Title: Temptation
Genre: Angst/Romance
Fandom: Angel; Wesley/Lilah
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 859
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Whedonverse, though I certainly aspire to be Joss Whedon when I grow up. They can do that with modern science, right?
Summary: Wesley reflects on the nature of temptation and his relationship with Lilah. Takes place in a semi-AU Season 5. Spoilers for various Season 4 episodes. Wesley/Lilah
- - -
Temptation. That was it. That was the one word able to adequately summarize the existence of Lilah Morgan. She was the shiny red apple, glistening in the midday sun. She was the serpent, coiling around his better judgment, constricting until he could no longer tell right from wrong; no longer wanted to do so. She was the sparkling pool of water just out of reach of his parched mouth. She was his destruction. She was his redemption. She was temptation.
Wesley Wyndam-Price stared straight ahead, his jaw set hard, day-old stubble growing coarsely around a permanent, apathetic scowl. Somehow the near-empty bottle of scotch rose to his lips. He no longer knew when his arms moved; they simply did. A bottle raised here. A pill crushed there. It was all the same. It all fell under the same category: never enough.
"You know I find this whole 'rebel without a shave' thing sexy, lover, but 'rebel without a shower'? Not so much."
Wesley's jaw twitched, but he continued to stare at a spot on the far wall; a void in the space-time-continuum in which his life had not become quite so painfully numb. The same void from which Lilah had evidently come.
She studied his gaze, following it to its end, stepping in front of it.
He knew this game. This was the game where she thrust exactly what he wanted most – and what he should have wanted least – into his conscious mind. Something could certainly be said of Lilah's persistence. But it wasn't love. No. Never love. That was an illogical and irrational conclusion; it didn't add up. This – this game – was temptation. Pure Lilah.
"I don't have time for this today, Lilah."
He watched as she moved to his bookcase, a slender finger tracing the spine of an old tome. A smirk tugged at her lips, but all he could see was the scar, angry and red. The scar he traced with an invisible finger.
"I'm sure an insurmountable number of tasks are stacked up and awaiting your expertise. The new Dark Avenger. Post-Keaton Batman." He could hear the hum of her voice inside his mind, stroking his insecurities; bringing his guilt to the surface. The sight of her scar held him transfixed, just as it always did. "If you're not going to look at my face, I think I'd prefer you stare at my chest, lover."
In what Wesley could only assume was a blink in the stalled continuation of time, she was suddenly at his side, leaning over his bed. He looked up at her, tracing the contours of her body. The curve of hips permanently imprinted with the marks of his fingers. The roundness of her breasts; soft flesh he could still feel burning against his own. And then that scar. The scar rent by his blade. Rent out of love. No. Not love. Never love. But not temptation…
"Do you remember, Wes? I asked you what it felt like when she cut you." He could feel the tip of her finger – the gentle etching of her nail – tracing a line across his throat; across a faded scar that still burned bright in his mind. Not nearly as bright as hers.
"Now you know what it feels like." He finished the thought for her, not daring to look into her eyes.
"No, lover. I don't. I didn't have a Justine playing the role of my executioner; I had a Wesley."
"You imply that I am in any way different – or remotely better – than Justine. Perhaps you forget she lined my closet floor for some time."
She smiled in that wicked way; the way you would hope your mother didn't happen to see during Christmas dinner. "And once again Atonement Wesley reins victorious over his arch nemesis, I-Don't-Care-About-Anything Wesley. As fun as this little game of inches is, that's not what I meant." She sat on the edge of the bed, and he was grateful for the view; dark hair falling over the red ring that wrapped around the back of her neck. "If you were any better than Justine, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Of course… 'we' aren't, are we, lover? Since I'm just a figment of your scotch-addled mind."
Three of her fingers traced the rough contours of his jaw in an uncharacteristically tender gesture. Temptation. He wanted to believe she was more than that.
"No, Wesley Wyndam-Price. The difference is that your cut was desperate; hewn by a fool of a girl who was in over her head. But my cut…" She traced the scar herself, momentarily closing her eyes, before commanding his gaze with her own. "My cut was merciful; hacked into a fool of a girl who was in over her head."
She leaned in, her palms planted on either side of him, body hovering over his own, lips a breath away. "Remember when I said we'll never know? There's a dollar with your name on it in Hell that says otherwise."
He could feel the words, hot and real against his mouth. Even as he stared into nothingness, he doubted the absolution of reality. He much preferred Temptation.
END