Title: "L.A Triad"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Spoilers: Hypothetical "Angel" future.
Rating/Classification: PG-13, angst, A/L/F, sap..
Disclaimer: Grr aargh. Vroom!
Summary: Angel thinks about how Faith and Lindsey complete more than just a triangle.

He watches them sleep. In a tangle. Like puppies, worn out from a day of play. But, for them, it isn't play...but life. The heavy burden of redemption weighing down their shoulders. Her hair is dark and long, unruly...like a curtain spilling across the red silk sheets, across his lover's slightly tanned skin. They are unaware of just how beautiful they look at this instant. In this twilight. They are just as unaware that they both belong to him.

They *are* his.

He doesn't know why it took him so long to accept it. Why he denied years of wanting, years of fierce anger and falser enmity.

He leans down, brushes his lips across the hand that is flung carelessly over the side of the bed. Caresses the plastic with his tongue because he knows his lover will not feel it and will not awaken.

*Lindsey*.

It took them so long to get here. Miles. Legions. Eons.

This fey human lawyer is the embodiment of his blessing. Of everything Aberjian foretold. And she...? The woman who sleeps curled against his side? She is his Faith.

Angel walks to the windows, stares out as he listens to their combined breaths. To the rhythm of human peace.

The edges of night. Their time. Always their time.

He remembers Faith doing cartwheels, and mock kicks and punches, down the sidewalk outside the courthouse. Her energy pouring off her skin in waves as he and Lindsey watched with helpless fascination. He remembers how she tugged at his lover's tie, the devil dancing in her eyes and her smile, and whispered "thanks" into his mouth. Not even the strongest of men could've resisted such an offer.

And Lindsey is far from the strongest. He is flawed. He is vulnerable. Wrought with emotions easily swayed.

They made love so desperately that it almost hurt to watch. Drunk on too much red wine and adrenaline ...laughing too loud, too long. Delirium. Nails raking shoulders. Hips driving together. A wild celebratory orgy.

"Thanks," she whispered as they drowsed in the afterglow.

"Don't mention it," Lindsey chuckled, husky and spent.

They were a thing of true beauty. Tactile pre-Raphaelite paintings. Gold and brown. Burnt umber and sienna. Lying in leaf strewn pools of mutual salvation.

Merlot cycles through the borrowed blood in his veins. Angel feels the heady throb of a wine hangover beginning and it is nearly as delicious as the ache at his groin. As close to the pain of living as he is currently allowed.

He remembers nights recently passed. Where his hands wandered the smooth planes of Lindsey's chest. Touched that leonine face and palmed the roughness of stubble. Traced circles on those lean thighs and brought them close. Tonight, Faith's fingers took many of the same paths. And he envisions her taking the essence of them both into her body. Riding the reality of one and the memory of the other.

Human. Vampire. Youth. Age.

Life. Death. Mortality. Eternity.

Lust. Love.

He watches them sleep. In a tangle. Like puppies, worn out from a day of play. But, for them, it isn't play...but life. The heavy burden of redemption weighing down their shoulders. His hair is burnished and short, curled...like a cherub's crown against the red silk sheets. His face, child-like in slumber, is buried in the valley between her lush breasts. They are unaware of just how beautiful they look at this instant. In this twilight. They are just as unaware that they both belong to him.

Or are they?

Her dark eyelashes flutter, dark jewels focus on the shadows where he stands. "Angel?"

And in tandem, blue eyes and golden lashes flutter as well. A prosthetic shifts and muffles a yawn. "Enough broodin', Ang'. Get some rest."

He flows towards the welcoming arms, and they curve around him, trapping him in their mutual warmth. Faith's lips brush the back of his neck. Lindsey's lips feather a goodnight whisper across his brow.

All at once, his passive speculation flares into crystalline certainty.

In this twilight, it is *he* who belongs to *them*.

--end--

January 2001.



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