Title: "Chasing the Dust and Shadow"
Author: Mala
Rating/Classification: 'R', ?/?, angst, nongraphic smut, language.
Disclaimer: Grrr, aargh and vroom!
Summary: A one night stand. If I summarized, the story would be over.
Dedication: To my twinkie, Saff, for bringing your depth and your artistry to Lindsey. He's lucky to be in your hands.
Notes: I basically wrote this, in about an hour, to break my block. So, if it sucks...there's the reason. And if it doesn't suck...well, yay!

Slip...slide against skin. Slow, sultry, song of sweat beneath frantic fingertips. Pushing each other higher...spiraling, swirling, up and up.

The time for names has passed...there is no space for history, for kindnesses, between their bodies and, for that, they are both thankful.

They don't want to be kind. Or pleasant. Or polite.

Rushing from the bar with linked hands...not looking back at their untouched drinks...at the lives they were escaping...at the choices.

It was a simple pick up. Classic. To the point.

He's done it a hundred times before. She...only once.

"Hey..."

"Hey."

"You look sad, Darlin'."

"Are you trying to pick me up?"

"Yeah, I think I am. Wanna go back to my place?"

"Sure. Why the hell not?"

And that question echoes now...why...the...Hell...not?

She set the pace, with her thin fingers ripping the buttons from his shirt as they swayed on the threshold of his apartment, and he followed, willingly, falling headfirst into the chasm of uncertainty, of irresponsibility...of casual sex from a decade the girl beneath him is barely old enough to remember.

She is so fragile and yet so powerful. She could break at any moment...she could shatter. She's slender like a young boy, not a woman, and he thinks, yeah, that must've been why his eyes had fixed on her the minute she'd walked into the Fallen Angel. Huge, sad, Precious Moments eyes in a pale, gaunt, face...stick thin...but graceful...too graceful to be walking up to the bar and ordering a shot of Beam. To be slouching on a stool and staring, blankly, into space.

Everything about her had said "Fuck the world."

And his soul replied in kind. "Fuck the world. Fuck everything."

So, here they are.

Her head falls back. He counts her breaths as her hips spike into his and she pushes at his chest, urging him onto his back for the rapid ascent to culmination. He reaches up to wind strands of her damp, dark gold hair around fingers that don't exist...and his naked wrist falls back, defeated, even as she rises above him with death and lies in her eyes.

He knows he has seen that distinct combination before...knows it as well as the mounting pressure in his groin. The mad spring coiling tight. The elusive threads of ecstasy winding to a close.

*You look sad, Darlin'*, he'd said.

Sad and dead and dying...beautiful.

Just like someone else he knows...wants...obsesses over in bars on nights when he should be working. Someone he will never be pure enough for...not as long as he keeps chasing the dust and shadow. Not as long as he keeps chasing loss and youth and the memory of man in a young girl's kiss.

Her nails graze his back and draw blood. His teeth nip her throat and do the same...an echo of something he will never be.

Slip...slide against skin. Slow, sultry, song of sweat beneath frantic fingertips. Pushing each other higher...spiraling, swirling, up and up.

The time for names has passed...there is no space for history, for kindnesses, between their bodies and, for that, they are both thankful.

But he hears her whisper something anyway, as the white lightning strikes them both and they burn out.

A sigh. A sob. A curse.

And into her skin, he sighs...he sobs...he curses.

He *laughs.*

The same name. The same memory. The same...

"Angel."

As night grows long and their time in mutual oblivion grows short, Lindsey McDonald stares up at the waifish girl who can't be anyone but Buffy Summers, the Slayer, and memorizes her face. He memorizes the places where curves should be and shadows are. The places another's hand once knew and will probably know again...

Death and lies. And beauty.

He knows that he will slam the door shut behind her when she leaves, in a few minutes, and throw the deadbolt. He knows he will try to forget he ever picked her up. He knows he will never see her again.

Why...the...Hell...not?

Because he doesn't need another obsession, another love.

One is enough.

One--the *same* one--is killing them both.

--end--

April 10, 2001.



"BTVS" Fanfic "LFN" Fanfic "Roswell" Fanfic