She thinks she’s fucked in the head, but he knows she’s got nothing on him. He did, after all, seek her out, knowing her volatile mood… and what it might lead to. 

Him lying beneath her, her hands wrapped around his throat, slowly squeezing. 

Like Pavlov’s dog, he hardens within the confines of his jeans, even though he can’t help but think that the hands are a little too small, as is the figure straddling his hips. Weeks of conditioning have made it so that even the hint of violence gets him hard. He doesn’t struggle as she cuts off his airway and he begins to see spots before his eyes; it’s not the first time strangulation has been used on him. His gaze remains fixed upon her face – hardened and fierce and just a little crazy – waiting to see what she’ll do with this newfound knowledge of his depravity, how far she’ll take it. 

He knows the second the haze of her anger and betrayal lifts and he’s not just her next conquest, her next kill – the steady pressure against his neck eases and then falls away, there’s confusion then sudden dawning in her eyes at her aborted actions and his compulsory response, and god help him, pity. He turns his head to the side and ignores the hesitant touch of fingers to his jaw. Blocks out the questioning, “Xander?” because he hates that she’s become human to him now, rather than the means of his destruction, his blessed peace. 

He closes his eyes and escapes to his private dream world, one in which Faith is gone, and it’s Angelus looming over him, his eyes unforgiving, an evil leer on his face. His expression is hopeful that maybe this time the vampire will do what he’d spent weeks and months promising, right until he was sent to hell thanks, finally, to the Slayer. 

“Are you ready, boy?” 

He licks at lips that have gone dry and hopes that’s enough of an answer. His throat is sore and he’s doubtful he can voice an affirmative. 

It must be, though, because his clothes are suddenly gone and his legs are lifted in the air and draped over shoulders, leaving him open and exposed. Something cool and slick presses against his ass and then in and he cries out from the pain. He doesn’t dare move, however, instead taking whatever Angelus deems to mete out. To fight back only brings about more pain. He’s learned that lesson well. 

There’s nothing gentle about his taking, and that is what Angelus is doing. Taking him. Marking him. Obliterating the Slayer’s scent, the one he was foolish enough to fuck. He should have known Angelus would have taken exception. He feels himself tear and knows he’s bleeding. Then fangs are at his throat and he’s being drained for an entirely different reason. 

And all he can think is… yes. No more pain. No more anything. 

He regrets not being able to say goodbye to Willow and the others, and that his friends had not seen the reason behind his vehement objection to having Angel around after being kicked out of hell. 

But then, he’s had experience at hiding his abuse. Years and years of experience. 

The steady rocking of Angelus above him, his blood leaving his body at an alarming rate, and a feeling of lassitude snakes through his limbs. He figures the afterlife can’t be much worse than his time here on earth, and he smiles, ready, calm in the face of his death. 

Soon. 

The pressure at his neck eases and his mouth is filled with something and he instinctively swallows it down to keep from choking. Thick, viscous and it tastes like… pennies. 

His eyes widen in horror and he thinks No! Not my dream. Not my dream. 

He glances around and sees Faith sprawled on the floor, her head at an odd angle as if her neck were broken, eyes open and staring at nothing. He tries to refocus on Angelus, on the fact that he’s naked with the vampire stretched out on top of him. It takes a minute, and he begins to recognize the maniacal look in the amber eyes gazing down at him. Shivers at the blood dripping from his fangs. 

My blood, he marvels. 

He wants to reach out and touch it, to feel the evidence of his death at the hands of this vampire, but his arms are too weak. 

The face that has haunted him for almost a year disappears from his field of vision and resumes its place at his throat. He closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable, but just before fangs sink back into his flesh, he swears he feels the gentle brush of lips against his skin. 

The End

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