a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
T
Title: Fluffed and Folded
Author: Spirit
Pairing: A/Wesley
Rating: NC-17
Setting: Early Ats



I agreed to do this, no one made me.

At no point did anyone come up and pass this hot potato into my arms and demand I behave as a gentleman. I took the job voluntarily and I'm not blaming anyone else.

Not openly anyway.

I sometimes wonder what they must think of me, though not too often - that way nightmares come. Do they look at me and think, 'What a drip, a suck ass'? Do they laugh behind my hands when I try and act with a little more decorum? Is my face abhorrent in their eyes when they see me everyday, knowing that I am only here through failure. Do they tell each other that if I'd been able to do my job, they wouldn't smell the nervousness and fear that a father created before Cordelia was born?

Or don't they think about me at all?

Take this little job. This little excursion into Wesley's worth. Cordelia notes down the vision and goes shopping as compensation, blowing a week's wage on a pair of boots that make her look like a prostitute. Angel smiles, tends to her as the pain ebbs away, then floats out of the door, every inch the hero, every inch quivering with vampiric comeliness. But he stops before he leaves, hearing something on the periphery and turns to me.

'Can I help?'

And he smiles, half up, half down - the devil in an angel's face, and I know he doesn't need me. I know he doesn't need anyone, not anymore. But he humors us all, humors our frail human egos, making sure we're valued. And I know
when he does take me, more often than not it's due to his salvaging of my worth. But tonight there is no research he needs, nothing I can offer, and he's standing there with his mouth tilted, as the thoughts file in.

'Best if you stayed out of this, Wes.'

Better for whom? But I say nothing, I always say nothing, and when Cordelia shifts her laundry into my hands, I do nothing more than nod. Servile, pleasant - it's all she requires of me and I'm almost happy to oblige. Because if I protest, if I speak up again, I'll have her sympathy, (what little there is of it) and she'll know why I stay. And pity from one direction is hard enough to bear - I couldn't survive under a deluge.

But it is pleasant here in the half-light. And quiet - unusual itself in LA, but for this little Launderette, it's usual. Most of the switches are out, and there's the damp smell of wet clothes everywhere. Not the fresh aroma of my childhood - my mother, shadow-marked cheek, hanging out the clothes in the early days of Spring. Not smiling, (I can never remember her smiling) but
singing to me, choked voice managing the words.

'...the maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes, when...'

She turned to me, fingers fluttering to my face as my once chubby hands batted them away, giggling.

'...down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose.'

And I would laugh, waiting for her to show me her thumb - my nose, pecked off by a wicked bird and replaced by my loving Mother. Happiness, brief and child-like, but happiness all the same. That now I'm in an under heated launderette, my breath visible in the night air seems a world away. But it must be warmer than outside - as my only other companion is the tramp who
rests here every night. And whilst that's part of the smell, I can take it, because it keeps me sane.

I'm not a child, I'm not there anymore, but I still long for that warmth. I want to feel the softness of breasts under my face, resting in someone's arms, or on someone's lap. I want to feel the gentle push of a belly against my hip, knowing that whilst it's too squashy for fashion, it's warm and inviting. To close my eyes and hear 'he'll never hurt you, he didn't mean to', or, 'it won't happen again - I won't let him'. And whilst it's never going to be the truth, I want to feel wanted again.

And there is warmth in the lie.

But here in the half light is just enough of a chill to keep my hands in my pockets, and the steady thump thump of the great washing machines sound less mechanical than I'd like. I suppose it's a part of what I am now, that I see demons everywhere. Surely some insolent God believes in the demon of lost laundry - taking socks and underpants to feed some pan-like instinct. When I finally get out of here, will Cordelia berate me for the loss of a stocking...or Angel ask me where his boxers have gone to?

And though I'll probably nod or say something that makes me appear just a little more pompous than I feel, I'll know that last is a lie. And that feeling of warmth might come back.

The tramp rolls over, and though he's aware of my presence, we've never spoken. Him for reasons I cannot know, and fear to discover. Me, because I don't want to understand how he got there. I don't want to know how close I can be to total isolation.

An off key buzzer sounds, and I pour in the softener, watching as the machine kicks into action again. It swishes the silk and chiffon round, and before I wonder why I'm the only one who has anything more base in their laundry, something clicks and they whir off into action, a miniature ocean in my sight. It's tumult this, black and deep red sinking in the water, spun round
as the mechanics kick in. And it's all black or red, I finally see, all silks, satins - something more than my bachelor cotton.

And yet I've seen them wear it, seen them walking in crisp smelling simpleness, whilst I wonder if I'm wearing enough deodorant. So where does it go? Why am I not good enough to wash those things? Why is it always underwear and party clothes?

Why is it always what I can't have?

I hear the snore of the sound asleep and return to my plastic chair. I have a half a hour before I have to do anything else, and I'm alone, blissfully alone in the quiet. And I know I can't resist, so I pull the black silk from my pockets, fingers rubbing over its smoothness. I don't press it to my nose, because I know the smell like the back of my hand. And it isn't that just the height of irony, as it's the palm I'm interested in now, and in the quiet, in the shadows, I can be whoever I want.

I can do whoever I want.

It's always the same face in front of me, dark shadows and dark hair, wanting to do *my* will. And I don't want to demand, don't want to force anything, but as my hand starts to squeeze around the stiffening length inside my trousers, I want to hear the words.

'Let me touch you. Let me be with you and you'll never be cold again.'

If I accept, is it wrong? Is it wrong to say yes to this illusory face, when I know even here it's a lie? But my erection, finally free of its constraints cares for no-one but its own satisfaction. And feeling the heaviness of silk across it, I sigh, give in and close my eyes again. I feel the heat rise, sweat spilling from my brow and dripping down my face, and there's still a part of me which feels this is wrong, that Daddy would not approve. But it doesn't matter, nothing else comes close to the feeling of warmth and the
faint hiss of silk beneath my fingers.

And I all that would make this complete is to actually hear the words. To hear that illusion come flesh, and have something other than my own hand doing the work. Nothing more, but to keep my hands in my pockets and feel those long fingers touching my skin, in a way I can no longer bring myself to do. Because I need something to come between my hand and my own arousal, and if it happens to be a close companion, if it happens to be a scrap of their clothing, does it matter?

The suspicious yes lurks whilst I breathe harder, trying not to moan as the face hovers closer to the eyes in my mind. I can read the lips now, although I don't want to, can almost hear what's being said. And whilst I try to shut those inner thoughts, I can't and I as the end nears, melting slippery fluid onto the silk, I know what is being said.

'Let me be with you and you'll never be anything but cold.'

Because death comes with those thoughts, and the chilliness of an unmarked grave no longer appeals to me. So I gasp, lean back against the ever creaking chair and wonder why this is the only way I can get off.

'Wesley?'

I scramble backwards, losing my balance and temporarily waking the other inhabitant.

'Cordelia?'

She raises an elegant eyebrow at me, hooker boots strapped onto her feet, looking dismally out of place here. And it is that displacement which matters more than what she has seen or not seen, because she is intruding now, an this place is mine.

I should ignore her now, stare her out, not caring that she knows what I do when I wash her clothes. There is the belief that comes with it, that of warmth in an English kitchen, sweet smelling bakery filling the house, hiding the blood and dust that usually pervades. If I can do this, I can smell cinnamon in the mornings, vanilla in the evenings and Daddy's face never intervenes again in that house. If I can say nothing, if I defy her, I can remember it all, because I've beaten the fear.

But habit is too strong, and I stoop, trying to fasten my pants as she wonders which of my failures she should begin with. Because it is too hard sometimes, and I know a part of me should always hear the crashing of skin on skin in all the forms it takes. And some tastes are still bitter, even when you know they should be sweet.

In the end, she says nothing, and I push past her, red coloring my cheeks. She can say nothing, I guess, because she doesn't know enough about me to judge, and more than that, she cannot bring herself to care. And I can accept that, because sometimes being noticed hurts more. And when I find myself out in the street, cold tinting the air, I realize that I've left that scrap of silk behind, stained with my seed, still smelling of its owner.

So I turn, ready to go back and snatch it before she notices, when I see the dark figure lurking outside the laundromat. And without asking, I know how long he's been there, watching, waiting, looking at something he can't have either. Because like speaks to like, and loneliness is recognizable anywhere. My mouth opens to say something, anything to explain before it flies shut again.

Because he smiles at me, and I breathe slowly out, watching as puffs of air fail to go white.

I take my hands out of my pockets, and wonder where the frost went. And then I smile too, because the weather in LA is suddenly much more clement.

~ finis


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