Title: Sin of Self

Summary: Sometimes the greatest sins aren’t the ones born of blood and death. Post NFA

Rated: PG-13

Disclaimer: Nope not mine. They belong to Joss.

A/N: Thanks to Lee for all her help on this one.

 

 

 

 

It stained her soul. In that moment she understood Lady Macbeth. She and Willow once teased that they were going to send the woman a gallon of bleach. Now the joke seemed an atrocity, she knew nothing would take this away. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t a demon either. Giles hadn’t been able to classify him, but he’d been able to come up with a weapon to kill him; something forged by templars, blessed by monks, wielded by knights and hidden away for a millennium.

 

There had been blood, thick, red and sticky; the metallic smell making the bile rise in her throat. She retched, one hand covering her mouth. She stumbled back, realizing she’d just smeared her face with this sin. She pushed away from the wall with her shoulders. She was supposed to stay, stay and wash away the evidence that she’d been here, fingerprints on the wineglasses, a strand of hair on the cushions of his couch.  The Watcher’s Council could only do so much to cover up her destruction but she couldn’t stand to take another breath of the things she’d done.

 

The door slammed behind her solid and final. She ran through crooked alleys and cramped streets with her breath rattling in her chest.  She fumbled with her keys until she noticed the way the blood stained them. Her breath caught, snared in the blood she’d left behind. She pulled her sleeve over her hand, grasping the doorknob with blanketed fingers and twisting hard enough to break the lock. Her door opened, sanctuary promised and she lunged inside tripping and falling on the carpet. She laid there, the rough weave scratching against her skin and finally the world shifted from surreal to normal.

 

She knew she had to get up. She had to call Giles, let him know it was done and it’d all gone terribly wrong. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her hand now rusty with dried blood. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and willed herself to her feet. She found the bathroom by feel, not willing to open her eyes and see the evidence of her deed.  She stripped off her clothes, stuffing them in the bathroom trashcan and climbed into the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go. She let the scalding spray wash her clean and muffle her sobs. She was a slayer. She’d killed demons, more than she could count. She’d even killed the demon she loved and watched another that she cared for die. Through it all she’d never betrayed herself, her sense of values, and her esteem…her soul the way she had with this one. It wasn’t the kill that disgusted her. It was the betrayal of self that made it so hard.

 

Not to mention the crimson stain that had spread across his perfect parquet floor.

 

 

As the water grew cold her sobs ceased but the tears continued to well in her eyes. She got out of the shower and wrapped herself in her favorite fluffy robe. She picked up the cordless phone and stared at the number pad for a moment. Her throat constricted as she dialed the number, closing off completely as it rang. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard his voice.

 

She had meant to call Giles. She knew she needed to call Giles. That was what came at the end of the mission.

 

And yet it was His voice on the end of the line.

 

“Angel…I-I need you.” Her voice was a whisper so broken it was barely audible even to supernatural ears.

 

“I’ll be right there.”

 

She hung up the phone, cradling the cordless receiver to her chest like a child. She bowed her head, finally letting the tears come hot and fast. In her head she knew the Immortal hadn’t been entirely human. He was immortal. He’d been around to torture Spike and Angelus and still looked fabulous when he’d taken her on a date. Everything else in her was repulsed at what she’d done, at the last rattle his breath had made in his lungs and the confusion followed by fear in his eyes. He had lived hundreds upon hundreds of years, he’d been afraid to die. In death, The Immortal had been wholly human.

 

She stared at the phone, forced herself to dial Giles’ phone number. He answered, his voice sounding tired but obviously still awake. A slight smile quirked her lips, she could see him bent over a table, two or three books in front of him as he researched, brow furrowed trying to come up with the solution to the latest problem. The next moment her reason for calling crashed down upon her and she folded in again.

 

“It’s done,” she half whispered before hanging the phone up.  She grabbed the cradle with one hand and jerked it until it came out of the wall. She didn’t want Giles calling back, asking what was wrong. She wasn’t ready to confess to him what it had been like.

 

She was still huddled in the corner when he found her hours later. The lock on the door was broken, allowing him to push it open but she had to croak out a formal invitation to let him step through. He shut the door behind him and then went to his knees in front of her. His hands made a journey over her body even though he knew he’d find no external wound that could hurt her this way. She remained stock still, only the pulse hammering in her throat and her shaky breathing as proof of life.

 

When he’d assured himself she was unharmed, he reached to gather her in his arms and she lashed out, her feet catching him in the gut and tossing him back with an oomph. “No! You can’t touch me. I’m-what I did-“she shook her head. Her face crumbled. “You can’t touch me.”

 

Her words made him ache with a pain he’d rarely felt toward another person. His fingertips itched to brush one touch across her skin, one touch to let her know she was loved, that nothing she could do could change that.  Instead he crouched on the balls of his feet yet kept a clear distance from her, respecting her wishes.  He knew from his years in Sunnydale that there was a time to push Buffy and there was a time to let her come to him.  Right now she needed gentle nudges.

 

“You say that as if touching you would bring comfort to only you. That’s not true. In every touch you give me hope, reaffirmation, redemption, salvation. I want to touch you because I need to, not because you need me to,” he whispered.

 

The pain in her face eased back a little, allowing him to see how much this life had worn away at her. “Poetry, everything you say is poetry. I’d forgotten that.” Her voice was mouse squeak in the stillness.

 

“To you,” he smiled. “To everyone else, I just sound like a doofus.”

 

A bark of noise erupted from her lips, a laugh not fully bloomed. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Since when do you say the word doofus?”

 

“Since I started missing you. I’ve been known to say headache-y on occasion,” he grinned softly.

 

She wrapped one arm around her knees and rested the other hand at the back of her neck, physically pulling herself into the smallest ball she could. He reached out and drew the tips of his fingers along the curve of her spine as if he could straighten her like a piece of curled parchment paper. She shivered at his touch, part of her wanting to turn and bury herself in him, the other part of her knowing she had no right.

 

“Why?” she finally asked.

 

He knew what the rest of the question was. It’d been a long time since he’d tried to keep track of Buffy’s conversations, but he knew the key was listening to her tone, not her words. The tone of her voice would tell him everything he needed to know, how she felt, what she wanted to talk about.

 

“You called. You needed me and I couldn’t refuse even if I wanted to. Helping you is ingrained in me, like the lust for blood,” he answered. He thought it an appropriate comparison. Once he knew she needed his help, he couldn’t deny it anymore than he could deny himself blood.

 

“Bet you wish it was a two way street,” she said after a moment. Guilt colored her words and her body language as she pulled impossibly deeper into herself.

 

He paused, giving himself time to think about her words. He’d been angry at first, angry that he’d had to go into battle with the Black Thorn and all the hell they’d unleashed without her. She’d had an army of slayers and yet she couldn’t find it clear to let him borrow them. He might have kept Gunn or Illyria if he’d had a slayer army. He’d gone to Rome fueled by fury. He was going to rake her over the coals for this one. He’d stood outside her apartment and watched her sit at the window reading a book. There’d been a promise of a smile on her face as she read something she enjoyed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His anger had bled out onto the cobblestones at his feet. This was why he fought, why Gunn, Illyria and Wes had died; so Connor could live, so Buffy could have normal. He’d turned around and gone back to LA without ever saying a word to her.

 

“It is,” he finally answered. At her confused look he continued. “No, you weren’t there that day…but you were there every other day.” He sighed, knowing without any provocation from her he’d have to explain. “Every blonde I see reminds me that you are somewhere living and breathing, hopefully smiling. Every time I fight and win, I’m reminded that in some small way, it’s a victory for a side that both of us are on. Every time I want to give up, I’m reminded that a dozen apocalypses and two deaths and you haven’t given up yet. Every time the sun rises I’m reminded that you loved me enough to save me from myself and because of that part of you lives inside of me. As long as I walk the earth that’ll be true. In some small way, because of that, you’re as immortal as I am.”

 

Her eyes shone in the moonlight with fresh tears. He watched as they balanced on the edge of her lashes before plunging down her cheeks. He reached out daring to wipe them away with the pad of his thumb then retreated back to his own space.

 

“And here I was worried about not leaving anything behind,” she made a weak joke causing the corners of her mouth to tilt up slightly.

 

He shrugged, letting a grin slip across his face. “Vampire in love, quite a legacy.”

 

“Sounds like a bad chick flick,” she smiled relaxing a little bit. In the next heartbeat, the weight of what she’d done fell on her, erasing the smile. It was easier to bear with him here though and part of her felt guilty for that.

 

He couldn’t resist it any longer. He scooped her up in his arms and felt something inside of him snap into place when her little hands clasped behind his neck. Her nose burrowed in the crook of his neck, that place that had been made for her head and he carried her into her bedroom. He laid her down, pulled a blanket off the foot of the bed and tucked it up around her chin. He placed a kiss on her forehead and pulled a chair close to her bedside.

 

She watched him through half lidded eyes, not sure if he was a real or a trick of light.  “How long can you stay?”

 

He knew the dangers of promising Buffy forever. He’d learned the lesson well. “Long enough,” he answered.

We were lovers in a dangerous time