Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. They belong to Joss Whedon and co.
Submission
By Bohemian Storm
With a kiss
hard enough to make him flinch, she stands up and begins to dress, throwing her
skirt on haphazardly. She buttons her blouse, pretending her fingers aren't
shaking. He won't notice. He never does. She stuffs her bra into her brief
case, followed by her pantyhose, then steps into her underwear. He watches her
and she knows he enjoys this almost as much as the sex.
She sits on the edge of his bed, sliding her high heels onto her feet. Arch
the foot delicately, stretch the leg, touch yourself,
she silently coaches herself. She knows what he likes, knows what to do to
leave him wanting her again. He doesn't love her. She can't fool herself into
thinking that, but somewhere deep inside she hopes - prays, pleads, begs,
bargains with The Powers That Be - that maybe he cares enough to wonder how
she is sometimes during the day.
She knows he thinks about the sex, but she wants him to think about her. Her
mind, maybe, or the way the sun hits her hair. She wonders if he even notices
something like that. She wonders if he's ever actually seen her in the sun and
thought something other than 'that bitch, that slut, that useless lawyer
from Wolfram and Hart'. In the dark she can be whoever he wants her to be.
Not herself. Not Lilah. In the dark she can be Fred,
or Cordelia (he doesn't say it, but it's still there)
or maybe that red haired witch he talked about so much that one night.
She stands, picking up her brief case and going to the bedroom door. He doesn't
walk her out and she doesn't stay the night. Not yet. Maybe one day but now ...
now there is only the fucking and the empty feeling he leaves her with. She's
never had anyone that made her feel so empty before because there was nothing
to break inside of her before him. He made her feel and then he tried to take
it away, leaving this gaping hole in her chest. There were no emotions before
he came along; only cold, cruel determination.
She walks alone down the hall, wondering what tomorrow night will bring. More
of the same, she assumes. Sex, good sex, she has to admit ... no, great
sex, but it's just sex. She's never thought about any sex as 'just sex' before
because 'just sex' was always good enough. But tomorrow, she wonders, will she
maybe stay in his bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps?
She reaches his door and pauses for a moment, her hand trembling at her side.
She hates that he makes her shake like this.
"Lilah?"
She freezes, time stopping, questions slamming into her with enough force to
make her stumble. She turns on her heel, her hand on her hip, a smile playing
about her lips. Show time. It's always fucking show
time.
"Wes."
He pauses in the doorway, staring at her. He's wearing a robe. She would have
followed him completely naked, but he always was different than her. Different. She hates that word. It's usually used to
insinuate 'better'.
"Stay?" he asks.
She nearly breaks. Her hands start to tremble again.
"What?"
"Stay," he says. "Tonight. Don't
go."
She wavers.
"Please?"
"Why?" she asks.
He shrugs. "The bed seems big without you in it."
She snorts softly, then nods. "Alright. Just for
tonight, though."
He nods and holds open the bedroom doorway for her as she enters, then strips
off her clothing once more and crawls into the bed. He lays
down beside her and after a moment's hesitation, he slips an arm around her.
She wonders if submission is supposed to feel this nice.
End