PART 4

He stood several feet from her, fighting to remain impassive, to play his part, to be "the Tar" – the brutal destroyer and torturer of the Slayer. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to maintain a casual posture, fully aware that his "relaxed stance" was likely belied by the death grip he had on his sheathed sword. Whatever. If the demons tried *anything*.… At the moment, even given the damning odds, he was certain he could easily do a fair bit of damage on the way to his death.

But that wouldn't save Buffy.

Anger, horror, happiness, devastation, gratitude and worry all warred for dominance in his brain. He'd thought he'd mentally prepared himself to see her again, but faced with her – with her "reality" – he realized nothing could have prepared him. Not for this. She sat naked, her bound hands tied behind her, knees pulled apart - calves and ankles strapped to the legs of the chair. Her long, waist-length, dark blonde hair fell in an elaborate braid over her shoulder; her gaze was dutifully, submissively, lowered to the floor. She looked emotionless, but he could see her trembling, could feel terror coming off of her in waves.

He wanted to grab her, cover her up, protect her, take care of her… *leave*. Frustration overwhelmed him and he narrowly bit back a growl. He didn't want her to think he was angry with her or that he was going to hurt her. Her? Never. The rest of the Castle would pay dearly as well as every demon that had harmed her. He looked forward to exacting a bloody, painful revenge on her behalf… a revenge for this horrible wrong done to her. Anyone who had touched her, *anyone* who had hurt her would fully learn the meaning of pain by his hand.

But no one would hurt as much as Quentin Travers. He’d spent the last three years in Bethara, fighting to get to her and fantasizing about the pain he would cause Travers as soon as he had Buffy back at his side. It was one of the few times he’d been grateful for Angelus’ place in his existence; he’d be putting over one hundred years of perfected torture techniques into Travers’ demise. So many bones, tendons, ligaments… so many ways to cause immeasurable pain while keeping the victim alive and conscious…. But he also knew that no matter what he did, no matter how he destroyed Travers… that no amount of retribution would ever be enough.

She remained still - waiting - and he realized it would be better to get her out of there before letting her know he was there… to get her alone before seeing if she were alright. As if that were possible. It had been so long. Over three years for him, at least twenty for her. After all this time, he wondered if she’d have forgotten him, forgiven him.

He nodded at the Roffs and they moved to untie her. Furious at the way they handled her – like a piece of *meat* – and vowing to teach them just how she deserved to be treated – he turned quickly and exited the room, his face cold and damning to any who dared look at him. He followed the Pava to his requested room - the Dungeon. Pava had told him, with a smile, that it was the most depraved room in the place and a favorite of the last Tar, who had spent the entirety of each nine day stay in it with her. His heart had clenched in both horror and fury hearing that. The last Tar was also a vampire - or parnazya demon as they were known there - who had likely known just what service Slayers performed on Earth. At the moment, he fought to not dwell on that fact; now, he needed only to get her out of there as quickly as possible.

He could feel her following behind him, could hear her breath hitch in terror when she realized where he was leading her. As he entered the room, he immediately understood why.

The room was large, dark and made completely of stone, with removable torches lining the walls. A raised dais was the centerpiece with manacles and ropes hanging off the sides to lash a victim down. Running water was at the ready should he wish to use time consuming, but very effective, water torture methods. The walls displayed every type of whip, knife, cane and chain imaginable, including many crude and painfully large, sex toys. There was a fire in the left corner and he could see various pokers resting in the flames. Upon second glance, he realized they were branding implements, some small, some large. He’d branded Dru back in the day. Even for a vampire, it took her days to heal from the pain.

Buffy eyes remained downcast but he could see her gaze flit in horror toward the far right corner of the room. There stood a clear, human-sized reptile case filled with snakes. Angel bit back his rage, fought to retain his human face, as he imagined her locked within the box, her torturers watching her, laughing as she screamed in terror, as the most-likely poisonous snakes covered her naked body in painful bites. If she hadn’t turned into Dru, he’d be amazed.

He strode past her, wincing when he heard her gasp at the sound of the door’s bolt slipping into place. Walking carefully in front of her, he reached out and gently touched her arm. He saw her fight not to pull away.

“Buffy. Are you okay?” he whispered, in English.

Her head jerked up and she finally looked directly at him. Her eyes widened in shock. She looked confused and frightened. She closed her eyes and shook her head as if to clear it.

“Buffy, do you understand me?” he said, his hand tentatively reaching out to push a stray lock of her waist-length hair behind her ear.

“N'ka – Uh,” she gasped, her eyes pooling with tears. “E-- Engel?”

He pulled her to him in a strong embrace, practically crushing her as he began to cry. “Oh, Buffy. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should have stayed with you, I should have protected you so they couldn’t get to you. I’m so sorry, so sorry....” He pulled her with him to the ground, held her tighter as she began to sob too, repeating his name over and over, as if it were the only word she knew. And it very likely was.

***

He’d held her, gently stroking her back, whispering to her, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her hair…over and over… until they’d both cried themselves to sleep. She'd awakened first, her head clearer now, and she'd moved away from him to lean against the wall holding a poker. Might as well have a weapon.

She knew it wasn’t him. It looked and smelled like him, or at least what she remembered he was like, but this Angel – or whoever he was – this Angel was alive. Unless she was totally confused, which was possible – she’d forgotten so much – her Angel was a vampire, always. You didn’t recover from vampirism, she was pretty sure of that. So, weapon.

He yawned when he woke up, sitting up carefully and studying her defensive posture against the wall. He ran a hand through his hair.

“You don’t get to look like him,” she said quietly, in Betharan. “You are not him. Don’t you dare pretend to be him. You want to fight me, *kill* me, fine. But don’t you dare do that: pretend to be him.”

“Buffy - is it okay to call you that...? ‘Buffy’?” he said, speaking in Betharan, unsure now if she remembered English at all. Getting no response, he continued. “It’s really me. I swear to you. I know you have no reason to believe me but.... Do you remember when you found out I was a vampire? How we fought in the Bronze - the night club - with Darla?”

She frowned, and seemed to think hard for a moment, finally replying: “I think so.”

“When we were fighting, you offered me your neck. You didn’t believe I could kill you, and I couldn’t.” He began crawling slowly toward her. “I know the poker is metal, not wood, but I’m mostly human here, part-demon really, and if you shove that through my heart, it *will* kill me.”

He knelt in front of her now, his heart directly in front of the poker. “Buffy, I know you don’t believe it but it’s me. It’s really me. I won’t hurt you, Buffy. I promise you.”

Her hands tightened on the poker as she studied him, stared deeply into his eyes. After a moment, she slightly lowered the poker but still held it in her grasp tightly. Ready to use it.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered.

“Right now? Just to talk to you.” He said, leaning back on his heels. “Just talk, okay?”

Her eyes narrowed but, ultimately, she nodded her assent.

***

She could tell he was doing his best to keep his face "blank" but there were times his mask would ... fall. It was those moments – the pain and guilt she saw in his eyes more than anything - that made her finally put the poker down, that allowed her to hope that this was, in fact, the Angel of her memories, that allowed her to reach out her hand and tentatively touch his when his voice would break… when his words would trail off.

He really did seem to love her the way she remembered. It shocked her - she’d just thought that over time she’d embellished her memories, made their ‘love’ much more than possible, but it did in fact seem to be exactly that. They talked for hours, she sitting in front of the fire in his tunic mmm, so good to wear garments again, as he told her about her Mother and Willow and Xander (it turned out their names were) and also about her Watcher, Giles. He told her that when he’d left they were keeping up the fight until she could come back, and that he’d come to rescue her, to take her home.

The time passed quickly… too quickly. Meals would come and she’d realize she was, in fact, hungry and that they had, in fact, been talking for hours. He insisted on leaving the room to retrieve their food. She suspected he didn’t want Pava to find out she was "fine" and she dreaded the day Angel’d have to make it so that she wasn’t. But for now, she was just going to enjoy her little piece of heaven. She’d never get heaven, not really, but she did have these fourteen days.

It scared her how much she wanted it to be him, wanted this to be true. And if it was true, how could she let him go?

She lay on her side, staring into the fire, worrying her lip, pondering this when she felt him wake behind her, his hand rubbing small circles on her belly under the edge of the shirt. He’d yet to fuck her. She remembered, vaguely, that it didn’t have to be all about pain, like it always was, that it could be more... shared. More equal. But that could just be wishful thinking, right?

“What is it?” he said.

“It’s nothing. I’m very happy. You make me very happy.” She smiled nervously, rolling to face him, hoping she'd given the right answer, that she was pleasing to him, her chest growing tight when she realized he was frowning. Still, she’d made him frown a lot and he’d yet to harm her in any way.

“Buffy, really. Tell me the truth. What is it?” He asked, reaching up to stroke her cheek.

Not knowing what the correct truth was, she instead sat up and removed “her” tunic and began to kiss him, reaching down to stroke his cock through his robe. She drew a quick breath when he gently removed her hand and pushed her away.

“Angel, please," she breathed, panicked. "Tell me what to do to please you. I’m sorry I’m not doing it right, but please, I’d like to. Just tell me what to do.”

She felt him studying her and terrified, she stared at the floor, chewing her lip as she awaited his instructions.

“I want you to lay on your stomach with your arms by your sides.” He said, his voice tight. He folded the discarded shirt and fashioned a small pillow for her… placed it under her cheek. She watched him cross the room and look over the display on the wall. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him gather a few things and return to her.

Her back muscles were tight as she awaited her punishment. She only hoped it wasn’t too bad but he was entitled, right? Even if he seemed nice, he was entitled to do what he wanted.

He knelt back down, straddling her back, and, using the oil he had retrieved, gently began to work it into her skin. She could tell by the smell that it was Zhor oil. She remained tense, awaiting the blows of the Zhor. The last Tar had done this as well... using the oil generously, oil designed to make that particular whip sting very badly.

“It’s okay, Buffy. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I’m just going to rub your back. I’m not going to punish you, okay? You please me just by being here,” he swore, his voice strangled. She jumped as he pressed a kiss into the back of her neck. She tried very much to relax but worried that she wasn’t doing it well enough. He said nothing... just kept rubbing the oil in, using slow, long strokes… coating her entire back and buttocks. She fought not to think… to just enjoy his touches while they lasted.

His hands felt good… so good… warm, firm yet gentle. She felt her tension dissolve, felt herself let go until she was suspended between sleep and consciousness. Warm stones were placed on certain points on her back... his hands now stroking her sides. She could feel the heat coming off his body as he moved closer to her… as he removed the stones… as he began kissing her back, running his lips – his hands – over the entire surface of her back and legs… massaging her, kissing her. He rolled her over and released a longing sigh, continued slowly rubbing the oil over her breasts and stomach. Her eyes were half open…. His hands, his fingers… she had never felt this good. She was completely soothed and even though she knew the whip was coming, she forced herself to focus on the moment, to enjoy this gift of pleasure. She felt something warm and wet and her eyes flew open as his mouth closed around one of her small, dusky nipples. She felt a rush of excitement in her belly, could feel herself growing more and more ready for him as he teased her nipples to hardness, as he nibbled on both of her breasts and lazily brushed his soft fingertips over the surface of her skin. She lay there placidly, submissively, as she’d learned was expected, using all of her willpower not to follow instinct and return his touches... afraid to make him angry, afraid to displease. But she longed to pleasure him, not because it was her duty but because he smelled really good and his hair looked so soft and she just wanted to be with him.

He must have sensed her thoughts because he instructed her to follow her desires, whatever they might be, and slowly, hesitantly, she began to run her hands over his back, feeling his warmth, rubbing her face over his beard, reveling in the surprising softness of it. She gasped as he rolled them over so that he was on his back, placing her in the dominant position... she didn’t really know what to make of it but used the angle to begin mirroring his actions, awaiting his instructions to stop... instructions that never came. Growing bolder, she leaned down and kissed her way across his neck, around behind his ear, sucking on his earlobe, redoubling her efforts when she heard him laugh at the sensation. She loved the happy sound and was determined to hear it again.

Her hands stroked his sides, his shaft was pressed up against her center as she slowly, hesitantly, pressed herself more firmly against him. In between kisses she saw his face... he was smiling, he looked so happy and she became even bolder in her touching, rubbing her nipples against his chest, kissing him harder, grinding her center against his thrusting cock, answering his laughter with her own. It was fun, it was sweet and she wanted him.

He seemed to almost ask permission from *her* when he raised her up and slowly pushed inside her. She looked at him curiously and doubtfully nodded her consent to him, closing her eyes as he entered her, hissing as he thrust through her virgin hymen, fighting back tears as he stammered an apology for hurting her, as he regarded her in wonder and confusion.

“You’re... I don’t understand. Buffy, we’ve been together before. Why are you....”

“I... I am pure…. Always,” she stammered. “That’s part of the deal. I’m sorry if that wasn’t what you were expecting,” she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered, looking vaguely frightened by his admission. After wiping away her tears, he gently cupped her cheeks in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You are all I want, all I’ve *ever* wanted, Buffy. You needn’t be afraid of me. I promise you: Nothing you do will be wrong or anything less than perfect. I was just surprised. Okay?”

She nodded once, her face still clouded in disbelief. But he was definitely breaking down her walls... she could feel herself beginning to trust him, beginning to melt into him. It was dangerous, but she felt like she’d die if she didn’t. Closing her eyes, she let him lift her up and guide her movements with his hands. He felt beautiful... the pain of her breached hymen passed quickly and now she could just feel warmth, in her belly, in her center, expanding out. One of his hands left her side and gently rubbed her clit. She moaned before she realized it and looked down at him, cringing, but she saw that he was smiling up at her. He looked anything but displeased and she gave a tentative smile back.

She caught the rhythm he’d set, and using his chest for purchase, boldly began to control their thrusts. He felt so perfect, so different from everything else.

She’d forgotten it could be like this. She’d forgotten what it was like to be the aggressor, to laugh and tease, to explore and tantalize someone else. She’d forgotten what love was. He let her be in the power position as much as she wanted, which was almost all the time, smiling up at her as he pulled her toward him, kissing her deeply as she began to scream in orgasm.

melting … warmth spreading out in waves… falling into him… oh God....

This was love, this was bliss... true happiness. I remember this.

This was Angel.

NEXT...

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