Wild Days

Lilah:

The day I signed my soul to Wolfram & Hart I knew exactly what I was doing. Or at least I thought I did. In truth I had no idea what I was getting myself into, had no idea that vampires and demons existed and that they aren't the scariest things around by a long shot. If I've learned anything during all these years, it's that humans are the far more dangerous creatures. A vampire kills you because it's its nature, maybe because it's hungry, some of them even kill for fun. But the kill is a fundamental part of their being, it belongs to them like the breath belongs to us. Meeting a vampire means dealing with a natural born killer. They don't hide. They don't pretend.

With a human being, however, you never know. If you listen to priests they're gonna tell you that humans have a choice, that they can be good or bad, that the soul makes them able to decide. I grew up believing exactly that, listening to father Jacob each Sunday at mass in our little church, crouched down beside my mother who could recite the bible back and forth. Even though my father was a drunk and beat her up more times I can count, she never thought about leaving him, always believed the priest who told her that a woman was married to a man for better and for worse.

When my father finally turned on me, broke my arm and cheekbone, and in the end showed me the pleasures of the flesh when I was only twelve, that's when I understood that believing people, believing others, only leads to misery. It was the day I stood in the shower, washing away the blood from my inner thighs, the pain inside still fresh and strong, the foul breath of my father still in my nose, when I decided that it the the last time I would be a victim.

The next day I turned thirteen and left home. For the money I had stolen from my father's pocket, the money I had earned with blood and pain, I bought myself lipstick and makeup and managed to look sixteen so the guy in the bar in L.A. took me in as a waitress. I served tables until my feet bled, let other stinking customers touch me, but by the end of the year I had enough money to rent a better apartment and to share my time between school and work. There wasn't a day I slept more than four hours, but I finally did it. And after law school Wolfram & Hart came along and I took the opportunity they offered with both hands. I wanted power, and money, and that's exactly what they were offering.

Little did I know that I would have to sell my soul. All in all it isn't that bad. You get used to a lot of things along the way, and the rewards are breathtaking. But there are days, when I see a woman with a toddler walking on the street, or a man smiling at the woman he loves, and I want those things, too. And knowing I will never have them sends a stab of pain through my gut so sharp I almost gasp. Of course after a moment the pain settles and after taking a good look at myself, my stylish apartment and the way people avert their eyes because they're afraid of me makes it more bearable. Yet, I can still feel the wish lingering in the back of my mind, sneaking up on me at times when it's totally unwelcome.

And lately, whenever I've come back to my apartment and found Wesley waiting for me, the wish almost became an urge, so strong I sometimes felt so out of control it made me shiver.

Wesley.

It's almost ridiculous when I think how much I came to rely on his presence in my life, especially after the way we came together. It had nothing to do with love, or even attraction. There was despair on his side, calculation on mine. Our first time was violent, but is was something to remember. I wasn't a virgin, and neither was he, but we both felt that something had happened, something none of us had bargained for.

And so we stuck together. He still desperate. Me still calculating. At least that's what I told Linford, and he seemed to buy it. Although it was strange he never asked for information and took all the stuff I fed to him at face value. Which, looking at it more closely, was pretty strange. Especially for a guy as distrustful as Linford.

This puts a frown on my forehead and makes me wonder if I was too preoccupied with my lovelife lately and maybe overlooked something important in the process.

Damn.

Still wearing the frown I turn the key in the lock and freeze when I see light shining from the bedroom, hear someone rummaging around. My eyes dart to the coat rack near the door and fasten on a well known raincoat. I suck in a sharp breath, not quite sure what to think of the fact that Wesley is back. When he vanished a few days ago I didn't know what to think of it. He never vanished before, never even left the house without telling me, and all of a sudden he was gone. And I wondered.

But of course this was before I discovered a piece of the prophecies was missing from my bag, and before Linford summoned me to his office not twenty-four hours ago.

Pulling myself together, I walk towards the bedroom, and push the door open. Wesley is standing in front of our dresser drawer, his gaze sweeping over the contents. Without looking up from whatever he is doing, his voice suddenly sounds through the quiet apartment, startling me with its unusual firmness. I've heard it before - a long time ago - when he was still with his friends, when he still found himself worthy and good.

"You're home early."

"Isn't it an irony that I chose exactly the day when you choose to return to my life," I reply, crossing the room, standing next to the window. It's already dark outside, the lights from other windows, from the street lamps shining through the night, making you feel less lonely, but in a way even more.

He stills in mid-movement, but keeps his eyes on the clothes, "I didn't return," he says quietly. "I just stopped by to pick up my things."

"You're leaving?" The words are out before I'm able to stop them, but the hurt I feel at his words comes as a surprise. Did I really start counting on his presence in my life? What a stupid mistake. I have to be careful not to let it happen again.

He frowns for a moment before he resumes packing his stuff. "I was never really here," he says, stuffing it into a bag he obviously brought with him. "Not the real me, that is."

"So …," I cross my arms in front of my chest, "This other Wesley, the one who was living here, fucking me, he suddenly disappeared." I know this is rude, I know that's not the language he's used to from me, but the pain is searing through me now. And hiding it is a lot of effort.

"Sort of," he confirms, "I forgot about him, I guess," he admits quietly, rising his gaze to look at me. "But I found him again. And it's good to be me once more." There is a twitch around his mouth, almost a smile, and a confidence in his eyes that was missing before. I know I should be glad, and if I was a better person, a loving woman, someone selfless and good, I would. But I'm not that kind of person, and so all I can feel is anger, strong, hot, and powerful.

"So you crawled back to your loser friends," I say acidly, "and they took you back with open arms." I laugh, hard and bitter, "And what kind of pathetic loser does this make you? I thought you were a man. Proves I was wrong."

He takes a deep breath before looking at me once again, "I'm sorry you see it that way. I thought …," she shrugs, his eyes sad, but firm, "Well, whatever I thought, it doesn't ma any anymore. I wish you well, Lilah. I wish …," once again he trails off, not finishing the sentence. He resumes his packing, picking up a book from the little table in the corner.

I recognize it instantly. It's a book of poems he used to read from to me, and I feel a twist in my gut while my heart squeezes painfully. But God help me if I ever let him see what this does to me. "Well, I wish you'd be gone already," I say, narrowing my eyes. I gaze at his bag, "Seems full to me."

Once more he looks at me, before he nods, "Yeah, it is," he agrees, looking at the book, then tossing it on my bed, before he zips his bag up and slings it over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Lilah. I really am."

"Yeah. We all are sorry for a lot of things," I shoot back, manage to give him a little smile. "See you around?"

"Better not," he replies, then turns and after a moment I hear the door slam behind him.

I stare at the book on the bed until my vision blurs and a sob escapes my throat. Picking up the reminder of a time that was so much better in many ways, and so much worse in other, I clutch it to my chest hoping it will ease the constriction inside. But of course it doesn't help, and after a short while I sink down on the bed, my whole body wracked by heavy sobs, while I still hold onto the book as if it was my lover.

And I vow to myself that this won't ever happen to me again.
***
***

Buffy:

I'm standing at the window of Angel's room, watching the rain drizzle down, the pain in my chest constricting it so tightly it's difficult to breathe. The light is fading from the heavily overcast sky, the lights from outside dimmed by the absence of the moon, their shine doing little to dispel the deepening gloom. A chill creeps across my skin from the open window and I rub my upper arms, the smell of dirty street, cars and a busy day drifting up on the light breeze.

The image of a box, almost like a coffin takes shape in my mind and I remember the moment we found Angel, or what was left of him, the ache returning to my chest. Angel. It didn't seem possible that the unrecognizable mass was Angel. And that Connor had put him there.

The ache is climbing higher, and I feel wetness finding a path down my cheeks, wipe it away with trembling fingers, desperately trying to detach myself from the feelings that threaten to break through. I've been touched by death before, so often I have stopped counting, but somehow this is more close and personal than anything I have experienced before.

My mother died, and I suffered. I still miss her, still find myself reaching out for her in the darkness, seeking her touch for comfort, but she died because of an aneurysm, not because her own child wished her dead.

God, that look in Angel's eyes when he realized what Connor had done. That bleakness and horror, his eyes wide and questioning, begging me to deny the truth I couldn't hide from him. All I could do was hold his hand, lay down beside him, hoping that my presence would soothe his bleeding soul, make the knowledge that his own son had hated him enough to kill him, more bearable.

Angel never talked a lot about his past, but from the bits and pieces he gave me I know that the relationship with his father never was a good one, and I can only imagine what his own son means to him, and how determined he is not to repeat his father's mistakes. But once again something was taken out of his control, like the night Darla promised him the world, and he's paying the price for something that has never been his fault.

Of course he would never see it that way. As far as Angel is concerned he is the one to blame. I know that as I know that the sky is blue when the sun is shining. Holtz took Connor from him, but only because Angel took something from Holtz. That it wasn't Angel but his evil alter ego who did the taking doesn't matter. To Angel it never did. He took full responsibility for the deeds of his demon because he was stupid enough to believe the promises of a beautiful woman, because he didn't ask when Darla crossed his path.

Another chill feathers across my skin, and I turn from the window, my eyes falling on the sleeping form of the vampire who turned my life upside down. There were times when I wished I never met him, and there were times I missed him so deeply, so completely, I thought I'd die from the loss. When he turned his back on me that night beside the burnt out highschool I thought there wasn't a living soul on this planet who could survive that kind of hurt. But I did. I survived. Even if barely.

I see a piece of paper lying beside his bed. The writing on it is Angel's. I'd recognize his bold script everywhere. It's only some notes, and it's coated with dust, a part of his room his friends forgot to clean out, but right now it means the world. I reach out and touch the letters, my throat tightening even more. I see his face the night of my eighteenth birthday, the shadows dancing across his marble skin from the flames in the fireplace, a hesitant smile on his face, he was not sure if I'd like his present, a book of poems with the word 'Always' written in front cover.

I have to press a hand over my mouth to keep myself from crying out loud. It's the same word he used just before, and he will never know how much him using it tore me apart. When I read it for the first time, I believed it, with all my heart I believed that always would refer to us, to our love, or life, our friendship. Not in my wildest dreams I'd thought it possible we'd drift apart like this, that our lives would move in such different paths, up to a place where we barely knew each other. Where listening to Wesley's story about Angel his his life during the past two years was like listening to the story of a stranger and not of a man who once meant the world to me.

Despair washing through me, I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, feeling so desperately lonely that I can barely stand it. He's lying no more than five feet away on the bed, but we never seemed further apart. God, how I wish I could just reach out and touch him, but I wouldn't dare. I lost the right to touch him that night after I came back from the dead, that night I pushed him away, not able to deal with the feelings he aroused in me, feeling too dirty and tainted to get close. Feeling too lost to let myself believe. Feeling too cold for comfort.

Everything felt wrong that night, and I did the unforgivable when he opened his arms to me, when his eyes spoke of love and chances, I turned my head and my eyes stayed cold, the way my insides turned when I saw him. Nothing was right, I wasn't myself, and he didn't belong to me anymore. All I could feel was darkness and pain, all I wanted was to sink into it, to forget there was light and laughter, and more than anything I wanted to forget about love. A love that could never be, that would – without doubt - end in more pain and a despair so great I couldn't imagine to handle.

And when I realized what I'd done, when I saw how his eyes closed up, and his entire being shut down, when I wanted to go to him, I still couldn't. And Angel left abruptly, driving away in his car, his head high, his shoulders stiff, and I watched him go, experiencing a kind of guilt, a kind of pain, that has no dimensions. I felt as if I'd died on the inside when his taillights disappeared into the night, but seeing him again, this unrecognizable mass in the box, and watching him wake up, confused and disoriented, almost kills me. Because I'm afraid what he'll do as soon as he remembers our last meeting.

I know I can find excuses. I just came back from the dead, just came back from heaven. I was confused then, not ready to open up, but I wasn't shut down enough to not realize what I lost when I let him walk out of my life again. He offered me everything and I rejected him. And I shut down even more, and lost myself in Spike. It was easier than facing the truth. I've never been very good at being honest with myself. That takes the kind of courage I never had. I could learn an awful lot from Angel in that department.

But tonight, lying in his arms, Angel still not in full possession of his memories, something has happened. I realized that I've been skirting a basic truth for a long time, and at an immeasurable cost. I avoided making any kind of commitment to him because I was afraid. I walked out on him so often I can't count, and all because I was afraid he might stop loving me, afraid he would someday walk out on me. Afraid that he would one day discover that I wasn't what he thought I was.

He thinks I'm strong, and independent, and self-sufficient. And good. Above all he thinks I'm good. He once called me his light and sunshine, but I always knew it was only through his eyes that I was all those things. I was always aware of the darkness deep inside of me, the darkness that broke free with Spike. I let myself drift to a place where I felt safe and nothing could hurt me. Where pain was already so deep it couldn't get worse. It was easy to live that way, but it was lonely, and I didn't care whom I hurt in the process.

And then Angel walked back in my life, with his arms open, and promises in his eyes and I couldn't handle it. I was beyond trust, and I was far beyond love. So I turned away and destroyed a chance that might not come back. I was far a afraid he might discover my dark side and be disgusted by it, be repulsed and finally see me for what I was. And that fear of discovery has cost everything. Before, I always knew at some level, that he would be there. But this time it had been different. This time he wouldn't. I'd turned away one time too many, and my self-discovery, here in the dark, lying in his arms might be too late to save what might be destroyed forever.

New tears welling up in my eyes, I sit down on the bed beside him, staring at his still form, his face relaxed in his sleep. But the pain in his eyes that night keeps coming back haunting me. That moment when he realized I wasn't going to come with him, that I wouldn't give us another chance. Just before he shut down and hid his feelings so perfectly. And I know I brought that pain, that I had done it to him. It should have told me all I needed to know, but I was too far gone to recognize just how much I was able to hurt him.

Abruptly standing up, needing distance once more, I walk to the still open window, haunted by regret and guilt, wishing I could undo that night, and what I did to him. I wonder if things would be different. And I almost laugh at the absurd thought. Of course they would be different. For once I wouldn't have turned to Spike, and there wouldn't be that many regrets in my life. And he might not have turned to Cordy for comfort, trying to get over the painful way I rejected him by playing merry Angel.

True, part of his attraction towards Cordy was probably due to the drug the lawyers gave him, but I sill wonder. Can you drug a person that far? Especially if the person is a vampire. Or is there a part of him that wanted her? Maybe still wants her? And more importantly, can he still want me? After all that's happened at our last meeting, can he still look at me with love in his eyes? And could I face it if he couldn't?

The love in his eyes has always been such an integral part of him, could I handle its absence? It was always there, even when he hit me over our argument about Faith, even then I could see it. Hidden maybe, but it was there, deep down, in the depth of his dark orbs I know so well.

Will they look different without love in them? Without love for me?

I hear the door open and close and without looking up I know Spike had come into the room. He's the only other vampire in the house and my Slayer senses are alert even now. I feel him stop near the door, his eyes on my back, as if boring into me. Not turning around, I ask, "What do you want?"

"Just wanted to check on you. He needs to be fed soon. Thought you'd might need some help. He's dead weight that way."

Where his voice might have sounded cocky and sarcastic it's only sad now, and serious. Once again I'm reminded that this isn't the Spike I used to know, that he's changed so much I might never grasp it. "There is blood in the fridge," I tell him. "I usually warm it up a little."

"Yeah," he replies gruffly, and I realize what it means to him that I didn't send him out. He desperately wants to belong.

I hear him rummaging through the fridge, then putting a mug into the microwave Xander and he brought up into the room from the kitchen downstairs. "Are the others asleep?" I'm not really interested, but talking is better than saying nothing.

"Yeah. Nibblet was up until an hour ago, but then she conked out. Like the witch. She's hanging all over the computer." A hint of amusement is in his voice, "Bunch of friends you've got."

I feel strangely warmed by his words, and nod, "Yeah. They're the best."

"Oh, I forgot. Wesley left. Said he had to take care of some things. The black guy wasn't happy about it."

"I suppose he wouldn't be." I wonder if Wesley went to get his stuff from his girlfriend's. I still can't understand the whole affair, but from what I gathered, it's pretty complicated and neither Gunn nor Fred approve of the relationship. Boy, can I relate.

The ringing of the microwave interrupts our strange conversation, and Spike goes to get the blood for Angel. I once again sit down by his side, gently stroking his cheek, then shaking him slightly to awake him to a point where he can feed. His eyes blink, and slowly focus on me. "Buffy?"

His voice is rough and heavy with sleep and it sends shivers down my spine, "You need to eat," I tell him softly, giving him a smile. He simply nods and struggles to get up, but he's still too weak, and is exhausted from the effort of trying.

In an instant Spike is by his side, supporting his upper body with one arm, while the other is still holding the mug. "Easy, mate," he whispers, and his voice is so gentle, it makes me shiver even more. I wonder what happened between those two. I read a lot about Sire-Childe relationships, and right now, I have my own ideas.

Spike hands me the cup to free his other arm, supporting his Sire's head, while I lean over, setting the mug on Angel's lips and slowly, the thick nourishment flows into his mouth, and he drinks it hungrily, his eyes staying on me all the time. For a short moment I wonder how Spike feels about this, how he deals with the fact that Angel is ignoring him, but I dismiss the thought, and keep holding Angel's gaze, the situation almost as intimate as when he was drinking from me.

Soon the mug is empty, and I put it on his nightstand, wiping his mouth with a nap Spike brought with him. Together we place Angel back on his pillows. "Lie with me?" he asks, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Always," I whisper, suddenly not afraid anymore to use the word. Maybe if he hears it all the time, he's going to believe it again.

I can feel him shift, trying to make more room for me and snuggle close, feeling warm and protected in arms that should feel cold. My Slayer senses should scream to be that near to a vampire, but strangely with Angel they never did. With him I always felt right. I felt like finally coming home.

And while we drift of to sleep, I hear Spike leave the room, but not without getting a glimpse of his face, and the moisture in his eyes, and I realize that once again he's the one watching from the outside.