FIC: And What Was Meant to Happen, Happened (Lilah Morgan/Ilona Costa Bianchi, PG-13)
TITLE: And What Was Meant to Happen, Happened
RATING: PG-13
FANDOMS: Angel
PAIRING: Lilah Morgan/Ilona Costa Bianchi
SUMMARY: Lilah doesn’t speak Italian.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for femslash_minis Round 64 for beer_good_foamy, who wanted an office party, snark, and chicken, without violence or fluff. Couldn’t quite work the chicken in there, but I did give you another bird.
“Luce dei miei occhi, mi piace da morire!”
Lilah doesn’t know where Ilona finds the energy to talk, but she hasn’t stopped: not through a bottle of champagne, not through the party dragging on into the wee hours of the morning, not in the elevator up to her penthouse, not on her way to orgasm. Ilona’s fine body arches, writhing against the bedclothes, and her mouth keeps running.
***
Lilah doesn’t speak Italian. She took a little French in high school, then learned Latin in college, a necessity for all the legalese and demon raising she’d need to do in her career. Italian came from Latin, and Lilah can hear similarities, but there’s a completely different energy about the language. Latin is so staid and grim, solemn, but Italian is bubbly and alive. Lilah knows that if she spoke Italian, it would just be Latin with a different vocabulary; she doesn’t do bubbly. But it’s pretty to listen to, and a little dizzying, like champagne for the ear.
Lilah lets Italian bubble past her ears as she sips some real champagne, the good stuff; one of the perks of Wolfram and Hart parties is they never stiff on the booze. Lilah’s visit to the Roman office just happens to coincide with the firm’s annual Christmas party, and she may as well not have left LA; except for the difference in language, the offices are near identical, and it’s not like Lilah will be spending her holiday out in the city. It’s a working vacation, just like all the others.
“Lilah, bellissima, poor sparrow, so far from home this Natale.” Ilona Costa Bianchi, who has not stopped welcoming her since she walked through the door two days ago, flits by and refills Lilah’s champagne.
Lilah shrugs, smiles a closed-mouth smile, and raises her glass. “Just part of the job.”
“Oh, me, cucciola, so brave.” Ilona pats Lilah’s cheek, her fingers chilled from the champagne; Lilah manages not to flinch. “Allora, such a good little worker; we will be so sad to see you go back to your Los Angeles.”
“It’s not exactly mine,” Lilah says, her tone sharper than intended. It really is good champagne.
“Magari!” Ilona cries. “Yes? Just wait, stella mia; you keep working, and one day, you will be running the LA branch.”
Lilah feels herself flush, and she’s sure it isn’t the champagne. Ilona cozies herself close to Lilah, her fingers resting lightly on Lilah’s arm, her breath tickling Lilah’s ear.
“Why do you think I asked for you to come, and not your partner, that Lindsey?”
“Lindsey doesn’t look this good in a dress,” Lilah says, but she can feel something burning in her stomach, that old familiar hunger, the one that took her to law school and the top of her class and first round draft at Wolfram and Hart. The one that brought her here.
Ilona laughs, long and loud, throwing her head back. Her breasts bob attractively; her lovely throat is bared. Lilah has a sudden, wild impulse to sink her teeth into the soft flesh. Instead, she rests her hand on Ilona’s bare shoulder, rubs her thumb over the silky skin.
“Dolcezza,” Ilona purrs, “ho voglio di te.”
And for a second, Lilah wishes she understood Italian, but then Ilona kisses her, and that she understands.