FIC: Lessons
TITLE: Lessons
SUMMARY: an embittered, newly-undead Lilah and her latest assignment.
FANDOM: Angel
SHIP: Lilah/Eve if you squint.
RATING: PG?
WORD COUNT: 1,133
written for brutti_ma_buoni at round 76 of femslash_minis, who wanted Lilah/Eve with Wolfram & Hart, an elevator and references to Genesis and/or Lilith (a prompt that couldn't possibly be more up my street, I lucked out with this assignment). The slash is really more sub- than textual and I played around with the idea of Lilah as Lilith as the serpent a bit but I hope this still fits what you were looking for.
You come to, limbs twitching and writhing. Try to scream. Hear a dry hiss instead and feel it burn your parched throat as it escapes. Holland Manners smiles down at you, that mix of paternal indulgence and disappointment that used to make your jaws ache with unreleased venom, and oh, it hits you with a sudden clarity that you know where you are now.
It doesn’t surprise you they found your body, only that it took them so long. It’s not like anyone else had any use for the thing. It must’ve lain decapitated in that basement for days.
Your vocal cords slowly start to work again but it takes you days to exercise any prolonged control over your muscles. Even then you still wobble and jerk, ungainly. It’s the same skin but it won’t mold itself back over you now.
You’re tired but the dead don’t sleep.
--
You don’t remember the moment of your birth. Or if even if you were born, or how.
You’re told that this is part of The Human Condition and therefore a step in the right direction, and because of that no one elaborates. You know only the why of your existence, and even then only the why they constructed for you, nothing more meaningful. It’s enough until it isn’t.
It occurs to you one day you’re still yet to meet a real, live human. You’re told you’re not ready, you need to learn. You have thousands of books and films and tutorial after tutorial but still you wonder how you can learn to pass yourself off as one of them without having encountered any.
As it turns out, they have an answer for that one, too.
Lilah’s eyes narrow at the ends, slitting as she studies you from her desk and this rigid, tightly coiled dead creature is the closest thing to human they’ve let you near. When her hand brushes your arm as she guides you into her office, she’s cold. You’re burning, burning with new life and energy and so many questions. How can this thing teach you anything you need to know?
She purses her lips. You’ve been studying them and the gloss looks just a little too bright against her face, a holdover from when blood still flowed through her veins, you think. She starts to tilt her head to the side then straightens it abruptly as though she thought better of it. A hand goes to her scarf. You wonder what she’s hiding under it.
“You carry yourself wrong. Sit up straighter and don’t stare so much. You look like you’ve never seen anything like me before.”
“I haven’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
--
Your fingertips bite into the back of her neck and Eve visibly winces. It’s obvious she doesn’t like your touch, which is why you make sure to give it as often as possible. And, yes, you like feeling the heat of living flesh under your hand, even briefly.
“No, you’re not listening. If they don’t think you know more than they do, they won’t fear you. Fear’s your biggest asset. If they don’t fear you then you have nothing over them and you’re not doing your job.”
They claim they gave her to you to instruct but you suspect you’re meant as a cautionary tale more than anything. Well, that backfired. The kid might find you unsettling on a personal level but you can tell she’s eating your every word up. Of course she is; you’re the only source of information she has that isn’t completely filtered through the partners.
You despise her really. She’s weak-eyed and vulnerable and undeserving of that warm, young body of hers. You want to crawl into her skin; you want to eat her alive, but giving her the tools to self-destruct might be more satisfying in the long run, and lay less blame at your own door.
She’s started trying to dress somewhat like you. She wears her hair a little like yours too, you’ve noticed. You run your fingers through it almost tenderly, then you pause before continuing.
“Your body’s the next best weapon you have. Use it if you have to.”
She’s not even a person. She’s a blank slate desperate to be written on. It aches to think of her taking your place. Your only comfort is the fact she hasn’t got a hope in hell of making it out alive. Even you didn’t, in the end, and despite appearances to the contrary they don’t give you much in the way of second chances here.
--
Something about her beauty repulses you. Something in the way she’ll smirk almost indulgently and yet her eyes go colder when she assesses you like you’re a pound of meat; something in the way she walks, smooth as silk with the occasional jerks, the sudden sharp recklessness her movements take on every so often. You know they’re just tics, a consequence of being brought back but there’s a split second each time you feel in your gut she’s moving in for the kill.
Okay, you’ll admit it, you’re terrified of her. There are razors in her smiles, daggers in her touch and her words are a cocked gun pointing right at you, one perfectly manicured fingernail hovering on the trigger. You wonder if it’s just you, if it’s just death, or if she’s always been like this.
She’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever been allowed access to and you’re taking mental notes, you’re learning to observe. This will serve you well, you think. You’re so small in comparison to her, but when you’re out of her shadow and in the real world maybe some of her will stick.
Fear’s your biggest asset.
--
The trip up to street level is a longer one than you remember. You pick some lint from your protégé’s unfortunate suit jacket and suppress an urge to wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze the life from her. You’d never wear anything that bright. Between the suit and the perky little smile she’s sporting, she looks like a college kid on an internship more than a liaison to the Senior Partners. You’ve seen baby Chihuahuas with a more threatening look about them.
Eve steps out when the doors swing open but as per your orders, you stay in the elevator. The only time you’ve been allowed on the ground floor was to bring in Angel; you’re a liability nowadays. Nothing personal but your loyalties are too compromised, to say nothing of the extra complications added by the memory wipe. It would be irresponsible to have you in plain sight. You understand, of course.
Yeah, you understand all right.
You press the button to go back down and hope to god your next assignment’s less insulting.
SUMMARY: an embittered, newly-undead Lilah and her latest assignment.
FANDOM: Angel
SHIP: Lilah/Eve if you squint.
RATING: PG?
WORD COUNT: 1,133
written for brutti_ma_buoni at round 76 of femslash_minis, who wanted Lilah/Eve with Wolfram & Hart, an elevator and references to Genesis and/or Lilith (a prompt that couldn't possibly be more up my street, I lucked out with this assignment). The slash is really more sub- than textual and I played around with the idea of Lilah as Lilith as the serpent a bit but I hope this still fits what you were looking for.
You come to, limbs twitching and writhing. Try to scream. Hear a dry hiss instead and feel it burn your parched throat as it escapes. Holland Manners smiles down at you, that mix of paternal indulgence and disappointment that used to make your jaws ache with unreleased venom, and oh, it hits you with a sudden clarity that you know where you are now.
It doesn’t surprise you they found your body, only that it took them so long. It’s not like anyone else had any use for the thing. It must’ve lain decapitated in that basement for days.
Your vocal cords slowly start to work again but it takes you days to exercise any prolonged control over your muscles. Even then you still wobble and jerk, ungainly. It’s the same skin but it won’t mold itself back over you now.
You’re tired but the dead don’t sleep.
--
You don’t remember the moment of your birth. Or if even if you were born, or how.
You’re told that this is part of The Human Condition and therefore a step in the right direction, and because of that no one elaborates. You know only the why of your existence, and even then only the why they constructed for you, nothing more meaningful. It’s enough until it isn’t.
It occurs to you one day you’re still yet to meet a real, live human. You’re told you’re not ready, you need to learn. You have thousands of books and films and tutorial after tutorial but still you wonder how you can learn to pass yourself off as one of them without having encountered any.
As it turns out, they have an answer for that one, too.
Lilah’s eyes narrow at the ends, slitting as she studies you from her desk and this rigid, tightly coiled dead creature is the closest thing to human they’ve let you near. When her hand brushes your arm as she guides you into her office, she’s cold. You’re burning, burning with new life and energy and so many questions. How can this thing teach you anything you need to know?
She purses her lips. You’ve been studying them and the gloss looks just a little too bright against her face, a holdover from when blood still flowed through her veins, you think. She starts to tilt her head to the side then straightens it abruptly as though she thought better of it. A hand goes to her scarf. You wonder what she’s hiding under it.
“You carry yourself wrong. Sit up straighter and don’t stare so much. You look like you’ve never seen anything like me before.”
“I haven’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
--
Your fingertips bite into the back of her neck and Eve visibly winces. It’s obvious she doesn’t like your touch, which is why you make sure to give it as often as possible. And, yes, you like feeling the heat of living flesh under your hand, even briefly.
“No, you’re not listening. If they don’t think you know more than they do, they won’t fear you. Fear’s your biggest asset. If they don’t fear you then you have nothing over them and you’re not doing your job.”
They claim they gave her to you to instruct but you suspect you’re meant as a cautionary tale more than anything. Well, that backfired. The kid might find you unsettling on a personal level but you can tell she’s eating your every word up. Of course she is; you’re the only source of information she has that isn’t completely filtered through the partners.
You despise her really. She’s weak-eyed and vulnerable and undeserving of that warm, young body of hers. You want to crawl into her skin; you want to eat her alive, but giving her the tools to self-destruct might be more satisfying in the long run, and lay less blame at your own door.
She’s started trying to dress somewhat like you. She wears her hair a little like yours too, you’ve noticed. You run your fingers through it almost tenderly, then you pause before continuing.
“Your body’s the next best weapon you have. Use it if you have to.”
She’s not even a person. She’s a blank slate desperate to be written on. It aches to think of her taking your place. Your only comfort is the fact she hasn’t got a hope in hell of making it out alive. Even you didn’t, in the end, and despite appearances to the contrary they don’t give you much in the way of second chances here.
--
Something about her beauty repulses you. Something in the way she’ll smirk almost indulgently and yet her eyes go colder when she assesses you like you’re a pound of meat; something in the way she walks, smooth as silk with the occasional jerks, the sudden sharp recklessness her movements take on every so often. You know they’re just tics, a consequence of being brought back but there’s a split second each time you feel in your gut she’s moving in for the kill.
Okay, you’ll admit it, you’re terrified of her. There are razors in her smiles, daggers in her touch and her words are a cocked gun pointing right at you, one perfectly manicured fingernail hovering on the trigger. You wonder if it’s just you, if it’s just death, or if she’s always been like this.
She’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever been allowed access to and you’re taking mental notes, you’re learning to observe. This will serve you well, you think. You’re so small in comparison to her, but when you’re out of her shadow and in the real world maybe some of her will stick.
Fear’s your biggest asset.
--
The trip up to street level is a longer one than you remember. You pick some lint from your protégé’s unfortunate suit jacket and suppress an urge to wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze the life from her. You’d never wear anything that bright. Between the suit and the perky little smile she’s sporting, she looks like a college kid on an internship more than a liaison to the Senior Partners. You’ve seen baby Chihuahuas with a more threatening look about them.
Eve steps out when the doors swing open but as per your orders, you stay in the elevator. The only time you’ve been allowed on the ground floor was to bring in Angel; you’re a liability nowadays. Nothing personal but your loyalties are too compromised, to say nothing of the extra complications added by the memory wipe. It would be irresponsible to have you in plain sight. You understand, of course.
Yeah, you understand all right.
You press the button to go back down and hope to god your next assignment’s less insulting.