Title: Painted Ladies
Rating: PG-13 (if life was fair)
Pairings: Angel/Connor, Fred is still there
Summary: Continuation from "Sisters," now Angel's POV.
THANK YOU: To kita0610 for the beta and making this less wonky. All errors belong to me, unfortunately.
He remembered telling Buffy once that he hated the women of his day. Liam hated the taste of the powders they used to whiten their flesh. The stink of the rouge to redden their lips. He favored the bar wench over the refined lady of means. The bar maids smelled of ale and hard work. No scent of powders to sicken him when he wished to leave his mark. But Angelus... Angelus loved the fine ladies of the 18th century. How enticing their blood looked as it ran down their necks. The contrast of its blackness against the rice powder on their wigs and breasts. How convenient it was for a vampire with their unnaturally white flesh and blood-red lips to mingle among the fools of the court.
He smelled that his son was different, altered. The smoke had permeated their clothing and left a dinstinctive aroma. His first impulse was to hurt her - that she dared weaken his strong, proud boy! Angelus, ever watchful, wanted to hurt the boy while he was vulnerable. Angel stayed back in the shadows and watched Fred put base and powder on Connor's cheeks, his forehead. He stared at the small gap between his son's hairline and where the makeup began. Pink. Healthy. He watched as Connor laughed and pushed her hand away, not wanting the red lip-liner. Fred made a pouty face and Connor relented.
Angel fought the urge to grab his son by the back of his neck and throw him against the wall. To bite his lip and make the blood color that young mouth, that pink flesh. To see the black/red against the ivory of the makeup. The demon (or was it the man?) within wanted to take that pretense of innocence and pound it, hurt it, wound it to turn back into the strength that was there before.
He was not aware of the low growl he made in the back of his throat. Angel saw Connor's shoulders stiffen, yet his son didn't push Fred aside. Angel watched as Connor looked in his direction, parted his lips slightly and allowed Fred to line them. Connor titled his head back kept his gaze on the shadows through half-lidded eyes. When Angel saw Connor's small, pink tongue dart out and moisten his lower lip to test the red now staining it, he crept back into the shadows and into Connor's room. To wait. To wipe that paint off his face.
Angel's last thought before he turned away was how Connor looked just like his mother.
I want to write a bit about why Connor hates the name Connor and prefers Stephen, but that is definitely NC-17 material in my head. I need the practice, but I hate spamming your flists... Champagne first.