Darkficathon - Lilah, Wes, and Cordy
Title: Clue
Author: Amy (alexia@innergeekdom.net)
Fandom: Angel
Ship: Wes/Lilah, Lilah/Cordelia
Rating: R
Summary: So you want a revolution.
Spoilers: Through the end of Angel.
Warnings: Dark. Um. Duh. *points to challenge*
Notes: Written for jennyo, who wanted the aftermath of the overthrow of heaven and hell, and a board game. For Sallyanne's Darkficathon.
1,865 words
i. Mr. Green in the Ballroom with the Candlestick
Wesley is jealous.
He's so jealous he can barely see straight, and he guesses that makes it that much better for both of them.
Lilah is dressed in black, and Cordelia in silver, and both of them glitter in the candlelight. It's an illusion, he knows, but it's one he can bask in for a moment. He drinks in the sight of them; drowns in it. Here, her lips are the dark red of still-warm blood; there, her lips are a glittery silvery ice-blue. When they meet together, life seems to stop.
And he's jealous, so jealous it hurts, but he can't stop staring. Not yet.
He'd hoped for an evening, just one, when he might have her to himself. He'd chilled champagne, lit the candles, put on the music he knew she'd say she hated.
And then there they were, not light against dark like he might have imagined once upon a time, not contrasts illuminating each other, but complements, hard and harder, sharp and deadly, skin against skin until bone touched bone and cracked.
And the jealousy seems less like jealousy, he notes absently while he stares at them as though if he looks away they'll disappear (well, won't they?), and it all seems a lot more like arousal. He adjusts himself; the champagne reacts to room temperature; tiny droplets of condensation drip onto the hardwood floors.
It's a dance, he knows it is, and they play their parts to the hilt, as first one leads and then the other, alternating rapidly until no one can tell which is which and they swirl into a whirlwind of color.
He steps forward, first one foot and then the other, gaining power and speed as he moves and wondering if this time it will finally be his reward.
But no, it's just how it always is. He reaches forward, allowing his hand to brush against the slinky black of what would be Lilah's dress, but instead he brushes through air, and as she moves he can tell that she's not Lilah, not quite; something's missing. Something about her face. And his arms can't curve around her, nor Cordelia; they're both illusions, there to please him right up until he wants them.
But what he wants he can never have, because heaven is filled only with the righteous, and Lilah cast her lot with evil and damned if a few good deeds near the end of the world could save her from that.
And it's that she needs redemption that gets to him, because the concept of her apologizing for murder is somehow even more repugnant than the fact that she's committed them.
And Cordelia, who is no more Cordelia than Lilah is Lilah, looks at him and nods and smiles.
Her lips curve and breathe and he watches as she whispers- no, doesn't even whisper; just mouths, as though she's telling her a secret (she is, isn't she?)
Now.
And he nods.
He has been complacent far too long. It's time for war.
ii. Mrs. White in the Conservatory with the Revolver
Cordelia's hair is long and dark, and curling down her back, and she wonders if it's growing even as she sits there.
Time has stopped (time is speeding by) and she sits dully, sharpening her katana and waiting for war.
She knows it's coming, the time when Hell and Earth and Heaven itself will open up and rain down fire upon the helpless.
And she will fight it. She is, after all, a champion.
Until then, she will sit patiently, sharpen her katana, and wait.
Which may be why, when the gunfire pierces the sky, she doesn't argue; just jumps right in to join the good fight. Whatever that is.
And even if it had been Lindsey, even if it had been Lilah, even if it had been the Powers that Betray Every Promise You Ever Got, she would have fought bravely.
But it is Wesley, Wesley with his guns, Wesley who looks at her above the gunfire and says "I knew it was time," and smiles.
So Cordelia Chase picks up a revolver of her own, and prepars to fight the good fight.
It's what she does, isn't it?
iii. Colonel Mustard in the Hall with the Wrench
There's something about them tonight that makes them look less like a former wannabe-actress and a high-ranking official at an evil law firm, and more like superheroes. Or, no, maybe not superheroes; maybe just high-ranking spies. Cordelia has already made more than one comment about getting shoe phones or a Cone of Silence; Wesley has been doing his best to ignore her at any cost.
He stands by the control panel, carefully disabling each feature with the tools he had in his take-home kit. He's Bond, James Bond, in casual clothing streaked with blood.
Cordelia is doing the fighting, mostly- she offered and he knew better than to refuse the offer of a champion- but he is doing what he does best.
His mind is like a laser, focused only on her. Leaving Lilah has consumed him, but he is not ready to let it destroy him.
He refuses to be destroyed unless he can take everything else with him.
Perhaps that's why it's so easy. Cordelia fights, destroying the men as though they were made of thin paper. And he alters, destroys.
"Now!" he shouts, and Cordelia stops fighting abruptly and both of them run like hell (pun? no pun) and dash out of the building as quickly as possible.
The sound of an explosion no longer phases him.
He never expected to become this cavalier about death. He wonders if it's what Lilah felt like. He wonders if it's what Angel felt like.
Fight the good fight. Always.
He waits, just a moment. There's gunfire behind them, crackling loudly, but no antiheroine appears.
"Maybe the next one," Cordelia offers, not unkindly, and Wesley nods. Maybe the next one.
iv. Miss Scarlet in the Study with a Lead Pipe
Fingers tighten around the dice. Knuckles whiten as the grip grows firmer.
She releases, and deep red nails uncurl from bloodless fists, four crescents left in their wake.
The dice crash against the table and finally, finally, clatter to a stop.
Snake eyes.
She smiles, blood-red lips framing perfect white teeth. She moves her pawn two spaces.
The pawn enters the study.
And behind her, she hears the familiar smashing of glass. The sound only made when a pipe has been used to smash through the insanely expensive plate glass window she just installed last month. But he's arrived, and coming up behind him, Cordelia. She can't say she's surprised.
"We're here to save you," he gasps. "From Hell."
He looks confused when all she does is laugh.
"I win," Lilah says simply.
Wesley looks at the board, and nods suddenly, comprehending. Hating it, but understanding who and how and why. "Yes," he says quietly. "I suppose you do."
v. Mrs. Peacock in the Dining Room with the Rope
Lilah's never been much for "they". The they who have all the answers; who know about everyone and everything; who offer charming proverbs and witticisms that don't do much for anyone unless that anyone's a white upper-class heterosexual male with charm, class, and if there's any room left, intelligence.
She had always assumed that the They were invisible, all-seeing, all-knowning. Like God, in a way, but mortal.
Lilah's never been much of a fan of God, either.
Which might be why, when faced with "Pride goeth before a fall," a dark reminder from Wesley as he accepted the cup of tea she had offered with a smile, she just shrugged.
Pride wasn't such a bad thing. Pride had enabled her to do all of this.
And she'd said as much.
"So you're proud of yourself?" he'd asked.
"Pretty much, yeah." She'd smirked a little. Wesley had died; he could learn to live with her as something besides pure good.
"You orchestrated the complete overthrow of nine different hell dimensions and fourteen heaven ones."
"And I didn't even have a personal assistant," she'd pointed out.
He had looked disgusted. "How many people have died-"
"They were already dead, Wes. All of them." A smile, deadly as the sulfuric flames all three of them could see from Lilah's dining room window. She'd handed Cordelia a tea cup, and the girl had taken it gratefully. "So are we. But, well, we got better."
"What about those people-"
"They're playing the game just as much as we are. Maybe they just got dealt a bad hand."
"Or maybe you dealt it to them. I've half a mind to-"
"What, Wes? Spank me?" Lilah had laughed. "We've done roleplaying before, but I thought you were over that with the sudden white-hat thing."
"You do have that rope left over from your whole Indiana Jones thing," Cordelia had pointed out, not looking away from the window as she spoke.
Lilah had stared at the back of her head. "Since when are you playing? I thought you were being stubbornly blase." Then she turned to Wesley. "Indiana Jones? I always did have a Harrison Ford kink..."
"It's not a laughing matter, Lilah," Wes said.
"Which is funny, because I'm still laughing
"Pride goeth before a fall," he had said. And then he'd moved quickly.
And now there she is, tied spread-eagled to her own dining room table (of course she was), watching Wes standing there with something in his eyes that isn't quite madness but isn't quite sanity either, while Cordelia stares blankly out her window at the expanse of hell that surrounds them. Lilah wonders absently if Cordelia will take her turn after Wesley had taken his.
If this is the punishment for pride, Lilah has no desire to change whatsoever.
vi. Professor Plum in the Lounge with the Knife
He can't stop thinking how lucky he is, sometimes. How very nice it is to be Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.
The fire rages on outside the window. It always does. No matter how nice Lilah's apartment is, this is, after all, Hell.
She told them not to destroy it. Said it was too easy, and worth too much.
Cordelia stares at the flames all day, and Wesley knows she wonders how she ever ended up here. She had so much promise, everyone had said back in the day. So much going for her.
Champion of the universe, stuck in a suite in hell with the failed Watcher and the failed evil lawyer. Cordelia watches the flames and Wesley can imagine her imagining her own end a million times over.
Lilah would do anything for him, anything but betray her beliefs, and has proven this so many times that he can't even work up the energy for a good angry fuck with a side of spanking anymore. She would kill for him, but wouldn't miss a meeting with the Senior Partners, and no matter what else she'll do it's stopped being worth it.
And there he is, former Watcher, former head of Angel Investigations, former high-ranking Wolfram and Hart employee, sitting in the lounge of his former girlfriend, holding the knife so that it slides just-so across skin, and laughing because the sound it makes is so much prettier than crying.
He doesn't bleed much, of course. What's the point of Hell if you're not going to wake up in it tomorrow?
How very fucking lucky, indeed, to be Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.
Author: Amy (alexia@innergeekdom.net)
Fandom: Angel
Ship: Wes/Lilah, Lilah/Cordelia
Rating: R
Summary: So you want a revolution.
Spoilers: Through the end of Angel.
Warnings: Dark. Um. Duh. *points to challenge*
Notes: Written for jennyo, who wanted the aftermath of the overthrow of heaven and hell, and a board game. For Sallyanne's Darkficathon.
1,865 words
i. Mr. Green in the Ballroom with the Candlestick
Wesley is jealous.
He's so jealous he can barely see straight, and he guesses that makes it that much better for both of them.
Lilah is dressed in black, and Cordelia in silver, and both of them glitter in the candlelight. It's an illusion, he knows, but it's one he can bask in for a moment. He drinks in the sight of them; drowns in it. Here, her lips are the dark red of still-warm blood; there, her lips are a glittery silvery ice-blue. When they meet together, life seems to stop.
And he's jealous, so jealous it hurts, but he can't stop staring. Not yet.
He'd hoped for an evening, just one, when he might have her to himself. He'd chilled champagne, lit the candles, put on the music he knew she'd say she hated.
And then there they were, not light against dark like he might have imagined once upon a time, not contrasts illuminating each other, but complements, hard and harder, sharp and deadly, skin against skin until bone touched bone and cracked.
And the jealousy seems less like jealousy, he notes absently while he stares at them as though if he looks away they'll disappear (well, won't they?), and it all seems a lot more like arousal. He adjusts himself; the champagne reacts to room temperature; tiny droplets of condensation drip onto the hardwood floors.
It's a dance, he knows it is, and they play their parts to the hilt, as first one leads and then the other, alternating rapidly until no one can tell which is which and they swirl into a whirlwind of color.
He steps forward, first one foot and then the other, gaining power and speed as he moves and wondering if this time it will finally be his reward.
But no, it's just how it always is. He reaches forward, allowing his hand to brush against the slinky black of what would be Lilah's dress, but instead he brushes through air, and as she moves he can tell that she's not Lilah, not quite; something's missing. Something about her face. And his arms can't curve around her, nor Cordelia; they're both illusions, there to please him right up until he wants them.
But what he wants he can never have, because heaven is filled only with the righteous, and Lilah cast her lot with evil and damned if a few good deeds near the end of the world could save her from that.
And it's that she needs redemption that gets to him, because the concept of her apologizing for murder is somehow even more repugnant than the fact that she's committed them.
And Cordelia, who is no more Cordelia than Lilah is Lilah, looks at him and nods and smiles.
Her lips curve and breathe and he watches as she whispers- no, doesn't even whisper; just mouths, as though she's telling her a secret (she is, isn't she?)
Now.
And he nods.
He has been complacent far too long. It's time for war.
ii. Mrs. White in the Conservatory with the Revolver
Cordelia's hair is long and dark, and curling down her back, and she wonders if it's growing even as she sits there.
Time has stopped (time is speeding by) and she sits dully, sharpening her katana and waiting for war.
She knows it's coming, the time when Hell and Earth and Heaven itself will open up and rain down fire upon the helpless.
And she will fight it. She is, after all, a champion.
Until then, she will sit patiently, sharpen her katana, and wait.
Which may be why, when the gunfire pierces the sky, she doesn't argue; just jumps right in to join the good fight. Whatever that is.
And even if it had been Lindsey, even if it had been Lilah, even if it had been the Powers that Betray Every Promise You Ever Got, she would have fought bravely.
But it is Wesley, Wesley with his guns, Wesley who looks at her above the gunfire and says "I knew it was time," and smiles.
So Cordelia Chase picks up a revolver of her own, and prepars to fight the good fight.
It's what she does, isn't it?
iii. Colonel Mustard in the Hall with the Wrench
There's something about them tonight that makes them look less like a former wannabe-actress and a high-ranking official at an evil law firm, and more like superheroes. Or, no, maybe not superheroes; maybe just high-ranking spies. Cordelia has already made more than one comment about getting shoe phones or a Cone of Silence; Wesley has been doing his best to ignore her at any cost.
He stands by the control panel, carefully disabling each feature with the tools he had in his take-home kit. He's Bond, James Bond, in casual clothing streaked with blood.
Cordelia is doing the fighting, mostly- she offered and he knew better than to refuse the offer of a champion- but he is doing what he does best.
His mind is like a laser, focused only on her. Leaving Lilah has consumed him, but he is not ready to let it destroy him.
He refuses to be destroyed unless he can take everything else with him.
Perhaps that's why it's so easy. Cordelia fights, destroying the men as though they were made of thin paper. And he alters, destroys.
"Now!" he shouts, and Cordelia stops fighting abruptly and both of them run like hell (pun? no pun) and dash out of the building as quickly as possible.
The sound of an explosion no longer phases him.
He never expected to become this cavalier about death. He wonders if it's what Lilah felt like. He wonders if it's what Angel felt like.
Fight the good fight. Always.
He waits, just a moment. There's gunfire behind them, crackling loudly, but no antiheroine appears.
"Maybe the next one," Cordelia offers, not unkindly, and Wesley nods. Maybe the next one.
iv. Miss Scarlet in the Study with a Lead Pipe
Fingers tighten around the dice. Knuckles whiten as the grip grows firmer.
She releases, and deep red nails uncurl from bloodless fists, four crescents left in their wake.
The dice crash against the table and finally, finally, clatter to a stop.
Snake eyes.
She smiles, blood-red lips framing perfect white teeth. She moves her pawn two spaces.
The pawn enters the study.
And behind her, she hears the familiar smashing of glass. The sound only made when a pipe has been used to smash through the insanely expensive plate glass window she just installed last month. But he's arrived, and coming up behind him, Cordelia. She can't say she's surprised.
"We're here to save you," he gasps. "From Hell."
He looks confused when all she does is laugh.
"I win," Lilah says simply.
Wesley looks at the board, and nods suddenly, comprehending. Hating it, but understanding who and how and why. "Yes," he says quietly. "I suppose you do."
v. Mrs. Peacock in the Dining Room with the Rope
Lilah's never been much for "they". The they who have all the answers; who know about everyone and everything; who offer charming proverbs and witticisms that don't do much for anyone unless that anyone's a white upper-class heterosexual male with charm, class, and if there's any room left, intelligence.
She had always assumed that the They were invisible, all-seeing, all-knowning. Like God, in a way, but mortal.
Lilah's never been much of a fan of God, either.
Which might be why, when faced with "Pride goeth before a fall," a dark reminder from Wesley as he accepted the cup of tea she had offered with a smile, she just shrugged.
Pride wasn't such a bad thing. Pride had enabled her to do all of this.
And she'd said as much.
"So you're proud of yourself?" he'd asked.
"Pretty much, yeah." She'd smirked a little. Wesley had died; he could learn to live with her as something besides pure good.
"You orchestrated the complete overthrow of nine different hell dimensions and fourteen heaven ones."
"And I didn't even have a personal assistant," she'd pointed out.
He had looked disgusted. "How many people have died-"
"They were already dead, Wes. All of them." A smile, deadly as the sulfuric flames all three of them could see from Lilah's dining room window. She'd handed Cordelia a tea cup, and the girl had taken it gratefully. "So are we. But, well, we got better."
"What about those people-"
"They're playing the game just as much as we are. Maybe they just got dealt a bad hand."
"Or maybe you dealt it to them. I've half a mind to-"
"What, Wes? Spank me?" Lilah had laughed. "We've done roleplaying before, but I thought you were over that with the sudden white-hat thing."
"You do have that rope left over from your whole Indiana Jones thing," Cordelia had pointed out, not looking away from the window as she spoke.
Lilah had stared at the back of her head. "Since when are you playing? I thought you were being stubbornly blase." Then she turned to Wesley. "Indiana Jones? I always did have a Harrison Ford kink..."
"It's not a laughing matter, Lilah," Wes said.
"Which is funny, because I'm still laughing
"Pride goeth before a fall," he had said. And then he'd moved quickly.
And now there she is, tied spread-eagled to her own dining room table (of course she was), watching Wes standing there with something in his eyes that isn't quite madness but isn't quite sanity either, while Cordelia stares blankly out her window at the expanse of hell that surrounds them. Lilah wonders absently if Cordelia will take her turn after Wesley had taken his.
If this is the punishment for pride, Lilah has no desire to change whatsoever.
vi. Professor Plum in the Lounge with the Knife
He can't stop thinking how lucky he is, sometimes. How very nice it is to be Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.
The fire rages on outside the window. It always does. No matter how nice Lilah's apartment is, this is, after all, Hell.
She told them not to destroy it. Said it was too easy, and worth too much.
Cordelia stares at the flames all day, and Wesley knows she wonders how she ever ended up here. She had so much promise, everyone had said back in the day. So much going for her.
Champion of the universe, stuck in a suite in hell with the failed Watcher and the failed evil lawyer. Cordelia watches the flames and Wesley can imagine her imagining her own end a million times over.
Lilah would do anything for him, anything but betray her beliefs, and has proven this so many times that he can't even work up the energy for a good angry fuck with a side of spanking anymore. She would kill for him, but wouldn't miss a meeting with the Senior Partners, and no matter what else she'll do it's stopped being worth it.
And there he is, former Watcher, former head of Angel Investigations, former high-ranking Wolfram and Hart employee, sitting in the lounge of his former girlfriend, holding the knife so that it slides just-so across skin, and laughing because the sound it makes is so much prettier than crying.
He doesn't bleed much, of course. What's the point of Hell if you're not going to wake up in it tomorrow?
How very fucking lucky, indeed, to be Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.