Sep. 23rd, 2005

winter: (writing)
For [livejournal.com profile] shotagoddess: Angel/Lindsey/Lilah, season 5, referencing Dead Hand. 275 words, 15 minutes.

DE MANO

Her perfume was what Lindsey noticed first. Bitter herbs and sweet flowers. Too poetic for someone like you, he'd told Lilah the first time she wore it to the office.

He did not turn around from the monitors that showed Wolfram & Hart's CCTV feeds. Her heels beat out a heartbeat as she came up to stand behind his chair.

"You shouldn't have come back," she said.

"I'm stubborn like that."

The largest of the screens showed a vast office with a window that took up the entire length of the wall. In the afternoon sun only one thing moved; a hand, scrawling something on a piece of paper.

The man's chest did not move.

A slim hand settled on the back of the chair, at the edge of Lindsey’s sight. "I'm stubborn too," she said. "I stayed."

"But you settled for less." Lindsey's fingers moved restlessly on the controls. On the screen, Angel was within arm's reach. "And got killed by it."

A spasm of her hand.

"I'll do it, Lilah." Linsey pitched his voice low, as if Angel could hear them through the screen. "I'll make him notice me. Make him do it himself."

"I'll be waiting for you."

A catch in her breath with those words. Being hacked to pieces is no good for your lungs, he thought.

Then he put his hand on hers, feeling it flutter under his fingers.

"Lindsey...?" Her voice, for a moment, was free of disguises.

He shrugged helplessly. "Evil hand, remember?"

He saw her smile reflected in the screen, in the blackness of Angel's shirt. "Right. Evil hand."

The smell of her perfume was an elegy.
winter: (evil never looked so good)
For [livejournal.com profile] ariss_tenoh: Gabriel/Dracula from Van Helsing, heat or candle - ended up as flame.

FLAME-DRAWN

There had been a fire, he thought. A village torched by slave-raiders, seen on the road from Moldova to Transylvania, and a white rage as he rode towards it. He did not remember his thoughts then – revenge, perhaps, for his own slavery and the whips and his brother, twisted and broken and theirs.

Gabriel had got there first.

That was what he remembered: the fire, the huddling villagers, the dead raiders at Gabriel’s feet. No words, though some had been exchanged – in anger, joy, surprise, he could not recall. The flames had reflected in Gabriel’s eyes, but he was the one blinded.

He shivered and drew his cloak closer. No use thinking about fire, he chided himself. It was always cold in Castle Dracula.

His ring finger was hurting.

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Beth Winter

October 2023

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