Morning Rituals by Criss Moody



Date: July 12th, 2001
Disclaimer: Numfar makes the Numfar of it all.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Wes/Angel
Summary: Wesley has his rituals.
Spoilers: Through The Gift and No Place Like..
Feedback: Yes, please.
Thanks: to Jess for ripping beta. you do the do like nobody do. to Sam for the idea and for saying WRITE me wes/angel!
Improv #20 words: twin -- deaf -- mild -- asleep

~~~~~

Take the mug with it's hard soap inside down from the cabinet. Remove the strap and blade from the wall. Close eyes to the sing of the blade against the worn leather. His hands know the paths, how far to go before the silver blade slices into hand. Dribble water into the mug, swish with finely-bristled brush. When the mildly scented soap foams up to lid of mug, bring it up to face and dab, smear, and cover with thick white soap foam. Steady razor in hand and begin.

Wesley is a man of many rituals.

He shaves each morning. At precisely 6:30, after his shower and before his breakfast, he begins. Lets the individual pieces of this particular habit carry him away into something akin to meditation. Parts of the whole bringing him back to ground after a night of unpleasant dreams. Dead friends and failures.

Now that they have returned to the Hyperion, back to the world where tacos and chosen girls mean different things, their lives haven't actually changed appreciably. It makes Wesley irritable. As if there should be some huge silver emblazoned sign in the sky, The Slayer is Dead, Long Live the Slayer, or just - a tiny girl who was wonderfully imperfect is dead and we're the poorer for it. He's grumpy because he'd prefer to not have a place in her death, but he's caught up in former occupations and current allegiances that make him care more than he'd like to.

This morning he is not in his small flat in a somewhat unsavory part of town. Wesley stands in front of a mirror in one of the many bathrooms attached to the many bedrooms in this former hotel. After a night of research and slaying the demon of the week, he is two doors down from a vampire, three doors up from Cordy, and 1 door and 1 floor up from a former librarian and scientist. His shaving kit comes with him nearly everywhere he goes, allowing him to cling to the ritual no matter what happens.

At 6:30, he still takes out the mug, sharpens the blade, and shaves.

Before beginning, he faces his reflection with a fair amount of calm for a man shying close to thirty-five. Not too bad. Even a few laugh lines to show that the last few years haven't been all tragedy. He's had a few beers and few laughs and yes, he does have something to show for it. Water in mug, foam, and in less than five minutes, he has covered his chin, cheeks, and neck. Drops a glop of the thick stuff on his chest. Wes twists around and grabs a towel to wipe it off when he sees a toe. In his peripheral vision, head bent to his chest, a pair of bare feet under legs clad in black silk stand off to one side of the doorway, hidden by the wall. All he sees are toes and black silk. They're not girl toes, and they're not brown toes, they therefore must be dead toes.

Wes squashes an irrational urge to slap the bastard silly and close the door. He hates the interruption of this time. Chooses to ignore Angel's falling back into his lurking habits. This is not the first time Angel's wandered into Wes' room. This isn't the first time he's sought connection with his 'friends' in the last few months. Perhaps a nightmare. Only to wake up and find the nightmare true. The only mystery is why the vampire's chosen this early hour to do so. And why he's just standing there.

Faces the mirror again and takes the blade up. He pulls the leather strap, clipped to a ring on the wall, up and slowly sharpens the knife. Hears a noise, like someone's breath catch, and be stifled. Wes grins, the ridiculousness spreading his lips apart in a toothy grin until it almost hurts. Adopts deafness to sound and presence behind him. He drops the grin and the strap and gets to work.

Starts with his cheeks. Cheekbone to jawbone and down again in increments. Cutting sharply into the white without slicing open skin takes talent. He learned it at the foot of a father who had very little time to care for his son, but enough time to teach him how to shave, how to dress, and how not to act. Then, the chin, being careful, going in tight, quick swipes.

The neck is the best. Even without a grieving, perpetually annoying vampire standing behind him, Wes enjoys arching his neck to the flat of the blade. He thinks he hears a quick shuffle of bare feet. Wonders if Angel is standing behind him and if so how close. He can't feel the vampire, so the doorway? Or maybe just inside the doorway. Waiting for Wes to turn around, indignant, clutching the threads of his tattered dignity to his chest, and demand in a high-pitched voice that Angel leave immediately.

Wanker.

Contrary to his opinion, no one's world revolves around Angel. Not even Buffy's did, and she's quite dead and rotting in the grave so even if hers HAD it hardly matters anymore. A petty thought unworthy of him, but it's there and he rather likes what it means. He's not the Wesley who nearly bent over and begged the world to do what they would. As long as he could be 'one of them'. As long as everyone pretended he mattered to them. Bugger that. Didn't last long and he's hardly about to start all that up again. He's there in that hotel because he has a purpose in life.

And honestly, it hasn't a damn thing to do with Angel.

Wes ignores the increasingly looming presence behind him. Arches his neck back a bit further and slides the blade up the exposed flesh. Considers slicing himself, just enough to make the blood come up, seep through the membranes and the white foam, drip down the blade. Angel would smell it before he saw it. Wes wonders if he'd drool. Lovely thought, that. The big hunk of vampire, so stoic and tough, drooling over a bit of soap tainted blood. Of course, it's entirely possibly that he wouldn't and Wes is just putting far too high a lust factor on his own blood.

But.

He has seen how Angel hungers for more. Opening up a plastic container of pig/cow/goat blood. Sniffing at the liquid, his nose crinkling in distaste. Then one of them will walk by, Cordelia or Fred and it's that time, and he knows. Scents the dark heavy blood between their legs and wants it.

Wes thinks that if he cut his cheek, or his throat, Angel would be on him in a second. And that would be a bit too suicidal. Tormenting the vampire is ever so much more fun. This has become a ritual too, this treading a careful path between tormenting and driving over the edge.

Angel is not the only one who lost someone. He is not the only one hurting. They have all found their ways to complete the ceremonies of grief. He's the only one still caught up in sour reminiscence and Wesley is damned well tired of it. Wes wouldn't mind so much if Angel let loose and screamed with all that's he's lost. As long as he screamed.

Carefully finishes ridding his throat of tiny black bristly hairs. He turns on the faucet, runs the slim blade under until the water runs clear. Dries the blade and puts it back in the shaving kit along with the leather sharpening strap. Straightens, faces the mirror again. A neat, clean job, barely a spot of shaving soap left on his skin. Wes gazes at the mirror, knowing that Angel's standing behind him, to his right. Stares the spot, feels something shift behind him. He smiles, tiny, no teeth. Bends over as if to pick up the towel he discarded on the floor, but shifts around to face the still vampire.

Wesley would laugh at the expression on Angel's face if it wouldn't ruin the glass-like silence of the morning. Like a memory that dies as fast as a soap bubble. There and gone and so terribly hard to recall. The other man seems torn between running, making up a good reason for being there, and jumping Wesley. And Wesley does not doubt for an instant that Angel believes that he would be welcome. Of course. Who could deny Angel, the Brave Defender of Fair Maidens and the occasional Handsome Knight?

He can name 6 people offhand.

Walks up to him. Likes the way Angel steps back, as if Wesley were something to fear.

"Is there something you want, Angel?" Wes tilts his neck to the vampire, who falls back even more. "What, not to your taste? Do you like them female? Or just blonde? Well, no, there was Drusilla, wasn't there?"

"Wes, it's not what you..."

"Please, credit me with some intelligence, if not enough to leave you to your grief and go about my business."

Wesley watches Angel process the words and try to form his own. It's like watching the colored gears of a tiny machine through clear plastic. He can see exactly what the vampire's thinking. Angel is trying to find a way out of this, a way to get what he wants, or a way to turn the situation to his advantage. But not this time. There are one set of terms and they are Wesley's.

"Do you want it?" Smirks at the drop of the Adam's apple in Angel's throat as he convulsively swallows words. Wes slides his hands down Angel's arms to his own flannel covered dick. Rubs his flesh through the soft cotton, groaning as he leans back against the sink. Cares less about Angel noticing than about getting something out of this mutation of his daily ritual.

"Once upon a time, I fantasized about sucking your cock, but I've stopped. Do you know why?" Wes opens his eyes to see brown eyes glued to his pelvis. This could be a far better resolution to his morning erections than his right hand.

"Because I'm better than that." Leans into Angel, touches lips to cold skin, kissing lightly up the jaw, small traces of soap foam dragging onto the vampire. Whispers in his ear.

"When was the last time someone human touched you, knowing full well what you are? Or let you touch them?"

Steps back, grunting low at the heavy feel of his dick and balls. Wes walks into the bedroom, not waiting to see what Angel does. By the time he reaches the bed, Angel is already there, and his answer is in his eyes as he drops to his knees, and pulls Wesley's pajama bottoms with him.

Angel on his knees. Wide shoulders pale and silken in the early morning light. Good lord, heaven did sigh when this man was made. Wesley can admit that. Easier to give credit where it's due when the vampire has his face in Wesley's crotch. Sniffling, nuzzling, licking around his pubic hair and thighs until Wes wants to scream 'just suck my fucking dick, idiot,' but doesn't because there's still that utterly lovely silence.

Then the lightest touch of tongue on his cock, cold and wet, and Wes sighs. And Angel sinks onto his cock like he was made to do this. To let this one man's dick rub against the back of his throat. To run big cool hands around Wesley's ass, down the crack, rubbing at the hole. Wes grunts, lets himself fall onto the bed. Angel barely loses contact with the firm flesh in his mouth, suckling at the tip. The vampire keeps his hands on Wes' ass, making him squirm and thrust high and down again, trying to get more contact with his asshole and more tongue on his dick. He's wonderfully rewarded when Angel swallows him to the root. One little finger wends it's way up to Wes' mouth. For the briefest of seconds, their eyes meet and this becomes a moment. Where Wesley decided whether this is 'just a blowjob' or something more and Wes takes the finger into his mouth and puts off analyzing the act to later. Much later.

Cold wet pressure around his cock and a wiggling finger meeting, fuck yes, that magical spot brings Wes rolling up, almost unseating Angel as orgasm flashes through him. Gasps as Angel stubbornly continues to suck until Wes hisses and pushes his head away. Flops back and closes his eyes. Tries to ignore Angel's heavy body against his legs.

Gives up the fight and looks down. He sees this creature who just sucked him gazing back, expressionless. A patented blank look cut from the pages of those who expect to be pushed away, forgotten and unwanted. Angel won't ask for more, and he won't expect more. To date, he has only asked to not be left alone. He likely expects to be told to leave, without so much as a thank you. But, he's forgotten one thing.

Wesley isn't Angel. And as much as he'd like to turn the tables on the vampire, make him feel the ripping pain of abandonment, Wesley does love him. As much as he can love anyone he barely knows and frequently loathes. Friends through shared experience and time spent together. He values that, if not the whole of the creature at his feet. Can't let this creature slink back into the darkness. He does not always like it, but Angel is important to them all.

Scootches down until his legs dangle off the bed and he's face to face with Angel. Closed-mouth kiss. Angel doesn't move. Wes licks the full lips free of semen, sharp and bitter like love. Sucks Angel's upper lip into his mouth, worries it with his teeth. Draws back to find that Angel has followed, drawing Wes into a kiss. He gets heady in the embrace. Realizes that Angel doesn't need to breathe and doesn't remember that Wes does.

But Wes almost forgets to care as Angel's huge hands rub down his back and grip his ass, bringing their cocks into alignment. Sharp rub and tug of distended flesh against his now quiescent dick. Precome slicking the way as Angel rocks their bodies together and lets go of Wes' mouth. He gulps in air, rubbing his cheek against the pillow cover. On their sides, sweat and precome loosening the friction, Wes pants into the space between his face and Angel's. Wants to be fucked. Full, and thick, and very hard, he wants Angel in him.

Leans into Angel, kisses the full lips. And again, whispers in Angel's ear. Low and slurred, like he's gotta get it out quick or he won't say it.

"You can fuck me if you want."

Sweet accepting moan against his throat. Angel licks the spot, sending chills down Wes' spine. He tenses when teeth nibble, bringing blood to the surface. Considers that this means more than the act for Angel. Stuff of life, rich and existing in such finite quantities. Wes knows that blood and sex are twins for vampires. Can't imagine how Angel has managed without either for so long. Dance of acts strung together, making ceremony, connection. And Angel needs that above all things, now. Connection. And of course, now Angel knows that perfect happiness doesn't exist and redemption is a myth.

And still he gnaws at Wes' neck, brings one arm down to draw Wes' leg up and over his own. Angel sucks on two fingers, places them at the entrance to Wesley's body, and pushes. Wes bites his lip at the tight burn, the effort of his body to repel the fingers. Relaxes, breathes out and lets the fingers in. The moment they brush against his prostate, he knows it will be good. Better than good as Angel rubs harder, faster, sending Wesley bucking into Angel. His cock's too spent to do much more than stir at the buzzes of pleasure shooting through his body.

Cockhead pushes up against the tight ring of muscle, slowly pressing in until Wesley's holding his breath. Entirely too full and not full enough all at the same time, like having his arms pulled in opposite directions, his body flying apart. Angel presses close, begins to thrust, slowly, as he kneads Wesley's ass. More flesh there than one might expect and Wes feels Angel grab on. Thrust harder into his body as the vampire finds his rhythm.

A hand at his cock, gripping the meat and muscle in a tight, cool hold, fades all other thoughts. Angel's hand begins to jack him off, smooth fingers rubbing hot and fast against the growing erection. Feels the bubble grow, ride the tight wave of pleasure. Angel thrusting and stirring his cock into Wesley's ass. Owning him for the moment. His body leans back, Angel leans in, thrusts harder until Wesley sees the crest burst and crash, like a phoenix on touchdown. Cool wash of semen in his ass, and Angel collapses against him, half covering his body as they rest.

Wesley knows the next part. The prescribed routine of casual sex. 'Hey, I gotta get going. Call me sometime?' No one ever has anyone's telephone number and suddenly a shower becomes the most important thing. Wrap up in clean white terrycloth and make tea. Enjoy the quiet of the morning by himself, as he has every morning for almost forever.

He'd like to do something terribly cutting. Leave money on the bed. Pretend to be asleep. Start the day without a word and let this be a lone incident. But the pressure of Angel's thigh against his, and the way the vampire's hand curves over his hip give him peace. This is good. This is nice.

This is not a ritual.



~end~