Title: "Ravages of Spirit"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Angel"
Rating/Classification: 'R', Wes/Faith, angst, sexual Parcheesi, language.
Disclaimer: Grrr aaargh.
Summary: A filler ficlet for "Release." (Damn you, Lex. This was supposed to be YOUR job. Note that there is no real sex! Grrr!)

There is no rest, they say, for the wicked. And perhaps that is why he cannot sleep as he lays his head against the back of the sofa and listens to the shower run. The animal scream that echoes across the apartment and the sound of tile and drywall crumbling are not enough to wake him were he slumbering...not nearly enough to rouse him while awake. But he rises anyway, glancing dispassionately at the case of tranquilizers laying open on the chair.

Ever prepared. But he is no Boy Scout. Nothing so patriotic and American. He is, simply, a man who knows what must be done. He is, simply, a disposable means to an anticipated end.

"Faith..." he murmurs, fingers splayed against the steam-soaked glass of the narrow shower's door. "Faith, are you quite all right?"

She does not reply, but the awful sound of misery, of failure, has stopped ...so that when he pushes at the barrier, she is calmly, efficiently, rinsing the blood from her hair and watching it spin in a red whirlpool down the drain. She is not surprised to see him there, still dressed, and even less surprised when, under her careful scrutiny, he begins to strip off his clothes.

She is, after all, no Girl Scout herself.

He climbs in, under the scalding spray, and if there is hesitation in her dulled brown eyes, he does not see it. No, she simply yanks him close, locking her slick, wet, legs around his waist and shoving him against the jagged, broken, wall. Fucking her is like fucking Lilah. Mating with death, sinking deep into it's grasp where the bliss is so black that only the squeeze of her thighs and the slapping sounds of their flesh makes any sound.

It is over quickly. Comfort offered, comfort taken. And she goes back to soaping her skin, to digging the blood from beneath her blunt nails as he wordlessly dries off and dresses.

After all, he is, simply, a disposable means to an anticipated end.

A man who knows what must be done.

 

--end--

March 13, 2003.



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