 |
| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Unbound Author: Kassie Pairing: Angel/Wesley Rating: R A/N: Sequel to Wedding Rose Postponed gratification. That's what I thought the conversation would be about. "It is going to be so long Wes, how am I ever going to make it?" That's what I expected to hear. Or maybe, if it were an especially bad day " I miss her. All the time. Right now." I reacted poorly. We all have expectations. Mine is to have Angel hold me at arms' length, or conversely shower me with concern and reason. On a rare occasion, take me into confidence and share a wicked grin and some opinions not for general consumption. Never to stab me with white-hot emotion and a secret I never wanted. I didn't go far. Just downstairs, wandering about in the gloom of half-lit corridors whose lightbulbs have yet to be replaced. Does he know I am still in the building? Will I round a corner and meet amber eyes which flash with something I can't name. Not can't. Won't. Ok, fine, name with reticence. Need. Others feel that? The bundle of dark things I keep hidden inside me has been jostled a little too hard recently. Almost dying. Cordelia's brain torn to shreds. Angel letting us in. Too much. Sometimes I feel emotions, thoughts, wishes, spinning away and out÷into the open where they can see them. I know they think I am transparent. All people who are intimate feel that way about their "friends", their "lovers". My heart on my sleeve; my mind an open book; any cliched, hackneyed phrase which means known. How could they know me so well when I don't know myself? "Sod off Angel." My phone keeps ringing. Cordelia calling to tell me she's worried about me, about him, about the people on the news. Since when was she so clinging? Transference. I see it. Not mad at her. At him. Needy is good. I can play to that. Walk all over me, sweetling. I love you. I am here for you. She isn't that person anymore, though. Or she is and the recent pain buries it a little. When will it come back? When I am feeling safe and ensconced in the New Kinder, Gentler Cordy who loves us all so much? Will she suddenly revert to her old ways, snap and tear at me with polished, tiny teeth? "You're so pathetic, Wes. Jesus." Cordelia back to her old self: tearing me down, this time maybe meaning it. Duty calls and all that rot. She sounds frantic. Gunn? Bloody fantastic. Now we are truly saving the wretched of the earth. Should I just go over there without him? How would I explain? "Well, Cordelia, it is none of your business why I didn't bring The Savior of Mankind." "He was busy." "He told me there is no good guy, just bad guy and anti-Christ guy." I should tell her. Wasn't that what I intended to do when I left? Call her immediately and tell her everything? First flash of rage÷Tell Everyone. Complete disclosure. Where did that merge into "She can't handle it"; "She has enough to deal with"? Why do I care? Who is she to me, really? I love her. Why? How? How do I make it stop? After Faith, one would think that door would have nailed itself shut. Undone by myself, like always. In the elevator. Down the hall. Trundling along like the sidekick fetching the hero. Subconscious wants to make him save the day.Punish him for TELLING ME. What a laugh. His life is about suffering, like anything I could add on would be worth the effort. The red of the carpet feels like it is seeping into my feet, up my legs, diffusing through my nervous system. *Flash* Skin flushed hot and then cold as ice. Fuck him. No, fuck myself for trusting him to begin with. "I wanted you as a companion." Exactly. Shared guilt. Shared pain. A shared laugh or smile. I know the feeling, Angelus. I wanted it too. Undead was not on the agenda. Who would send me on to the Unknown when I cut a swath through the people who had stepped on me and torn me down in life? Giles? Faith? Poetic. Bugger. Why does he leave the door open like this? Pounding on the doorframe does not appear to be rousing him·not that he isn't already aroused. Drowning in a sea of blood. Red satin sheets. Exposing half-smile. The one he has when caught-out. The one Angelus wears before he kills, assumption on my part there but not by much. Not the first time I have seen him naked. Not even the 10th. He's languid and secure in undress. 250 years might do that for me too. Also, no reflection, not that he has a worry. On his back, right leg cocked to the side rubbing circles in the sheet. Left arm raised above his head, hand splayed. The picture of the debauched. Where do those highlights around his face come from? A bottle. The vanity makes me smile despite myself. "Angel." "Angelus!" On my back, wind knocked out of me. Hand restricting my airway. "You made her go away." Human face, but death resides there. Panic. "Angel. It's me" "What are you doing here?" Utter confusion plain on him. "Gunn's in trouble. Can't breathe." My world is pulling in on itself until there is nothing but the face hovering over me, the hands about to end my life, and the confessed lie that fills the space around us. "Gunn can't breathe?" He seems to be focusing in on me now. Focusing on the vein in my forehead maybe. "Me. I can't breathe." "Oh," and the hand is not squeezing now, but still there. His full weight is pressing down on me. Crushing me. It is not, however, unpleasant. Oxygen depravation speaking. His thumb is moving back and forth across my jugular. In light of our earlier talk this should be terror inducing, but with him laying flush against me and humming, wait, growling low in his throat, I can't remember why. Pushing his right leg under my left so it hooks around him and his hand is burning into my thigh. My entire vision is focused on that full curve, the line which marks reality, his lower lip. Tongue flicking out. Is that me making that sound? "It could be like this. It could be more" That voice, his voice, pouring over me, wave after wave, pulling me down, downing me. Taste the brine and the sharp tang of wanting this. Get my hands under his chest. Both side by side. Get my knee in too. And push. He just leaps up, fluid and unaffected. Offers me his HAND, the right one, the one that had until a heartbeat ago taken up residence on my hip. "How about the naked thing?" Slight edge to my voice. Even I can hear it. " I'll get dressed." He turns his back to me. "Much appreciated." Push myself up slightly, just on my elbows. Catch my breath and wonder if I am going to have a non-removable necklace for a week or two. Freeze-frame. He's rummaging through a chest of drawers. The expanse of his back stretches out before me to read at my will. Muscles twining beneath the skin as he reaches for one article or another, his marking, his tattoo, undulating as he breathes in and out. Snap back. He's breathing. "Angel." His head lists fractionally to the side to indicate hearing. "Why, if I may be so bold, are you breathing?" Laughter, low and throaty, catching me in my fillings and sending a ricochet through my skeleton. "I'm tasting you." And how does one respond to that? And how could I respond when he turns and I see his eyelids half closed and clouded? When his bottom lip quivers on the side? When he parts his lips and rolls his tongue out? "Indeed. I think Gunn was being attacked by a demon." I know he can hear heartbeats. Does he think mine is racing from fear? Do I want it to be that? The force of the drawer being closed rattles the wall and the window in its frame. -End Feedback Read the Sequel |