Burning
Rating: R to be safe
Pairing: Wesley/Lilah
Summary: "... no empty bed calling him as he downed another shot of whiskey."
Disclaimer: All hail Joss, the master of all things Angel...
Distribution: Morphine Tears. Anywhere else, just let me know where it's going.
Author's Note: Part of a mini-feeling series. You should definitely read Freezing, then this one, then Living.
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Nights like these always ended the same way for him. No happily ever-after with the woman of his dreams wrapped in his arms, but likewise, no empty bed calling him as he downed another shot of whiskey.
His nights were different from most, caught in the tussled sheets, with blunt teeth nipping little patterns on his neck. He didn't mind not having normal nights, didn't care that while his sweet and innocent ex-friends dreamed of their heavenly salvation, he danced in the cool sheets that pooled around warm bodies caught in a less-loving embrace.
He wondered if they knew, saw the darkness surrounding him as they stole uneasy glances across the street that mocked them silently, jutting between the old friends like a burned bridge that no one had the strength to cross. It was those times when his scar ached and his heart burned with hatred for their infinite forgiveness of Angel that made his eternal damnation essential to their perfect existence. After all, forgiveness of his sins meant betrayal of Angel and they would never dare such an act. He despised them for their worship of him, as if he was sent to save them instead of merely fighting to save himself, for his redemption.
He hated them, hated the feeling of seeing them, but it was like a drug habit he couldn't rid himself of. Oftentimes he'd find himself sitting beneath the hotel windows, listening to the soft laughter of the women as it mingled with the end of some unfinished tale of wonder. He never stayed for long, just a quick check to be sure that they really were ok. He fed off their confidence and stability, allowing himself to feel like he's one of them, if even for a moment.
Then it's back to his bare and cold apartment. Back under the silk sheets to dance with the embodiment of hatred and self-loathing, a dance that nothing good could ever come of except the ability to feel, if even a little. He kidded himself into thinking that she returned because she cared. He knew that she couldn't care, not with a heart as black as hers, but every time a night like this rolled around, she was there just like clockwork.
He always let her in, each time allowing another piece of his heart to char and harden until soon it would be as black and hateful as her own.
"Open the door. You know you can't stop."
He always does, pulling her in without another word, fire dancing in his eyes as another bridge burns.
<--- once again, i know