Part 22

Gut wounds were the worst. Jesus! And ‘gang banger chicks’ were vicious, dangerous little cunts. Angelus was certainly not going to feed on *them* anymore. He was royally pissed off. Last night he’d been injured and the residual pain was really annoying.

He hunted and fed several times a week and had become creative in the locales that he chose for his excursions. He avoided Sunnydale as much as he could, not wanting to encounter that thrice damned Slayer or anyone else Willow might be in contact with; he didn’t want word of his misdeeds getting back to her or to have run-ins with her friends. She might ignore his activities in *theory*, but if they became actual events that she was aware of, it might pose problems. Plus, she wouldn’t look kindly on him getting into…‘tiffs’ with her friends.

In the continuing effort to stay out of Willow’s hometown, last night he’d ventured to some trashy little burg 50 miles away to feed and wreak havoc. That’s where he’d encountered the source of his present aggravation. Things started out fine: he’d feasted on a couple of high school jocks. They were from out-of-town and were looking for trouble; he’d been happy to oblige.

When he’d seen the angry young woman with multiple piercings and tattoos, he’d thought she was just the ticket to follow up with. Things looked even more promising when she’d warned him not to ‘fuck with *this* gang banger chick’. It turned out that she’d had a good point…in more ways than one. When he’d gone for her jugular, she’d quickly produced a switchblade. That’s when things took a shitty turn. With catlike agility, the little bitch had sunk the knife into his stomach, then his thigh. Even in his present state of discomfort, he had to smile at the price she’d paid for her transgressions. He would’ve liked to have stabbed her, as she had him, but hadn’t wanted to waste her blood. Instead, he’d beat the crap out of her until she was “convinced” to beg him to fuck her in every orifice. Humble begging didn’t come easily from that type, so when he’d achieved it, it had been especially gratifying. He grinned wickedly at the memory: that part had been a gas.

Her blood was fantastic; she’d tasted of hate, rage, fear *and* resignation. She was a drug user and the cocaine in her system had been a bonus. Expedient too, because his injuries had hurt like a sonofabitch and the high had given him the energy he’d needed to procure bandages and a hotel room to clean up in. Going home to Willow in that state hadn’t even been a consideration. He kept extra clothes in the car for just such contingencies. In short order he’d gotten clean, bandaged, and dressed. He hadn’t even had to get the car bloody. Cocaine sure had a lot to recommend it: even with the unplanned foray into rape and torture, he’d gotten home in good time.

He’d explained his injuries by saying he’d been attacked by a knife-wielding demon that hated vampires. Willow had seemed to accept that, and it certainly wasn’t far from the truth.

Now if he could just find her. She’d been curled up on the couch in her old bedroom watching television earlier when he’d gone off to do paperwork. Willow had insisted on writing thank you notes to the ladies from Service, Inc. who had been so good to her. It had been his intention to send them fat bonuses anyway for their significant contributions to his darling girl’s rapidly improving self-image. He’d written the checks, enclosed them with Willow’s missives, and sent James off to mail them.

Now that he’d accomplished that task, and finished attending to his daily business, he was seeking out Willow to entertain him. The knife wounds were deep, therefore slower to heal, and he was limping and keeping a hand pressed to his gut as he sought out his woman. He was somewhat healed on the outside, so at least he didn’t have to contend with bleeding anymore, but inside he was tender. Moving pained him, which caused his temper to worsen with each step.

He was aware that it had become his habit to look to Willow for comfort when anything bothered him. It was disgusting ‘mama’s boy’ behavior that he acknowledged as pathetic…but godamnit, he liked it when Willow cooed and fussed. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone besides him and Willow knew he was acting like a pussy. She loved it, caretaker that she was, so it was favorable in that regard, as well.

In a travesty against manhood, he finally decided to ask for help. The upstairs maid was making up the bed, so he stuck his head in and asked Willow’s whereabouts.

Ah. No wonder he couldn’t find her. She was outside telling the gardeners what kind of flowers she wanted planted. Since it was mid-afternoon, looking outside hadn’t even occurred to him. He had to descend the cursed stairs yet again. Fuck me, he thought, all I keep doing is aggravating my injuries.

Fortunately, he located Willow at the first window he peeked out of in the library and hadn’t had to go traipsing around to every downstairs window they had. The sun was pretty far up onto the patio, so he couldn’t go out. Oh well, he’d just wait. It was amusing watching her talk with her hands anyway. He chuckled as she made big gestures and pointed this way and that. It looked more like she was directing traffic than planning flowerbeds. Just being in proximity to her cheered his foul humor somewhat.

It pleased him that Willow had undertaken a housewife role in their home. It suited his 18^th century sensibilities. The staff worshipped the ground she walked on and strove to oblige her every request. It also demonstrated that she considered this home. She was dug in here. Taking charge of such a large household and staff was no small feat and further illustrated how far she’d come from the shrinking violet he’d abducted.

Damn, Willow was taking a long time. She sure could talk up a storm, and he was getting sick of waiting. She wasn’t so entertaining now that the hand motions had stopped; she looked very serious, in fact. Tiring of looking out the window, he went to the computer to see how the stock market had done today. Shit. He was down several thousand dollars. It seemed like he was destined to have a day where every damned thing that happened conspired to worsen his mood.

Back to the window. She was still at it. He hadn’t given the gardener a second glance before, and now that he did, he didn’t like what he saw: some young stud he hadn’t seen before. Shirtless. The boy must work out, he thought with a grunt. He frowned when Willow laughed, and growled when she reached out to pat the guy’s arm. Flowers weren’t fucking funny, he fumed. What the hell were they talking about out there?

Godamnit. His gut hurt, his leg hurt, and Willow was out there having a grand ole time. As he continued to watch, the guy bent over and snipped a rose with his gardening tool. After carefully de-thorning it, the fucking asshole presented it to her with a toothy grin. This was outrageous!

Willow gave him a dazzling smile and sniffed the rose, looking at him flirtatiously through her eyelashes. Angelus was furious. WHAT THE FUCKING HELL?

He jerked the door open and heard Willow giggle and say, “Sure, Sam, call me anytime.” Oh, that fucking little slut!

“WILLOW!” he bellowed.

She glanced toward the door, waved and called, “Be right there, Angelus,” and patted the bastard’s arm *again* as she said her goodbyes.

“WILLOW, GET YOUR FUCKING ASS IN HERE *NOW*!”

That got her attention. She looked his way in shock and hurried towards him, turning to wave at her new conquest, her embarrassment at the nature of the summons apparent.

The second she was within range, he grabbed her arm and dragged her into the room. She started to say something, but was cut off when he backhanded her across the face and knocked her to the floor. Bending over, he grasped her elbows and pulled her to her feet. She was crying now and tried to speak again, but he interrupted her. “Don’t make a fucking sound.” He shook her for emphasis. “We’re going to discuss this in relative privacy upstairs; the whole house doesn’t need to know that you’ve been acting like a fucking whore.”

She stared at him in shock with blood and tears running down her face before he wrapped his hand in her hair and pulled her along. She struggled to keep up with him from the painful and awkward position, but kept tripping and crying out when they were going up the stairs.

When they reached her old bedroom--he didn’t want her in the one they shared--he shoved her in, entered, and slammed the door behind him. She stumbled several feet before she caught her balance. “Did you think you could get away with acting like that, Willow?” Angelus demanded. “Making a fool out of me with some…some gardener?”

Sobbing in earnest, she could barely speak, “What, what…I don’t understand.”

Angelus was seeing red; he couldn’t begin to think straight in his state of fury. “Shut up! I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.” He stalked towards her menacingly, “Do you understand me, Willow?” he yelled.

She gasped for air, “But, but…what happ…?”

Whack! He backhanded her again, so hard that his knuckles were bleeding from contact with her teeth. He grabbed the front of her dress and hauled her to the bed. The tears and blood had made a mess of her face and were now in her hair and on her dress. The right side of her face was swelling significantly and blood was coming from her nose and split lip.

Through gritted teeth he said, “When I say shut up, I goddamned mean it.” She gazed back with a blank look. “Nod if you understand.”

She nodded and hiccupped from trying to suppress crying sounds.

He was beginning to regret his actions. He might’ve been rash and acted precipitously. Maybe he should’ve demanded an accounting of the entire conversation she’d been having first. Too late. He certainly wasn’t going to back down, though; she had to see the error of her ways. He had zero tolerance for that sort of sluttish behavior and she had to learn her lesson.

God, his wounds hurt. Gathering his thoughts, he placed his hands on his hips and looked down at Willow, sitting on the bed, looking for all the world like she had no idea what had just happened.

“You are *mine* Willow. You belong to me. You will never again act like some common whore. Do you hear me?”

Tears continued to pour down her face and she nodded.

“If I ever see you flirting with another man again, I will kill you. Both of you. Is that perfectly clear?”

She nodded again.

“Now, go clean yourself up. You’re a mess. When you get out of the shower you’re going to *show* me who you belong to. And you’d damned well better make it good. So be thinking of that while you’re in there.”

Willow rose to do as she was told, but was too intimidated to walk past him. He moved to accommodate her.

Grabbing a couple of Kleenex to wipe his hand with, he took a seat on the bed. Shit, he thought. He’d certainly not meant for any of *that* to happen. Under no circumstances would he have been okay with Willow having that conversation with the gardener, but he certainly could’ve handled it better. If he hadn’t been cranky and in pain, he surely would’ve. He had a hellish temper and once it was unleashed, it needed to run its course. Unfortunately, often after it had, he was left with situations that he wished he hadn’t caused. Like now.

He could say whatever he wanted, but the truth was that Willow being Willow, it was extremely unlikely that the conversation that pissed him off so much had been anything untoward. Nevertheless, she had been out there doing what *looked* exactly liked flirting where anyone might see her. That was unacceptable. She was *his* and it was imperative that he drive the point home to her that she was not to participate in any behavior or activity that might make it look otherwise. He would not be made to look a fool and that was that.

Tossing the tissues to the nightstand, he scrubbed his face and hair harshly with his hands. It was likely that Willow had learned the lesson he had wanted her to, but at what cost to him? To both of them? He growled. He’d just have to wait and see how the situation played out. Rummaging through Willow’s nightstand, he found what he was looking for: cigarettes he’d left there. He desperately needed a smoke right now.

He lit up and went to the fireplace to lean on the mantle. Staring into the empty grate, he thought, at least Willow had seen his temper now. It was inevitable, after all. Maybe it was better sooner than later. The blow-dryer went on in the bathroom; she wouldn’t be long now.

She had looked bad when she’d gone to clean up. No doubt that eye would be swelling shut. God, he hoped he hadn’t broken her nose. Suddenly he had an idea. Flicking his cigarette into the fireplace, he headed to the cabinet by the entertainment center and fetched a bottle of red wine. He grabbed the corkscrew and opened the bottle, pouring some into a glass. He sliced his wrist with his fang and dribbled blood into the wine. He licked his wrist to close the wound and swirled the wine with his finger. He’d never done this before, but knew his blood would speed her recovery; he’d heard of it being done successfully.

She emerged from the bathroom in a long white satin robe, looking very young and virginal. And very bruised.

When she saw him, she approached with trepidation, clearly terrified of what he might do next, and he held the wineglass out to her.

She shook her head nervously, “No, tha…”

“Please. Take it. It’ll make you feel better.”

She looked at him suspiciously, but took the glass in her shaking hand and sipped. She swallowed, looked into the glass, then drank the rest down quickly.

Angelus was surprised by her response, but they could discuss the fact that she had unknowingly drunk his blood, and appeared to like it, later. He was going to let her make the first move. He had already screwed things up enough and was, frankly, curious about what she would do. The scent of her fear was intoxicating and he was striving to suppress his demon’s reaction to the situation.

Willow went to the bed, and, in a quivery voice, said, “My knees are shaky, I have to sit.” As she gingerly sat down, she went on, “You can hit me for speaking if you want, but I have to say something.” She watched warily to see what he intended to do.

He approached and sat down next to her, careful not to make any sudden or threatening movements. “Go on.”

She nodded and squared her shoulders, looking him in the eye. Her heart was beating very fast. In an unsteady voice, she said, “I didn’t do anything wrong, Angelus. I didn’t say anything or do anything to flirt with Sam. I thought about it and, and I can see where it could look suspicious if you just saw things through the window without hearing what was being said. So, in that way, I can see that you might get kind of mad. But not mad like you did.” She swallowed hard, “That was…it was wrong to hit me.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, “I love you. I try so hard to make you happy and,” she began to cry harder, “you did this,” she motioned to her face, “to me.”

She buried her swollen, bruised face in her hands and sobbed brokenly.

Angelus placed his hand on her shoulder gently, “Willow, I handled things badly.”

“Ya think?” she gasped through her tears.

His voice was gentle, but firm, “But, sweetheart, you’ve got to understand that even the appearance of flirting with another man is intolerable.”

With an expression bordering on mutinous, she snapped, “Is this a vampire thing? Because I’m thinking even though things were very different, way back when you were human, men and women talked and laughed in social situations that WEREN’T sexual.”

Fortunately his temper wasn’t flaring, and her attitude wasn’t igniting his anger again. Self-preservation must be prevailing, he thought. Willow’s courage made him proud as hell. Even though he had been an enraged maniac and knocked the shit out of her, she was standing up to him…despite the fact that she was scared to death. His concerns that his actions had decimated the self-confidence he had striven for her to gain were apparently unfounded.

Angelus felt like fidgeting, but wouldn’t allow himself to do it. He didn’t know the exact answer himself, so he’d just explain what went on in his head as best he could. “Vampires are very possessive, Willow. But I was unreasonably jealous when I was human, too, so I don’t precisely know the answer to your question. I do know that being possessive and having a temper can be…sometimes the results are… regrettable.”

Willow looked thoughtful. What he said seemed to make sense to her. Finally, she nodded and said, “I think if I saw what I thought was you flirting with another woman, I would want to hit you too. I couldn’t do this to you,” she motioned to her face again, which was improving as a result of his blood, “but I might want to try.”

He couldn’t help it, he laughed out loud. She said the most unexpected things. “I’m sorry for laughing, Willow, but you have the damnedest knack for saying things I least expect.”

She gave him a small, rueful smile that did nothing to diminish her look of desolation.

It occurred to him that if Willow knew all the things he did with other women, she’d want to do a hell of a lot more than backhand him. Well, no worries there, she wasn’t *going* to know, he thought smugly.

Right now, he had to focus all of his energies on salvaging this situation as best he could. Angelus’ countenance became very serious and he conveyed enough shame and regret with his eyes to rival Angel. That’s all he had. ‘I’m sorry, can you forgive me?’ seemed too lame to even attempt. Willow looked utterly pitiful, both from her injuries and expression; the right words in the face of that were difficult to come up with. Both of them sitting there looking like wounded lambs wasn’t doing anything to rectify the situation, he thought irritably. With a mental sigh, he decided to just plunge in and be as honest as he could. While she couldn’t detect lies from him in the normal course of things, she invariably seemed to react positively to blatant honesty…well, what she perceived as such, because almost always the closest he came was only damn near blatant honesty.

In what was only partially an affectation, he ran his hands over his face and through his hair in abject misery. Emanating every ounce of sincerity that he could muster, he said, “Willow, hurting you is the last thing I wanted to do….” He had to be careful, he wanted to get this right.

Her sad expression was attentive. She was listening. That boded well, he hoped. She easily could’ve told him to get the hell out of her sight.

He took a deep breath and started again. “I was an asshole and I’m very sorry for that.” Looking deeply into her eyes, he continued. “So *very* sorry. I’m a jealous bastard and there’s no denying it. Can you get past this and forgive me?” The pleading in his tone wasn’t feigned.

Willow studied him in silence for a long time. Finally she stood up and faced him, dropping her robe. “Look at me, Angelus,” she said with no emotion in her voice.

The wrong reaction could cost him significantly, so he carefully schooled his features. The robe had hidden bruises on her arms where he had gripped her; her knees were skinned and bruised. Her left leg, hip and ribs were mottled red, black and purple. And this was with his blood to aid in her healing. She was battered. The sight excited him, which he hid from her completely. But it also filled him with regret because of the damage it could cause to her feelings for him. The latter was all that he allowed to show on his face.

She retrieved her robe, tying it snugly and sat down on the bed. Looking at him with pain filled eyes, she said quietly, “I love you. I *still* love you. I know that and question myself. Logically, I’ve known from the get-go that being in a relationship with you would…have realities that aren’t pretty. Maybe I even knew to expect this at some point.”

She crossed her arms tightly in front of her as she stood up again and paced in front of him. Angelus watched her in silence and waited for her answer. He was fairly certain they both knew, ultimately, what it would be, but there was a lot of ground to cover before then. He also conceded that he had, on occasion, been wrong.

“Angelus, what you did hurt. You hurt my body, obviously. But you also humiliated me in front of whatever staff witnessed what happened. You treated me like a…a…a possession that doesn’t have feelings or deserve respect. Today the man I love beat me. When I imagined what my life would be, I *never* thought those words would be in my future.” She looked at him intently. “Now you ask me if I can get past this and forgive you. I don’t know. I don’t know if I can and still retain any self-respect. ‘Is it possible?’ I ask myself.” She stared at him hard, standing directly in front of him. “The big question is will it happen again?”

Angelus looked away. Honesty was necessary. Some things had to be faced and addressed straight on today. He’d felt from the beginning that he and Willow were meant to be. Forever. Therefore truths about one another would out. They were what they were. He looked back at her, his eyes beseeching her to see that he was being honest at great personal risk. “Probably. I’d love to say it won’t ever happen again. But, I’m a demon. Before that I was a man…and not a very nice one. Tales of my temper are legion.”

She dropped back to the bed, sitting tensely, and stared at him sadly.

Angelus straightened his back and continued, “I believe we are meant to be together. Despite my best efforts, I can be a bastard from time to time. But, Willow,” he stroked the side of her face, “I promise to cherish and adore you. I will always take care of you. No doubt loving a demon is hard for you; you are sweet and pure and good. If we’re to be together, compromise…on both our parts, is necessary. I may not deserve you, but I want you. Very much.”

He sighed and took her face in his hands tenderly. “Where we go from here is up to you. Consider all we’ve both said and decide what you want.” Angelus swallowed hard, barely able to form his next words. “If you decide to leave me, I won’t stand in your way.”

He kissed her lips softly and quietly left the room. Willow stared after him in shock.

End Part 22