History Erased and Rewritten
Warnings: Sex and angst.
Summary: He'd thought their meeting would go differently than this.
AN: This is for chrisleeoctaves. The story was originally a thank you for being so nice to me at writercon. Only it took me like two years to write. And then I asked her to beta it, which sort of takes away from the giftiness. She did a superhero beta job, looking at way more drafts than I've ever made a beta look at. Her advice was invaluable and helped make this a story rather than a collection of words.
Her hands are shaking and he wants nothing more than to reach out and grab them. Hold them tight to stop the shaking, to lend comfort, to reassure himself she's real. But when he'd reached out to touch her earlier her indrawn breath and quick step to the side made her position on casual contact abundantly clear. Now all he can do is watch her and try not to stare.
He doesn't succeed. When she catches him watching her hands tremble around her coffee cup, she puts it down and drops her hands into her lap.
He forces his gaze back up to her face but avoids her eyes. They are too dark, too close to dead and looking at them makes his stomach twist.
They aren't talking and he doesn't know how to change that. Their stilted attempts at conversation have been so painful that he can't bring himself to try again.
He'd thought their meeting would go differently than this. She'd seemed almost herself on the phone, her voice had twisted up at the end of his name and the questioning pause after the last syllable had felt like coming home. It had been a revelation. She was alive, she was whole, she was there and he had to see her.
He'd imagined sweeping her into his arms when he first saw her, running his fingers over her face and neck, finding pulse points, luxuriating in the warmth of living skin. He'd imagined that they would kiss, unable to help themselves, but that they'd pull themselves apart eventually, aware of the danger. Then they'd fall into fevered, desperate conversation. They had so much to catch up on, so much time to make up for.
He'd thought it would be clear that separate lives weren't going to work and they'd have to find a way to stay connected despite being so far apart.
It hadn't gone like that at all. He'd arrived in the parking lot between the IHOP and the motel an hour or so after sunset and waited for her. She'd been late, but he'd expected that. He'd stood by his car and watched her approach and had been shocked when she got close enough for a good look. She was pale and tense and her skin was drawn too tight against her bones. She smelled like death, like grave dust and still blood and the stale air inside coffins.
She'd looked at the ground when she greeted him and when she finally looked up he wished she hadn't. Their attempts at small talk as they walked into the restaurant were awkward and broken. Eventually they lapsed into silence and he was left watching her, relieved to hear her pulse but decimated by everything he was seeing.
Now her hands are in her lap he's still trying not to stare and the waitresses are shooting them dirty looks while they ready themselves for closing.
“Buffy, we should...”
He nods then says, “I can't...I'm not ready to...”
She looks at him sideways. “I reserved a room.”
“Just in case. I thought. Maybe...?”
He isn't sure what she'd thought but he's glad they have someplace to go even if it is just another place to sit and feel uncomfortable. He isn't ready to walk away from her yet.
He pays the check and she goes to pick up the room key. He waits for her in the parking lot when he's done and he sags against his car and scrubs his hands over his face.
She walks towards him with a key in her hand and inclines her head toward room 7. Once inside he sits on the edge of the queen sized bed and when she joins him he reaches for her. “Buffy. I can't. I need...”
She nods and let's him grasp her hand. He holds her gently, a little afraid her bones will crumble underneath the too thin skin. He slides his fingers over the veins in her hand and wrist, across the bones and tendons. He squeezes and releases and finds her pulse over and over again. She's alive. Not quite right. But alive.
He continues touching her like he wants to memorize her. When he brushes her jawline she gasps just a little and he can't resist leaning forward and pressing his lips to the patch of skin just below her ear. When she doesn't move away he nuzzles her neck trying to get close enough to smell her underneath the death scent that surrounds her. When he goes to kiss the other side of her neck he notices that she has come back completely unscarred. The loss of his mark is like knife in his gut and he has to turn away when he notices it.
But not touching her is worse than not finding his mark so he turns back and touches his lips to her skin once more.
When his lips find hers she opens her mouth and this, at least, is familiar. The slide of tongue against tongue, the taste of her, is just as he remembers and he doesn't think he'll ever stop kissing her.
His hands are sliding up under her shirt and he pulls back long enough for a nod of assent and then he's pulling her top over her head and reveling in the newly revealed flesh. She isn't wearing a bra and he lays her back against the bed and starts to move his mouth across her skin. He licks and sucks while her hands clench into the comforter.
He slides her jeans and panties off and then she's naked before him. For a moment he just stares. She's pale and too thin, but she's aroused and that has brought a gentle flush to her skin. She looks pure, her hands and feet smooth and uncalloused.
He looks at her and for a moment her face is so open, so innocent, so good, so Buffy that he can't resist leaning down for another kiss. And then he pulls back because innocent Buffy is a trick of the mind and this Buffy hasn't been innocent since her seventeenth birthday. This Buffy slept with a soldier for almost a year and is miles away from the girl who blushed and covered herself ten seconds after the first time she let him take her bra off.
This Buffy has been remade in a new body and he's surprised but grateful to get the chance to see it.
He starts at her feet touching and licking and kissing. She used to grin and gasp when she had her toes sucked but now she just twitches and turns her head. A well placed kiss behind her knee still makes her shiver. A kiss to her inner thigh still makes her hips buck. The way she moans is different now. Darker, deeper, more desperate. It's painfully arousing. Her muscles are strong despite months of disuse and they flex under his fingers and lips and tongue.
When he reaches her cunt he finds her hot and swollen and slick and he desperately wants to find out if she tastes the same. He works her with fingers and tongue until she's bucking and kicking and begging, but she still isn't coming.
He works more fingers into her and he doesn't realize what the resistance is until the taste of blood hits his tongue. His stomach twists and he is hit with a rush emotion. Every way he's ever failed her comes back with that bit of torn skin. This shouldn't be him. She deserves better than him this time. But with his guilt comes a dark thrill. In some small way, she is still his.
He looks at her face and she is flushed and desperate. “More Angel. Fuck me.”
He takes off his clothes and then kisses up her body and moves into place and then he's inside her and it's so good and so different than before.
The first time she'd been nervous. She'd spread her legs slowly, trembled when he touched her. It was amazing, but it wasn't like this. Tonight she's arching and clenching and gasping and begging him to speed up, go faster, give her more.
She urges him on until he's moving so fast and so hard he's sure she'll break but she wants more and he kisses and sucks at her neck. An accidental nip makes her clamp down around his cock so he bites her again and again with blunt teeth.
She moves his head till his mouth is where his mark once was and his stomach turns at the smoothness of the skin until she whispers “Bite.”
He has to clamp his fingers around the base of his cock to keep from coming.
But he shakes his head against her neck and bites down once again with blunt teeth. But the noise she makes is lost and broken and needy and a quick look at her face reveals that her eyes have a spark of something almost like life so he lets himself change.
The moment the blood hits his tongue he is coming and she is too, and the taste of her blood and the feel of her orgasm around him makes his orgasm more intense than any he remembers.
He collapses on top of her and licks and kisses at her neck for long moments until they fall asleep tangled together on top of the comforter.
He wakes at dawn as she readies herself to leave. She's trying to be quiet and he lets her think she's succeeded in sneaking out. He can't bear the thought of conversation. He lets himself fall asleep again. When he wakes again he's in a room made dark by the comforter tacked over the window. It's noon and he has a long lonely day ahead of him.
He doesn't shower until just before sunset, and though he's spent the day sticky and uncomfortable it hurts to wash all traces of them down the drain. He jerks off in the shower, desperately not thinking of the deadness of her eyes, but rather of the feel of skin as it gave way to his teeth, and the taste of her blood on his tongue.
| Fiction Index | Home Page | Back |