Summary: Wesley and Lilah share a mutual passion.
Word Count: ~500
Author's Note: Written for the Doomed Ships ficathon. anythingbutgrey's prompt: And though you were only sparring / There's blood on the eye, unlace the glove / Say, honey, I am not sorry
He's cleaning his guns when she slips inside his apartment. Wasn't that door locked? She probably stole his key and made herself a copy, all without him noticing. He's learned to stop being surprised by Lilah: she can and will do anything she pleases.
Of course, whatever she pleases doesn't mean a damn if he's not in the mood. And tonight, of all nights, he's decidedly not.
"Oh, look at that scowl," she drawls, slipping her jacket off her shoulders and tossing it away as if she hasn't a care in the world. (He knows better.)
She sits next to him, crossing her legs so her knee brushes against his elbow, leaning forward to watch him wipe a cloth along the barrel of his pistol.
Her fingers dance up his arm, teasing, and she purses her lips. "Cold shoulder tonight, lover? You a little too preoccupied handling your weapon?" She grins. "Allow me."
Before he can stop her, she's taken the gun from his hands and holds it up, watching the way it gleams in the light from the lamp behind her. Her grin flattens to a tiny, satisfied smile--not for show, that smile, but for her own secret pleasure.
"I do admire your taste," she murmurs, giving him a sidelong glance as her hands settle more firmly around the grip. Then she laughs and flicks the safety off. "You make sure there wasn't a round in the chamber?"
He raises an eyebrow. "What game are you playing tonight, Lilah?"
"The only kind I know. I play for keeps." She turns and points the gun at his chest. She captures his gaze, takes a slow, deep breath, smiles and whispers, "Bang."
He lunges for her, grabs her wrist and yanks her forward until the barrel is pressed up against the underside of his chin. "Do it. Go on. Pull the trigger. Maybe I forgot to check the chamber. Maybe this one time I was careless. Maybe I wanted you to show and take it from me."
She cocks her head to the side, searches his eyes and then leans in close, brushing her lips against his. "I don't wanna kill you, Wesley."
"No, death is too easy. You want to trap me, lure me into your web."
"You still don't get it, do you?" She cups his cheek with her free hand. "We're the same."
Coldly, he rips the gun from her hand and tosses it on the coffee table. "No. We're not."
She glances down and stares at the bared flesh of her knees where her skirt's ridden up. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was hurt or even embarrassed by his rejection. Then he sees the corners of her mouth upturned and he knows she's biding her time, waiting for him to make a move. He's no callow youth: he won't be manipulated or seduced or blackmailed. She holds no power over him.
She peers up at him through dusky lashes, eyes veiled, and promises, "You'll see."
He kisses her, hard. It's the only way to silence her and even then it's never enough.