Lar ||| Buffy & Angel

Lemons
by Lar

EMAIL: HERE
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Joss'. Pity, that.
SUMMARY: Spanish moon and memories.
NOTES: Quickie improv from ethrosdemon - gilt, plot, mesh, theme - Spain

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Angel remembers very clearly a night in Barcelona. There was a small plot of land behind the house planted with lemon trees, and the smell had been high and sharp in his nostrils. The tang of citrus even now will take him back there, to Darla framed in the moonlight on the veranda.

The owner of the house, his wife, their servants - all dead downstairs at the long wooden table or in the kitchen, sprawled on the tile floors. The blood was hot and coursing through him when he tore the gown from her shoulders and pressed her to the floor, when she laughed at him and urged him on to rougher movements and harder bites, when she called him her darling boy, her lover eternal, her mate. Her destiny. Never had he felt such passion for her, not before or since that night under the full silver moon when the air smelled like lemons and blood.

He shakes his head now, stops the imagery from implanting itself any deeper into his conscious mind and peers again through the mesh-lace curtains. Cordelia and Gunn, seated on the steps of the Hyperion. Cool night air lifting tendrils of hair from her neck, moonlight turning the streaks to gilt among the rich coffee-colored strands. Sound of their laughter clear and loud to him despite the wall between them. Watches her throat as she lifts the glass to drink, pale yellow liquid disappearing between her lips as she sips the lemonade and swallows. He can smell the juice of the fruit she cut in the kitchen from out here in the lobby.

Moonlight, and lemons, and a beautiful woman. All that's missing is the blood.



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