Title: Follow the Rabbit
Author: Isabelle
Posted: 04-17-2002
Email: isabelle@carnal-sins.net
Rating: R (for suggestive language)
Disclaimers: All AtS characters belong to Joss Whedon and ME--using it for entertainment. 'Come away' is a poem by W.H. Auden.
Summary: Short little thing--Pondering Angel on a hot afternoon. A/C
Spoilers: General S3 before the arrival of the Groo.
Notes: This is my first B/S--other fic. So be gentle. I don't read A/C fic so I apologize if this has been done.
"Tell me that you love me," she says, swaying her body back and forth in the stillness of the night until the curves of her hips cut through the shadows like a flickering knife on the light.
He gulps and looks down. He's a strong man, swaying hips have no hold on him. They do not call him, they do not lure him--no they don't.
He looks down at the prophesies at hand. A thousand and one years a go, a thousand and one unrealities.
This is real.
With her and her flickering hips and her murmuring voice.
Real as the borrowed blood that runs through his veins.
Real as the emotions running through his fingers...and damn near every were that has a nerve ending.
"I--I ... you know I love you, Cordy," he stutters.
Her body moves closer, whispering, chanting a lullaby.
Come away, oh human child...
"No..." he can smell the smile on her lips, taste the rain in her kisses. She sing-songs to him the truth, waves that hit him and he drowns. "...you know what type of love I mean..."
Oh damn right he knows. Love that costs him everything he is, everything that he's worked so hard on.
He laughs--a nervous laugh and backs away. Away from her body that would mold so perfect to his.
Sweet curves in the night shadow...
"What do you mean?" the wall--the wall looks interesting. Pale bare colors... no wait --it's wallpaper, blue wallpaper.
Away from her he is vulnerable. It's like she can read his back like his soul.
I am Angel.
I love you.
I need you.
You're so precious to me.
I am scared.
Now a poor defenseless kitten, painted on blue wallpapered walls that say many things but hide much more.
Thin hand that traces patterns on his back.
Shivers, like a frozen lake in mid winter. Shaking flakes of lust.
Lust is not good. Definitely not good.
This is not her talking--touching--asking--wanting.
This is a dream he tells himself. A sweet dream, he can feel that nasty whisper within him telling him demons like him don't have sweet dreams.
Like a lullaby.
Come away, oh human child!
Firm body pressed against his own and he's a goner. Turning violently fast and wrapping his arms --like swan wings around her and just finding that sweet nectar that taste like rain, that taste like heaven, that taste like earth.
Now she's moaning and pressing against him.
Running thin warm hands through his hair.
"You need a haircut," she whispers against his mouth, sweet kitten whispers that have him nodding like a fool.
"I like this shirt," whispers again.
He knew she would like the lighter green. Five point score, he thinks happily... but happiness turns to lust and now he wants it.
Taking her upper things in his large hands he pulls her on top of him. Jean clad legs wrapped around him. He can feel the seams of her inner jeans scratching, scrubbing against him.
Placing her on top of his desk he can see this played out before it happens.
Shirts come off, skin is licked and kissed.
Pants come off ... more licking and kissing.
But the dream only goes so far. So far into the horizon. It's the valley of the dead--dead kings of the past.
She pulls away, panting and flushed.
He wants to lick the flush from her skin and transfer it to his. Let her blood color him.
"We can't," she whispers, head tilting to the side, small swollen mouth trembling.
He can't believe it. Even in dreams she plagues him with have some and have not's.
"Cordy, please..." he hates to plead.
"Cordy please and hello Angelus!" she reminds him. His thumbs rubs circular patterns under her thin shirt-- on her bare waist.
Maybe the motion will make her give in. Maybe it will give him what he needs.
And now he's mad. No circular motion has effect on his girl. He growls and pulls away. Erection standing out like an English coat hanger.
"You come in here, asking if I love you... that kind of love, when you know I'm crazy about you--that I've been crazy about you..." he looks back at her and she's gone.
Like a vanishing act, like a ghost of his needs.
He looks around.
The desk is no longer shuffled, papers are pilled neat.
"What the---" he thinks of calling Wesley and tell him what he's seen... but then again can he really tell anyone but his kid?
He's staring at the wallpaper almost willing her to come back when he hears her footsteps walking outside the office. The clanking of Via Spiga--her present for herself. He loves her vanity, it makes her a woman. A strong woman. One he'd rather hold and pamper rather adore from far away.
She walks in and she's not wearing jeans.
So it was a dream.
Skirt with a too high slit and cleavage friendly blouse that has him standing on his tip-toes.
"You were moaning," she informs him. No questions, no replies. Just a sure statement.
He runs his hand though his hair and looks around. Good thing he never took her blush. He pauses and looks at her.
Her face is bright and accepting.
He loves that.
"Do you--maybe..."
Now she's arching her brow and he knows he's stuttering. He never stuttered with Buffy. What is it about this woman that drives him mad?
"Angel--" she warns him. "The goose laid four eggs."
"Right..." he laughs after he catches her joke five minutes too late. More eyebrow arching.
Think, think, tink--eerr-bell.
"Do you think I need a haircut?" he asks out of the blue.
The notorious eyebrow has frozen. "You were moaning for a haircut?"
He's insulted. Brows furrow and the pout begins. "I wasn't--"
"Save it," she cuts him off like he knew she would. Her hands motions for him to follow her. "Come with me."
And he follows her to the haircut he's sure she'll give him. Follows those swaying hips like Alice in wonderland.
Following rabbits he is... down a long hole.
End.