This is not a story about Angel.
He's has never had an easy relationship. The closest he's come was probably fucking Anna Janine over the hood of his father's truck in twelfth grade, the easy give of her body and her breathy moans in his ear. She said goodbye as she cocked her hips, and smiled as if she knew something he didn't. Of course, he never saw her again, and she hardly crosses his mind anymore, but he retains the memory for times like now, as a way to tell himself that this wasn't always so attractive.
It doesn't happen often, and he's glad it doesn't, because it's disgusting how much it occupies his thoughts for days after. He's like an automaton at work, signing documents and splitting veins without any thought to what he's really doing. It's, god, it's mind-numbing. The fight of it gets in his blood, and he itches to watch it splatter against the wall. The bruises are hidden beneath his suit, and when he shifts he can feel the soreness spreading upward through his ass and his spine. It feels good, he feels alive, and fuck. He shouldn't be thinking about this again, but he's tensing already and his cock is filling. Lindsey looks out the window. It will be the third time this week he's gone out to the abandoned warehouse on Third and Briggs.
When she goes to sleep at night, she leaves the window open so he can come in. It's stupid, god it's stupid, because there are more baddies that walk in the night, and most of them don't need an invitation. But she lies and says she likes the fresh air, when what she really means is she wants to wake up and feel his presence looming over the foot of her bed by his still position near her closet.
She bought new pyjamas, little things with almost nothing to them, and she wears them to bed every night even though she gets cold. It doesn't matter that he won't make her warmer. One of her excuses now, for staying out late, is "getting tutored in history," right after "going to Willow's" and "studying at the library." She doesn't own a history book. Instead, she turns corners in cemeteries, always trying to spot him; she goes to the Bronze, knowing he'll be attracted to the pulsing beat and the pulsing bodies. It will be a long time before she knows how naive all this was.
The death threats don't bother him; they're just mumbles now, a strong invocation of meaningless words that just serve to drive the moment. He has sex more regularly now than he's ever had in his life; he wonders if this connotates a relationship, and laughs at the thought. He keeps it, though, filed away in the back of his mind, because it's good start-up material.
He's taken to calling their office anonymously, leaving ridiculous plants that cry out as beginnings of cases, but he knows that they will be seen through like an unwashed window. Which is, of course, why he does them. He makes up clients and situations that he knows will reach not-quite-deaf ears eventually, humming some song and grinning all the while. He has some perverse pleasure knowing the smile will be beaten off him come the next day. When he licks his lips, he tastes copper and anger and just the right bit of fear; he likes being beaten and well-used.
She doesn't bother studying anymore. It doesn't matter. She's never at home, because the demon population has grown exponentially in the last month and it's all she can do to make sure the stupid kids she goes to high school with don't end up dead in a ditch the next morning. She's sore all the time, but in better shape than she's really ever been; all the weapons are in fanatically good condition, thanks to the multitasking brilliance of the Scoobies, who've learned the valuable skill of flipping a page and polishing an axe at the same time.
They have an unspoken agreement to meet just as the last dregs of sunlight leave the town. It's work, work, work for awhile, but in between kills and disposal of bodies they are plastered together with the barest breath of air between them. She doesn't know how she lived before this, the string of stupid boys who bought her fundraiser candy and mocha lattés at Starbucks. She doesn't need things anymore, just this, just this body next to hers, moving fluidly, almost eerily guessing the other's move before it's made. She lives for this.
(deception)
He learns to shut his mouth when Lilah is around, worried about what might slip from his lips in their weekly meetings. He tells himself nothing happened, there's nothing to say, he's making it up. It works in the short-term, but he can feel maniacal laughter welling up in the back of his throat, and he's not willing to explore the insanity clause of his contract. He doesn't know how long he can keep concealing the marks on his skin and the fraying of his mind, but he has the feeling it won't matter pretty soon.
(denial)
She doesn't listen to their words. They don't mean anything, because she knows what she needs. She's always known what she needs. When her mother asks her to stay in, rather than going out, she escapes through the window; if Giles asks her to come around for a few additional exercises, she uses her mother as an excuse. Willow has learned not to ask, and it kills Xander not to say anything. But it doesn't matter. She has what she needs.
words © SA. characters, show, and people not mine. no infringement is intended.