SUBJECT: Fic, "Threat or Promise" 1a/1 R
AUTHOR: Ciderbreak (Lucy)
RATING: R (language, violence, adult material but not explicit)
DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon and the WB own all Buffy and Angel characters. No
infringement implied. Same for FOX, though those (insert vile epithet here)
lopped the head off another favorite website of mine.
DISCLAIMER 2: This fic requires suspension of belief. Situations would WAY
never occur. Not plausible in the least. You'll have to conveniently forget
the presence of: Angel's curse, Oz, the Agency's apparent poverty.
SPOILERS: Season 4. (with a wacked out timeline)
DEDICATION: For Tere
FEEDBACK: If you love me.



Las Vegas, Nevada

Friday night was one of the brightest nights Angel had experienced in a long
time.

"Sin City," Doyle called it, with a devilish grin. Cordelia had rolled her
eyes, whacked him on the shoulder, and reminded him it was a business trip.

Business, riiiiight.

Despite Doyle's still-waggling eyebrows at the prospect of the seedier
pleasures Vegas had to offer, Angel knew the Irish half-demon wasn't faking
the migrane vision that had them jumping in the car to make the four hour
drive from L.A. Well, three hours, the way Cordelia pressed her boot the the
gas and ignored the spedometer. The visions Doyle suffered could not be
falsified, no matter how much he craved the few moments of comfort from
Cordelia afterward. It took all his strength to keep his human face constant
while his mind took over, screaming and churning with half-formed images and
a soft name whispered in the melee.

He hadn't been wrong yet. Each vision Doyle gave them led Angel to a lost or
hurting soul.

So they came to the sparkling oasis in the desert, looking for trouble.
Angel liked the twinkly lights that stretched out towards the bald
mountatins. Their sparkle, unhibited by LA's chewable air, spoke of a clean,
thin, dry atmosphere. Simple. Pure. Actually, according to the colored
flyer discarded on the sidewalk, the city thrived on impurity of every kind.
But Angel lived the cost of bringing light out of darkness and knew he
probably hadn't been subjected to Cordelia's driving to get a proverbial
kitten out of a tree.

"Tell me again how you scored this suite?" Cordelia asked Doyle for the tenth
time.

Angel turned away from the window and smiled at the happiness in her voice.
In truth, the rooms were payment collected from a client, but Angel had
managed to keep that a secret. Surprising Cordelia with beauty and comfort
was his decision and judging by the sparkle in her eyes that rivaled the
lights outside, it was a worthy choice.

"Well-"

"No! Don't tell me. I don't want to know. Oh, heaven!" she exulted,
popping a complimentary chocolate past her lips and collapsing on the double
bed. She groaned again at feeling the five pillows and goose-down comforter
beneath her. "I may never leave this bed."

"As a matter of fact, that brings up several unique possibilities that I
could--" Doyle started. The daunting look of death she sent him had him
grinning. "Well, we'll just see what you have to say after you see the
jacuzzi."

Cordelia raised one eyebrow in disbelief and looked to Angel for confirmation.

"It's in my room, but you can use it," he allowed. His bedroom connected to
the double room Cordelia and Doyle were staying in and had one king-sized
bed. He would have offered it to Cordelia and bunked in with Doyle, but in a
rare selfless moment she insisted he take advantage of the thicker drapes and
"more room to be all kill-joy." So they each had a double bed while he
lounged in the master suite so sumptuous he almost called the former client
to protest at the overly-lavish payment. They were in the newest hotel, the
Bellagio, which boasted a faux-Venice theme complete with a canal and
gondolas, an annual flower budget of six million dollars a year and a
shopping plaza that made Cordelia silent for a whole half-hour.

"Heaven," she repeated.

"I'm heading out," Angel announced abruptly, biting down the words 'to hell.'
One, he didn't joke about going to hell, and two, Doyle could out do him
with the puns on a daily basis and Cordelia hated it. Outside their
bullet-proof glass window the main strip danced with color, slick neon and
flashing lights, concert announcements, buffet deals and one billboard for a
creepy-looking duo draped over a white tiger. Themed hotels towered over
their motel rivals and beckoned visitors to come empty their wallets. It was
a tourist paradise of hedonism.

"For you, for you," a young Latino man called out, trying to thrust a coupon
booklet into Angel's hand. He ignored him, but got stuck at an infernally
long stop light and couldn't ignore the legal panhandler who was working the
crowd.

"Hey, where are you from?" the tall, lanky man asked a young woman with red
hair who was also stuck at the stoplight. His teeth alone would offend, but
what really annoyed Angel was his shoes. Untied. Sort of a personal pet
peeve.

"From away," the girl answered succinctly, obviously not interested. She
turned back to her friends while the guy loudly resented her ignoring
tactics.

"That's not what I asked. I asked where you were from..."

Blessedly, the light turned and Angel stepped into the street. Just another
tourist out for a fun Friday night.

Angel headed in the opposite direction from the main strip, feeling the
unnatural weight of some kind of oppression. Maybe it was the gambling
addicts, or simply that he couldn't close his eyes to how the trailers and
broken down cement-block houses piled right up to the wealth on the strip
like sandbags on the bank of a raging river. His stomach churned seeing a
girl barely old enough to be in high school hustled away from the doorway of
a seedy club when he walked by.

He was headed to a bar called "John's Bar." He liked it when Doyle got at
least a name, or even a description of the person in need. This time all
Doyle said after the throbbing pain subsided was that the person was female,
and that she needed help "as soon as possible." Angel wondered if there was
more his partner was keeping from him, by the way he'd lowered his eyes and
hedged saying anything else.

"You might know her," Doyle finally confessed. But he didn't know for sure,
or what she looked like, or who it was, or where Angel knew her from. It
could be Buffy. It probably wasn't, and he knew the odds of that were
probably worse than those on the blackjack tables in the casino, but the tiny
thought that Buffy could be in trouble had him walking fast towards the
darker part of towns where the lights weren't so colorful and no one bothered
to sweep the sidewalks.

He couldn't purge Buffy from his heart, no matter how much he tried. But it
had been six months without seeing her and the pain of separation had
recently died down to a more manageable level. Cordelia even twitted him
about dating, due to the one disastrous date he'd let Doyle rope him into.
And he let her jibes go uncontested because the truth was that he wouldn't
object to having someone to confide in on a more intimate level.

A girlfriend. Maybe. Finding a woman he'd want to spend time with who
didn't mind his reticence and secrets was far easier than hooking up with a
woman who wouldn't figure out he was a vampire. "SWM, former master vampire
seeks tolerant woman for nebulous relationship." Disastrous odds.

John's Bar was a medium-sized establishment, but it was just a bar, not a
casino. And it was decidedly less shabby than some of its neighbors. It
boasted the requisite two slot machines in the lobby, their plastic faces
yellowed and cracked, but other than that there was no gambling pull. Just a
large room with a long bar, twenty or so tables, and a stage that currently
held a drum set with dull chrome siding, two microphones, two guitars and a
few beat-up amplifiers. The place was full, the patrons obviously waiting
for the band to come back from break and start playing so they could bump and
grind on the dance floor. Angel found himself relieved it wasn't a strip
club.

"Here for the band? Their next set is gonna be in about ten minutes," the
bouncer informed Angel, who passed over the cover and accepted the bright
pink stamp on his left hand.

"I'm meeting a friend," he replied absently, his sharp eyes scanning the room
for someone he knew. Like everything else in Vegas, the dimly-lit room
catered to smokers. Angel didn't mind too much- not like he was breathing it
in or anything.

The edge of his mind was picking up all kinds of mini-troubles, but the one
that compelled him came from a big man sitting at the end of the bar. The
man was huge, big enough to be a bouncer, and wore ripped blue jeans and a
black sweatshirt. His meaty hand pinned down the wrist of a woman. From far
away it might have seemed like they were holding hands, but Angel knew that
wasn't the case from the way the woman's fingers were cramped together.

Also, the man was a vampire. Angel knew that right away and craned his head
above the crowd. He couldn't see her face, but he felt her heart pumping
wildly. Thankfully, not Buffy. He knew her smell and it was always mixed
with a little surge of desire to rip her captor's heart out. The woman
getting her wrist crushed had pure, desperate fear and Angel almost rushed in
fists flying. The place was full, though, and he couldn't save the poor girl
that way. Besides, maybe the guy would let up a little when the music
started, if he was truly there to hear the band. There had to be a reason he
was holding the girl, not dragging her out back to feed. Angel smelled his
bloodlust and was both reviled and jealous.

The band shuffled back on stage to set up their next set, and the guy turned
to look, giving Angel a clear view of the huge man's unfortunate date. His
next meal.

Willow.


Fuck.

Willow? God, Angel hoped not, but there she was. Her straight red hair
seemed dulled by static and cigarette smoke and she wore makeup and clothing
that made her resemble her doppleganger, but the tears still wet on her
cheeks were unmistakably real. It was Willow, and Angel felt paralyzed by
responsibility.

This client could not die.

He took a seat at the bar, keeping his black duster closed around him, and
ordered a beer. The scotch in this place was sure to taste like... well, not
like the fine sample he'd had at the hotel bar on the way out.

The band started their second set and a few people got up to dance on the
wooden floor scraped bare as a knee. The cheap speakers managed to be plenty
loud enough for Angel to move to the seat behind the vampire without being
heard.

"Let her go or I shove this stake through you," Angel spoke firmly into the
guy's ear as he pressed a pointed piece of wood to the man's back that was
deadlier than any gun would be. It was a stupid move, not knowing how many
others were in the bar.

"She won't leave with you. She's chained to the barstool," the guy informed
Angel in a bored voice. "Get your own food. This one belongs to Jason."

"But I like redheads," Angel said, dipping easily into his Angelus voice. He
heard Willow gasp and mentally sent her a calming message. She wouldn't get
it, but it helped him relax. The guy holding her was not the guy in charge
and therefore, would be easy to dismiss.

"Look, buddy, I let her go and I'm dust. There's a red head waitress
somewhere around her. This one belongs to Jason."

"No, she belongs to me." The finality in Angel's voice was inarguable and
the guy released Willow's wrist. True to his word, she remained on the
barstool and cradled her sore wrist against her stomach protectively.

Angel stepped around the guy's side, making a triangle with his back to the
band. Leaning casually against the bar made it seem like they were all old
friends.

"Name's Ben. Who're you?" he demanded of Angel with narrowed eyes.

"Angelus."

"Not from around here, obviously." Ben sighed impatiently. "Look, newbie,
Jason's master in these parts, and unless you're willing to fight to the
death, it doesn't matter who you've claimed. He wants her, and he's coming
back to turn her. So just get out, or I'll have you thrown out."

While he babbled, Angel took stock of Willow's situation. Her ankles were
chained to the aging stool. It was easy enough to break, and he could always
chop the chains off with an axe later if he couldn't rip them off. Her wrist
might be broken and her lips looked swollen from kissing, but he smelled no
blood on her.

"Unchain her at least. She's still not going anywhere."

"Damned straight," came a calm voice at Angel's right side. An arm linked
around Willow's waist and a blond head bent over hers, kissing her hard on
her unwilling mouth. Her head arched away but Jason's other hand came up to
capture it.

"Boss, this newbie won't leave. Says he's claimed her."

Jason wrenched his mouth from Willow, who took a deep breath and looked
nauseous. Then she looked angry. Angel rejoiced. Her fear was dwindling,
which said a lot about how her trust in him to save her, but the fury rising
in her breast was nothing short of amazing. He knew that would be a boon in
their escape.

Jason was a clean-cut vampire in his mid-twenties, dressed like a tourist in
jeans and a sweatshirt. His eyes were icy blue and with the blond hair made
him resemble a very nasty SS officer Angelus had known in World War Two. But
that vampire was dust. Jason was a very real undead threat.

"We're all set here, Ben. Unchain my future bride and you can go back
outside." Jason was only humoring Angel, didn't see him as a threat.

It sort of hurt his ego. Was he not intimidating enough? Not scary? Not
wearing enough leather?

Angel resisted the urge to kick Ben when he crouched down to undo the chains
wrapped around Willow's ankles. Her black-booted feet immediately started
kicking, catching the burly vampire in the head a few times before he backed
away, muttering some choice insults under his breath.

"You can't claim her, Jason, she's mine."

"Not anymore. Now, look, this place is crawling with my minions. You want
to take us all on for some stupid piece of ass who isn't even big enough for
a snack?"

Mid-stream, Angel changed tactics. Willow would just have to sweat it out.

"Guess not. But I don't like having things taken from me, at any price."

"That's better. Willow, you know this guy?"

"Yes," came her one-worded response.

"All right then, newbie, name your price. Young girl? Older? Another
redhead? I can get you anything you want." Jason was being very solicitous
considering the situation, but he was in a good mood. The place was packed,
the band was rockin', and by dawn he'd have a new vampire consort with fire
in her. His last mistress was a little on the submissive side, but this chit
had much more potential.

"I want her-"

"You can't have-"

"-- for one last fuck."

The harsh words hung in the air, naked and very real. Tears sprang to
Willow's eyes and she turned her head, fury fading back into fear. Angel
inwardly cursed himself for scaring her. God, she probably thought he was
Angelus. But he knew what he was doing and he knew Jason would grant him the
request. Vampires weren't all that moral, and this one seemed distracted
tonight by the band and other things.

"You can have her back after the set," Angel promised. "I think I saw a red-
headed waitress that looked like what I want. But as her last master I want
the right to say goodbye. My way."

Well, that was accurate vampiric code, anyway. Jason didn't have to honor
it, obviously, but he was stupid and completely arrogant in his own power.
Secure in his lackey guards. No way was he a true master vampire, just a
cocky young man with a keen leadership sense and a little clout in Vegas.
Luckily for Angel, he was really liking the band.

"Fine, take her. No biting, though. I want her fresh. Take her out back
and then just leave her with Ben when you're done." Jason snapped his
fingers and a thin vampire came forward to receive his instructions. His
eyes widened when he saw Angel at the bar.

"But, master, that's-" the lackey protested, gesturing towards Angelus.

"A new vamp in town, I know. And I'm feeling good tonight because the band
is kick-ass and I want to show this new guy a good time. Vegas nightlife,
you know. So what if it's not my usual style. Don't I have the right to be
creative?"

"Of course, master."

The lackey shook his head as Angel took Willow's uninjured hand. They
followed him behind the stage to a door painted black. The music was
muffled from there but they could still hear the cheers of the crowd and
smell the smoke and booze.

"Go ahead out. The door locks behind you, so just knock when, uh, when
you're done and Ben will open it."

"Do you know who I am?" Angel asked menacingly, hand gripping his stake.

"Y-yes, Angelus. But I heard you were, I don't know. Underground."

"I'm still underground. No taste for crowds, minions, whatever. But I'm not
going to let some arrogant prick like Jason take what's mine." Angel
laughed, a hollow, cold laugh that made Willow wince. He squeezed her hand
in comfort and she huddled against him, effectively playing the part he
wanted her to. "Why do you even call him master? Look, I'm taking her back
to Dallas where she belongs. Not gonna leave me again, right, Willow?" For
emphasis, he pulled her head back, but she faked the painful grimace. He was
barely even touching her head, more like cradling it, his fingers sunk deep
into her hair.

"No, Angelus," she squeaked.

"What?" he hissed.

"Master. Master..."

Some peverse part of Angel really, really enjoyed hearing that name from
Willow and he knew it was time to stop acting. The lure of Angelus was
coming on strong, as was the rush of self-hatred. He turned to the lackey
and demanded his name.

"Kent."

"Kent. We're going to the bus station and then out of this freakish city.
You keep it secret, and I'll let you live. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Angel didn't answer him, just nodded curtly and gestured towards the door.
Kent fumbled to open it and Angel strode confidently into the alley, pulling
Willow behind him possessively. She hurried to keep up without falling and
being dragged, her heart in the pit of her stomach.

Angel quickly hailed a cab back to the main strip and they rode in silence.

He made the cab stop at the New York hotel where they could blend in with
tourists and get lost in the maze of restaurants and shops inside. Finding a
quieter spot in a dark corner of an eating area, Angel made Willow sit down
and returned shortly with a few wet naps and a ginger ale.

"This should settle your stomach."

Willow was already breaking into one of the wet naps, hands shaking as she
unfolded the soapy towel to scrub her face free of tears and Jason's unwanted
kisses. When she'd cleaned herself up somewhat, she gave him a weak smile.

"Thank you."

"Drink that," Angel nudged her softly.

Unspoken words meaning: you're safe, don't fear, I have you, I won't let you
go. The protectiveness he felt for her astounded him. He hadn't claimed
her, at least not the way he boasted to Jason. He hadn't bedded her, hadn't
drunk deeply from her neck as she cried his name. But a big part of him
loved her fiercely, hence the surprise. She was Buffy's best friend, so that
gave him reason to look out for her, but inexplicably there was something
more to it. The feeling that if nothing else, Willow would be able to
understand him.

Maybe be that confidante he so desperately craved these days. Maybe more.

A few minutes later, he summoned up the courage to ask her what was foremost
on his mind.

"Jason. Did he do anything other than kiss you? Physically, I mean."

"No. Nothing I didn't ask him to," Willow answered honestly, ashamed at the
confusion in Angel's eyes.

"You were with him willingly? A vampire, on purpose?"

"I didn't know he was a vampire at the time." Willow took a sip of the
ginger ale and was reminded of sick days as a child, when she lay on the
couch and sipped flat soda while her mom plied her with Disney videos and
chicken soup. Very comforting taste.

"You have some explaining to do," Angel informed her, leaning forward with
the tips of his fingers resting together. "Now."



Willow fought the urge to mimic Angel's pose on the table. Now that she was
safe, adrenaline was rushing through every vein, making her giddy. Also,
she wanted cheesecake. How odd was that after everything she'd been through
that night? Her watch only read 11 p.m. Not even the witching hour.

"I came here on the bus from Sunnydale. We have a long weekend and I wanted
to get laid."

"No, really, Willow. I want to help."

Willow looked him straight in the eye and sucked on her straw. It took him a
full minute to believe her and when understanding dawned she was prepared for
the anger and the confusion, but not the little glint of humor she saw in his
eyes. She figured he'd express the emotions in order like a good little
private investigator, and then maybe she could try and make him understand.
No one else seemed to.

"That's a bloody stupid plan. You almost died."

Anger.

"I met Jason on the bus from Sunnydale and we talked the whole way. He was
really nice, offering to show me around and stuff. I swear I didn't know he
was a vampire until later."

"You were too busy trying to seduce him to notice?"

"Pretty much. I wasn't very good at it," she said wistfully. Angel nearly
smiled. But there were a few fuzzy spots in his brain and they needed focus.

"What about Oz?"

Ah, there's confusion.

"He dumped me the first week of school. We're just friends now. And we've
both dated other people, but this weekend I just needed to get away, go to a
place where no one knew me, and relax."

"And have sex with a stranger," Angel scoffed at the stupidity of it. "I
could go Public Service Announcement on your ass, but I have a feeling you
know the lecture."

"I designed their website," Willow nodded, unfazed. "Come on, Angel, don't
you ever get lonely... you know, in that way?"

Even asking the question made her blush and Angel knew there was a thick
coating of bravado over her words.

'I do," he confessed. "Daily." <> "But
even if I could, I wouldn't have sex with someone I didn't know, just to
relieve the tension."

"Not even if you really, really want it? And no one would find out? It's
not that big a deal."

"It is to me." <> he added silently, knowing she was thinking
the words. "Sex is something to be shared, not taken, not cheapened by
anonymity."

"PSA," Willow warned him. Then sighed. "I know. That's why I came here.
It's like the only place I know where sex is so openly a business. I thought
it could work. But deep down I know you're right, so can we just forget this
ever happened?"

"By that I mean you'd like me to never tease you about it to your friends?
Which you know I would never do. But this talk is far from over."

"Damn," Willow muttered. Having a heart-to-heart with Angel was not on her
list of weekend activities. "Well, can we at least get some cheesecake? You
know, if we're in for The Talk."

Angel frowned and got up again, for which Willow was grateful. Her knees
were shaky from her ordeal, probably not the best supports for her walking
right now. He returned with a piece of chocolate cheesecake and two forks.

Two hours later, he understood a little better where she was coming from and
was not as angry. Willow was shocked that Doyle's vision was what led Angel
to her.

"I've never had an out-of-town case before," Angel admitted. He sat back in
his chair, admiring Willow in her leather outfit. At least she had the
costume down pat, if not the accompanying attitude.

"Where are they now?" Willow wanted to know.

"Probably out gambling and drinking. You know, Vegas nightlife."

"You know," Willow repeated. And since the hard parts of the talk were over,
dealing with their shared insecurities and other less-than-pretty thoughts,
she could find a little bit of wistful lightness. "I just wanted someone to
make me scream. I guess I'll just have to wait."

They stood and wound their way around the crowd, getting lost in the
cobblestone "streets" . Angel took her hand in his, linking their fingers.
He had confided his loneliness to her, told her what he wanted in a friend,
and she agreed he should find one.

"And since only Buffy can make you truly happy, there's no big curse scare,"
Willow had said sensibly. And almost offered herself as option number one,
but feared he'd reject her. And rejection tonight after everything else was
not looking really attractive.

"Make you scream?" he asked when they got outside, looking down. She blushed
again, but smiled. He was smiling too, and tucked a wayward strand of hair
behind one ear as a yellow car full of screaming people rushed by on the
roller coaster above their heads.

"You know, Las Vegas is like living in a life sized cartoon," Willow hedged
cheerfully.

"Willow," Angel prodded, sliding his hands around her waist. After
everything, it seemed natural. And it could be fun, and it wouldn't be
meaningless, and he cared for her deeply, and she wanted....

"Will you make me scream?" Willow questioned him softly, tilting her head up
to be kissed. As Angel lowered his head to oblige, she heard his last words
and shivered in pleasure.

"I'll make you beg."