Al, the demon, sat in front of the firepolace, just stared at the flickering flames. His red eyes seemed to glow with emotion. He was trying to remember.
You see, because of years of changing his face and body, he has forgot how he used to look. Were his eyes red or black like Newt's? How did his skin look before? Was he beautiful or as ugly as a sin?
Al did not know and it irked him to no end. The one person that knew was long dead and gone, eaten by that damned fail of a genetic misshap of a demon.
Who would've thought that a demon knows what love is, eh? But Algaliarept did know. Hell, he still knows.
He still remembered her mischievous green eyes and wild, curly hair that fell all the way to her waist and the way her smile seemed to light up the room... Al could still remember how perfectly she fit in his arms, how her lips felt, but he has forgot her voice.
It hurt, so damned much when she'd died. Hell, it still-after two thousand years-hurts like a bitch.
"Are you alright?" He heard a small, soft voice ask. His itchy witch.
"Perfectly fine, dove."
"You don't look alright."
With a heavy sigh, Al raised his eyes to look at Rachel. The concerned look on her face was simply heart warming. If he were a sap and not a kick ass demon, that is.
"I'll be alright if you would just accept that you are a demon and would enjoy yourself in my bed." At her pissed look, Al chuckled, tendrils of happiness warming his body. "Joke, itchy witch."
But, was it?