Pink

Rating PG13

Disclaimer….I wish they were mine but last time I looked they belonged to Joss.

Written for the Blood Roses Forum's Rosebud Challenge.

*

He never was one for colour. At least that is what his friends believed. There had been many a joke made at his expense about his seeming addiction to black. Truth be told he didn’t need to dress to experience the joy of colour. He is Vampire. His eyes although suited to the dark see everything in vivid splendour.

He thinks fondly of pink. As in the blush of her cheekbones and the painted nails she wore. Little girl tones except, he pauses…that hot pink number she wore to the Bronze one night. No not a little girl at all, that was definitely a woman’s hue. His mind goes where every man or vampire goes…to the rose of her budding breasts and the flush of her skin while in the throws of her orgasm. He licks his lips missing her with a fierce rush of longing and forces his mind elsewhere.

He rifles his memory and finds just the thing to turn his thoughts away from forbidden fruit. That pink helmet that Wesley made him wear. He never did get him back for that indignity he thinks sadly, there were many other scores to settle that seemed more pressing. If he could have those times back before it all went to Hell he would. But he has been to Hell and there isn’t any pink there, red is more Hell’s colour. Some little girl who wasn’t a girl told him once that red was his colour; it fits him after all for he is a creature of Hell. The pink though has memories that can be cherished, red does not.

That dumb blonde who called herself his secretary wore pink…a lot! It seemed as if the vamp had the patent on the colour. Her clothes and shoes, bag and nails screamed Barbie to him and he will never admit to knowing who or what Barbie is. He has a reputation to *live* up to. He shifts and crosses his legs at his ankles, the chink of ice rings softly as he finishes his drink.

He recalls the soft hue of his baby’s skin, fresh and new and innocent. The silk of talcum white against the soft delicate shell pink of his son’s chest is a memory he treasures dearly. It isn’t enough although he knows that it is all he has. His heart squeezes and he gasps back the agony of missed childhood. The silence of loneliness rings loud.

He hears a sound at his door and rises gracefully to pad barefoot across the room. No one knows, (he knows no one,) that he stays here, he cannot say he lives. Carefully he opens the door and finds the hall empty. A faint perfume catches his attention and he looks down at an envelope, pink. He reaches for it and his fingers tremble. He recognizes the loopy writing. It is hers.

The End
August 2005.

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