactly
the word for 99.44% foreplay free,arson adjacent,parking lot sex that made you
feel like you were being turned inside out. As much as her body ached for a
repeat performance, especially now that they’d gone back and filled in a little
more of the foreplay, she still wasn’t sure exactly how she felt about any of
it. “Willow knows,” she admitted finally, gazing with apparent interest at her
nail polish. “But, I swear to you,” she continued, trying harder to maintain
eye contact, “I won’t tell anyone else and neither will she. I won’t even tell
her about... what we were doing just now.”
“Well,” Giles responded, unable to keep a slightly corrective note out of his
voice, “I wish you hadn’t told anyone at all, about any of it. But I suppose
you have to confide in someone, and I have every confidence that Willow can be
trusted. If anyone can. “Look, Buffy,” he went on, sounding less pedantic,
though no less strained, “I feel like a horrible old bastard asking you to keep
a secret like this. Unfortunately, the State of California, not to mention the
INS, takes this erm... sort of thing fairly seriously.”
“This sort of thing,” Buffy repeated quietly, not much liking the sound of it.
The ‘sort of thing’ he meant was statutory rape. It struck her for the first
time that the structure of that legalism was a little off. If forcible rape
meant being violated by force,wouldn’t statutory rape mean being violated by a
statute?
Giles sighed heavily, “I am a horrible old bastard, by the way,” he informed
her with a small, sad smile, “just so you know.”
Buffy laughed nervously, not sure if he was joking, then stopped abruptly, her
stomach flip-flopping at the thought of what she had to say next. Swallowing
hard, she charged the elephant head on. “Giles,” she said, resolutely, “there’
s one other thing we need to talk about.”
“At least,” he agreed, smiling nervously, “but please, go on.” He waited for
her to speak with a look of steady, patient attention.
Buffy felt suddenly shy, foolish, out of her depth. “What do you know about,
birth control and... stuff like that,”she blurted out, becoming red in the
face. “Because I’m not, you know, on the Pill or anything, and I sort of
couldn’t help but notice that I ended up with about a gallon of your cum inside
me when we were, you know, doing it, last night, and I’m hoping it’s not too
late to, you know, do something about that.”
“Oh good lord!” Giles nearly choked.
“Hey, yeah, no,” Buffy stammered, coloring even more deeply, “It’s a stu—stupid
question. Forget I mentioned it. I’ll just... We’ll figure it out.”
“No, Buffy,” Giles assured her. “It’s not stupid at all. Just the opposite,”He
did wish she would quit torturing him by putting so fine a point on the fact
that his penis had quite recently been inside her vagina but he didn’t want to
call yet more attention to the fact by saying so, especially since he’d just
had his fingers in the same tight slot and they’d already had to have a chat
about that as well. “I just feel such a fool for not thinking of this...erm...
potentiality before now,” he plowed on earnestly, concentrating on the business
in hand.“All of this just seems so...unreal.” He paused a moment, brows
knitted. “Hold on a minute,” he said, “If I’m to ‘forget’ you mentioned it,
then who’s the ‘we’ who’re going to figure this out?”
“Me and Willow?” Buffy reluctantly admitted, making a pained face. “She’s...
doing a little research. I just thought if you already know, we wouldn’t have
to reinvent the wheel.”
“Well, I have to confess,” Giles murmured, taking off his glasses and peering
at the tiny screws in the frames, as if wondering if they could perhaps be
better adjusted. “I’m not quite sure. I haven’t been in any... sudden or
serious danger of getting anyone pregnant since...” Buffy gave him a look that
said she really, really didn’t want to know. “Well... for many years now,” he
concluded.
“So,” Buffy interpreted, rankled, “you don’t know anything relevant to, you
know, modern times.”That got a look of mild exasperation from Giles in return.
The display of mutual annoyance between them felt comfortingly familiar.
“I’ve heard of emergency contraceptives, of course,” he acknowledged. “But I
don’t really know what the availability is over here. I’m sure it’s not as easy
as popping into the corner chemist shop. Nothing ever is in this... puritan
country.” They looked at each other miserably for another long moment. He
longed to hold her hand, to comfort and reassure her. But the last time he’d
reached for her hand his fingers had ended up in her cunt. “I’m not sure how I
feel about... getting Willow... mixed up in this... erm... ‘research project’,”
he murmured guiltily at last.
“Well... she offered,” Buffy pointed out. “And it’s just research. This...
thing between us may be pathological, but I’m pretty sure it’s not contagious.”
 ****
Willow shut off her laptop, lay back on her bed among dozens of scattered books
and journals and sighed. After five hours of wading through scores of articles
and treatises she had a lot of information, but few answers. She had learned
that there was a veritable cornucopia of emergency contraceptive products on
the market in Europe, but in the United States pharmacies weren’t allowed to
carry anything designed and labeled for that use lest the adolescent female
population get wind of it and disport themselves without restraint. A doctor
was needed to examine the patient and write a prescription. That would have
meant telling Joyce that Buffy had just had yet more sex, not to mention the
difficulty of being seen on a weekend.
Of course, with two doctors in the house, Willow knew that she could get her
hands on a prescription pad. And it was clear from what she had read that the
active ingredients were the same as in regular birth control pills, that
different dosages of the same pills were sometimes used for both purposes even.
The problem was, there were dozens of different formulations on the market and
dozens of different names for the same formulations. It would take Willow a
week to learn enough about the subject to know how to prescribe a safe and
effective dose of exactly what. Buffy didn’t have a week. Whatever kind of
pills you took had to be taken within 72 hours after ejaculation. 48 hours was
better. As soon as possible was best. Buffy had been walking around with
Giles’s semen inside her for nearly 18 hours.
Willow clamped down hard on her imagination trying to suppress the image of
Giles sliding his huge throbbing man parts into Buffy’s drippy-wet girly parts,
both of them moaning in an agony of desire seeking and finding satisfaction.
Though Buffy hadn’t specified exactly, she pictured his penis as being both
very longand very big around. Her legs must have been spread open wide enough
for him to fit his hips between them so that he could get his hard cock close
enough to thrust into her. Had she spread them wide herself, before he mounted
her, so that he could look down at her passion pink lips, beckoning him,
inviting him in? Or had he pushed them apart with his hands, his thighs, his
monster cock itself, pressing his way into her as she lay back, unresisting,
submitting to his will. Willow resisted rubbing herself again. She’d done
enough of that thinking about this disaster already. She needed her brains
washed out with soap she scolded herself.
Willow checked the clock again. The afternoon was slipping away like a false
lover into the night. She wished Buffy would hurry up and come already. The
Doorbell rang. It was Buffy. “I wish I had a million dollars(!)” she mumbled to
herself and opened up her door.
“Well?”asked Buffy anxiously, “did you find anything?” She kept shifting
uncomfortable, as if there were some wriggly little thing crawling beneath her
skirt. There was an odor about her that said she had been indulging in a little
daytime sewer hunting, a good strategy for temporary stress relief, if you
didn’t mind the high risk of being permanently killed.
Willow tried, unsuccessfully, to smile. “I’m making progress,” she said, “but
time is ticking. Apparently, you can use regular birth control pills, but I’m
still working on how much of what kind.”
“Wow,” Buffy said, “good work.” Then, worriedly, she added, “What kind of time
do we have?”
“72 hours after sex,” said Willow. “Which is now 52hours. That’s just the most
time we might have though. Some studies say 48 hours.”
“Which really means 28,” Buffy murmured, sucking her bottom lip between her
teeth, biting it gently. Willow couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was
about this small act of distress that she found so... embarrassing.
“We have to get help,” she pleaded, “Even if I steal my dad’s prescription pad,
I don’t think I can figure out what to write by tomorrow night.”
Buffy was touched by Willow’s willingness to help her un-screw-up her life, so
to speak, even to the point of breaking the law and risking getting in trouble
with her dad. “We’ll figure it out,” she found herself trying to reassure her
friend. “You already know more than Giles.”Suddenly, Buffy and Willow stopped
and looked into each other’s eyes. “We should call Giles,” Buffy said aloud.
Willow nodded, reaching for the phone next to the couch, only to be stopped by
the sound of a key turning in the door. “... From my house,” Buffy amended.
Willow nodded again. It was the obvious solution. Giles could stroll right up
to a doctor or pharmacist and casually ask for unscrewing advice, because men
his age were supposed to be sexually active.
But the short, bespectacled man coming through the front door made it hard for
them to put their brilliant plan into action. “How is my dear Willow this fine,
sunny Sabbath day?”Willows father boomed. Ira Rosenberg was as friendly and
effervescent as his wife was distant and abstracted. He ran to his daughter and
caught her in a big bear hug that, to Buffy’s eye, seem to last a fraction of a
minute too long, to be by some few centimeters too tight, too intimate. But
then, she scolded herself, not every girl had to have a distant, complicated
and borderline screwed up relationship with her father. Maybe this was what
real fatherly affection looked like.
“I’m great, Dad,” Willow beamed back at him, actually blushing. Knowing that
Dr. Rosenberg rarely made it home before 10pm, even on a Saturday and that
Willow often wished desperately that he would, Buffy tried to be unobtrusive,
to let them have their moment. It was not to be.
Although this was their first meeting, beyond a glimpse or two in the school
parking lot, Ira jumped right in to a conversation with Buffy, apparently
already in progress. “Is it a sin?” he asked in a loud, jovial voice, “to do
the Lord’s work on the Lord’s day?”
“Umm...” said Buffy, sneaking a look at Willow for guidance on how to react.
“I...wouldn’t think so?” Ira spent the next ten minutes railing against the
rigidity of Sunnydale’s latest earnest young cleric ‘Rabbi Mike’, who evidently
was pressuring him to cut back to a six day work week. She had never met anyone
in all her life who could complain or argue (she honestly wasn’t sure which he
was doing) so cheerfully. He seemed positively gleeful.
Buffy was trying to do the polite thing and keep up with what he was saying,
but all she could think about, besides the swimming tournament in her fallopian
tubes, was how desperately she wished she could reach inside her skirt and pull
up her torn panties, which had slipped down yet again, leaving one side of her
butt half sticking out under her short skirt. She halfway wished she had just
taken them off when she was alone in the sewer earlier. But with a skirt this
short, there was just too much risk of someone seeing something they weren’t
supposed to.
She’d been half tempted to see if she could trade both the skirt and the
underpants for a pair of Giles’ boxers, if he had any, but considering how hot
and heavy things had gotten when she’d brought up the subject of kissing, she
wasn’t about to try and see how well ‘boxers or briefs’ worked as a
conversation starter. She also wasn’t too keen on reminding him that he had
just torn her underpants halfway off while masturbating her to the point of
acute sexual frustration. She certainly wasn’t about to ask him if he minded
showing her where his bedroom was so that she could take her own clothes off
and put his on, sheathing her damp pussy in the same fabric that normally
caressed his cock and balls. Especially since that was the room where her
boyfriend—ex-boyfriend damn it!—had raped his girlfriend’s corpse the night
before.
Buffy tried to respond in a noncommittal yet encouraging way to everything Ira
was saying even though she’d lost the thread of it about a mile back. The look
he was giving her, when his eyes weren’t crawling all over her breasts, said
she wasn’t quite satisfying him as a conversationalist.
“Dad,” said Willow, apparently coming to her rescue, “Buffy was just telling me
how much she admires the neoclassical bronzes in the foyer.”
Buffy did a mental doubled take. What the hell kind of a bail was that?
Willow’s father was looking at her expectantly. At her face even. Admittedly,
she knew more about art than religion, but still. She didn’t especially want to
have a conversation with some middle aged horndog about her supposed admiration
of tiny statues of nude men. Especially since she’d just accidentally shifted
his attention from both her face and her breasts with the automatic fidgeting
of her pelvis inside her torn panties. She felt furious that Willow’s father
could look at her like that, could think about doing the things he was
obviously thinking about doing to her. But then she felt a weird sense of guilt
for judging him about it. He was a guy, she guessed, even if he did also happen
to be Willow’s father. He wasn’t any older than Giles. Buffy’s world was
suddenly uncomfortably full of guys. “The forms are so... kinetic,”she
managed,when an asteroid didn’t fall on her head obviating the need to say
something. She sort of remembered that at least one of the figures had been
engaged in some vaguely athletic sort of activity, or at least he was
brandishing a big ass javelin.
“Well, then,” said Dr. Rosenberg brightly, “If that’s the kind of thing you
like, you should see the ones in my study.”
“What a great idea!” Willow enthused, seeming not to notice the I-wish-I-had-X-
ray-vision way that Ira was looking at the front of Buffy’s skirt. “Let’s go
look at them right now!”
“Sounds like fun,”Buffy agreed weakly, forcing a smile. Clearly this had
something to do with Willow’s plans to lay her hands on her father’s
prescription pad. In the service of that endeavor, Buffy managed to keep Ira
engaged in a steady stream of very small talk about some fairly small statues
for what seemed like at least an hour while successfully avoiding any mention
of their tiny exposed bronze genitals. Ira had tried an experimental pun or two
about the javelin, but Buffy had played dumb and he’d stopped when he saw that
he wasn’t going to get any encouragement.
Finally, Willow emerged from somewhere outside her father’s line of sight
saying, “Buffy, I think we’d better get going. The movie starts at 5:45. We
don’t want to be late.”
“Oh,” said Ira excitedly, “you mean that new sci-fi flick over at the Sun
Cinema? I’ve been dying to see that! We’ll all go, my treat!”
“Actually,” Buffy apologized, “It’s that new romantic comedy over at the Mall
Twin.”
“Ah, yes,” Ira boomed,“I’ve been meaning to see that too. It’s the one with the
girl and the guy,” he grinned,winking at Buffy, “who get into a situation in a
place and then do things.”
“The very one,” Buffy confirmed grimly. She was beginning to have a
disturbingly clear sense of what (or who) Willow saw in Xander. Of course,
Buffy realized, with genuine if bleak amusement, she had no room to judge
anyone on the issue of all things Freudian. She let herself laugh a little, let
Willow and her dad think she was laughing with them.
“My treat and I’ll buy you girls dinner,” said Dr. Rosenberg, “that’s my final
offer.”
Buffy had just opened her mouth, uncertain as yet what excuse was about to come
out of it, when she heard Willow say, “Thanks Dad, that’s a great idea. Buffy,
isn’t that a great idea?” The look in Willow’s eyes said, just go with it, I’ll
explain later. She hoped to God there was a good reason for this little field
trip having to do with an actual anti-pregnancy plan.
“Willow?” Ira said, looking suddenly troubled. For a moment both girls’ hearts
stopped, thinking they were somehow busted. “Why don’t you get your friend a
sweater.” To Buffy he added with apologetic embarrassment, “You look... cold.”
Buffy crossed her arms over her breasts, and started towards the stairs,
relieved that, at least, she might have the chance to get Willow alone for a
minute and get the scoop on what she was supposed to be gaining by letting Ira
Rosenberg take her out for dinner and a movie. Maybe there would even be an
opportunity to change into a more functional pair of under wear. It was not to
be. “Here you go, Buffy,” Willow said, pulling a lime green monstrosity out of
the coat closet by the front door.
“I’m not sure that quite goes—” Buffy started to object, but Ira cut her off in
mid-sentence. She was honestly having trouble imagining Sheila Rosenberg,
legendary local feminnazi, putting up with this guy for what had clearly been
well over eighteen years. Maybe by ignoring him completely? Sharing space like
roommates? "They don’t even bicker," Willow had said,“sometimes they glare.”It
was hard to imagine not having any more conflict than that in an actual ongoing
relationship.
“It’ll do,” he said. “If you girls get lost in Willow’s closet you may never
find your way out again. We’re bound to miss the previews as it is.”
****
London, UK, March 15, 1925
Helena’s stomach lurched. Blood. She was shocked at the sight of it. Logic,
simple basic arithmetic as applied to biology told her she should have expected
it, and yet she had not. She was horrified. Because she bled, she wept.
Nothing. It was all for nothing. She was nothing. Not a virgin, not a mother,
not even a whore. Nothing. A victim consecrated to nothing. A thoughtless, vain
sacrifice to Peter’s lust and petulance.
Suddenly, Helena laughed, a high sharp brittle sound, like glass breaking. She
had honestly thought, she suddenly realized, had seriouslybelieved, that
something as horrible as rape could only have happened to her for a REASON!
Still, at twenty-five years of age no less, even as she had lain on the floor
of Peter’s storeroom, battered and weeping and cursing and begging him to let
her up, even as he had mercilessly forced his painfully hard and inflexible
member into her dry, disgusted, unprepared orifice, even as she had walked
home, numb, lost, friendless, she had been a child, believing in rainbows and
unicorns!
Helena laughed and was a child no more. Her womb was not empty after all.
Vengeance coiled and hissed inside her, a living thing, a thing she would bring
forth into the world. ‘To everything there is a season,’ so it was written,
‘And a time to every purpose under heaven.’ Math and biology posing as
mysticism; mysticism posing as logic. Helena ceased to weep. She bled for seven
days and for seven more she waited, preparing for a time of War.
 
***** Other Plans *****
Chapter Summary
     Angel has an idea for keeping Buffy too busy to get her hands on the
     morning after pill. Because he has a sick sense of humor, that's why.
Predictably, when they got to the mall, there was some confusion over the fact
that there was no 5:45 showing for the chick flick de jure. Buffy died a little
as the good doctor cheerfully purchased three tickets for the next showing at
7:15. She did not have time for this. She could practically feel herself
ovulating. Plus Ira had filled the short drive over with plausibly deniable sex
puns aimed squarely in her direction, and she wasn’t about to spend the next
two hours playing musical chairs in a dark theater to try to keep Willow in
between them. Finally, she managed to drag Willow away to the ladies room,
enduring the inevitable bevy of jokes about the female habit of going to the
bathroom in pairs, with a little too much leering lesbian subtext considering
one of the two girls was his daughter. The moment she was sure they were alone,
Buffy locked the door, turned to Willow and said: “Okay, so tell me how this is
all part of some amazingly brilliant plan to keep me from getting knocked up.”
“Well,” said Willow, shifting uncomfortably, “I got the prescription pad, but I
need a little time to trace my dad’s signature from the indention in the
paper.”
Buffy tried to suppress her annoyance, to give her friend the benefit of the
doubt. “And we aren’t at my house, right now, doing that because... why
exactly?” she asked.
“It’s easier to do when you have the whole pad, not just one sheet,” Willow
explained. “The groves are deeper.”
“And?” Buffy demanded skeptically.
“I know my dad,” Willow argued. “If he’s alone in the house too long, he’ll
start organizing things. If the prescription pad is missing, he won’t rest
until he finds it. This way, I can keep him busy until I’m ready to put it
back.”
Buffy had to admit that this made a degree of sense, but she was still
convinced that more than half of the reason they were here was because Willow
could not pass up the chance to spend time with her father, even if she had to
spend it pretending that he wasn’t pretending that he was there on a date with
Buffy. “Okay,” she said, thinking fast, “Here’s the plan. You go ahead and get
started on the signature. Your Dad will start to wonder why we’re taking so
long, but that’s fine, because as soon as we’ve got that done, we can go back
and tell him I’m sick, and you guys can take me home. You go on to the movie
with your dad, and I’ll call Giles and tell him to get his ass in gear on the
whole dosage issue, got it?”
Three feet above their heads, concealed behind a thin layer of ceiling panels,
Angel smiled like a shark, eyes and teeth glittering in the semi-darkness glad
he’d decided to track Buffy from the sewer himself instead of sending a minion
to do it. His smile got broader with every word of confirmation that Buffy and
Giles had indeed committed that most unoriginal of sins, the sin of imprudent
fucking. “I mean, my life isn’t complicated enough with my murdering vampire
ex-boyfriend telling mymom every last detail of how I lost my virginity?” Buffy
railed, fidgeting giving way to pacing, which led to unconscious adjustment of
her underpants the way a girl would only do when she thought she was alone.
“No, I have to go and make things really interesting by sleeping with my
Watcher! I means he’s like, ‘leave me alone and let me go kill myself’ and I’m
like, ‘no, I have a better idea lets fuck in a fucking parking lot like a
couple of animals so I can prove how much I don’t want you to die!’ Now there’s
a brilliant frigging decision making process. I just want to cross stitch that
story on a little pillow to put in the frigging nursery!”
This was just too much. He never ceased to delight in the depths of human
depravity or in the intimate association between loving someone and making them
miserable. Thinking of the pompous, self-consciously ‘good’ Rupert Giles, with
his well-meaning notions of duty and honor, pluming those depths and inflicting
such sweet misery was deliciously amusing. It was even funnier given that dear,
sweet Jenny Calendar, the damned gypsy bitch that Giles had been panting after
for nearly a year, had been dead less than 24 hours. Their fumbling, bumbling,
never to be consummated romance had been a comedy of errors that, even with the
hindrance of a feeling human soul, Angel had been fully able to appreciate. Now
her body lay cold and naked, broken and violated in a drawer in the basement
morgue of Sunnydale General. After all that yearning and burning, after so much
maudlin, self-indulgent agonizing about love and betrayal, after his suicidally
stupid tantrum at the factory last night; that the great, dignified Watcher
couldn’t keep his cock in his pants long enough to get his ‘one true love’ in
the ground was abso-fucking-lutely hilarious.
As Buffy continued her soliloquy Angel made a mental note to have a
conversation with Giles in the very near future so that he could let him know
exactly how Jenny and Buffy compared, sexually speaking. The Watcher had
definitely had the better of the two fucks, even taking into account the
inherent disadvantage of being stone dead as a quality in a lover. Buffy was
younger, tighter, and he could just tell that she had more creativity and
enthusiasm than Jenny had ever had, dead or alive, not to mention the muscle
tone of a Slayer, inside and out. Giles was really very lucky that Angel had
taken the lesser lover off his hands. He was practically getting a hard-on
thinking of what it would be like to explain that to him detail by warm, sticky
detail.
“Which you’d think, at least, being a sophisticated man or the world or
whatever, Giles would know a little more than us about how to not get
pregnant,” Buffy was complaining. “I mean especially if it’s as simple as
taking extra birth control pills. He lived through the sixties or whatever. How
can he not know this stuff?”
“He’s a guy,” Willow pointed out distractedly, not looking up from her work.
“This is girl stuff.”
“Yeah,” said Buffy, “but why is that exactly? I mean, I’m pretty sure he was
fucking me the whole time I was fucking him, right? I mean, these are his sperm
we’re trying to neutralize or whatever. And he sure as hell doesn’t want to be
breaking out the tweed diapers any more than I do. So why is it my job to fix
this and not his?”
On another level, Angel was also angry. The part of him that still was and
would always be the fleshly descendant of a tree dwelling primate wanted to
hang that meddling librarian up by his ball sac and explain to him in
excruciating detail that Buffy was not his cunt to fuck. But, one advantage of
being a soulless monster was that Angel trulyenjoyed being angry. It was nice
to actually have something against a potential victim. It made the whole
process of anticipating, planning and consummating violence against them so
much more meaningful. Yes, very soon he was going to have a confrontation with
Mr. Rupert S. Giles, after which he could spend the rest of eternity comparing
notes with the lovely Ms. Calendar about the abuse and violation of their
various organs and orifices.
Right now, however, Angel was getting stoked up for his imminent confrontation
with Buffy. Her wanton fornication had created an opportunity for him to hurt
and damage her in intimate and lasting ways. If he got to punish her new
paramour in the process, that was just a bonus. The dumb bitch didn’t even know
how much danger she was in of actually conceiving her Watcher’s spawn. After
more than a year of obsessing over the girl, Angel knew the rhythms of her body
better than she did. He was aware of her heartbeat, her body temperature, every
drop of blood that she had ever shed. He also remembered a world she had no
inkling of, a world in which men and women lived in dread of procreative forces
they could barely understand, let alone control. If he’d had to make book on
Buffy getting pregnant based on his knowledge of those processes and the
perversity of fate, he’d have bet even money, even if ‘never again’ didn’t turn
into ‘just once more’, the way it so often did. Besides, he wouldn’t mind
causing her a few weeks of anxiety over the prospect of getting knocked up even
if it didn’t pan out.
It was clear to Angel that his enemy was racing against time. All he had to do
to hurt her was to slow her down. As usual, he knew just what to do to keep
Buffy too busy to make other plans. Silently, he crept along the ceiling beams
to hang like a bat inside into the space above the adjoining men’s restroom and
peer down through a gap in the panels less than an inch wide. Minutes ticked
by. His unseen expression had become more serious. For his plan to work, he
needed a victim to come along before Buffy and Willow finished their work. He
didn’t dare strike in the lobby, or in the Mall proper, where the last rays of
the setting sun still streamed through the skylights. Even indirect rays,
though unlikely to kill a vampire, tended to sap his strength pretty quickly.
In a fight with Buffy, that would amount to the same thing.
Not for the first time, Angel wished he had Spike’s high tolerance to sunlight.
That yellow haired bastard could soak up indirect rays like they were
moonbeams. He knew it too, the arrogant little cocksucker. Even with his
useless scorched and twisted legs, even with his new spinal problems, despite
his recent object lesson in the form of a cock up the ass, Spike still though
he was Angel’s better. He’d forgotten his place in the pecking order while
Angel had been away. Drusilla had never been a good disciplinarian despite her
flare for bondage, torture, choreographed proxy rape and other such sex play.
She had let her spawn act the part of her sire for too long. He’d even had the
balls to question Angel’s priorities in focusing the group’s energies on the
systematic destruction of Buffy Summers, especially when he had decided,
totally of his own free will, not to rape her for Valentine’s Day after all, to
take a wider circle and come back to that little treat after a longer period of
anticipation. Spike had actually implied that he, Angelus, had taken pity on
the Slayer, that he was less than a monster, less even that a man because he
had spent these last few weeks feasting on her incrementally increasing
suffering rather than simply tackling her at the first clear chance and fucking
her immediately before, during or after ripping her throat out. Cretin.
Well, Daddy really was home now. He had set himself a goal of completely
breaking Buffy before he killed her and that was what he meant to do. He would
just have to keep forcibly reminding Spike who was on top until he got it
through his thick, peroxided scalp that he was the bitch, not the master.
Angel was tired of waiting. He needed to consummate his plan for tormenting
Buffy right now. He was getting just about desperate enough to snatch Willow
through the ceiling of the ladies’ room. Actually, he was starting to warm up
to the idea, despite the risks. After all, there were few people in the world
whose pain would be more piercing to Buffy. Besides, who could ever get tired
of defiling weeping virgins.
Then, miraculously, like the son of Abraham before her, Willow Rosenberg was
spared by the sudden appearance of a fat, hapless he goat. Or was she? A broad
grin split Angel’s face once more. This was too good to be true. The poor
innocent fool who had stumbled across his path was none other than Willow’s
father, Dr. Ira Rosenberg. It was the same crime only better. This way Buffy
wouldn’t have to imagine Willow’s suffering, she could live with it first hand,
the way she was living with Rupert’s deep, albeit twisted mourning for Jenny.
Angel waited until Ira Rosenberg was as far off his guard as a man could be
short of coming. He stood there, certain he was alone, dick in hand, blissfully
pissing his way to relief. Suddenly, Angel dove through the ceiling in full
vamp face, lunging directly at the side of Rosenberg’s head, at an angle
calculated to produce maximum terror. His efforts were rewarded with a
satisfying scream, sure to bring Buffy, Willow and half the theater running.
Collapsing atop his prey, Angel sank in his fangs and quickly slurped down at
least a pint of blood.
Ira’s frightened heartbeat, his warm body, his ardent but feeble struggling to
break free, filled Angel with a joyful longing that was both lust and hunger
yet somehow also akin to love. He grabbed Ira by the balls, twisting and
squeezing, enjoying his pain and his confusion. Angel’s cock was hard and
drooling. For one delightful moment he imagined the joy it would give him to
penetrate and humiliate this man knowing the shame it would bring to his
offspring, the horror and disgust Buffy would be forced to feel on her behalf.
Angel had to remind himself not to get too distracted, not to surrender too
much to the moment. The Slayer was coming. By his own art he was forcing her to
come. And when she came, he would leave her no choice about what happened next.
Jumping to his feet, Angel jerked Ira up by the collar, thrust him through the
hole in the ceiling and leapt up after him. In the wink of a lamb’s tail, he
heard Buffy and Willow burst through the bathroom door, forcing entry against
the objections of a security guard, who shouted and cursed in protest invoking
the bans of law and decency to demand that they withdraw from this most private
place of men. Deaf to his cries, they moved further inside that small, shit
stinking chamber. Not daring to waist another moment listening to the commotion
below, Angel herded Ira before him like a dog nipping at the heels of a
frightened sheep, making for the duct system that would lead them down to the
basement where they could disappear into the sewers.
Ira was desperate to escape. He was acutely aware of his pants falling around
his ankles and the pain in his battered testicles, which gave him a horrific
but graspable handle for what was happening to him. Praying to God to deliver
him, he leapt with all his weight and all his faith onto a soft expanse of
ceiling panels between two beams. But for the intervention of Angel’s
superhuman reflexes, he would have fallen free to the lobby. The demon lunged
and grabbed his prey with both hands, nearly falling through the ceiling
himself. “Nice try Rosenberg,” he snarled as he regained his balance. “Just for
that,” he fumed, pausing to take another quick drink, “I’m not going to kill
you all the way. I’m going to leave you for Buffy.”
 
***** The Opposite of Sex *****
Chapter Summary
     "Talking about it isn't helping; We may as well try some violence(!)"
     ~Willow Rosenberg
As Buffy scuttled nimbly along the beams inside the ceiling of the Mall Twin,
she was focused, energized, fueled by cold hatred that left no room for anger,
fear or uncertainty. Angel had to be stopped. Dr. Rosenberg had to be saved,
but most importantly, Angel had to die. Suddenly, she heard scuffling and
snarling only a few yards away. The darkness ahead of her got a little lighter.
No more than twenty feet in front of her Angel and Dr. Rosenberg were
silhouetted by the dim glow of a hole where they had nearly fallen through to
the lobby. Angel was biting Dr. Rosenberg savagely on the side of the head,
punishing him, she supposed for his near escape. During the quarter minute or
so that Angel stopped to savage Willow’s father, Buffy closed most of the
distance between them, but she was still not within lunging distance in these
tight quarters when the undead bastard scrambled across the gap, dragging his
wailing hostage after him.
Buffy stopped short. At five foot almost two, she could not simply lie across
the hole and grab the beams on the other side as Angel had done, and she had no
room to build momentum to leap over it. Instead, she hung from a rafter and
swung across, losing nearly half a minute and those goddamned underpants in the
process. She could imagine what someone would think seeing them flutter down
like a little white dove to the floor below, but this was certainly no time to
worry about her reputation.
Now more than thirty feet away, Angel and his victim disappeared into the once
again deepening darkness of the crawl space. Buffy rounded a corner, more than
half expecting to be ambushed but they were gone. She made a noise of rage and
frustration between a grunt and a scream. They seemed to have literally
disappeared. Then, Buffy glimpsed the metal air duct in the near darkness. She
looked cautiously into the opening and felt more than saw that the shaft was
completely vertical and very, very deep. It must lead to the basement and
thence the sewer. The duct was so narrow that anyone moving through it would
have their arms pinned to their sides until they almost fully emerged, like an
infant being born. Or a fetus at an abortion clinic. Going down that shaft
knowing that Angel lay in wait below would be little short of suicide.
No time to find a more appropriate entrance, Buffy ripped her way through the
ceiling, and swung herself down into the midst of an astonished crowd, every
single one of whom could see her bare bush. “Hey!” a ten-or-twelve-year-old boy
shouted in awe and rapture, “That girl’s not wearing any underpants!” There was
an excited murmur in which disapproval was but one prominent note. Pushing her
way through the throng, ignoring at least one opportunistic hand up her skirt
Buffy headed for the elevator. She glimpsed Willow across the cavernous room,
screaming and crying hysterically, her hair falling down in her face, her
clothes becoming disheveled as she struggled in vain to free herself from two
beefy, red faced mall cops. There was no time to render aid. Buffy had to
prioritize. The mall cops probably weren’t killers, even in Sunnydale. Angel
was.
Buffy caught an almost empty elevator, physically tossing it’s one passenger
out on his butt and descended into the basement like Hercules into the
underworld. Once again, she was prepared to step into an ambush, but the
basement was deserted. Buffy spied a pile of crates roughly flung against one
wall, their contents spilled, broken and smeared with blood. Shoving them
aside, she found a loose grate and lifted it up. A thin trail of fresh blood
mingled with the sewage down the tunnel leading to her left. Buffy followed it
without hesitation. Adrenaline was rushing through her veins as her heart
pumped almost double time. They were close. She could feel it. Running as fast
as she dared in the perpetual slickness of the massive drain pipe, Buffy
skidded around a corner. And literally ran into Spike.
“Oh, Slayer!” he cried out as she trod on his useless legs, “Please, please,
don’t hurt me!”
“What the fuck?” Said Buffy stunned, confused.
“No, sod it,” he spat, scrambling into a sitting position against the wall,
“just kill me already, make it quick.”
A thousand questions bubbled through Buffy’s brain, questions like ‘Is he still
part of Angel’s crew?’ and ‘Oh my God is Spike looking up my skirt?’ But the
first to pop out of her mouth was, “Where’s your wheel chair?”
“Bastard took it, din’ he,” said Spike bitterly, “along with that fucking bitch
and every other bloody thing that used to be mine.”This degraded,helpless
creature was so pitiful that Buffy almost literally pitied him. But she knew
pity was wasted on vampires, alien to them. And she did not have time. Plus,
she was pretty sure he was looking up her skirt, and could see everything.
“Spike,” she demanded, “Where’s Angel? Which way did they go?”
Spike flashed a nasty smile at Buffy, a half second sooner than he should have.
Spinning on her heels, she blocked the heavy iron bar that Angel was swinging
at her head, catching it in both hands. The metal slammed into her palms so
hard it made the tiny bones in her wrists vibrate, but Buffy held on and
immediately began using the bar to push Angel back. Suddenly, in one smooth
motion, Angel released the bar and ducked under it so that Buffy flew forward
into him and he was able to catch her around the waist and roll on top of her,
his face rubbing wetly against her chest in a way that made her glad to be
wearing a sweater and that her skirt had landed in such a way that he probably
hadn’t yet tumbled to the fact that she was pinned beneath him sans underwear.
“Hello, lover!” he laughed with brutal joy, “you like to get your hands on my
rod, don’t you?”
Buffy head-butted Angel in the face and threw him backwards into Spike, who had
been lolling against the wall of the tunnel with a smirk on his face watching
the show. “Watch it you bloody Poofter!” Spike snarled, scuttling backwards.
The smirk was gone, but he still seemed content to watch from the sidelines.
Leaping forward, maintaining the initiative, Buffy planted her knees in Angel’s
chest, slammed the iron bar down into his throat as hard as she could and held
it there with both hands. She couldn’t literally choke him to death, but she
got a satisfying sense that it hurt like hell.
“Looks like you’re about to be on the receiving end, Mate,” Spike jeered at
Angel.
“Where’s Ira Rosenberg?” Buffy demanded, not the least bit amused by their
banter.
Angel gritted his teeth, planted his hands on either side of Buffy’s and pushed
upward,grunting with effort, until he could speak again. “Spike,” he snarled,
“get your worthless ass over here and help me, you lazy fucking cunt!” Spike
shrugged, vamped out and used his hands to push off from the wall and take a
flying leap at the middle of Buffy’s back. Forewarned, Buffy rocked forward
into a hand stand on the iron bar that she still held to Angel’s throat (making
her skirt a belt) and brought her feet up to catch Spike square on the chin in
midair. He crumpled in a heap onto Angel’s legs, getting several more kicks to
the face for his trouble.
Buffy reached the top of her arc. Jerking hard on the iron bar, she pulled it
against Angel’s chin, hard enough to break his jaw. Releasing her grip on the
bar, she let her continued momentum carry her over into a complete somersault,
landing squarely on her feet about two yards away from the tangled pile of
vampire flesh that was Spike and Angel. Angel scrambled to his feet and kicked
Spike several yards down the tunnel as Buffy pulled a stake from her sleeve
shook her only slightly more than cheerleading length skirt down from around
her waist, not satisfied with the extent to which it concealed either her cunt
or her ass,and prepared to renew the attack.
“Bugger this!” Spike cried and skittered off into the depths of the sewers.
Angel looked murderously at Buffy, cradling his broken jaw in his left hand and
brandishing the metal bar in his right. He stood his ground, but did not
advance, on the ropes, but still dangerous. Buffy considered her options. She
could probably stake Angel right now. She might never get a better chance. Even
if Dr. Rosenberg was alive, Angel wasn’t going to give her any information that
would help save him unless he needed to trade tales to stay undead. She
charged, raising her left arm to block Angel’s defensive weapon, thrusting her
stake heartwards with her right.
Angel’s left jab caught her hard in the mouth. The point of her stake skidded
across his belly, ripping his shirt and his flesh open, but it was a shallow
wound. He swung out with his elbow as she staggered back, intending to knock
the stake from her hand but she held on. Pivoting into the direction of his
rod-swinging follow-on attack, she drove her stake deep into the muscle of
Angel’s right arm, just above the elbow. The swift, hard, from-the-shoulder
downward stroke that he had been aiming at her head more than doubled the
effective force behind her thrust, driving the wood through muscles and
tendons, crunching and splintering it against bones that crunched and
splintered in response. Angel screamed like a scalded cat. His rod fell,
uselessly rolling off into the darkness.
Buffy plunged forward, bulldozing Angel to the ground. She hopped on top of him
straddling his chest, doing her best to ignore the unsettling skin to skin
contact between her naked crotch and his exposed, bleeding belly. She wasn’t
going to be able to hold down a beast like Angel by delicately squatting over
him like a prissy lady in a gas station bathroom. She grabbed the stump of her
stake with her left hand and twisted it in Angel’s mangled flesh, pinning his
right arm to the ground. With her right hand, she blocked his left handed
snatch for her hair. “Where is Ira Rosenberg?” she demanded again.
Angel tried to answer her, but his jaw was shattered. Knowing Buffy as he did,
he let his face slip into human form, let his arms and legs go limp, as if
surrendering to her mercy. Knowing Angel as she did, Buffy saw this tactic for
what it was. Still, it was sort of working. Digging her knees into Angel’s
sides, like he was a horse, Buffy released her grip on his broken and bleeding
right arm and pulled his good left arm hard against his chest. At least this
gave her a good reason to lean forward just a little, putting most of an inch
between his gut and her cunt. She knew she should stake him, that she could
probably still jam her blunted bit of wood into his heart if she put enough
force behind it. But the longer Angel lay still and apparently helpless, the
harder it was for Buffy to work up the fire necessary for mortal violence.
‘But he’s not a mortal' Buffy silently argued with herself,‘He’s a vampire.’She
killed vampires almost nightly, laughing and joking as they died. But this was
different. The sight of Angel’s battered flesh lying prone beneath her was
anything but funny. She had known him as he once was, had loved him, body and
soul. She had longed for him, lusted for him, and already her lust had all but
obliterated him. As monstrous as his recent acts had been, she still found it
hard to finish with her stake what she had started with her cunt.
“Is Dr. Rosenberg alive?” Buffy asked, more gently than she wanted to. Angel
nodded painfully.“Is he nearby?”Angel hesitated. Buffy kneed him hard in both
sides, feeling indecently equestrian, like she ought to have spurs and a riding
crop. “Is he nearby?” she demanded more sharply. Angel nodded.“Back towards the
Mall access?” Buffy guessed. Angel shook his head feebly, then cocked it in the
direction that they had been traveling, deeper into the sewers. Rage welled up
in Buffy once again. “You gave him to Drusilla!” She accused. Angel couldn’t
smile, but his eyes twinkled.
“Not just Drusilla,” said an unfamiliar voice from the tunnel ahead. A chorus
of laughter followed. Half a dozen vampires stepped from the shadows. Spike had
gone for help after all. Angel freed his good left arm and made a grab for
Buffy’s throat. As she jumped to her feet, still astride his chest, he rolled
to the right, trying to knock her off balance, instead sending pain shooting
through his body as he rolled onto his stricken arm. Buffy sprang backward,
putting him between her and his advancing minions. They would either have to
stop and help Angel or stagger over him one or two at a time, a great set up if
only Buffy had a stake. Or a sword she amended, seeing a glint of metal in the
hand of a large vamp, who was indeed stepping over the body of his fallen
master.
Predictably, he lunged for Buffy’s midsection. She leapt above his stroke,
kicked him in the face, brought both feet down on his arm and collapsed on top
of him. The sword was thrown free as she had planned. It landed perhaps three
feet from the spot where Angel had once lain and from which three vampires were
now gathering themselves for an advance while the other two helped Angel down
the tunnel. Buffy, lunged for the sword just as its owner, recovering himself
grabbed hold of her right thigh and bit into her flank. She kicked him hard
with her left foot, ripping great gashes in her flesh as it was torn from his
jaws.
Buffy fell on her chest against the floor of the tunnel hard enough to knock
the wind out of her, but hers was the first hand to close on the hilt of the
sword, which she brought up directly into the face of her nearest competitor,a
young female vampire in Daisy Dukes and a strapless bikini top. Hell’s
skankiest ho staggered back, bleeding and screaming. The two vamps advancing
behind her pulled up short. The swordsman made another desperate grab for
Buffy’s legs, to keep her on the ground, but she swung her upper body in a
smooth arc like a good cheerleader, severing his clinging hands above the
wrists. Kicking the severed hands aside, she sprang to her feet and decapitated
her cringing foe.
Surrounded by a haze of vampire dust, the Slayer rounded on the companions of
her slain enemy, brandishing the fatal sword. Slowly, she let a wicked smile
spread across her lips. The remaining vampires fled in terror. Buffy sagged.
The smile melted from her face, leaving it a mask of pain and anguish. Leaning
on her sword for support, she took off Willow’s sweater and tied it as tight as
she could round her bleeding leg. Her makeshift bandage was infused with sewer
slime, but there was no other way to control the bleeding. Despite her wound
and the slippery walking surface, Buffy made her way back towards the theater
at a fairly good clip. She was in no shape to hang around and see if the vamps
would come back with reinforcements.
She moved quickly and quietly, uttering an unbroken string of curses only in
her mind. Willow’s father was undoubtedly dead or dying. It was too much to
hope that Angel and company would show him the mercy of letting him stay dead.
Yet, once again, Buffy had had the murdering undead bastard within her grasp
and had failed to summon the will to put an end to him. Once again, she had
been weak,sentimental, stupid. She had let Angel get away.
End Notes
     The main timeline of this work is roughly contemporaneous with Lady's
     Choice Chapter 2 "Morning After", probably still earlier in time than
     the last scene of BtVS s02 e17 "Passion" though these events preempt
     that scene anyway.
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