ficlet - Warm - Angel/Darla
Title: Warm
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Angel/Darla, Angel/Buffy
Words: 200
Summary: Something besides the cold.
There's one spot at the Bronze, just by the bar, that always feels warm. It's where she turned to dust.
Four hundred years, and still she left no bones. Gone to dust, only dust, like any common fledgling - with no way to tell which of these motes were once her lethal little hands, her golden hair, the smooth yielding chill of her parted thighs. When he returned, even the dust had been swept away; now there is nothing at all to mark a demon's passing, save for that lingering warmth.
No visions await him in that place - no words, no memories, no scent - and it isn't hot enough to be a hell dimension's echo. Only warm, so gently and irresistibly warm... like a living body, like rich fresh blood.
No, he won't pause there when he passes by.
No, he won't think of it, for the souled never mourn an unsouled death - and all warmth is the Slayer now: the miracle of her innocent human touch for a creature like him. That spot at the Bronze, the haunted figment of his imagination, can't be more than a mockery.
Damn you, Darla - don't you know ghosts are supposed to be cold?
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Angel/Darla, Angel/Buffy
Words: 200
Summary: Something besides the cold.
There's one spot at the Bronze, just by the bar, that always feels warm. It's where she turned to dust.
Four hundred years, and still she left no bones. Gone to dust, only dust, like any common fledgling - with no way to tell which of these motes were once her lethal little hands, her golden hair, the smooth yielding chill of her parted thighs. When he returned, even the dust had been swept away; now there is nothing at all to mark a demon's passing, save for that lingering warmth.
No visions await him in that place - no words, no memories, no scent - and it isn't hot enough to be a hell dimension's echo. Only warm, so gently and irresistibly warm... like a living body, like rich fresh blood.
No, he won't pause there when he passes by.
No, he won't think of it, for the souled never mourn an unsouled death - and all warmth is the Slayer now: the miracle of her innocent human touch for a creature like him. That spot at the Bronze, the haunted figment of his imagination, can't be more than a mockery.
Damn you, Darla - don't you know ghosts are supposed to be cold?