a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Between times
Author: Criss Moody
Pairing: Angel/Wes/Spike
Rating: NC-17.
A/N:  Sequel to 'What Remains'

 

The humidity in the Los Angeles air serves only to add more
moisture to Wesley's already sex slick skin. The cool body
beneath him is just as wet, and the two of them glide
against each other frantically in a vain attempt to create
friction.

It's almost too hot to bother with sex, but he can't not do
this.  None of them have been able to concentrate on
anything for hours.  The air feels electric, charged with
expectation.  Better to be doing, to seek the distraction,
than to walk around and wonder why Wes feels a desperate
need to call Sunnydale.  Besides, to deny Spike is to deny
Angel is to deny himself.  And for months, Wesley hasn't
bothered to deny himself anything.  Things have happened,
and statuses have changed, Wesley is still the translator
and the occasional voice of reason, but Cordelia and Gunn
really do look to him for answers.  They ask him for
advice.

((Blue or green, Wes?  I can't decide.)) ((Yo, Wesley, ax
or adze?  Just can't make up my mind.))

They go over Angel and expect Wes to direct their
increasingly motley band.  Even Spike chooses to ignore his
Sire and take Wesley's advice, though Wes must admit that
it is solely to annoy Angel.

(("Okay, Watcher, let's fork left and hit the bugger from
behind."  "Terrible idea, the demon will *smell* you long
before you get behind him and·"  "Shut up, ya wanker, I
didn't ask you, did I?  I asked the Watcher."))

Closes his eyes against the flutter soft skin under Spike's
arm, smells the almost entire lack of personal smell.  Wes
can pick out his own scent, sweat and peppermint, and then
traces of metal.  Blood that runs through this lean body
next to his, opens those beautiful blue eyes, and makes
that sarcastic mouth flap open and tell you exactly what
Spike thinks of you.  Utter magic.  Wes has had a lot of
time to think about what he thinks of Spike.  Outside of
their shared bedroom.  Aside from the fact that no matter
how they color the situation, Spike is a soulless demon.

((Expression of vague guilt crossed the wrinkled features.
"Spike, what in the hell are you doing???"  "Uh, having a
late lunch?"  Angel surveyed the cooling body, guts erupted
out into a brilliant display of crimson stained muscles and
maroon internal organs.))

Difficult, aggravating, sentimental, loving, murderous,
violent, cocky, arrogant, sweet, handsome, faithful,
stubborn.  And a few hundred other adjectives that have
crossed Wesley's mind in the last year.  The first time
Spike chose not to restrain his demon, to lash out and kill
because that is what he was meant to do, Wesley didn't
speak to him for a week.  Spike came home with blood washed
down his chest, clots of what could have been blood or
could have been part of a liver or kidney sticking in
patches to what was left of his shirt.  Walked right past
Wes and into the kitchen.  Gulped down a pint of cold pig's
blood, tossed the container into the trash, and plopped
himself down next to Wes on the couch.

(("You bastard."  "Eh, what?"  "Don't give me that, don't·"
"Oh, lay off it.  What'd you expect?  I'm a fucking demon,
mate, not a precious little pussy cat."))

Spike made up to him by buying/stealing him a cat that Wes
named Buffy to annoy his lovers.  And surprising the
'Watcher' with a candlelight bubble bath, a nice manly
sandalwood scent to make up for the 'poufy quality of
bubble baths'.

Accepting Spike came to a head when the vampire came home
bloody, again, covered in bits, again, but this time, Wes
recognized a smell beneath the sharp scent of blood.
Cinnamon sweet, cloying, rare and tender.  Ex-lover, unable
to accept the more dangerous, non-supernaturally related,
parts of his job.  The brief foray into normal life allowed
him by Angel, but not by Spike.

(("You're gonna fucking let him date a human?  Don't I get
a bloody say in this?"  "No, you don't.  He needs·room to
move.  We can't deny him a normal life."  "Yes, we bloody
well can.  He's fucking ours, and Iâm not fucking accepting
this."))

Saw everything, silent raw scream ripped from Virginia's
throat as it dripped to the floor from the force of Spike's
slashing cut.  Tasted the tastes that Spike tasted, felt
the glee in the dead heart from erasing from existence a
puny mortal who thought she had possession of someone that
irrevocably belonged to the dead.  Stupid girl, didn't you
know?  How could you not see that the man you woke up to in
the morning had some*thing* else etched all over his skin?
Didn't she feel the hesitant way he touched her, as if
unsure how to treat something so infinitely breakable?

Wesley stopped, and fell down into a crumple of bones,
skin, clothes.  Crux of the problem had come and it reared
up, ugly and too present.  The thing you can't ignore and
you can't walk around and you just have to deal with,
'cause it's not going away.  Wesley loved, fucked, slept
with demons.  One of whom had warned that he would not
tolerate sharing someone that belonged to him.  And reacted
accordingly when ignored.  Wesley blindly chose to love,
fuck, keep company with a mortal.  And for that, the mortal
paid.  All very simple, all very neat and logical.

((Muffled, tear wet words into Angel's neck.  "She's dead.
And I saw it.  I tasted.  God help me, I think I enjoyed
it."  Hands rubbing down Wes' back, massaging the tense
lower back.  "I know.   It's what we are.  Not very pretty,
but·" hesitation, "it's what we are.  Do you, uh, do you
regret this?"))

And that had been the end of trying to make a nest for
himself in the 'real' world.  He didn't regret this.  None
of this.  Not Spike murdering Virginia, or Angel fucking
him 'till he bled out onto their white sheets, and
definitely not waking up in the middle of the night and
figuring out how best to get out from under nearly four
hundred pounds of undead male flesh.  Bottom lines really
aren't comfortable or pretty.  But they must be
acknowledged and worked with.

(( "She believed in us, you know."  Spike spoke so quietly
that Wesley almost missed it.  "Yes, yes she did."  "Maybe
she didn't love me, not the way she loved the grand
Poufter, but she believed in me.  You know, as someone who
counted for more than dust."  "I know, love, I know."  A
silent pause.  "I'd give anything if she could come back,
anything." ))

Ghosts his lips down Spike's side, smirks at the shiver
wracking the slim form.  Feels the now familiar frisson of
smug pleasure at making this creature want him.  He knows
now at least twenty ways to get whatever he wants out of
Spike without saying a word.  Just a glide of his tongue
over his teeth, rubbing his thumb over his jaw, or bending
over when kneeling down makes the most sense.

((Wes hears the growl bubble up in the blonde vampire's
chest.  Senses that Spike's rising up behind him, sighting
the back of his neck like a leopard sights it's prey.  "Do
you want something?"  "Yeah."  Rough grind of cock against
thigh.  "Well, this really isn't the time, Spike.  I've got
loads of things to translate.  Toddle off and bother Angel,
all right?"  Doesn't bother to turn around at his lover's
shocked stillness.))

Open-mouthed kiss, wet, slow, and sloppy.  Gentle pressure
of a cool tongue on his warmer one, playfully dueling with
the tensile strength.  Sharp, sudden pain of fangs, and
just as suddenly gone.  Slight tang of blood mixed up in
the tasteless saliva.   Wes tastes himself, Angel, in Spike
and shudders, arching high into the body half over his.
Tries to speak through the consuming press of lips and
tongue, gives the effort up.  He can't keep a solid thought
long enough to make his voice work.  To say anything beyond
unintelligible grunts and moans that Spike seems to accept
as words.  Rubs his thigh between the pale, strong legs
dangling against his hips.  Easing off to the side, they
settle into a rhythm of exchanging wide-open kisses.
Fingers, hands, and feet playing the game too, brushing,
pushing, and pulling at the flesh available.

More of a Spike kiss than an Angel kiss.  Wes loves the
idiosyncrasies, the habits that he recognizes now.  Things
that made him startle and freak a year ago.

Differences strengthen.  The trick is to learn how to bend
and when to break.

Casual touches from Angel in the morning as two men bump
around the bathroom and kitchen.  Try not to wake up their
third because Spike's good for a fuck in the morning, but
wake him up fully and someone's sure to be bloody and
bruised.

Wes has learned to accept that Angel needs touch in the
morning.  Cold lips nuzzling his back wake him up, Angel's
toes lazily scraping up his calves.  From there to the
bathroom, face up to the twin in the mirror, for once
looking exactly as he expects himself to look.  Ghost lips
on his neck as he shaves, heavy body pressing him into the
porcelain sink.  Nothing to see in the mirror but himself.

Leans back against Angel as the big vampire lays
protective hands on his sides.  Smooth, eternally
uncallused fingertips tracing the scars and ribs, leftovers
from battles and not remembering to eat.

(("Goddammit, Wes, eat the fucking sandwich."  "Thank you,
*Spike*, for the concern, but I haven't time."  The blonde
vampire bodily lifted the Watcher out of his chair and
plopped him down at the kitchen table.  Waited until Wes
stopped glaring and watched as the too thin human munched
on the tuna sandwich.  "There, now go and figure out who we
save next."))

Angel relishes the tiny parts of normal, everyday life.
Likes to watch Wes eat, sleep, and shower because they are
things that mortals do, things that we all do.  Except for
immortal vampires.  Except for the undead.

((He pondered the relative qualities of the two brands of
cereal he held in  his hands.  One was by far Wes'
favorite, but the other seemed a lot healthier.  A pale,
purple-tipped hand plucked the favorite out of his hand,
ending the decision making process.  "Wes ain't gonna eat
that straw crap you think's so great for him, why bother?"
Angel glared at his Childe and pushed the cart down the
aisle.))

This didn't always seem like a good idea to Angel.  Or a
sane idea.  But in the mid-morning, puttering around in the
kitchen and listening to grunts, whines, and moans from
their bedroom, he feels dangerously content.  No particular
reason to feel worried, but impressed habits are hard to
break off.  By all laws of man and vampire, they shouldn't
be happy.

Too simple.  Happiness exists because mortals can't bear to
believe that life is pain.  In pain exists a joy of such
clarity, it cannot be borne.

Angel observes his lovers together.  This is not the first
time Spike has cared deeply for a human.  Or the first
time, as a vampire, he's loved.  But this is the first time
the emotion has been totally and unreservedly returned.
The elder vampire has watched his lovers mature and grow
together under the mutual affection, shared-blood, and
confidence.

He's jealous of that, every so often.  When Wesley curls
into Spike in the night.  Times that Wes has muttered
'pouf' under his breath when irritated with Angel.  A
symbiotic sharing of traits has taken place, leaving their
lover curiously removed.

Yes, he's the reason they're together at all.  If not for
Wes' need for him and Spike's wanting to give his Sire what
he needed, they would not all be here at 8 am on this
Saturday morning.  Arrogance, but he credits himself for
making them who they are, and in turn making them want each
other.  And him.

Grasps the silver handle of his favorite frying pan.
Plunks it onto the stove and grabs for the eggs he put out
on the counter.  Raises one to crack it just as he hears a
gasp, and a half-formed cry.

"An·Angel·."  Dry and stripped of control.  The elder
vampire wasn't supposed to be gone from bed so long.  His
Childe's plea shakes his bones.  Angel closes his eyes into
the pressure rising in his groin.  This reminds him of why
he's happy.  He loves two creatures who love him.  They let
him coddle and nag them, be the parent neither of them ever
had.

As quickly as fatherly thoughts leap into his brain,  he
wants to leap in and rail Spike into the mattress, unless
of course Wes already is, but he's cooking, and he always
likes to start what he's finished.  Decides to finish,
pauses.  Different kitchen, different kitchen table, and
pretty blonde girls rot deep in the ground.  Sharing space
with maggots.  She was mortal; Wes is mortal.  She was
loved by vampires; Wes is loved by vampires.  She is dead;
Wes can die.

No.  No.  No.  No.  Nooooooooo··.

Sends him to his knees, crashing into the cabinet.  It's
harder and harder to control this, this grief of his, not
easier.  Flash attacks of crippling grief.

((Angel's pale face rose off the couch, cheeks painted in
hours of tears.  He felt it all come into him like a punch
to the gut and he could only think 'this hurts' before he's
on the floor and he knew this would happen forever.  He
would live forever.  When humans die, they stay dead.))

Someone's lying, and that someone who invented the cliché
that time heals all wounds needs his/her guts shredded.
Angel opens his mouth, false breath that helps him get
himself under control.  Tastes the wood and the paint, a
creamy white.  Sudden moments of panic like this are what
make Spike roll his eyes and insult him.  But Angel has
rolled in fear for so long it's second nature.  He always
knew Wes would change.

He just manages to forget that Wes will die.

Fact.  Unless he or Spike or some other creature of the
night turns him.  And Angel would rather see Wes dead.
Wesley would be a splendidly cruel vampire, delighting in
all the ways of the undead.  It isn't for the searing heat
of that mortal body that Angel wants him to be human.  It's
for all the very human traits that make Wesley, Wesley.

(("What in the bleeding *hell* are you doing?"  The angry
tones reached Angel as he lay in bed, the newest GQ open to
the article on mousse vs. hair gel.  He lowered the
magazine and saw Spike, hands on nude hips, banging on the
bathroom door.  Just as Angel prepares to yell at Spike for
yelling at Wes, his other naked lover lets the bathroom
door swing open.  "I'th flothing.  'kay?"  With a snarky
glare, Wes slammed the door shut on Spike's nose.))

It was the same with her.  Buffy.  He could never wish her
alive at the cost of her soul.  She's better off where she
is even as Angel can taste her life on his tongue, her
flesh hardening into immortality.  The image melts into a
horrific flash of tiny hands digging out of a settled
grave, a chest fighting for breath, flesh reforming.  Now
he knows he's lost it.  This is Angel being a hysterical
git.   Come one, come all, see the happiest dead man on
earth making problems out of thin air.

Angel really is happy just as he is, because he has
everything he needs.  Or wants.  His wild, arrogant Childe,
loving him.  A strong, brave human who knows his every in
and out and quirk, loving him.  There are no secrets
between them, here in this between time, the space apart
from life.  They all feel the terrible expectancy in the
air as the world readies for whatever *thing* is about to
happen.

Could be prophecy, death, or rebirth.  Or an amalgamation
of two or three.

The vision haunts him.  His sweet, innocent love fighting
her way back to flesh, back to humanity.  How terrible that
would be.

Better to just die and have done with it.

((Spike paced at the base of the hospital bed.  Soft clicks
and whirrs were the only sounds at 3am.  Somewhere in that
hospital, humans were born, humans were dying, and humans
lived.  The blonde vampire ceased his pacing and settled at
his lover's side.  Studied the pained creases in Wes'
cheek.  Two centimeters to the right and Wes would have
taken the demon's claw in his heart.  A soft animal whine
left his chest.  Took the warm hand in his and laid it to
his cheek.  Watched as Angel came in, shrugged off his
jacket without a word, and sat on the other side of the
bed.  Several hours later, just before dawn, Wes' eyes
opened, gray clouded with medication glazed pain.  "A..are
you 'kay?"  "Yeah, ya daft prick."  "Not·daft."  "Wes."
Eyes slid from blonde to brunette vampire slowly.  "I·I
can't lose you.  Not you too."))

This triad has driven Spike back to his worrying ways.  He
used to worry that Dru would walk out into the sun, that
Angelus would lose his temper and stake the raven beauty,
that Darla would take Angelus and just leave, or that
Angelus would cast Spike aside.  So many petty mortal
things to worry about.  'Cause they're fucking vampires,
man.  They are immortal.  So to speak.

He curses his insane talent for fretting about the things
that he cannot change.

Wes is gonna die.  Whoo and fucking goddamn.

But not right then.  Right this very precious second Wes'
neck arches up as his head falls back and Spike snarls.
Grazes the blue-veined pale cream flesh with his fangs,
relishes the undeniable shudder that echoes through Wes'
slim frame.  What a luscious thing.  This beautiful man
spreading himself open and apart for his demon lovers.
Corruption of this human purity.  How divine.

This is a moment to bring William out.  Watching the
surface bloom with blood, flushing and pumping.  Spike
smells the cells pump faster and if he closes his eyes, he
can trace their direction and their exact location.
Coursing faster through the heart, picking up oxygen and
racing into Wesley's pretty slim prick.  Make poetry out of
viscera.

Spike snuffles against Wes' neck.  Wants to get down deep
into this man's guts, pick them out and see what they tell
him about the future.  If there even is one.

Now Spike has become his Sire and he hates it.  He spends
five minutes, five too many, nearly every bleeding day
worrying about Wes.  About Angelus.  About this crap ass
excuse for immortality that they have.

Demons die too.

Decapitation, sunlight, wood through the heart, some holy
water, it's the easiest trick in the world.  Angelus is no
more immortal than Wes is.

Spike doesn't do alone very well.

He's not one for introspection, but the last year has
driven him inside more than once.  Spike craves affection.
The pounding of fists, the caress of fingertips on
dolphin-firm flesh.  These are how he knows Angelus loves
him.  To bind Wes tighter to him than even the blood and
bonds have tightened, Spike delved back into the words and
the musty scented pages of his poet's heart.  Scraped out
the knowledge of cross-referencing and a long-forgotten
love of reading.

It made Wes grin.

And Spike found himself grinning back because when the
truth is told, he's just a stupid fucking sod who wants to
make the people he loves happy.  Whatever it takes.

A pretty girl in a pretty dress, a bleeding heart, or a
book on the obscure connection between medieval Latin and
the demon language Cunarrik.

(("My God, where *did* you find this?"  Wes' fingers
reverently traced the gold lettering on the ancient book's
leather-like covering.  "Some little place down in
Chinatown.  Down, uh, as in under Chinatown."  Gray eyes
glittered with what could have been tears.  "Thank you,
Spike.  Very much."  Simple press of closed lips against
closed lips and Spike loved his reward nearly as much as he
loved the glow in his lover's eyes.))

He'll always be a demon, he'll always kill, but Wes does
understand now that above all, Spike loves.

It's his fucking trademark.

This fucking maudlin shit isnât him.  Let Angel grieve and
beat his stupid breast bloody.  Spike wonât.  Spike will
never do that.  He is not crying.

She's dead.  Ain't comin' back.  Can't change that.

((  "I'm fine.  Can't be moaning about her forever."
ãLiar.  Sheâs been dead for over six months.  And you canât
even say her name, can you?ä  No answer.   Spike quietly
closed the door behind himself, walked downstairs, ignoring
that once again, Angel had a far clearer picture of what
the Slayer had been to him than Spike did.  Lover and
beloved.  Owner and owned.))

Wesley belongs to him with the give of his flesh, the scars
and marks that Spike has laid down on places only he and
Angel will ever see.  A thick mat  of white scar tissue
above Wes' groin.  Gifts from Spike, from Angel, in their
need to taste their human.

Spike feels the warm pant of Wes' breath on his ears, Wes'
arms circling the vampire's back.  Quixotic mixture of
affection and terror.  He clings to Spike because he's seen
how the vampire protects those he loves.  Teeth and bone,
blood and death.  A fight Spike will always win when as
consequence he saves a lover.  A loved one.

Wes closes his eyes and laves the ear with quick little
licks, bites gently into the earlobe.  His hand snakes
between their bodies to grasp Spike's hard cock, milking
upward in a fast hard pull.  His lover responds with a
growling purr, one hand gripping what he can of Wes' hair,
the other hand joining Wes' between their bodies.

Whispering kisses dry away the tears on Spike's face.
Large hands drift over their bodies as they rock together.
Angel places kisses on each of their shoulders before
reclining at the bottom of the bed.  Glow of golden irises
flash at the dark vampire as Spike raises his head to
acknowledge Angel.  Human and vampire struggle against each
other, each trying harder than the other to say 'I love
you', 'I need you', 'you belong to me'.  Angel strokes
Wesley's calf, playing with the flexing muscles as his
lover's pump against each other.  A sharp keening cry hits
the air when Wesley comes and Spike vamps out completely,
glancing at Angel before latching onto the human's neck.  A
small jerk of the relatively frail human body and Spike's
cock spurts out semen between their bodies.  Spots of blood
mark the pillow, Spike comes away licking Wesley's neck
hard enough to raise more blood to the surface.

Wesley rolls on to his back.  Angel crawls up the bed,
exchanges a bloody kiss with his childe, lowers his body
onto Wes'.  Watches the languid blankness on the
ex-Watcher's face, like there's something he almost can't
quite remember but doesn't care too much anyway.  Pleasant
lassitude well-deserved by the man who lives with not one
but two alpha-vampires.

(("I got five more than you did, you annoying little ass."
Wesley winced as he watched Angel throw Spike into the wall
of the abandoned building.  Spike's body didn't stop at the
wall but went straight through into the other room.  With a
growl, Angel launched himself after his childe, presumably
to continue their argument over who'd killed more
Quaha'raac demons.  The Englishman didn't even bother to
say goodbye.  They'd be home in a few hours after they
fought, fucked, and made up.))

In a time-honed move, Wes lets his legs slide up to rest on
Angel's hips as the vampire settles between his legs.
Gooey fingers rub into his body and the slow, tight burn of
Angel's cock fills him until Wes fights to breathe.
Spike's hands, beautiful and cold, curl around his face.
These hands give an expert death to most they meet.   But
they will always give love first.  The first instinct
remains the truest.

Angel glides in and out of his body as Spike nuzzles Wes'
face and neck.  This is the split-second of joy that lasts
forever.  The demarcation between now and then.  The past
no longer means anything and the future has yet to come.
All that Angel can see, taste, and hear surrounds him.
Wesley giving up his life and soul to his lovers as he
comes.  Spike's fingers, bloody and come-stained, gliding
around Angel's lips.  The near silence as Angel spends
himself in Wesley.

This moment is life.

The lovers collapse into a loosely familiar pattern after
Angel releases Wesley's legs and lets his human companion
relax between the two vampires.   Spike stirs to draw clean
white sheets over their bodies, notes and snorts at the
hospital corners by Angel because the precision satisfies
the git. Spike curls onto Wes like a growth, clutching and
growling at Wes as he falls asleep.

Angel's awake on the other side, trying to fight sleep
because he has this terrible feeling.  The rest of his body
tells him everything is fine. He's just being paranoid,
like always.  Eventually, as his body relaxes, Angel lets
himself slide down to fit his body to Wesley's, rub his
hand against Spike's on Wes' chest, and sleep.

Between the vampires, Wesley drowses.  The door creaks open
and admits a slim white cat to the room.  Buffycat leaps to
the bed and curls up against Wesley's legs.  That's where
she belongs, as if the soul of the human continued in part
within this tiny bundle of fur.  Her memory would always
hold sway over his lovers. Only fools would deny the dead
girl's place in their lives.  Wesley tries not to be a
fool.  Besides that, he genuinely likes the cat, as he
liked the girl.  Stubborn and sure of their places to a
fault, he could never help but admire them.

Just as Wesley lets his eyelids drag down one last time, he
feels tiny paws knead the bed next to his leg.  Agitated,
the cat meows plaintively.    Curious, he raises his head
to look at her.  She yowls loudly enough to make the hair
on the back of Wesley's neck bristle and Spike stirs,
mumbling in his sleep.  Wes watches her advance up the bed,
rub up against Angel's fingers and sniff at Spike's hand
before settling into the warmth of Wesley's chest.
Wonders what could possibly be upsetting his kitten at this
hour of the night.   No matter, all is well.

He wiggles his hand free from between he and Angel to pet
the kitten.  Caresses the soft fur, rubs against the
delicate skull and flexible ears.

"Yes, little kitten, we do have a hard life, don't we?
It's a terrible, terrible thing to be loved."

The kitten mews her agreement. Wesley closes his eyes and
lets the absences of worries soothe him.  And soon all the
denizens of the Hotel are asleep.  Satisfied with this in
between time.  And waiting for what comes next.
 

~the end~
 

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