Two drabbles (Lilah/Wesley, Xander/Anya)
“Victory”
Sometimes, when they’re together, she feels the words bubbling up in her throat, like vomit. She was supposed to be the one playing him, not the other way around. Now, suddenly, she’s beset by these horrible feelings, emotions she’d thought were long dead to her.
She’s certain that it’s all a trap. He’s just waiting to hear those words, her defeat. So she swallows hard, bites her tongue; he won’t be victorious.
It’s not until her vision starts to fade that Lilah realizes that the only trap she’d ever been caught in was the one she’d created in her head.
“Zen”
“Come here, Xander.”
He obeys, even though he feels like he’s walking into some kind of trap. His hands, callused by years of war and work, are far too rough, too abrasive, although right now they’re slippery with sweat. She’s going to see how inept he is; she’ll leave him, like she should’ve done years ago.
“Hold your arms like this,” she murmurs. His heart races, muscles tense; he’s too awkward, too clumsy-
Anya nestles their daughter in his arms, and it’s like Zen; everything else fades away. “See?” she beams as tears stream down his face. “You’re a natural.”
(Sorry, I seem to have babies on the brain this challenge.)
Sometimes, when they’re together, she feels the words bubbling up in her throat, like vomit. She was supposed to be the one playing him, not the other way around. Now, suddenly, she’s beset by these horrible feelings, emotions she’d thought were long dead to her.
She’s certain that it’s all a trap. He’s just waiting to hear those words, her defeat. So she swallows hard, bites her tongue; he won’t be victorious.
It’s not until her vision starts to fade that Lilah realizes that the only trap she’d ever been caught in was the one she’d created in her head.
“Zen”
“Come here, Xander.”
He obeys, even though he feels like he’s walking into some kind of trap. His hands, callused by years of war and work, are far too rough, too abrasive, although right now they’re slippery with sweat. She’s going to see how inept he is; she’ll leave him, like she should’ve done years ago.
“Hold your arms like this,” she murmurs. His heart races, muscles tense; he’s too awkward, too clumsy-
Anya nestles their daughter in his arms, and it’s like Zen; everything else fades away. “See?” she beams as tears stream down his face. “You’re a natural.”
(Sorry, I seem to have babies on the brain this challenge.)