Speak Again

fanfiction by Wild Iris


Not a job; a definition. No line between work and not-work. Not-work was the white apartment where girls threw lamps at her head and Angel threatened from the doorway, the wine bars at twenty bucks a glass where clients and their rivals came to bend her ear.

Strange, then, that she'd wandered into places where she sometimes had to remind herself that she was working. A bridge formed by the intersection of two streets. A watering-hole that no client would have chosen. A grey apartment into which the vampire could walk at any moment, yet into which he never did.