Drabbles: It Is Not Him For Whom She Wails (Willow/Angel) FRT/PG
This is a companion piece to yesterday's drabble Absence of Desire. I hadn't intended to write it so soon, if at all, but a question about poetry posed to me by hotspur18, who inspired the first drabble, sparked a memory of that line about a demon lover (Yes, I like Coleridge. So sue me) and well...that turned into this. I do hope you enjoy it.
Gabrielle
Title: It Is Not Him For Whom She Wails (companion piece to Absence of Desire)
Author: Gabrielle
Pairing: Willow/Angel
Rating: FRT/PG
Word Count: 451
Summary: *Set during Pangs* Angel kisses Willow.
Feedback: Please.
Distribution: My LJ, my IJ, and my site only.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. It all belongs to Joss and a bunch of other people who are not now and have never been me.
Author's Notes: This was written for hotspur18. I hope this pleases you.
It Is Not Him For Whom She Wails
She doesn’t want him.
She doesn’t understand why he’s kissing her, but she thinks it might be the light of understanding she saw in his eyes as he cut off her Oz-inspired rant against men who just leave. Pity, that’s what it must be, and if it were one day, one hour, one minute before this she would have enough pride to be revolted. But not now - no, not now.
She doesn’t want him.
There’s no tenderness in him and she thinks that if this is how he kissed Buffy than they are two such different creatures as she never knew. She misses the softness of Oz’s lips and the gentleness of his hands more than ever and somehow, because Angel is so very much unlike him, she can recall Oz as vividly as if it were he who was holding her. It hurts, but she embraces the pain and allows the man who’s brought it to embrace her still.
She doesn’t want him.
But he’s here and Oz isn’t, her friends aren’t, no one is. His arms might not be the ones she longs for, but they are here, tight around her, and they offer a bitter comfort that is so much more than anyone else is willing to give.
She doesn’t want him.
His mouth against hers becomes oppressive, predatory, and it seems to steal all but the barest breath. For a moment she thinks of struggle, of trying to free herself, but the thought never becomes action. There’s no point. This may not be pleasure, but at least it’s not loneliness, and a tiny, bitter voice at the back of her mind crows at the thought of what the “best friend” who never has time or concern for her anymore would say if she knew.
She doesn’t want him.
Still, the fact that he seems to want her makes her feel like a woman, a beautiful woman, as real and important as Buffy or Anya, for the first time in forever, that forever since Oz left town with her sense of self packed along with his toothbrush and clothing and not so much as a backwards glance. She wonders what would happen if she let him - let Angel do what that hard, thick ridge against her stomach tells her he wants to do. Would she care if Angelus were let loose once again? That’s the thought that frightens her, and she’s glad when he stops. She listens as he stammers some excuse and it’s the stutter that hurts, not the words that he says. When she walks away it’s all gone and she feels like Oz is farther away than ever. Later on she will hate Angel more.