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The Violence of Existing	By : Maren Category: AtS/BtVS Crossovers > Het - Male/Female > Angel(us)/Buffy > Angel(us)/Buffy Views: 3497 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own AtS or BtVS. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
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~~~Two Weeks Later~~~

The incessant ringing of the cell phone sitting on the night
stand next to her ear pulled Slayer out of her restless slumber. She cracked one eye open to see that the
clock read 9:00 a.m., groaned, and
pulled a pillow over her head. When the
phone continued to ring after several minutes, she threw the pillow off and,
sitting up, grabbed the phone.

Fuck! Goddamn Harris�I�m going to kill that little
prick.

�What?� she snapped into the phone.

�Good morning,� Harris chirped back, overlooking the fact
that she had ignored the ringing for a full 5 minutes. He generally hated it when any of his
subordinates wasted his time by making him wait, but hers was a special
case. Plus, he�d known when he�d called
this early that she wouldn�t be happy�which is precisely why he did it.

�I just got to sleep 2 hours ago after 3 days of no
shut-eye. You do realize that people go
crazy when they don�t get enough sleep, right?
Let me assure you that you are at the top of my �to kill� list when I go
off the deep-end,� she threatened.

�You have an assignment,� he said crisply, ignoring her
outburst. �Code name?�

�Fuck you and your code name,� she bit back, refusing to
give him her ridiculous alias.

Her reply was met with a temporary silence, and she smiled
when she heard Harris� harsh breathing on the other end. She was rarely able to piss him off like
this. When he spoke, there was a hard
edge to his voice. �Fine. You�ll have to get the details from your
pick-up then. Your deadline is two weeks
from today.�

Slayer flipped the phone shut without saying anything else
and threw it hard against the concrete wall, watching dispassionately as the
shattered pieces ricocheted across the floor.

********

Slayer moved through the dark streets stealthily, keeping to
the shadows as much as she could. She
was going into this assignment nearly blind�she knew that her target was a
vampire and she had an address, but Harris hadn�t bothered to give her any more
information than that. Slayer knew it
was his way of punishing her for her insolence, his way of making her job a
little bit more difficult, his way of making her work a little harder. Frankly, she welcomed the challenge, and it
wasn�t like she could kill the wrong vamp by mistake�they were all marked for
death by Slayer.

As she neared the address from the file, Slayer looked
around for the best place to hide and begin her surveillance. She chose a spot in the shadow of a doorway
directly across the street from the entrance to the building where the target
lived. It was an impressive structure,
but a strange choice for a vampire. The
old hotel didn�t appear to be completely abandoned, as evidenced by the light
emanating from the lobby and there were way too many windows that faced in
every direction to be safe for a vampire.
In Slayer�s experience, vampires usually nested in old abandoned
buildings with a minimum of sun exposure.

Her attention was drawn away from the building by the
approach of a man and a woman. They were
walking with their arms entangled, he looking down at her with a beautiful
smile, she looking up at him with wide eyes and a giggle. Slayer watched with interest as they turned
into the entrance to the hotel. It was
obvious from their behavior that they were a couple and that they lived
there. What wasn�t completely obvious
was whether either were her target. They
didn�t exactly act like vampires, but Slayer didn�t know too many humans who
willingly lived with their predators.
Unfortunately, she couldn�t sense whether they were human or demon,
particularly not from this distance.

It figures I got the
nightmares but not the cool spidey senses out of this deal.

Leaning back against the door frame, she settled in to
wait. It was early in the night and if
they were demons, they would be back out for a hunt at some point. Slayer sighed and rubbed one hand gently over
her face, massaging her temples. She
hadn�t been sleeping well for a while, even for an insomniac. Most of the time she hadn�t been able to fall
asleep at all, but when she did, the nightmares brought her out of it. Worry wrinkled her brow as she thought about
those dreams. She knew that they had
been terrifying and she felt like they may have been prophetic, but she could
never remember them when she woke up. It
was as though her inability to feel strong emotions was tied to her
consciousness, as though her ability to act as the slayer most efficiently was
tied to something that she couldn�t experience any longer. The nightmares woke her up, heart racing and
sweat dripping from her body, but when she tried to remember, the terror faded
away and the serenity returned without the memories of that which woke her.

Now, standing here in this shadowed doorway, Slayer felt as
though the lack of sleep must be catching up with her. She felt . . . off. Her muscles were tight with tension and her
nerve endings were humming as though she were high. She felt almost . . . anxious.

Yep, lack of sleep
makes me of the crazy.

Slayer dropped her hand and shook her head in
frustration. Now was not the time for
ruminating about sleep, or nightmares, or feelings that she shouldn�t be
having. She forced her mind to go blank
and her body to go still as she had been trained.

Several hours later, she saw the shadows over the entry to
the hotel shift, and she heard the sound of voices floating out over the night
air, reaching her ears in sharp staccato bursts of banter and laughter. She winced�those were not sounds that were
familiar to her unless they were surrounded with irony or bitterness.

The man from before emerged first from the foliage that
surrounded the entry and hid it from her eyes, and he looked around warily
before stepping fully out onto the sidewalk.
Slayer recognized the fighter in him at that moment, and she studied him
more carefully than before. He was tall
and well-built, his shoulders broad under his long-sleeved t-shirt, his skin a
beautiful chocolate hue. If he was the
target, he would put up a good fight, and Slayer smiled in anticipation.

Then the woman walked out, her head turned to look back over
her shoulder, laughing. She was tiny,
almost frail-looking, and Slayer dismissed her as a threat. No, the real threat with her would be the
other one, the man who put a possessive hand around her waist and kissed the
top of her head.

�I don�t think he�s coming, Charles,� the woman said,
looking up at the man who held her, and then back into the shadows of the
entrance.

�Oh yeah he is,� the man replied, before yelling toward the
entrance. �Believe me man, nobody wants
to hear you butcher Manilow, but you�ve been acting weird all night and Lorne
might be able to give us the 411.�

Slayer couldn�t hear the muttered response, but the sound of
the voice made her body tense even more.
Her stomach clenched and she watched as the source of the voice
materialized into the light provided by the street lamps.

Time seemed to slow down to a syrupy trickle as she watched
him step out onto the sidewalk, his long black duster fanning out behind
him. The nerve endings that had been
tingling all night went into overdrive and she had to fight to keep from
doubling over from the almost cramping sensation in her stomach.

When he stopped in mid-step and spun until he was facing her
hiding spot, a look of confused recognition playing over his face, it took her
a second to realize that a low, wounded moan was coming unbidden from deep
within her and she froze, cutting off the sound and willing herself not to move
a muscle.

He took a step into the street as the man and woman looked
at him in confusion.

�Buffy?� he questioned, his eyes searching the shadows for
the woman hidden inside.

Anguished panic rose up inside her and she felt like she
might lose what little dinner she had eaten on the sidewalk in front of her.

Then he started moving quickly across the street, calling
out the name that wasn�t hers.

�Buffy!�

For the first time in over 2 years, Slayer turned and ran, a
single word pounding through her head with each stride.

No no no no no no no
no no no no. . .

**********

Wesley rapped sharply on the door, and when she didn�t
answer, pulled out his key and let himself into her loft. He hadn�t seen her in two days�he�d been
away, chasing yet another lead on his years-long quest to find a way into
Quar-Toth. He knew, intellectually, that
it was too late to save Angel�s son, but he couldn�t stop searching for
information anyway. In his life, he�d
seen a few miracles and there was a part of him that hoped they�d be graced
with another one. He didn�t share this
hope with anyone�it was private and fragile and fleeting. When he disappeared for a few days at a time,
Diana never asked questions. It was one
of the things he appreciated about their relationship.

He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a drink. This most recent trip had been worthless, as
always. The lead had led to yet another
dead-end and Wesley was getting tired of beating demons within an inch of their
lives for information that never led to the elusive Hell dimension. He downed the drink quickly and as he moved
to set the empty highball glass on the table, he noticed the assignment
envelope.

Reaching over, he placed his fingertips on the envelope and
slid it toward him. This must be where she is, then, he thought idly as he opened the
large envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. A frown started with a wrinkle in his brow
and quickly spread across his face as he pulled the sheet forward. When he read the address, he froze, caught in
a moment of sheer panic and an almost blinding anger.

Buffy wouldn�t kill
Angel, he thought, and he let the feeling of relief wash over him. It took him a few seconds to form his next
thought, and when he did, he dropped the paper and rushed toward the door. But
Slayer might. . .

He was running down the stairs, not wanting to waste a
single second on waiting for the lift, when he literally ran into her. As their bodies collided, he reached out his
hand and roughly grabbed her upper arm to steady her. She was breathing heavily and her long hair
was tangled around her in a wind-whipped mess, as though she had been running
for hours.

�Did you do it?� he asked desperately, his eyes searching
her face for any sign of the truth but only seeing a strange, vacant, slightly
panicked look on her face. It terrified
him. He had never, in the time since he
had become reacquainted with her, known her to look so . . . affected . . . so
. . . out of control.

At the sound of her harsh, humorless laugh, he felt his own
control snap. Every dim, barren hope
that he could gain Angel�s forgiveness, his trust, was dashed in the shrill
sound emanating from her throat and the wild look in her eyes. All of his fury, all of his impotent
aspirations of absolution, rose to the surface and he snarled as ferociously as
a man could and tightened his grip on her arm.

�What did you do?� he clipped out, and it wasn�t a question
as much as an accusation. Turning
swiftly, he pulled her behind him as he made his way back up the steps to the
privacy of her loft. Wesley�s rage
didn�t allow for him to consider that she wasn�t fighting him, that she was
allowing him to drag her behind him as though she weren�t the most powerful creature
he had ever encountered.

Slayer barely felt Wes�s fingers biting into her upper arm
as he led her through her door. Her body
felt almost completely numb, as though the nerve endings had shut down to give
her mind the energy it needed to feel. And feel she did. The unfamiliar emotions were hitting her,
wave after wave of panic and gut-wrenching anguish and grief and . . . .
love?

Nonononononononono.

The single word continued to run through her mind as it had
from the moment she�d heard him call out that
name. Now Wesley had her by the arm
and she couldn�t think and her senses were jumbled and she was feeling and it was wrong. She had to stop this, she had to divert her
body�s resources away from her mind, back to her nerve endings.

For the first time in two years, Slayer was going to fight
and she was going to fuck and she was going to do both so that she could stop feeling.

The sound of Wesley�s voice pulled her out of her inner
turmoil and she looked at him to see his eyes narrowed in something close to
frenzied hate, his mouth pulled in a grim line when he wasn�t speaking.

�What kind of monster have you become, that you would do
such a thing?� he hissed, grabbing her other upper arm and shaking her limp,
numb body until her teeth chattered.

She forced a smile onto her lips and knocked his hands off
her with one swift movement.

�Yeah, like stealing his kid was the act of a saint,� she
returned, the only hint of her state of mind the slight hitch in her
breath.

Wesley visibly flinched at her words, and before he
considered what he was doing, he curled his hand into a fist and then it was
connecting with her jaw.

Slayer saw his fist flying at her face, had plenty of time
with her preternatural reflexes to avoid it, but she let it come, welcomed it
as it connected, nearly laughed in triumph when it sent the pain shooting
through her face into her neck as her head snapped back.

He paused, breathing heavily, and staring down at his fist
while he fought for control. He hadn�t
lashed out at her in anger since the night they fought over Lilah and although
his technique had improved, he couldn�t hope to last 2 minutes with her and he
knew it. But he didn�t really care.

When she hit him back, Wes could tell she was pulling her
punch, as evidenced by the fact that his body only flew back enough to land on
the coffee table and not all the way into the far wall. He felt pain radiating from where her fist
had connected with his chest, and from where his back was lacerated by the
broken pieces of the table that lay shattered beneath him. And then she was on top of him, ripping his
shirt open, her mouth biting and sucking on his neck and chest, tongue tasting
and teasing his nipples.

Wes wanted to hate her, wanted to push her away and leave
and never see her murdering self again, but when it came down to it, this is
what they were about�what they had always been about and he couldn�t stop
himself from wanting her now. Pain and
pleasure, hate and affection�they were feelings that were braided together for
them, inseparable. So instead of pushing
her away, he groaned and pulled her shirt over her head before cruelly crushing
one of her sinfully perfect breasts in the same hand that had been clenched in
a fist just moments before.

********

Angel stood completely still and concentrated on finding her
smell again. He didn�t know if it was
because he was finding it difficult to clear his mind to track her, or if it
was because she was purposely trying to cover her trail, but he kept losing her. He wanted to roar in frustration and fear . .
. frustration that he couldn�t keep her scent, that time was ticking by each
time he had to stop and search . . . fear that he wouldn�t find her, wouldn�t
be able to verify with his eyes, and his nose, and his touch that she was
alive.

He�d felt her presence in every cell of his dead body before
he�d seen her standing there in the shadows, but it had taken that sighting for
him to recognize what his soul had been trying to tell him all night. It was impossible that she was alive . . .
she had died and been buried for well over 2 years now and he had dealt and
learned to exist in a world without her.
But he had found out long ago that the impossible was always possible
and that the dead didn�t always stay dead.
Still, he hadn�t been sure, hadn�t trusted his senses until he called
out her name and she had turned and run.

That�s when he had seen her briefly in the light and he knew
for certain it was her. If he lived
another thousand years he would never forget the exact shape of her body or the
texture of her hair, even from a distance.
Her smell was a little different, but still the same�she didn�t use the
same scented soaps and shampoos that she used to, but underneath the new,
austere scents of her body products her signature, personal scent was the
same. He knew it was her, and he knew
that he had to find her before she faded into the night and was lost to him
once again.

Angel forced himself to clear his mind and tap into the
hunter inside him. He allowed the demon
to come closer to the surface, let it sniff the air for any trace of its mate,
and his eyes glowed golden as he finally caught her scent. He moved swiftly now, surely, and this time
he didn�t lose her scent. It led him to
an old warehouse, and as he stepped inside, he realized it had been converted
to living space. Angel ignored the
elevator as he tracked her up the stairs, pausing as he caught traces of
another scent that was familiar. Pushing
it away, he concentrated on her, and soon he was in the shadows outside her
door�a door that was cracked open, letting a sliver of light splash across the
stairwell, letting the sounds from inside float out into the space in which he
stood.

He raised his hand to knock.
It dropped, just as quickly and as if by its own volition, when he heard
the noises that were coming from inside and realized who the other scent
belonged to.

********

Wesley crouched on his knees in the middle of the bed,
looked at the tableau in front of him, and panted in angry want. She rested her weight on her elbows and
knees, her hands shackled to the iron rungs of her bed. Her head was thrown back and she looked at
him over her shoulder, a self-satisfied smile playing on her lips, her eyes a
dark green and tinged with some sort of desperate wildness that he had never
seen in her before. His eyes narrowed
and he reached forward and grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling it back
roughly so that she wasn�t looking at his anymore, but at the ceiling.

She murmured in approval, and he watched as the muscles in
her shoulders and back flexed and rippled as she arched her back and strained
against his pull. Wes couldn�t resist
the call of her alabaster skin and he reached over with his free hand and ran
it lightly over the smoothness of her perfectly round ass. She wiggled back against him when he moved
his hand over her upper thigh, and she held her breath when he caressed the
silken heat at her center.

His anger and his grief drove his passion, and he wanted to
make sure he took it all out on the perfect body that she was offering to
him. She was offering him an exorcism,
demanding that he punish her in every word that she had spoken since he had run
into her on the stairwell, in every movement she made against him since she had
straddled his bleeding form in the center of her floor. Now he found himself eyeing the instrument
that she had pulled out with the shackles after she�d maneuvered him toward the
bed. They�d never used it before�Wesley
had been reluctant, and Slayer hadn�t pushed it, but now he found he wasn�t
quite so hesitant. He picked it up,
tested it�s flexibility in his hands, and then reached under her to draw its
tip across the hard peaks of her nipples, down over her taut stomach, and then
into the cleft between her legs. He
heard her breath hitch in excitement before she moaned, and when he pulled the
riding crop back away from her body, he could see her wetness glistening on the
black leather.

Then he was using it to strike her against the delicate skin
of her buttocks and upper thighs, spurred on by her moans of pleasurepain and
the sounds of her begging.

�Harder . . . please,� she panted.

She needed to feel the sting, needed it to block out the
other feelings that had flooded into her tonight, unwanted, unwelcome. Throwing her head back, she made herself hold
perfectly still while Wesley took out his anger on her flesh. Her blood was pounding in her ears and she
could feel it beating in time with the strokes of the riding crop across her
rear, and it wasn�t enough. She begged
him not to stop, to make it harder, but she could tell he was hesitating now,
not wanting to hit her any longer or any harder. And then he hit her one last time and the
leather sliced through her reddened flesh, carving a thin wound in her skin,
her blood bubbling to the surface. She
screamed out in a mixture of ecstasy and pain and arched her back when she felt
Wesley�s hands on her hips. Then he was
inside her, pounding his hips against her hot, throbbing ass, pounding himself
so deep inside her so hard that she had to brace herself against the rungs of
the headboard with her bound hands.

Each stroke against Slayer�s flesh had her hissing in pain
and mewling in pleasure, and she ground back against Wesley as he hovered over
her, one hand continuing to grip her hip for leverage, the other trailing over
her body . . . first her back, then her over her breasts, and finally,
blissfully, over her clit until she was mindlessly clenching around him as he
roared his own release.

For only the second time in their history she called out a
name during her climax. For the second
time, it wasn�t his name. And for once,
he didn�t call out a name at all.

As soon as he could gather his energy, Wesley pulled out of
her and moved to dress in his ruined clothing.
He was still seething with his anger, but now it was tinged with
feelings of self-loathing and disgust for where he had let that anger take him. It didn�t matter to him that she had been
willing, or that she had clearly enjoyed it�he had lost control and gone
further than he had ever wanted to.
Wesley winced as he looked at her reddened, bruised body that was still
curled up face-down on the bed�her skin a mottled mix of red and purple that
was already beginning to turn the sickly green color of a fresh bruise, the
outline of his fingertips that were pressed into the flesh of her hip, the thin
split in her skin that was already beginning to heal. Gritting his teeth to keep from screaming in
disgusted rage, he moved to release her from the shackles.

�I didn�t kill him Wesley,� she whispered to him as he
unlocked the metal that bound her to the bed.

His hands stilled on the shackles and he closed his eyes and
hung his head in something not unlike defeat as the relief washed through
him. He should have known she wouldn�t
kill Angel, but he didn�t and now something between them was irreparably
broken. Wesley silently mourned that loss
as he reached forward to gently stroke her hair. Then he finished unlocking her and wordlessly
stalked out of her loft.

In his hurry to get away from her, from what they had done,
Wesley didn�t notice the vampire standing in the shadows of the hall, didn�t
notice how closely he brushed against Death as he ran down the stairs and out
into the night.

*******

There were very few times since his re-ensoulment when he
had been this close to his demon, and Angel stood completely still outside her
door, gripping his hands in fists so tight that his short fingernails bit into
the palms of his hand. When Wesley. . .

That bastard

. . . had stalked out of her apartment mere minutes after
violating her (and he thought of it as violation, regardless of the fact that
he had been intimate witness to the sweet smell of her arousal and the sounds
of her pleasure), he had to force himself not to reach out and snap his neck
right there. There would be time for
Wesley later�right now there was no way he was leaving until he saw her, made
sure she was o.k.

Angel had heard the hiss of the riding crop as it ran
through the air before it made contact with her skin and he had moved toward
the door, a low growl of warning rumbling from his throat. It wasn�t her door or the invisible barrier
against uninvited vampires that kept him from breaking in and interrupting the
torture session�it was her moan of pleasurepain followed by the sound of her
voice, begging.

Those sounds were permanently imprinted on his brain . . .
echoing in his ears . . . mocking him. . .

But not mocking him as much as the unrelenting hardness of
his erection, pressing tightly against the front of his pants�the erection that
grew with each stinging blow against the skin that he could only imagine, each
hiss and mewl that emanated from lips that he had spent years dreaming about,
each rattle of the chains that he didn�t have to see to know bound her delicate
wrists.

And then, when he thought he couldn�t be more disgusted with
himself, he smelled her blood mix with her arousal and his face morphed into
his demon visage. He couldn�t stop it
anymore than he could stop himself from growling loudly, the sound a mixture of
anger and want, when he heard her call out as she came.

Called out his name.

And now the borrowed blood was still pumping furiously into
his cock and he couldn�t make himself turn and walk away any more than he could
tamp down his demon and change back into his human face.

So he stood, panting in harsh, unneeded breaths in front of
her door and waited-- for what he didn�t know-- until it
happened.

In slow motion, the heavy steel door opened and he stood
facing the woman who haunted his dreams, the woman who must be able to feel his
presence as acutely and ecstatically painfully as he could feel hers, the woman
who was supposed to be dead and rotted by now.
But she wasn�t�she was very much alive and as much as she was different,
she was the same. She stood before him in her tight, midriff
baring tank-top and tiny white cotton panties, her skin so much paler than he
remembered, her hair a darker, dirtier blonde as though it hadn�t been touched
by sunshine any more than he had. She
stared into his golden eyes with her gray ones, unflinching, dispassionate, and
he longed to see them turn green, to see her lips turn up into a smile, her smile. Still, he could feel her as though she was
wrapped tightly around his very soul and he knew
her. She was Buffy, and she was
alive.

Buffy is alive, Buffy
is alive, Buffy is alive

It was a mantra running through every cell of his body.

The moment seemed to extend into eternity but in reality it
was only a minute, perhaps two, until she spoke, breaking the silence between
them.

�You aren�t welcome here,� she said, her voice strong and
devoid of emotion as she ran her eyes over his body, stopping at the sight of
his still-straining erection. A smirk
passed over her lips, so far from the smile that he wanted to see planted there
that he cringed. Then the door was
closing in his face, and he could only watch as she turned and walked away from
him after he had just gotten her back.

******
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The Violence of Existing