ARCHIVE: Sure.just let me know where
PAIRING: None
RATING: PG (scared yet?)
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: Other people own them.I'm not making any money.just having a little fun.
SUMMARY: If wishes were horses.
NOTE: Not sure if there will be other wishes.but the possibility exists.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
~Part: 1~
He wraps his fingers around the mug of steaming coffee and just holds it. Willing the warmth to steal into his skin. It's cold out here on the patio, but it's easier. He's used to being on the outside and looking in. If he was looking for a comfortable place in this life, he's found it. Looks in at the sparsely occupied tables, the few people waiting in line upon their orders. Silly, when he thinks about it. You can get coffee anywhere. Make it at home, buy it cheaply at some generic overly lit corner store. But no, people come here and pay through the nose for a bit of atmosphere. An extra two-dollar shot of espresso. A dollop of cream. Shake of spice. Trying to make their everyday choice a little more exotic. And paying for it.
Right now he'd pay for a bit of normalcy. All his life he's been greedy, been accused of immaturity that had just made him laugh harder. Why waste time? Bite at the candy and crunch hard just to get to the gooey center. Licking had its' good points. Small smile on his face. But patience was not one of his talents. So it's strange that right now he yearns for a bit of simplicity in his life.
Dismisses the thought and focuses instead on a couple leaning in over a small table. Willow. Tara. But they don't see him. He doesn't exist for them right now. They only have eyes for. There's a snicker that never quite makes it up and out of his throat because it's been so damn long since anyone ever looked *at* him. Through him. Over him. Sure, sometimes the occasionally witty barb will find it's mark, but it's not enough.never has been.
I'm nobody, he thinks. And then the half-laugh half-sob does make its' way free. A harsh noise that sounds like a bit of pain breaking free. Because he's having an Emily Dickinson/Boo Radley moment here, and how much does it give away that he knows both those names?
The girls glance up, breaking their love-locked gaze, staring straight at him. But it's nighttime, and all they see are their own selves reflected back in the glass. Smiling. Warm. In love. It makes him feel a bit sick. And there's an evil little thought that makes his stomach flip-flop. Holds onto it with a little selfish pride. Because he's the one who deserves it. Deserves love. Deserves adoration. Wants devotion to come crawling to him on its' belly, begging for him. It's only fair.
Watches in sick fascination as a small pale hand reaches out to cup a blushing cheek. Recognizes the need for it to be his hand. Oh, not necessarily one of them. Could be a her. Could be a him. Wouldn't *that* fact have a few someones squirming? Doesn't matter. Just a body, across from him, in that bright space, looking at him with desperation. With desire. That he doesn't give back.
And that's just it. There. Wants a different script this time. He doesn't want to be the slavish puppy consumed with want. It eats at him, this craving to be the one who can walk away. Who can commit the great sin by just not caring. See remembered lips moving in the word, "Please." A word they never spoke, but he can see it clearly he's dreamt it so many times. Knows exactly how the pleading would sound fit to the timbre of their voice. Voices. Then the sweetest part of this well-run fantasy, his own syllable gentle on his lips. "No." Not loud. Not a whisper. Because it just wouldn't matter to him to put that kind of effort into it.
Yeah. That felt right. Blonde, brunette.it doesn't matter. In the reel playing out in his head, the word from his lips twists the knife in their hearts. Watching them bleed. All for him. For want of him. Licks his lips and realizes he's thirsty as he looks half-heartedly at the cooling liquid between his hands. Steady frown growing because the illusion is only so real because he only knows the one side. Knows the feel intimately of the cool tone slipping into his gut and slicing. Can't forget the not-so-novel sensation of being left standing alone as some other walks away. Knowing he'd kneel if they'd just turn around.
And isn't that just wrong? Completely and totally wrong. And it's like a fire being lit inside him. Because he hasn't knelt. Hasn't totally surrendered. Sudden decision that he never will. That whatever he's feeling right now is a passing thing. A blip on the radar of existence. He's been wrong. But it's not too late to fix things.
Get rid of the damned chip in his head that's giving him too much time to think and get down to the business of killing. All of them. They may not see him, but by God, they'll feel him. Feel his fangs slice into their hot flesh. They'll damn well notice his hands wrapped around their throats. And it'll be him they're groaning for as the last breath leaves their body.
Right then.where to find that familiar stranger? Time to bloody well make his wish.
next