"It's not a secret," I said to him. He looked down at me.
"What isn't a secret?" he asked.
"Us," I replied. "The firm knows that we're doing...this." And I know that I should care. I could lose my job over it. I think... I think I could start caring about him. But I'd never show it, not even if anyone paid me. I sold my soul to Wolfram and Hart I've grown used to acting like I don't have one. The behavior is natural now.
"Isn't it their job to know this sort of thing? The sordid details of their employees' lives?" He asks. Yes. But they don't know everything. They can't know everything. And if they do know all about my life...before, they haven't said anything.
"Mmm...Yeah, I just thought I should tell you. Rrreow. Angel knows too." I mentally kick myself for saying that. No matter how much he says he doesn't care, I still know differently. It was a cheap shot. The glamour around me has become so natural, that I'm starting to think that I've become that bitch. The one who can't control what comes out of her mouth, the one who doesn't care. I push away the guilt.
"I don't work for Angel anymore. I could care less what he thinks," Wesley said. Liar. I know that feeling. The despair and sadness that feels so deep, you can drown in it. The one that makes you harden and put up a wall around yourself and your emotions.
"You faker. That's what you said when he was sleeping with the fishes. We both know how that played out." Do we? Wolfram and Hart think they know everything. About me, Wesley, and Angel. There's so much more.
"That was different. So Angel knows about our relationship. Big deal." He said. My eyes open quickly. Did he just say....? No. I can't. It probably just slipped out anyway, it's not like he probably really meant it. I push away the flash of emotion- love, comfort, affection- before it overcomes me. I smirk.
"A dollar. You owe me a dollar," I said playfully. There. Now that wasn't so hard, was it? No real emotion there.
"Oh, damn!" he said. I smile.
"You called this a relationship." I kiss his forehead. "You lost the bet. You said it first. Sign it first, as proof." I want to remember this. No, correction, not me, that small little girl inside of me who still feels things. She's not me. She'll never be me. I am different now. But I still want to remember.
"Proof of what?" he asked curiously. I smile serenely at him. And then I say,
"Of now. Of this."
It's the first time I think I've showed true emotion in years.