They were so beautiful. His black hair against her blond, their limbs entwined. They looked content, eyes closed in repose. Their lashes were dark crescents against their pale cheeks, hints of blue and green peeped from beneath their eyelids. A matched pair of slight, lovely, angels.
She'd been moaning not long ago--'Allan, oh, Allan, yes'--writhing under her lover as he worshipped her slender, sensual, form, as he kissed away all her past disappointments and whispered Gaelic endearments into the shell of her ear. Now they were tangled together in the cotton sheets. It was the perfect tableau of post-sexual slumber.
Except for the blood.
"You got a real addiction to the brooding part of your life. Anyone ever told you that?" Loud shirts, loyalty, and knowledge of fine whiskey.
"When you kiss me, I wanna die." Big green eyes, long pale hair winding around his neck.
He heard sirens wailing somewhere in the distance--or maybe just Cordelia's hysterical screams. Buffy's skin was so cold...her lips were almost as blue now as Doyle's true face. Could he comfort himself with the knowledge that the pain had been brief? That after their necks had snapped under his hands, they'd felt nothing but oblivious bliss?
He laughed hoarsely. The unbearably tempting smell of the blood encrusted under his nails, and on the jutting bones he was caressing, urged his demon up again and he lay there, game-faced in the Queen-sized bed...next to his best friend and the woman he loved. Finger sized black and blue marks ringed a rosary around Doyle's swelling neck, but the half-demon's arms had never dropped from around the Slayer. He'd just hung on, protecting her and comforting her to the very end.
Tears slid down Angel's cheeks and he watched them drip on her lips, down her throat, where they pinkened even more and then mixed with the stream of red that ran between her breasts.
Why? How? When had it started? When Doyle had seen her picture? When she'd seen Doyle in the office for that brief instant back in the fall? He assumed they'd been together, secretly, for months--trading off Sunnydale and L.A. whenever they needed each other. Now they would be together forever. A deeper forever than promises of love and a claddaugh ring.
He wound his fingers in her hair, curving against her stiffening body. He was freezing. Maybe if he just held her one more time, he would be warm? How could he have predicted his own hypocrisy? That he couldn't bear her living a normal life without him after all? If only she had just stayed true to him...his demon wouldn't have flung past his soul, he wouldn't have killed her with his bare hands. She would've died alone and miserable...not in the arms of a quick-witted Irishman who'd, no doubt, loved her unconditionally in the short time they'd had.
Angel knew Cordelia had come back downstairs with the crossbow. She was calling him Angelus and babbling threats. So much bravery. More bravery than him. He didn't correct her. "Do it," was all he whispered.
Death was too good for him, too good for the sin he'd committed in the names of jealousy and rage. He wept tears of relief when the crossbow bolt and the multiple stakes finally pierced his flesh. His place in Hell was ready. It had missed him. It was all he had left.
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