tampered | log; ongoing

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.

“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.

"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."

log; ongoing

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