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Night
by Christie
Email: tinamishi@yahoo.com
URL: http://www.envy.nu/tooprecious/
Pairing: Angel/Lindsey
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Both Lindsey and Angel have a change of
heart. Suspended in time after Blind Date (i.e.
nothing after that happened). Lindsey POV.
Spoilers: None really. Maybe vague ones for Blind
Date. But not really.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were
created by Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. All
rights reserved by Twentieth Century Fox. No
copyright infringement intended.
Distribution: List archives; Eterniata, Slashing the
Angel and L.A. if you so desire. Anyone else please
ask.
Improv: plush - broken - bewilder - moonlight
Dedication: To Judith. I knew you'd bring the
romantic muse to light when it came to these two. It
was just a matter of time. This is a start. *grins*
Author's Note: If you're familiar with my A/L work,
you know it's never been sweetness and light. This
isn't either, but it's majorly angsty. Take it for
what you will - this girl was feeling kind of sappy.
~
Night. I always think of him at night. The darkness
envelopes him, shrouds him. It's a cloak that he
wears, a badge of who he is - who he isn't - and what
he is atoning for. He wants love - life - but only
the night can truly love him. All of him. He
couldn't be who he is without the night. In the dark,
he's a hero, and a vampire. Both. It's what he is,
no matter how much he chooses to ignore it.
In the day, he's simply a casualty.
The daylight - it mocks him. I am like the day to
him. Waiting -
- wanting -
to turn him to dust.
Maybe that's why I allow him to take me whenever -
wherever - he wants. Maybe that's why he does. I
whimper - he doesn't - as I sheath him in my mouth,
feel his cold, dead seed slide down my throat. Nestle
his thigh, wait for permission to move - to leave.
The interval is only broken by large, cool hands
tangling in my hair, tugging. I go; curl into him
like a cub, begging for acceptance, for forgiveness.
For love. It's too hard in this world alone. And I'm
scared.
There aren't words, but strong, sure strokes; palm
from the top of my head, between my shoulder blades
and down my back. Chilled skin against skin, and he
pulls a blanket up to cover me. I wasn't cold, but I
don't say it, because the act of affection is too much
to bear. Words would spoil the moment, initiate
realization that this isn't how it's supposed to be:
mortal enemy against immortal hero, good against evil,
dark against light.
The hand works the small of my back, small circles,
then larger ones, and back to small. A smooth, potent
massage, working out tension in muscles from days upon
nights of something I don't even believe in anymore.
(Help me.)
The unspoken request is there, in my desperate grasp
of his waist, the way I'm curled into him, hiding my
face in the planes of his chest, the expanse of muscle
and flesh my shield from everything I've made of my
life.
Or nothing I've made of my life. I wanted so badly to
be something to somebody. Anything to anybody. But,
as the moonlight filters in, illuminating slivers of
entangled limbs, I realize the only place I am either
of those things is here. In the arms of my enemy.
The justice is not unpoetic.
I want to think, to talk, to make it all
comprehensible, but I can't, and he doesn't, because I
know that he is choosing to ignore the painful irony
of all of this, and that he'll brood and contemplate
later, alone. But not now, and never, ever, will he
discuss it with me. It's how it is, and how it will
be, and nothing I try to say or do will change it.
I'm silent, me against the hardness of him, him
against the plush pillows lining his headboard, and I
can't help but think it's supposed to be the other way
around: me in the silk and feathers and him laying
across smooth, cold marble.
The thought strangles my mind into silence, because I
know it's - not - how it's supposed to be, and that
the world - inevitably - rewards the good and condemns
the evil. I know that I'll spend the better part of
my afterlife, should I be so lucky as to be granted
one, in purgatory. And Angel, though dedicating his
life to saving the helpless, will be damned to hell
unless he reaches his redemption before.
Pushing the thoughts from my brain because they sadden
me, and I'm not supposed to care about this - man -
and he's not supposed to care about me.
Not supposed to have arms, legs intertwined in a
silent but languid afterglow. Not supposed to feel
his hand caressing my back, rubbing out knotted
tension from days of indecision - to return to the
evil that made me what I am today, or to leave it, all
of it, and cocoon in the frightening clutches of the
Good Fight - the fight that will very well get me
killed much faster than the latter. Not supposed to
feel his foot, ever so slightly, pushing against my
calf; inadvertently easing out tension there too,
because wherever he touches me brings relaxation to my
being as quickly as it turns my conscious into a
constant state of bewildered confusion.
Most certainly not supposed to allow his other hand
snake down between us and bring my sleepy penis to
instant life; fingers and palm making it ache with
longing and desire pool my brain until no thought
exists except for one-
- Iamyoursforeverdowithmewhatyouwill -
not that it's a significant thought by any means. My
breath hitches; I want to stay as calm as he does
under such ministrations but I am not a vampire - not
as cool - and just can't hold back the long, loud
groan that burbles up from somewhere below my stomach.
My mouth opens to his chest, breath probably like
fire against his cold skin, finds a tiny, pale nipple
and bites - more to withhold from screaming than
anything else. Hips buck against his thigh - can't
stop that - and he takes the invitation with vigor
until I'm panting so hard I will hyperventilate if I
don't lift my head.
Head lifts and eyes flash as he moves his hand - the
one *not* so occupied - to cup my face, tongue
instantly curling into my mouth - practically bruising
me with it's force. I take the kiss - not that I have
a choice - and revel in it.
(Love me.)
Blinding spark and I'm coming, using his hand, my
hips, his thigh, to push against him - harder - as
flash bulbs pop behind my eyes and groans spring forth
- because fuck being stoic like he is - and everything
turns to liquid.
Again curling into him, this time more like a mewling
kitten than a bear cub, and he takes me -
(that's twice)
wraps me into him and pulls the blanket atop us both.
Small kisses dropped on the top of my head - am I
dreaming that? - and I've never felt so loved in my
life. I want to sleep - so tired - but am afraid to,
because no matter how close I get to this man - we're
enemies and can never be close - that's the rule.
Vampires are demons with no souls who feed and kill
and torture for their eternal lives. That's the rule,
too.
(But it's not.)
On the brink of consciousness, sleep a dark, inviting
abyss so close - (sleep, Lindsey) - but I can't - (I'm
scared) - and it never stops, the merry-go-round of
noble and vile in my mind; when did the lines get so
blurred? Why wasn't I paying attention?
(shh, just sleep)
And so I let go; cloaked by the night.
END.
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