Ficlet post
Nov. 6th, 2006 06:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
samsomTitle: Love Like Hate
Author: Samsom
Pairing: C/A. Ish.
Summary: Way too short for one of those:P
Spoilers: Reprise
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes: This is pretty spontaneous, so apologies for any misspellings or inaccuracies.
Thanks: To![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
califi who liked Drawing Lines so much she asked for Angel’s POV. I hope you like it.
FB: But of course.
~~
He goes back to the hotel, seeking something he won’t name, crosses the lobby hearing only the echo of his footsteps, and stares at the empty desk his Seer used to occupy, as if he could conjure her form by force of will alone.
But the chair remains empty, like his hotel is empty, like he is empty – shuttered and dank.
He thrusts the remaining signs of his pushed away life off the counter and listens as the books and papers hit the floor and scatter.
~~
The city is a dark blur of lost lives and stinking sulphur as rain hovers but does not fall, and he passes through the streets and alleys like a sleep walker, hardly noticing the things in shadows that shrink away from him, or the whores that smile an empty invitation in his direction.
When he looks up, he finds himself on the rooftop opposite Angel Investigations.
His people are in there, quietly working, trying to pretend they can still make a difference. Cordelia’s head is bent and he watches her lips move slightly as she writes in dog-eared notebook. Her hair is shorter than the last time he noticed, and lighter still. He wonders if this is an attempt to move on, and laughs grimly to himself at the thought.
She can’t move on. It’s in her every step past his hotel, every time she calls the lobby and hangs up, every time she lingers over his picture before going to bed at night, helped along by painkillers and the hope of a dreamless sleep.
Wesley is in there as well. He can’t see the man, but he can smell his wound, still tender and weeping.
He jumps and lands on his feet, crossing the street as if he had purpose, striding in as if he owned the space, like he still owns the people.
He can hear the hope in their voices, that ever breathless quality that dies when he goes past, shifting through the volumes on their bookshelf as if he were looking for something in particular.
“Yeah, you took all the books.”
Affecting indifference to their outrage, he grabs the nearest familiar title and turns, only to have Cordelia return his opening volley by pulling the book from him.
He can’t hear what she’s saying from the sudden roar in his ears. She’s engaging him on his terms now, spoiling for a fight and he wants to give her one, steps into her space just so he can inhale the scent of her body and her fear, listen to the music of her pounding heart and stuttering breath.
Feels the old thrill shudder through him in waves as he presses closer.
“Don’t make me move you.”
Her breath hitches tighter and the sharp scent of something new enters the equation. Barely conscious of Wesley’s presence in the corner, he presses even closer, hands aching to grab her up and throw her down
across her desk
He wants to fuck her like the animal she sees when she looks up at him, sink his fangs sharply, deeply into her throat and feel her on the inside, make her feel him as she writhes in mindless fury under him.
Pictures the thought and lets it pull him under, her soft skin and luscious mouth calling like a siren as she screams for him
deeper
harder
It’s only Wesley’s suddenly urgent voice calling to Cordelia that yanks him back from the fall, and he doesn't blink as he waits for her decision. Give him the book or take this all the way to the finish.
He finds himself wishing she wasn’t as sensible as he knows her to be, but Cordelia is a survivor with Sunnydale instincts – she knows when the hellmouth is about to swallow her whole.
She takes the step back by pushing the book at him.
He takes it like the book was his objective all along, and turns to go before any more blood is drawn besides Wesley's torn open stitches.
“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
Her voice is hardened against her fear and he replies with the truth.
“I’m a vampire. Look it up.”
He melts back into the dark stinking landscape of his city and swears to himself the next time he sees Cordelia, Wesley won’t be around to referee.
Author: Samsom
Pairing: C/A. Ish.
Summary: Way too short for one of those:P
Spoilers: Reprise
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes: This is pretty spontaneous, so apologies for any misspellings or inaccuracies.
Thanks: To
califi who liked Drawing Lines so much she asked for Angel’s POV. I hope you like it.FB: But of course.
~~
He goes back to the hotel, seeking something he won’t name, crosses the lobby hearing only the echo of his footsteps, and stares at the empty desk his Seer used to occupy, as if he could conjure her form by force of will alone.
But the chair remains empty, like his hotel is empty, like he is empty – shuttered and dank.
He thrusts the remaining signs of his pushed away life off the counter and listens as the books and papers hit the floor and scatter.
~~
The city is a dark blur of lost lives and stinking sulphur as rain hovers but does not fall, and he passes through the streets and alleys like a sleep walker, hardly noticing the things in shadows that shrink away from him, or the whores that smile an empty invitation in his direction.
When he looks up, he finds himself on the rooftop opposite Angel Investigations.
His people are in there, quietly working, trying to pretend they can still make a difference. Cordelia’s head is bent and he watches her lips move slightly as she writes in dog-eared notebook. Her hair is shorter than the last time he noticed, and lighter still. He wonders if this is an attempt to move on, and laughs grimly to himself at the thought.
She can’t move on. It’s in her every step past his hotel, every time she calls the lobby and hangs up, every time she lingers over his picture before going to bed at night, helped along by painkillers and the hope of a dreamless sleep.
Wesley is in there as well. He can’t see the man, but he can smell his wound, still tender and weeping.
He jumps and lands on his feet, crossing the street as if he had purpose, striding in as if he owned the space, like he still owns the people.
He can hear the hope in their voices, that ever breathless quality that dies when he goes past, shifting through the volumes on their bookshelf as if he were looking for something in particular.
“Yeah, you took all the books.”
Affecting indifference to their outrage, he grabs the nearest familiar title and turns, only to have Cordelia return his opening volley by pulling the book from him.
He can’t hear what she’s saying from the sudden roar in his ears. She’s engaging him on his terms now, spoiling for a fight and he wants to give her one, steps into her space just so he can inhale the scent of her body and her fear, listen to the music of her pounding heart and stuttering breath.
Feels the old thrill shudder through him in waves as he presses closer.
“Don’t make me move you.”
Her breath hitches tighter and the sharp scent of something new enters the equation. Barely conscious of Wesley’s presence in the corner, he presses even closer, hands aching to grab her up and throw her down
across her desk
He wants to fuck her like the animal she sees when she looks up at him, sink his fangs sharply, deeply into her throat and feel her on the inside, make her feel him as she writhes in mindless fury under him.
Pictures the thought and lets it pull him under, her soft skin and luscious mouth calling like a siren as she screams for him
deeper
harder
It’s only Wesley’s suddenly urgent voice calling to Cordelia that yanks him back from the fall, and he doesn't blink as he waits for her decision. Give him the book or take this all the way to the finish.
He finds himself wishing she wasn’t as sensible as he knows her to be, but Cordelia is a survivor with Sunnydale instincts – she knows when the hellmouth is about to swallow her whole.
She takes the step back by pushing the book at him.
He takes it like the book was his objective all along, and turns to go before any more blood is drawn besides Wesley's torn open stitches.
“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
Her voice is hardened against her fear and he replies with the truth.
“I’m a vampire. Look it up.”
He melts back into the dark stinking landscape of his city and swears to himself the next time he sees Cordelia, Wesley won’t be around to referee.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-11-07 11:17 pm (UTC)Thanks again. Loff you M *heee*
Absolutely delish! *drool* Just how I loff him.
go see teh love at TIO for it. Another winner, :P
Sachxxxx
no subject
Date: 2006-11-11 08:20 pm (UTC)Works for me too.
::waggles eyebrows::
no subject
Date: 2006-11-20 08:40 pm (UTC)The city is a dark blur of lost lives and stinking sulphur as rain hovers but does not fall, and he passes through the streets and alleys like a sleep walker, hardly noticing the things in shadows that shrink away from him, or the whores that smile an empty invitation in his direction.
That paragraph was just excellent. It was so short, but it perfectly set a mood and spanned time both to get Angel from one place to another and us along with him.
He wants to fuck her like the animal she sees when she looks up at him, sink his fangs sharply, deeply into her throat and feel her on the inside, make her feel him as she writhes in mindless fury under him.
I want him to do that, too! I knew I liked this guy. ;)
Fantastic work!
(Sorry, reposted due to me being stupid.)
no subject
Date: 2006-11-22 03:22 am (UTC):: rolls and wallows, wallows and rolls::
Ahem. Okay. Now I can say thank you again! I love to write C/A pron probably more than any other kind of fic, though I find that troubling. I wanted to write deeply introspective, character-revealing fanfic, but the pron was so much more fun, especially angsty pron.
I'm a dirty girl