Mar 03, 2005 18:09
Ah, it'd been a grand few days, I thought cheerfully, sitting back in my chair with a smoke and a beer. There'd been a lot of sex, which was good, because frankly in the last few months with Dru it was like getting blood out of a stone trying to get her to sleep with me. Selfish bitch. It wasn't because she wasn't in the mood, either, otherwise she wouldn't have carried on with that Chaos demon. I mean, how could she carry on with something with antlers. Anyway, that's beside the point, which was - I'm getting really quite fond of Tara. Not ready to say that big L word yet, but maybe I will. Not sure I want to give her that much power, though. Let women know you love them and they've got you by the balls - literally as well as figuratively. Maybe it was best just to keep her hanging.
I stubbed out my cigarette and finished my beer. Tara was out. Probably torturing someone. She was a bit put out that I hadn't joined her - went all pouty and sulky - but to be honest, once you're my age the shine goes off the random violence a little. Ok, that's not entirely true - I still enjoy a bit of maiming as much as the next demon - but I can skip it if there's something good on the telly.
Oh, bloody hell. I'm turning into an old man.
I turned the TV off. Angel must know about Doyle now. I was sure my special delivery must have reached him. I wondered what he'd think when Doyle's eye rolled out of his in tray into his lap? The thought amused me. Tara was a good girl, thinking up something like that. True, I thought my photographs had a bit more finesse, but you can't beat a good bit of gore for impact.
I gave Lilah a quick call to let her know that Doyle was dead, and she seemed pretty pleased about that, which is nice to know. Lilah's certainly a pretty piece of flesh. I'd give her a bite any day, though I bet Tara would pull out my tongue if I tried anything like that. I sort of like how the pet gets so jealous. Keeps a man on his toes.
I got up and looked out of the window. It was a beautiful evening; the kind of night that inspired me to write poetry back when I was weak and human. Now I made poetry, although of the wet and brutal kind. I lit up another cigarette and headed outside. Perhaps I would loiter by Angel Investigations and see the grieving scoobies, or whatever the LA version of those white bread Dawson Creekers were called. Yeah, I'd look in on Angel and have me a real good laugh.
((Open to anyone from Angel Investigations!))