log; ongoing

[1inageneration.livejournal.com]

When; SATURDAY NIGHT backdated because my net is a douche
Rating; Er. Well. There will most likely be violence. Come on, it’s Angelus.
Characters; Buffy Summers [1inageneration] and Angel(us) [atoner]
Summary; A trip down memory lane. Remixed.
Log;

Buffy knows that this time, it isn’t the same. She isn’t the same. And while the years have presented different challenges and different weaknesses, this is one that she’s already conquered. It doesn’t mean the same as it meant to her back then- but she’s made a promise, and she’s made it for a reason.

So when the sun sets and she hits the streets, armed with a stake up her sleeve, some holy water and a pair of handcuffs concealed in her pockets, it’s for Angel’s sake. And she knows that he’d do the same for her.

But killing is a last ditch resort. Hence the handcuffs. Still, Buffy knows that underestimating Angelus already sets off her bad idea spider senses, so she keeps alert and aware. Her boots make a slight crunching noise against the ground as she walks through an alleyway inside the City’s center- killing people in a crowd isn’t Angelus’ style.

Besides, if he’s already coming for her, she might as well pick the spot. Under the pretence of looking for him, obviously. She’s tense- almost unnecessarily so, ears perked for any sound, any movement at all.

Comments

[atoner.livejournal.com]

He doesn't come right after dark.

There were plans, things he had to set in stone before he stepped out there, coming up behind her and tapping her on her shoulder. Angelus knew she was out there, stalking and waiting, hoping to catch him in the act with some poor, defenseless soul. Angelus would make a point of picking the ones who looked like Buffy; while on a common day, Angel was able to act as if it ended with the returning of that ring, it wasn't so. Those feelings lurked, bubbling up inside of him as he dealt with the rest of the ramifications of the City. Angelus remembered every second of being there before and dealing with it; coming back and living it, being in control of it, was unbearable.

Buffy would come. But the veils, the various individuals who led Angel to believe he was all right, even happy, would come first.

And after them, Jenny Calendar could follow.

Of course, by time Angelus' feet are hitting the blackened ground of the darkened City, Jenny Calendar—the teacher, as he flippantly calls her—is lying dead in a lump near his front door. He enjoyed the meticulous set up, the chair and handcuffs, the various laid out weapons. Hell, he even thought about breaking into her with his bare hands, as long as he kept her alive. But he decided against that, one look in her pathetic, dewy eyes, and he reached out, snapping her neck. No need for a replay of before. He had a good memory. He laughs to himself as he passes into a building and walks up to the roof, a bounce to his step as he follows the scent of Buffy. Little bits of laughter slip out his mouth, as if he's telling himself jokes—and he is, the various different memories movement through his mind of the last twenty-four hours.

Temporary—a curse, that's what this is. But Angelus has done his best to leave a wound that will scar.

The bounce leaves his step as he grows closer, footsteps slowed, thoughts stopped, and he slips down off a building into the shadows as she's walking toward him. Angelus knows she's been out here for a while. She's covered enough ground for him to tell. He steps forward, sliding easily into a bit of light so it illuminates his pale skin, and he allows a smile to crease his lips, curving them upward. "It's been a while, sweetheart. Time for a reunion dinner, wouldn't you say?"

[1inageneration.livejournal.com]

Her ears were trained to pick up the slightest movements- a handy side effect of being a Slayer. She was both the hunter and sometimes the prey, albeit the kind with teeth. The kind that always wins. After all, half of the vampire slaying game is waiting. Let them think that they’re in power.

It’s all about power. And who has it. It’s about keeping it, despite whatever is thrown her way, despite the injuries and the injustices and the constant fighting. It’s the reason why she’s still alive.

She has it, and they don’t. Angelus doesn’t. Not anymore.

As he steps into the light in front of her, she stops, eyeing him with a stony determination and an almost unreadable face. The smirk on his face brings back memories, and although he may be in the same body as Angel, he looks nothing like him to her. Not even the slightest bit. She crosses her arms, every muscle tensed to its limit, ready to move at the slightest notice. But she’s all for throwing the first punch if it comes down to that.

“Sorry. I already had plans for tonight, and you weren’t part of them.” She replies, her voice seemingly glib as ever as she shoots back the quippy remark. Almost taunting, almost patronizing, it’s something she does often during battle. It’s to remind who she’s fighting that she’s in control. “Actually, I was gonna do something fun. Maybe a movie night. And then you threw a wrench in the plans. I don’t like it when evil nasties ruin my downtime.”

Fists up, close to her body, legs slightly apart in a comfortable stance, keeping her center of gravity low. Low enough to duck, but not too low to move quickly. She knows how Angel- and to some extent, Angelus, fights. But on the flipside, he’s seen her plenty of times. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Then again, she never expected it to be.

[atoner.livejournal.com]

"Plans, really?" Angelus retorts, taking a few steps back as he takes in her fighting stance. They've been here before, the same experience, the same fighting, though there's a bit of experience added to what he has going for him. The time Angel spent in Los Angeles, the time in Hell, the time here, and the time after that—the little bits and pieces added up to give something a little unexpected. He's played this game differently from all the others. There's always a different approach, a different obsession, but the same, ease that moves him through it.

"I wonder, do you plan on killing me? Was that a part of this?" He shifts to the left, walking up toward a wall to lean against it briefly. Angelus turns his gaze away from her, and he looks at the outline of his hand on the wall. "Because, man, that might be a problem." A quick, ease laugh spills out of his mouth as he turns, resting his head back against the wall, eyes falling closed.

"And you know, we have no way of telling if it'll be a soul that wakes up in this body come tomorrow." He raises an eyebrow toward her. Though the curse itself is temporary, there is no telling what comes back. Angelus has no desire to deal in death, to mess around with feeling a stake move through his heart, but he likes planting those little seeds of doubt. If he can make her resolve just that much weaker, then he will have an escape.

After all, he can't talk to her like before. She doesn't care. It's upsetting.

[1inageneration.livejournal.com]

“Only if you really annoy me.” she replies, sliding over the topic because letting Angelus know that killing him wasn’t really her first option would be something he’d take advantage of. Then again, he probably already knew. “But I thought we came here to fight. It’s definitely too late for a social call. “ Buffy’s tired and her feet hurt, but she isn’t letting that get in the way of her instincts, no matter how it might seem on the outside.

She’d almost forgotten how much of a talker Angelus was. He was good at this. He knew exactly what to say to push her buttons, but she wasn’t going to let him rile her up. A riled up Buffy equals a careless Buffy. Carelessness usually leads to sucky chest wounds.

Buffy throws the first punch, feeling it collide solidly against his face, putting some strength behind it. But she doubts it hurts him.

[atoner.livejournal.com]

"I don't think we ever finished making a date," he retorts, the punch not fazing him enough to keep the words from coming. Angelus merely feels his head jerking to the side, the pain coursing through his face. There's a part of him that doubts this will end with her taking her stake and sliding it into him; it's confident enough that he doesn't mind pressing those buttons, doesn't mind turning the knobs. It won't have the same effect it used to; Buffy isn't colder or more callous, but she's distant. Cookie dough metaphors aside, she's baking before she's ready.

It annoys him, that there is this shift, but he doesn't mind overly much. That means he has (and had) new things to play with.

There's a shift of his footing, a scraping sound of them against the ground while he moves into a defensive position. "The most hot and heavy we've gotten in a while. I mean, you had to have picked up something along the way to show off, and you won't even give me a chance? No fateful moonlight kisses, no awkward stumbling into one another during patrols?" He smirks, sliding off to the side as if he's ready for an attack. "No, that's right. There's avoidance there. Sense Buffy coming and make sure there isn't a run-in. Can't deal with the awkward silences and reminders that there aren't so many miles between us. Gotta make it easy. Got a family, and, well, with them, it's not like she matters anymore."