Disclaimer: I, obviously, don't own anything.
Quietus
Angelique does not change. Nearly two centuries later, and she is still conviction and temptation and all things dark and wicked and wrong in his life. For a moment, he is young again and he imagines his heart thrumming inside his chest with the exhilaration of an affair between maid and Lord. But then her hand is upon his cheek, and traveling lower, undoing his coat, unbuttoning his shirt, and he painfully aware of how warm and very much alive she is.
He doesn't flinch, lets her hands slide along his still, cold chest, and stares into sea-blue eyes that still, unfortunately, captivate him just a little more than they should. Beneath the smolder of her gaze, he can see the desperation all too clearly, her constant, silent plea for him to love her, to look at her the way he used to look at Josette.
"She's dead, Barnabas," she says quietly, and something that used to beat aches inside his chest, "let her go."
He reaches up, takes hold of her wrists and rids himself of her touch. They can't keep doing this to each other.
He leans forward, and presses a cold kiss to her forehead. When he pulls away, she looks at him, confused and betrayed all over again, just as she had one hundred and ninety-six years ago.
"I am dead, too," he reminds her, and thinks he shouldn't have to, because it's all her fault to begin with – but love is desperate and it blinds and maybe she needs it.
"Let me go."