|
|
"Equation"
by Elizabeth
E-mail: uhmidont@theglobe.com
Spoilers: S2 through "Redefinition"
Rating: R
Improv: plush -- broken -- bewilder -- moonlight
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Distribution: List archives/site. Otherwise, please ask.
February 5, 2001
=====
Moonlight
Drusilla is dancing. Arms flung out wide, balancing up on her tiptoes. His little sister Audrey --how long has it been since Lindsey thought of her by name, thought of her as anything other than
part of a life he's left far behind? -- used to dance like that, spinning around, giggling as she spun into walls and then away again. He moves aside as Drusilla twirls past him, humming.
Darla looks beautiful. It was hard--almost--to watch her die but he did and he knows she'll be back again. Secret hope he nourishes and grows: she'll see him, touch him, make him new. Make him
better. He'd never leave her. Not after a hundred years. Not after forever. He knows she'll sense that. He knows it's written all over his face.
"The moon is so happy," Drusilla says, her voice somewhere between a laugh and a moan. "Shiny, shiny moonlight singing next to the stars." She slides back towards him, feet gliding across the floor
silently. Stops right next to him, extends a finger overhead. Blood-red nails.
He'd watched her paint them the other day. She grew angry when she dripped polish on the floor, stamped her feet and ripped her doll's head off with one hand, then cried till he'd put it back on.
Just like his sister, he'd thought. *Fix it for me, Lindsey.*
But Drusilla's nails do not belong to a child and he moves away from her, just out of reach. "You hear it, don't you?" she says. He looks up, obedient. Sees bright light, but only of buildings, of
civilization, of men pretending that day can last forever and ever and ever. No moonlight, no stars. The city is too bright to ever sleep. "Sometimes." She starts to twirl again and he looks back at
Darla.
"He's floating all around you," Drusilla says. "I see him, you know." She makes swimming motions with her hands, graceful turns of her wrists, and then stops suddenly, hands over her ears. "His
wings are all fluttery. Too loud, too loud!" She begins to turn again, doubled over. She doesn't talk, doesn't hum, just makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a shriek. It makes his ears hurt
but he'd never tell her to stop.
She straightens up abruptly, falling silent, and gives him a brilliant smile. "No time for that, now. The nursery isn't nearly ready and--" she claps her hands "and everyone will be here soon!" He
forces himself to relax his hand, uncurling one finger after another. Darla, he reminds himself. Darla. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Drusilla's heading towards the bags of dirt that Holland brought up for her "birth" and she looks back at him, bewilderment in her eyes. "Angelus used to only have me on his mind. He floated all
around me, everywhere I went." She lifts her fingers up and snaps them twice, quickly. "Beautiful Lindsey," she says on a sigh and then grins at him, teeth bared, feral and sweet at the same time. "I
was beautiful like you once. Did you know that? Did he tell you?"
He flinches, says nothing in reply.
**
Plush
Law school, second year, California. Where he's always wanted to be, but still...classes, endless classes, and already the competition for jobs has begun.
Lindsey needs an internship, needs to start on the path towards a job that means something, and everyone knows that Professor Apollyon holds back a few choice ones for students he deems worthy. So
he calls the Professor's office one morning, waits an interminable amount of time while the secretary checks to see if there are any open appointments during office hours. He writes the time he is
allotted on a piece of paper, neatly. 4 PM, Thursday. He'll have to skip a class to be there, but he knows--hopes--it will be worth it. He's watched all the other students around him seemingly fall
into opportunity, dull gazes meaning nothing to firms that snatch them up for internships, assessing them as future partner material. Lindsey fears that everyone can see how hungry he is, how
desperate, and it makes them all turn away. He wants too much and it shows.
Thursday. 3:55 PM. Just a little early, he'd waited as long as he could, waited till his stomach was a burning knot of anticipation and fear. Professor Apollyon's office is on the top floor of the
administrative building, pushed back into a corner. He walks inside the office, is greeted with a view of the campus stretched out all around him through windows that gleam, not covered with the
typical university layer of book dust and student misery.
"Lindsey, always good to see you," the professor says. He is older, gray-haired--tall with dark eyes. His hand holds Lindsey's for a moment too long and Lindsey glances down at the carpet, thinking.
Analyzing. This is what he's gone to school for, this is what he's been taught to do. See things, think them through quickly. Plan.
Piled over the university carpet--flat, dark green, reeking of state purchase and budget requirements--are Oriental rugs. Thick, plush, every color, every shape, scattered across the floor. He's
standing on one that is made up of blues, the edges thickly fringed, and he knows what he needs to do.
"Do you like the rugs?" Professor Apollyon smiles a well-fed smile, teeth gleaming. Lindsey looks up, swallows, nods.
"They're very nice."
The professor touches him again, lingeringly this time. His hand circles Lindsey's, his fingers resting on Lindsey's wrist, no pressure at all. "Tell me, what can I do for you?"
He takes a deep breath, starts talking. Hoping.
Later, down on the rug, face pressed almost, but not quite into the carpet, he stares at all the blues in front of him. A sea of them undulating as the body above him moves, twitches, sighs.
"Beautiful," the professor whispers. "You are beautiful, Lindsey. I know a firm that will be just perfect for you. I'll introduce you to one of the partners."
Lindsey inhales, forces relaxation down his body, and watches blue fibers ripple, turn. The rug smells salty. Like the ocean, like tears. A hand brushes down his back, and his flesh prickles in
response. "You like this?" Apollyon asks.
"Yes," Lindsey says. "I do."
**
Broken
The emergency room, half-sitting, half-lying on a cold table, surrounded by once white, now stained curtains. One hand missing, gone. "No sirens, and don't take him to County General," Holland told
ambulance technicians, a careful mixture of concern and calculation on his face as they wound bandages around Lindsey's arm. "The firm doesn't need that kind of publicity. I'm sure you understand."
Holland didn't even bother to look at him. Lindsey's understanding was implicit. Assumed.
Someone pushes the curtains open. A doctor; Lindsey can tell from the distracted air, from the glasses sliding down the nose, from the disinterested gaze swung his way. A Rolex gleams on the
doctor's wrist. Emergency room doctors do not wear Rolexes, they wear digital watches and hope that one day they'll make partner in a private practice, leave 4 AM visits with shuddering just-made
cripples behind. But doctors owned by the firm do wear Rolexes and they all wear the same bitter expression that coats the doctor's face.
"Keep the arm up," the doctor tells him, her voice glacial. "You've lost a lot of blood." She makes notes on a chart, quick scratches of a pen deciding his fate. "We'll take you down to surgery in a
bit, try to clean things up as best we can." The doctor turns away, barks orders about medicine and IVs; Lindsey tunes her out, mind drifting, eyes falling closed.
"Are you in a lot of pain?" Cool hand on his forehead. He opens his eyes to a nurse--he can tell from the way the hand moves, sliding over, testing the warmth of his skin. Impersonal, but not
unkind.
Yes. Pain. He'd always thought pain was red, sharp, vivid. But now he knows it's dingy--yellow-gray and blunted, filling up his insides. He opens his mouth to answer and his stomach heaves, twists,
and its contents spill out onto the floor. He lets his arm drop, glances down at the floor. Yellow splatters on the tile, pain so bad he can't keep it all inside. He's all broken, everywhere.
"Shock," the nurse mutters, and the hand slides down to his throat, light pressure on one side. He looks up, forcing his eyes open. The lights are much brighter than they were before and the nurse's
face, when it swims into focus, is all dusky skin and soft eyes. "Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up... ah, Lindsey, right?"
Focus. Fingers. Counting. Surely he can manage that. He looks around, trying to decide what looks hand-shaped, what looks finger-shaped and....
Stop.
There's someone over in the corner, standing by the doctor. Silent. Sad angry tired expression. Staring at him. "Angel."
The nurse curses, low, fluent--musical-voice, Lindsey thinks. Nice. Then the hand appears again, right in front of his face. He tries to move--Angel keeps flickering in and out of focus, like the tv
set he used to watch as a kid, blurry picture made mostly of wavy lines and static. "It'll be ok," the nurse tells him. "An angel, just like you said--maybe watching over you? Doctor!" A pause, a
pinch on his arm. Isn't it bad enough that he's lost his hand? Angel smiles.
"Lindsey, why don't you close your eyes for a while?" The nurse's voice is fuzzy now. Everything is fuzzy and Angel wavers, vanishes. "I just gave you a little something for the pain. Don't worry,
everything will be just fine."
He laughs. Laughs, and watches as everything around him colors yellow-gray, then fades.
**
Bewildered
Darla and Lilah, in his office. Nighttime and Darla wanted the blinds open, cast a smile in his direction and asked, voice honey-sweet. She thanked him after he did what she asked for, put on her
true face, and shoved him backwards, laughed as he fell over his desk and onto the floor. "So eager," she said and he stared back at her, hoping. But she did nothing else, just turned away and sat
down next to Lilah. They are still sitting, talking, their ankles rubbing against each other. Slow brushes of flesh and Lilah's face is flushed, her eyes warm and terrified. He crosses his own legs
and shifts, just a little, urgent pressure against the front of his pants. He's used to it whenever Darla is around.
Drusilla is over in the corner; tearing pages out of a stack of law books he put in front of her. Occasionally she says something but tonight she is cowed, mostly silent. Darla gave her a look when
they both came into his office, Lilah on their heels, and he watched Drusilla flinch away from Darla's gaze, satisfied smile on her face. "Grandmum is angry," she whispered as she passed him. "It
makes me all tingly."
"So we understand each other?" Darla says and Lindsey looks over at her. She is staring at Lilah.
"Yes," Lilah says, and Lindsey watches as Darla reaches out, runs a hand down Lilah's face, tracing along the curve of her jaw. He moves again, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs. They both look
over at him at the same time, faint cruel smiles on their faces. He has a hundred--no, a thousand--lurid fantasies in an instant. Fantasies that vanish as soon as Darla walks out of his office
without looking back.
Drusilla stands up, knocks the books aside, strips of paper flutter in the air around her. "Oh! It's time!" She pushes past Lilah, rushes towards the door.
She turns back as she passes through it, looks right at him. "Psst," she says, a stage whisper so loud that Lindsey is sure everyone on the floor can hear her. "I almost forgot to tell you--it's far
too warm to wear a coat. It's like summer here, every day. All it needs is a little fog and I'd be home again--" she lowers her voice a little more, "pretending...." She chuckles, low and knowing, a
smile on her face. He looks away from her eyes.
After she's gone, after the security office has called to confirm that she and Darla have indeed left the building, he looks over at Lilah. "Don't start," she tells him. "I know what I'm doing. And
what on earth was Drusilla raving about this time? Coats? Fog? I don't see how she poses any danger to Angel. What's she going to do? Babble at him till he dies of confusion?"
He shrugs, looks out the window. "He made her, you know. He broke her, made her crazy."
Lilah laughs, walks out of his office. "No one can be made *that* crazy."
**
Total
Alone, inside his apartment, another day over. He locks his front door. Four locks, and he knows they're not enough. He'd open them all in a second, if only he was asked, and then they'd mean
nothing. You can't keep out what you want to let in.
Lindsey sheds his clothes as he walks to the bedroom, sheds his lawyer skin of coat, cufflinks, shirt, pants--armor, tailored very well--onto the floor. He has maid service every day; leaves at
seven in the morning, clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, comes home at night to sterile surfaces everywhere. He likes that.
Crossing the floor of his bedroom, only wearing air that passes over him as he walks. His erection (lately, always there) is so hard that hissing sounds fall from his lips. Even air hurts against
his skin; good pain, nicely colored. Beautiful, he thinks. It's beautiful.
He opens his closet. The maid hangs up his suits for him, organizes them by color. He looks past the browns, past the grays, towards the very back. Cool weave of carpet cushions his feet. He looks
down. Oriental rug, colored every shade of blue. His now, and he smiles.
The coat hangs on the very last hanger. Not a plastic hanger, a wooden one. He insisted on wood and the store provided one, the manager smiling as he did so. He was unnerved, cowed, from watching
Lindsey try on coat after coat, staring into the mirrors of the dressing room without speaking.
He puts the coat on. Black leather, landing just below his knees, line of his calves and feet pale in contrast. He's wrapped himself in Angel wings.
He walks over to the mirror, open coat fluttering around him, soft sounds. Like feathers trembling. He's seen wings like these before, felt them brush against him when Angel delivered messages as
all angels do. Sudden arrival and then promises, demands, eyes calling for worship.
In the mirror, it's just himself he sees. He closes his eyes and then he's inside those wings. Angel is in front of him, his back pressed into Lindsey's chest, no black clothing between them, skin
touching skin. Lindsey stretches up; up onto his toes and presses his mouth into the back of Angel's neck. Angel moans, head falling forward, and Lindsey presses his teeth into skin. His own mark. He
matters, and Angel notices.
Eyes open, just for a moment--he doesn't want to come yet. Leather creaks, even wings don't always flutter, as he moves his hand, wraps it around his cock. Applying firm pressure--he knows what he
likes--his eyes slide close again.
He moves his mouth down, tracing the start of Angel's spine, then moving out to the side, scraping his teeth over the jut of Angel's shoulder blades. His erection, nudging forward, pressing against
the cold flesh of Angel's ass. Everything around him shudders, Angel's body helpless, needing his, and wings beat softly against the back of his legs.
He opens his eyes, his hand slows, stops. Semen on his belly, dripping off his hand onto the floor. He stares into the mirror, his empty face reflected back to him. Closing his eyes, he waits to
begin again.
END
|
