Hell is not so bad, Lilah thinks as she looks around. Well, of course it is, but nothing’s good or bad but thinking makes it so. And it could be worse. She could be someone other than her (Satan’s little helper) and the pain could be non-ironic and self-aware.
Lindsey, for example, thought he could pull a Faust and end up with the eleventh hour save. Fat fucking chance. Beast got him just like he got everyone ever associated with Wolfram and Hart. She (and why her?) was the last to go, and now Lilah’s walking through hell like she’s some goddamn heroine. Maybe she is.
“We’re impressed,” one of the Senior Partners told her. “We have you tapped to come back and work with the new firm when it’s finished rebuilding on Earth.”
She’s holding on to that. Every day in hell’s a little shorter knowing that she can and will go back, even with the catch or six they’ve got on her. Lilah Morgan’s not going to be the elevator girl or the rent boy trapped in hell.
“Hi, Gavin,” she says, ignoring the fact her head’s wobbling again, like it isn’t attached quite right. If she does get back to Earth before Wesley shows up here, she’s going to scream at him a few hours for the beheading bit. “How’s business?”
Gavin’s not a bad-looking man in leather. He looks up at her and shrinks. “Uh, you know,” he says. “The usual.”
“Not today,” Lilah says cheerfully, handing Gavin his coin. “Come on, Gavin, we’re going to go fuck with Lindsey. And fuck Lindsey.”
Gavin swallows, nods, and follows her (her heels never come off now; this is, after all, hell) down to where Lindsey is slaving away in the boiler room, bruised and bloody and still so very pretty and blue-eyed and sweet-lipped. Lilah’s amused. He could have done so much better, but oh no, he had to fall for Angel’s line.
“Wow, you’re living a country western song,” Lilah quips, leaning in close and admiring one of the bruises. “How’s that go again? Your woman, your dog, and your Ford pick-up truck?”
Lindsey doesn’t flinch. “Nice to see you, too, Lilah,” he says. “Aren’t you looking fine? I hardly noticed that your head’s not on straight.”
“Fuck you,” Lilah says, carefully straightening it. Lindsey smiles, those baby-blues and pearly whites of his giving away that he’s not quite as disappointed to see her as he lets on. “Or, more accurately, fuck me. Because I can get you out of here.”
Gavin laughs, and Lilah’s surprised to realize the little weasel has her arms very firmly in his grasp (because sometimes her arms bend back) and she can feel him, wanting and hard and grinding against her ass. The smell of leather is starting to tickle her nostrils and maybe this wasn’t the best idea.
Lindsey doesn’t quite meet her eye to eye. But his tongue worms its way into the imperfect edges of her neck, the evil hand squeezing her breast hard and it hurts, not that it’s a surprise. This is hell, but it doesn’t feel nearly as bad as the nights–she thinks they’re nights, they could be centuries–of being alone, feeling as if she were still wrapped in plastic, and being able to hear him in the background, crying. Or fucking Fred.
This is merely sex a little rougher than she usually takes it. And it’s hell. Things in hell are forgotten, forgiven, and only partially real.
Gavin is shoving her skirt up. Lindsey’s torn her blouse open and is practically breaking the skin with bites that are supposed to be kisses. Lilah doesn’t have to move at all.
Soon, so soon she can almost count the hours, she’ll be out of here and it’ll all be worth it. And getting fucked like this, letting these unworthy bastards do this to her (she almost comes when Gavin pulls hard and dislocates her shoulder), all of hell?
Just a way to pass the time.
…and Cordelia said she didn’t hope.