a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Instant hibernation
Author: Spirit
Pairing: A/Wes
Rating: NC-17
Setting: 'First Impressions'


He's not haunting my dreams.

I mean, he's there every night, but he's not haunting them - this isn't some frail intangible thing. This isn't a wisp of a creature who calls my name out of the black. It would be easier if he did, cause at least then I'd be able to put it all down to wasted day-time thoughts, instead of these realistic tapestries that grab me by the balls and shake me till I wake.

Not a good feeling.

But when I'm sleeping, I swear, I can taste him; I can feel the puffs of air across my skin. I know where his hands fall, and the aftershave he splashes on haphazardly sears my nose when he's near me. I can feel his mouth land on mine - and when he kisses me, I swear, I can hear his heartbeat pick up as blood flows down south.

And this is all when I'm fucking sleeping!

I didn't ask for it. I don't harbor fantasies about this employee. Hell, I barely notice he's there half the time - we're not exactly talking personality of the year here. And when he speaks, I cringe, waiting for him to say something even duller than the last sentence. It's the accent I guess - I know the intricacies of English tones, and yet Wes manages to knock all the sensual nuances flat. I find myself listening out for a curve in the dialect, hints of Drusilla or even, God forgive me, even of Spike.

But it's dull, dull, dull and I turn off, waiting for the information to sink in, waiting for him to go away, so I can get on with whoever it is I'm saving this week. And I'm so fucking tired I barely notice. Between Wesley's curt judgments, Cordy's endless prattle, I'm surprised I can get anything done. Thank God for Gunn - remorseless, action prone Gunn. We move in the
same circles, even if he won't acknowledge it, and when he calls me names, makes fun of the vampire he thinks I am, it just washes over me like a morning spring.

And when he smiles, I feel like maybe I am having an effect, and all Spike's probing melts away. Because I am the good guy now - I wear the white hat, even if it feels a little tight. And no matter how tempting the aroma, I don't bite. Thou shalt not suck them dry is stamped on my still heart, but I don't expect anyone else to see it.

And I'm not that hurt when I see them look at me.

I don't wait and whine when I see them suspect me of being a monster - I understand, because I know how easy it is to give in. They say every dog is two meals away from a wolf. Knock that down by two, divide it, and you've got how close I am. The beast roars, and all I give it is a placebo. And the blood isn't important in itself - but to watch it spill beneath your fingers, knowing your hands, your fangs have rent everything asunder...now that hits a part of me that they'll never know.

And one wolf to another - I see the likeness in Gunn. He's a predator of a sort, and when we walk the night side by side, I'm in familiar company. And if it was his face I saw whilst I sleep, I'd welcome it. I can race the darkness with a wolf - I've done it before - whilst he's not all that fond of Daddy now, Spike's a survivor. And his grudging respect for me is the only reason he hasn't just turned up with a warped sliver of wood. He has to plan, has to outsmart me, or for Spike it just doesn't count. And
there's solace in that thought.

So I don't know why it's Wesley who comes comforting me in my sleep.

I could almost understand it if he was offering me tea or sympathy - if he was just sitting on that table, reading through endless notes about demons we may or may not have to destroy. If he was just looking at me - reminding me how close I am to the darkness, how near I'd be if I didn't have to answer to them. If I closed my eyes and saw him coming near, half accusing,
half admiring, I'd understand, and when I wake I wouldn't be so damn caught up with him.

But it's not his insecurities that I see when I sleep, and not his inadequacies that I'm beginning to crave.

In this seemingly endless dreamscape, it's flesh that calls to me - my bed, my home, occupied by the one person I never expected. Broad shoulders, straightened for once, leaning easily on my pillow, a body of surprising firmness under my gaze. And there's no self-consciousness here, because this is a Wesley I've never thought about - this is the man I haven't looked
for.

The smile here is welcoming - nothing sarcastic or teasing in his face. I don't see Will's promise, or Gunn's curiosity, just the honesty of a man who wants me. And it would be unnatural not to reach for him, so when I lean forward night after night, feeling his arms wrap round me, warmth against my coolness, I finally feel the tension slip away. His hands move over my
back, endless circles as he massages the fears back down and I want so much to hold this feeling tight.

I'm holding him tight.

And before my dream self thinks, before I can do anything other than react, I'm pulling him as close as I can, kissing him, being kissed - feeling cared for. And I could take the lead here - but I'm matched caress for caress. It's not a fight, or a struggle; no one surrenders their will in my bed, and whilst the desire pounds away, it's the comfort I need more.

I'm beginning to wonder if there's strength in his weakness.

Because before this can turn into anything more than the hottest groping session I've had in what seems like forever, he pulls away again, smiles, and tells me I'm not ready.

And I'm so fucking ready.

But I can't open my mouth and beg him for more, I can't do anything but watch him dress and leave me, laying a single kiss of my forehead. And he promises to come back, to give me what I need. The whimper I hear in my throat dies away as he promises that he belongs with me. If it's possible for a dead heart to ache, mine throbs as the door closes and I wake.

In the half-light, there's this deep longing for him to return. But I'm awake, and I know that if there's a body I don't lust over, it's his. My brain knows I'm wrong, but my soul has started this annoying yearning. I talk Wesley, I think Wesley and if I could breathe, I know I'd smell him each time I inhaled. And it's driving me mad - I can't sleep without his visits and the escape I had when I woke is slipping from me.

It must be madness, or a curse, or something.

I don't love Wesley, I don't *want* Wesley.

And if I don't feel him close soon, I think I may just melt in my own witch's puddle.

Do vampires qualify for therapy?

*

I wonder if Angel is on some kind of health kick.

Yes I do understand how ridiculous that sounds - the dead don't really have to do anything as a rule. Just lately, he's been sleeping almost all the time, yet he doesn't actually seem rested. Far be it from me for suggesting anything might be wrong, but every time I've tried to make an inquiry, it's been met by hostility and suspiciousness.

As if I could actually threaten him.

We both know I don't entirely trust him - it's hard to lay all your faith in a man who could snap your neck on a whim. But the moment when I slay him for being such a creature has been indefinitely postponed. It's still there - I could see myself bringing him to ashes, but I can't feel it, and working in his employ at least renders me the belief that I make a difference.

But this lethargy of his does worry me. I asked Cordelia whether we ought to look into his condition and she just looked at me blankly. Either she doesn't think he has anything to worry about, or I'm growing paranoid.

Make that my paranoia is growing.

Or maybe she has noticed and doesn't think it's anything to do with me. She's probably right - it's not as if we're the tight knit group they were before I came. I don't wear Doyle's clothes comfortably - they're too tight, and I don't even bother trying any more. I have a role here, and if it's not that of confidant, I'll live. Purpose matters more than companionship and at
least I have that.

I define things by nature - at least I ought to look it up, but I'm sure I've never heard of vampiric insomnia, and succubae are most unlikely here. Besides, the bugger does sleep - I've seen him do it. I've watched him from the door; waiting for him to wake and notice me there, but all I can see is a man in REM, dreaming about something that obviously takes his pleasure. I
can only hope it's Buffy gracing his dreams and not some remembrance of deeds past.

I'd hate to think I was watching Angelus reliving his glory days.

But there is peace here, something I rarely see for myself. The green sheets are almost glued to his body as the vampire sweats and I try to bite down on the curiosity that keeps asserting himself. He's so deeply unconscious that I could perform a quick rendition of 'Living on a Prayer' and he wouldn't stir. But since I have no wish to inflict my voice on the others, I will
have to settle for that unsettling urge to know what lies beneath the green.

And I'm beginning to think he knows.

I think he's always known.

He can smell if I've bled, and sure he can smell the remnants of protein I've missed when I wash my hands. And if the myths about vampiric telepathy are untrue, it doesn't matter, because I've seen him read me, and we both know my lust isn't getting us anywhere. I've been relieved that he's ignored it - this is one rejection I don't actually have to hear. We've both grown
used to its presence, and I thought I'd get through the rest of our alignment without it raising its head.

So am I imagining his attention now?

I can't seem to get out of the door without a subtle inquiry after my health - can he smell something wrong with me? Is there a cancer lurking within my system, does it plague his sensitive nose? Is there something that requires me to fasten my coat every time I venture out into the Autumn heat? Am I dying, or has the sudden appearance of my favorite food in his fridge a more innocent reason?

I think I almost preferred it when he ignored me. At least then every movement wasn't accompanied by a visual. At least then I didn't feel my skin start to burn up when he comes close - I didn't feel like you could fry a whole breakfast on my body. Although those images take me down the 'Hot Shots' route, and I find myself grinning at the idea of Angel trying to fire
anything from *my* navel.

It would probably hit me in the eye anyway.

It's almost enough to make me walk away for a while - take a deserved vacation and actually find the time for myself. But the dreariness of that prospect is instant, and I'd rather stay here where this confusion lies. At least now I have something for my mind to work over. Even if it does render my body a sizzling impression of one half of a couple.

I have the feeling one half is all I'll ever be.

And I really don't trust myself to see him now. But Cordelia insists that she doesn't put up with those crippling headaches in order for me to chicken out of seeing Angel. And she's certain that Gunn is in trouble - although I scarcely see how he might be out of it. Angel's description didn't add up to someone who goes out of his way to take care of himself. And from the little
I've seen - it doesn't take a vision to tell you he's in danger.

But she was insistent and someone has to go in there. So I'm going to put all below green thoughts out of my head and just go inside. And when he wakes up we'll be back to business, and I can get on with things. We can both pretend that there's nothing going on for at least that long.

Now if I can only work out how to wake him up.

*

Dreams again.

Angel screams and reaches out, demanding not to be left alone. His head hurts and his body aches, but he's damn well not going to spend another minute being left. Vampires are not prey, they do not beg for things and they don't get disturbed in the middle of something important.

'You made him go away!'

He grasps at the man in front of him and pushes him to the floor.

'You don't leave me, you don't...'

'Angel,' chokes Wesley, 'it's me.'

The vampire's grip doesn't loosen, despite the redness round Wesley's neck. He was going to leave him again and that just isn't acceptable. Not when he is so close. Not when desire is etched across every particle of his being.

'Why are you leaving?'

Wesley coughs again and tries to pull Angel's fingers away from his throat. He's learning, too late again, that a vampire's strength isn't part of some mythos.

'...Not. Gunn's in trouble. Can't breathe.'

Angel shakes his head and pressed harder. What the Hell does this have to do with anything?

'Gunn can't breathe?'

And Wesley's eyes open wider as the pressure increases.

'I can't breathe.'

Still no relaxing in pressure, just an intense gaze at Wesley as the vampire tries to remember where he is, more importantly when he is, and whether he's awake or not. Wesley coughs harder and Angel finally gets it. There is no dreamscape here, and he is definitely not getting any if Wesley dies.

He pulls his hands away from Wesley's throat and sits up, still straddling his employee.

'Breathe now?'

And it's almost a statement, because the color is flushing back trough Wesley's face, his cheeks pinking out and his lips reddening. And Angel is still trying to work out if he's asleep, because Wesley looks good, and this isn't the man he thinks about in the office. He leans in closer, sniffing at the shirt his employee's wearing. He hears Wesley inhale too, but he
isn't scenting him - there's fear here. It's permeating everything the man wears, but it isn't the strongest scent.

It never is.

He bends lower; pressing his face against Wes's collar, tongue flicking out, as he tastes the sweat on Wesley's neck. It's sweat he's caused, he's sure of it, and the tremble which follows through just reassures him that Wes isn't going anywhere. So he presses his tongue flat, his hands now braced above Wesley's head, and he licks the hollow at the base of the long neck.
Wesley isn't even stirring beneath him - no move here to push him off, and he realizes that this is more than just what he wants, it's what he needs right now and he's damned if he isn't going to fuck this man blind right where he is now.

So the voice kind of surprises him.

'Angel?'

He doesn't pull back; he doesn't want his quarry to have a chance to run, but Angel slides his mouth to Wesley's ear, lips still chill against his skin. And he can hear the faintest moan escape from Wesley's throat, gurgling under his face. It pleases him, and when he whispers, he remembers to keep the caress in his voice.

'Tell me what you want, Wesley.'

It's still a statement; there's no question of an answer that begins with 'but' or, 'I don't think'. Angel can feel both trying to escape Wesley's lips - but here and now, he knows as well as the Englishman that desire is stronger than either of them, and it will all come to flesh anyway. So Wesley's mouth closes and his hands come up to touch the vampire, tentatively reaching across the broad shoulders to the curve of his neck. And his fingers creep into the bristly patch at the nape, seeking to
pull Angel closer.

The vampire wonders if this is what surrender feels like - it has been so long, and he has only taken by force in such an age. Buffy did not surrender to him; her blood wasn't given as much as forced down his throat. If there was control in that act, it didn't lie with him and as his mouth crawls round to meet Wesley's, he wonders again if surrender ever felt as satisfying.

He can feel Wesley's mouth opening, lips moistened as his tongue moves quickly over them and as his tongue descends, Angel tries to recall whether his dream was accurate. He dips inside again and again, tasting the low hum as his watcher moans. He tastes him, feeling the hints of toothpaste; the rumble in Wesley's belly pressing against him and Angel knows that he's
not the only one who's hungry.

We're always hungry.

The fingers at his neck curl again, pressing his mouth deeper, and he can feel the grate of whiskers on his cheek, scratching in a way he has not felt in a century. And that wolf has no place here now - this is not the time for any other face than the one he's caressing. He's aware he's exhibiting supernatural care, since Wesley remains intact, his clothes sticking to his body as the sweat increases. Hips push up against him, and Angel suppresses a chuckle - he's never had this - never had a body longer than his own, straining to get inside.

He pushes back, the groaning increasing in pitch and those clothes really do have to make an exit now. But he's uncommonly needy; he doesn't want to let go, because then he might wake up. Then Wesley might get up again and walk out, promising to come back, promising that one day, one day he'll give him what he needs. But this is one day, and Angel compromises by sliding down a little, pressing his legs against Wesley's and pulling at the shirt. Wesley's fingers are still knotted at his neck, which makes it difficult, but reassuring. And as he tears it off and throws it under his dresser, Angel wonders if he's doing this to make sure it's not so easy for him to leave.

As soon as his skin is bared, Angel slides back up, covering Wes' body and trying to infuse some of that heat into his skin. He covers Wesley's hands and draws them above his head, clasping his fingers shut, keeping him here, keeping him in the moment. And the press of his cock against the coarse fabric seems to ache; he wants to be inside, he wants to be warm and loved
and protected. He wants to feel this from the inside - to lose the abstract in a new and unexpected place. But he doesn't want to let go of these hands and it takes Wesley to bring them back down, to pull open that fly and shed his pants.

And it is Wesley who is practical, as he pushes Angel off gently, pulling at the last of his clothes and looking towards the bed. But the vampire is too preoccupied with touching him, feeling him close and not losing this comfort. He wants to sweep him into is arms and feel broad hands across his waist again, he wants to feel Wesley wrapped round him. Wrapped in him. So he takes the man by the hips and urges him up and back onto his bed, pressing his need for warmth as much as for sex.

The last person in this bed was considerably smaller; when he moved over her, Buffy's feet barely reached his knees. Wesley's ankles are wrapped round his, his calves pressing against the outside of Angel's own. But he is so warm, and Angel wonders if he will melt after this - if this act will draw them closer; if he will finally find value in his employee. He realizes his mind is drifting back to reality and tries to stop it, because he doesn't want to stop now, doesn't want to acknowledge that he is doing this
for more than just a wet dream. But reality is tangible now and he closes his eyes.

'Look at me, Angel.'

But he can't, he doesn't want to and whilst desire still thumps through his body, Angel knows who he has in this bed. He is finally taking the sissy with the books into his arms and no dream, no break in his present will allow him to deny it. And he just wants this moment to go, for Wesley to realize what has happened and leave him alone. Because it's too painful to know that want isn't just in his unconscious. Because then he would know that she has been replaced and that whole perfect happiness thing comes back into the equation.

'Open your eyes, Angel.'

There is still that soothing, self-assured presence here - Angel can hear the last remnants of his dream, the comfort expressed in steady English tones. And Wesley's hands move in soothing circles over his back, still warm despite the icy body they caress. He doesn't want to lose this, and it occurs to the vampire that it isn't caresses and love he fears; it is the losing of it that scares him. Cordelia belongs to him; she will not leave. Gunn will return as and when it pleases him, but he still belongs.

It is Wesley who might decide one morning that enough is enough and walk out of the door. This is the only uncertainty here; Wesley is capable of leaving because he is on the outside. And Angel knows you can only look in for so long without the pain becoming too much. So finally the vampire leans back, his mouth hovering above Wesley's own. He is breaking every coda in his body, but he has to ask, he has to know that this moment isn't fleeting.

'You won't leave me?'

If it was Spike here, or Gunn, or even Doyle, he knows he'd get an answer buried beneath an onslaught of wit. And even then, he wouldn't be sure what they meant. Here he will not be lied to, or teased, because of all of them, Wesley recognizes the seriousness in a moment. The hands that reach up to cup his face are firm and Angel meets the clear gaze without shame.

'I belong with you.'

And now he understands, and though the sheer rush of joy floods his system, Angel doesn't fear his soul being ripped away. They are too wary, too old to expect the world to stop just for this moment. Angel is too aware of his responsibility to give himself utterly again. But he can give, and this chink in his armor is Wesley's for the taking.

His mouth descends warmly onto Wesley's, his entire body pressing hard against his Watcher's. Wesley pushes back, fingers sliding across the exposed flesh, finding the rare scars, the subtle bumps of his tattoo. The solidity against his hips has grown, and Angel slides his hands down to find that length. He cups the heat in his fingers, feeling as though he's holding it with sticks of ice. But Wesley merely groans and presses into his hand, the low throb picking up and pulsing through to the tip.

A thought occurs to him and Angel looks up to find the bathroom, trying to work out how he can maneuver them both in there without losing contact. But Wesley is way ahead of him and is already groping on the floor for his coat. He pulls a tumble of objects out of his pocket, a crushed tube amongst it. He meets Angel's puzzlement with a grin.

'Boy-scout motto - be prepared.'

He isn't prepared for Angel to draw it off him. He isn't entirely prepared to feel Angel's hands slick, working their way up his erection, coating him. And the urgency with which Angel leans forward and sinks against him takes Wesley's breath away. Angel knows the Englishman never expected this, he knows that between the roles of fucker and fuckee Wesley had already
assumed a role. But the power is between them and as he rocks forward, Angel growls pleasantly as Wesley finds his cock and massages it back to fullness. And all this time, Angel's eyes are open, finally experiencing a footnote in his life head on.

They rock towards the inevitable, Angel's hands closed round Wesley's, urgency growing as the climax draws closer. And Angel finds that the comfort only increases, and that notion of being cared or is with him all the way. This isn't rutting, or shagging, or anything that he has thought long and hard over since he left Sunnydale. This isn't the patient experiment of
an innocent, or the lust of true love.

This is companionship in redemption.

And Angel is no longer alone.

So he soars through the moment, taking Wesley with him, sinking down and kissing every scrap of flesh he can find on his Watcher's face. And he can taste the tears on Wesley's face beneath his tongue, so he licks at them, the saltiness close to the tang of blood. Arms encircle him and Angel knows he is not going to be left today, and that this is what he needs. He licks
the last of the tears away and slides off, keeping his arms round Wesley and feeling his long form against his own. And he is content to lie there, watching the Englishman as a flush passes across his skin, shining with the sweat of the well satisfied.

'We really ought to get up,' murmurs Wesley quietly.

Angel grins and rubs a hand across a bare arm.

'We do?'

Wesley nods.

'Cordelia was most insistent.'

'About what?'

'Gunn. She said he was in trouble.'

He moves to get up, much to Angel's amusement. His clumsiness is no longer annoying and Angel is only allowing him to lose contact because he has, at last, plans to bring Wesley back here. They will go out and sort out what problems the Powers that Be are willing to throw at them, and then, when the danger is over, Angel will go to sleep, his dreams no longer a problem
whilst Wesley lies beside him. He notices a mark on Wesley's neck.

'You've got a love bite.'

Wesley turns, surprised.

'I didn't feel you bite me.'

'I didn't.'

The Englishman raises an eyebrow at him and Angel shrugs.

'Maybe I nipped a little.'

Wesley answers with a grin and pulls his pants back on, passing Angel's clothes to him.

'Nonetheless, this might take some explaining. Cordelia is bound to notice.'

Angel shrugs again, he's not certain any of them have paid enough attention to Wesley until now. He reaches out and touches the mark with the tip of his finger, watching it flush white, then indigo as the pressure increases. By the time it's red again, Wesley is almost dressed. Angel grins and lazily begins to get dressed; Gunn can wait for a moment.

'Tell her you had sex with someone very talented.'

There's that eyebrow again.

'She'll probably think I've paid for it.'

Angel shrugs.

'Tell her it was a hot brunet.'

'And turn up with you - I think she may just put two and two together.'

Angel hears the pleasant tones in his voice and can't fight the grin down. He is happy, not ludicrously so, but happy enough to want to keep this way. He wants to get this over with quickly so that he can make love again. It's an experience he hasn't had often enough, and Angel is determined to keep Wesley close enough so that he can discover what other talents his watcher
has. He suspects that he might be experiencing fuzzies.

'A hot bleached blonde then.'

Wesley chuckles and leans down to kiss him.

'Whatever. Let's just get this over and done with so that you can get some sleep. You still look tired.'

Angel hears the concern and kisses him back.

'Sleep with me?'

Wesley smiles gently and sits up.

'I wasn't going anywhere.'

~finis~


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