The Third Deadly Drabble *G*
Since it's not for a challenge, it's 169 words. *G* Crossposted on my journal, ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
chosenfics and ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif)
ducksfanfic
Title: In Rage I Leave You (#3: Anger)
Series: 7 Deadly Drabbles
Author: Ducks
Rating: PG
Character: Angel
Timeline: Immediately after Angel leaves Sunnydale in "Chosen"
A/N: For my LJ folk, especiallygia6seconds. You make my days all shiny. *G*
~
He recalls the sensation of hot pokers in his flesh, and the rage flares up to devour him all over again. He can barely see the road through the mist of murderous fury over his vision.
Sent packing in favor of...
He can't even think the name, but it's there. *He*’s there. The usurper. And thinking that, feeling it rip through him like shards of sunlit glass, he almost hates her. He *does* hate him. He could easily tear the whelp’s head off with his bare hands and dance a merry jig on his dust.
He detests so hard he could spit and understands with sudden, blinding insight why men since time immemorial have gone to war.
He could certainly kill right now. A hundred times over... a thousand... and still not be spent.
His jaw pops from fiercely grit teeth, and the dull noise reminds him... it isn't supposed to matter anymore. It's not his business. She's not his...
She is not his.
That only makes it worse.
chosenfics and ducksfanficTitle: In Rage I Leave You (#3: Anger)
Series: 7 Deadly Drabbles
Author: Ducks
Rating: PG
Character: Angel
Timeline: Immediately after Angel leaves Sunnydale in "Chosen"
A/N: For my LJ folk, especially
gia6seconds. You make my days all shiny. *G*~
He recalls the sensation of hot pokers in his flesh, and the rage flares up to devour him all over again. He can barely see the road through the mist of murderous fury over his vision.
Sent packing in favor of...
He can't even think the name, but it's there. *He*’s there. The usurper. And thinking that, feeling it rip through him like shards of sunlit glass, he almost hates her. He *does* hate him. He could easily tear the whelp’s head off with his bare hands and dance a merry jig on his dust.
He detests so hard he could spit and understands with sudden, blinding insight why men since time immemorial have gone to war.
He could certainly kill right now. A hundred times over... a thousand... and still not be spent.
His jaw pops from fiercely grit teeth, and the dull noise reminds him... it isn't supposed to matter anymore. It's not his business. She's not his...
She is not his.
That only makes it worse.
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