This Is How It Goes

"You guys having Slayer issues?" she asked, and then embarked on a classic Willow-ramble. "I — I mean, not that I'd be able to contribute to an argument about — about stake sizes, or what the best move is to incapacitate an Aphed demon, or how to get a blood and vampire dust stain out of polyester, but I — I'd like to offer my services as a ventee," she finished hopefully.

Buffy gave her a weak smile, picking up on the level of insecurity Willow was essentially beaming out. "Wil, you know I'll always need your opinion," she frowned, "and possibly a bitch slap if I resort to wearing polyester when slaying."

Willow looked away awkwardly. "Yeah, I know, but — but it's just that I feel — you and Faith have this entire thing together, and I sometimes feel ... kind of apart from it," she said in a quiet, uncertain voice.

Buffy stared at her intently, making an internal decision and taking a deep breath. "Wil, I gotta be honest. If you were to become a part of it, this entire bizarro situation would reach new and terrifying levels of uncomfortable."

Willow looked taken aback and slightly offended. Buffy sighed. "There's something I have to tell you," she said.

Willow's expression turned concerned and quizzical. Buffy looked up at the ceiling briefly, saying a small prayer to the gods of Sapphic-related humiliation, and then said, in a desperate rush, "Me and Faith are having sex."

Willow blinked. And blinked again. And maintained a blank, shocked expression for ten solid seconds.

"Wil?" Buffy asked worriedly. "Was it the grammar? Okay, let me start over. Faith and I are having sex." She leaned forward, trying to catch Willow's stunned gaze. "Can you say something?"

"Something," Willow squeaked, and Buffy glared at her.

"Good to see I haven't traumatized the inappropriate humor out of you," she said flatly, and Willow gave her a small, faint smile.

"Sorry. This is, uh, just a little ... surprising," Willow said, the last word coming out uncertainly.

"Surprising?" Buffy asked incredulously. "Wil, this is the stuff of bad Indian soap operas. This is — is the premise of cheap porn, with outfits and plastic fangs!" She was almost shouting. "This entire thing is about six shrimp dimensions ahead of `surprising.'"

Willow frowned. "How did this happen?" She abruptly backtracked, looking anxious. "And — and I don't mean, like diagrams and pointing on dolls and elaborate explanations of what goes where, but you generally go for people of a more ... masculine persuasion."

"And I still do! I like to be masculinely persuaded!" Buffy said vehemently and sighed, ran a hand through her hair. "Honestly? I have no freaking idea how it happened. We were fighting and patrolling and doing normal Slayer stuff and then, completely out of the blue, she just looked so ... hot. I mean, have you seen her fight?" Willow shook her head, looking wary. "I dare you not to jump her after that. It's ... beautiful. Really," Buffy said quietly, looking away, her expression turning into one of nostalgic-type longing.

Willow was watching her intently. "Okay, so, you seemed to go to your own special place just then. It — it's not just the sex, is it?" she asked pensively, empathetically.

Buffy looked at her sharply, holding Willow's gaze for several moments and then shook her head unhappily.

"I can't tell you how much I didn't want this to happen, but it's more ... to me. God," she croaked, "I feel like I — I need her now. And that scares me so much it's not even funny."

"Well, funny-ironic, maybe," Willow contributed, and Buffy gave her a look. "Right. Not the time." She grew serious. "Why — why does it scare you so much?"

"Because it's Faith, Wil," she said plaintively, desperately. "Because I don't think the words `commitment' or — or `monogamy' have ever come out of her mouth. Like, if there was a club for emotionless one-night stands, she would be the president and CEO and high chief and possibly even captain," she said distraughtly. "I mean, I don't even really know her. I know she likes to slay and to screw and I know she doesn't dislike me, but that's it. This ... thing, whatever it is that we have — it's just a way to scratch an itch," Buffy finished hopelessly. She groaned and dropped her head down onto her arms.

"Except it's not a one-night stand with some stranger, Buff. It's you, and you guys share something that no one else can even touch," Willow said firmly, and Buffy raised her head slightly. "What if she's thinking the same thing you are? What if she's having this exact conversation with, uh ... herself? You need to talk to her, honestly. Like, lay the whole shebang out for her."

Buffy scrunched up her face. "But, that would mean not acting like a prepubescent wuss," she said unhappily.

Willow looked away thoughtfully. "You know, I'm kind of an idiot." Buffy looked at her strangely. "I'm just running through Faith-Buffy interactions in my head, and — and it becomes pretty obvious." She fixed Buffy with a contemplative gaze. "I've seen how she looks at you. How you look at each other. And those aren't googly eyes of unemotional polygamy, mister," she said sternly.

"So ... I should talk to her," Buffy said hesitantly.

"Try to inject a little more enthusiasm when you're actually talking to her, okay?" Willow suggested with a small grin.

"This should be easy, right?" Buffy began optimistically. "I mean, I've decapitated the undead. Having an awkward conversation with my gay lover who may or may not see me as just a sex object should be a piece of lesbian pie." She groaned and looked at the ceiling for some sort of reassurance. "Oh, God, I'm gonna die."

"Kinda makes you wish for a good old-fashioned apocalypse, doesn't it?"

Buffy nodded vehemently, and then gave Willow a weak, grateful smile, putting a hand on her arm. "Thanks, Wil. I — I know me and Faith have been spending a lot of time slaying — and, uh, other things — but you're my best friend. And that's not changing any time soon."

Willow grinned back at her. "I know. And I'd much rather hear about unexpected lesbian drama than study the Ming dynasty in ancient China anyways," she said brightly, and then frowned slightly. "Except that makes me sound kind of like a pervert. A gay pervert."

Buffy snorted and stood up, grabbing her bag. "It might be a close call, but I think you'll be able to maintain your chaste, nerd reputation. Oh," she said excitedly, "and if you're ever doubting your innocence, compare yourself to me and Faith screwing like rabbits in a very public cemetery."

Willow looked disturbed. "Uh, that image isn't actually helping with my pervert identity crisis."

Buffy frowned. "No, mine neither," she admitted thoughtfully, and the two girls walked out of the library.

~ — ~ — ~

Buffy set off to patrol later that night with the firm plan of finding Faith and talking to her. Of course, this very well-intentioned strategy began to seem more and more ridiculous and potentially humiliating as she walked along. She's gonna laugh at me, Buffy thought. She's gonna laugh and do that sexy — no, not sexy, skanky — little smirk like she knows exactly what I'm thinking and then we're probably gonna fight and have nasty, animal sex. Goddamit, she thought viciously.

She walked far away from Faith's crappy motel and visited the cemeteries that she and Faith didn't patrol regularly. I'm not avoiding her, exactly, Buffy rationalized. I'm doing my job and that job happens to be at least 12 miles away from her. She was slightly lost in her pathetic justifications when she heard an ominous rustling in the bushes near her. Buffy snapped back to reality, grasped her stake firmly, and then slowly stepped forward.

She landed on her back as something large and snarling came flying out of the bushes. Buffy twisted her body to see what had just attacked her and froze completely.

"What ..." she croaked.

He was covered in dirt and twigs, snarling at her like he had no idea who she was. He looked feral, dangerous, the softness that she loved utterly gone from his eyes. The pants he wore were almost shredded and small cuts and bruises covered his naked chest. His face and chest were pale, their gauntness vivid and painful.

"Angel?" Buffy whispered brokenly.

Angel responded with a deep growl and launched himself at her. She instinctively rolled away and kicked out with her foot, sending him crashing to the ground. Before he could do anything else, Buffy kicked him in the head. He whimpered and collapsed, losing consciousness.

Buffy was in shock as she stared at him, this man she had loved and sent to hell. She felt a confused numbness spreading over her entire body. How? How had this happened? Angel didn't seem to have any knowledge of where he was, let alone who she was. He wasn't Angelus, she was absolutely certain of that. He looked like a wild animal, and Buffy realized she was crying silently. She sobbed as she looked at him, his muscles trembling even in unconsciousness. Buffy was only vaguely aware that rain had begun to mingle with the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Chapter 7: Roots

Author's Notes: So, as promised, here is the longer, juicier chapter. If you're contemplating my painful death, I'd like to say that the Angel thing will not get dragged out for a ridiculously long time.

She dragged him back to the mansion that he, Dru and Spike had lived in, his inert body sliding through the rain. Entering it, she felt a surrealistic rush, flashing back to the dream that seemed years ago, where he had mocked her so contemptuously, where he had attacked her. Faith, she thought suddenly, and just as abruptly buried the thought. She needed to focus on Angel. He was dangerous, she thought firmly. He needed to be contained.

A rumbling snarl of thunder echoed through the mansion as Buffy took the manacles hanging from the wall, clasped them around his thin, wet wrists and felt sick. How many times had she imagined him returning? Soft smile, arms clasped around her, utter forgiveness on both sides. They would go back to what they had before, to pure innocence and ignorance. She shuddered, hugging herself as Angel growled, waking. She had never imagined it like this.

He struggled viciously, chains clanking against each other and the grey walls. Buffy flinched every time they crashed together. There was no soft smile in this reality. What was she going to do? Tell her friends, she thought, and something inside her recoiled violently against the idea. I can't, she thought frantically. They'd try something and she wouldn't be able to defend him. Faith, she thought again involuntarily. How could she explain this to her? Faith didn't like complications. Angel was a complication. Buffy unconsciously thought of Faith's face, how she looked with that fierce, tender urgency. How she felt trembling under Buffy's hands. She shook her head angrily. This wasn't the time, she thought, and cringed again as Angel's rage surged.

Buffy wanted to deal with this herself. She needed to see if Angel could be rehabilitated, and, if he couldn't, she had killed him once. She could do it again, she told herself, and ignored how weak her voice sounded even in her head. She wouldn't tell anyone until she was sure.

"Angel?" she said softly.

He growled, didn't even look at her, and continued to struggle against his chains. She could see his muscles trembling under gaunt skin, rivulets of water coursing down his back.

"I'll come back," Buffy whispered.

~ — ~ — ~

She did the next night, carrying a container of pig's blood from the butcher's. Buffy had avoided her friends, her Watcher ... Faith. She didn't want to lie to them. She didn't want to see their faces darken with betrayal, or vengeance for some of them. Buffy had slipped out as soon as she could, and moved quickly across town to his mansion. She entered, and saw Angel slumped on the floor, looking exhausted. The chains and wall behind him had deep, violent gouges through them, and she saw his wrists were chafed and raw. Buffy approached him quietly, trying not to startle him.

"Angel?" she said softly.

He snapped his head up, lip curled in a feral snarl. She flinched, but kept walking towards him, tentatively stretching out a hand. She touched him lightly on his shoulder and he recoiled fiercely, letting out a deep, shaking growl. She felt her chest constrict tightly, felt a sob rising and clamped it down forcefully.

Buffy stepped back slowly and took the blood out of the paper bag, and Angel stopped snarling and stared at it fixedly. She opened the container and his head tilted up, inhaling sharply through his nose. Buffy saw his expression of ravenous hunger before his eyes turned yellow and his face transformed.

She hesitated a little, and then firmly grasped the blood and set it a foot away from Angel, who was growling quietly. Buffy had barely set it down before he lunged forward, his face contorted in desperate hunger, grabbed it and turned his back to her, shielding his food. She heard him gulping it frenziedly, heard sick splashes, and cringed unconsciously, both because of the imagery and the thought that he hadn't eaten for ... God, how long?

Before coming to the mansion, Buffy had slipped some books from the library, looking for information on hell dimensions. She knew time traveled differently there, knew that days had passed here while years had gone by for Angel. Potentially hundreds of years. Hundreds of years of possible torture, unimaginable pain, the gradual process of breaking an individual. Buffy didn't know if he, or anyone, could ever recover from that.

She felt utterly exhausted as she watched him. Emotionally, physically, psychologically. She felt as if her entire body had been wrung out. She didn't know what to do, who to tell, who to trust. Buffy slumped to the ground several feet away from Angel, and buried her face in her hands. She looked up to see Angel's back, weak muscles moving underneath a canvas of bruises and scrapes, his tattoo faded and discolored. She felt a noiseless sob rip through her and opened her mouth silently.

"God," she gasped, and almost didn't realize she had spoken out loud. "Angel. I don't know what to do." She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, whispered, "Why did you come back?" and felt sick.

"I can't — I have no one to talk to. They can't know you're back yet. I haven't even seen ... Faith. How can I tell her? We were ... maybe we were about to have something and now I'm lying to her." She laughed mirthlessly. "Kinda puts the whole `does she like me, does she like me not' in perspective. Who needs flowers when you have pointy weapons and secret homicidal ex-boyfriends?"

Angel had stopped moving. Buffy saw him drop the empty container of blood to the floor. He slowly turned around, the ridges and fangs gone, and there was a flash of something in his eyes. Not quite recognition, but an expression of frantic grasping, like he wanted to reach something. He opened his mouth for several seconds and Buffy inhaled sharply.