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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Was Wesley (Wesley in B sharp) Author: Liberty Pairing: Angel/Wesley Rating: R Setting: AtS 3 A/N: The poem sections in **poem** are from `Rhapsody on a Windy Night' by T.S. Eliot He has eyes like red azure stone, watery and judging. And I get the distinct feeling this would be easier if I didn't remind him of his father. He's holding the door open a crack, just enough to see me, as if the wood will keep me from smelling his fear or his pain. As if he isn't intoxicating enough, looking dishevelled and broken. But it's his way of saying he doesn't want me there. And I know this, not because I can taste his hate, like I could with Giles or Xander, but because his eyes refuse to meet mine, in fear of what he's sure they'll find there. Guilt. And perhaps contempt. I realize too late that today was probably the wrong day to come, because both are present. On the other hand, it's always been wrong and that never stopped me the twenty or so times before this. I forget exactly how many it's been. To me, it just doesn't matter. A smile touches my lips, unexpectedly because I don't often smile during these times, but it amuses me to know, without even having to read his small black journal, that he writes each and every moment down. This still doesn't stop me. Because sometimes after holding a drink for long enough his hands are cold enough to seem real. His voice is calm when he speaks, saying my name in that accent that always seems harder in my dreams. "Angel." Just the one word. It's the only thing he ever says. To prove to me, or maybe himself, that he knows exactly what he's doing and with who. He really has no idea. He leaves the door open before crossing the room slowly and stopping in front of the makeshift bar. It might threaten on a mid-life crisis, if anyone but me ever saw it, but he hasn't invited anyone else in and not only vampires need an invitation. I step inside and close the door behind me, watching him move with guarded poise. He pours bourbon like wine, with shifting hands and seemingly, almost, carelessness. A drop runs down the side of the glass as he tips the bottle back straight and it expands outward, forming patterns on the bar. I have the sudden, inexplicable, urge to suck the liquid up like blood before it stains the pine. At least I think it's pine, but those light woods always looked the same to me. Before I can contemplate any more a cloth is quickly pulled out to soak up the spill. No, he isn't careless and he's not a licker. Not until I tell him so. For a long time he was given this misconception that he's wise. I don't blame him for it, of course, but even now he doesn't realize he's only a child to me. He may be the brains of our group but I played that role once. When you can't stand to think anymore, you kill. I walk over and take his arm before the glass can even reach his lips. He doesn't protest though. Times like this I think that maybe he finally understands. But then he'll say something to me like I'm a child, in that long, drawn out tone, and I have to fight the urge to reach over and snap his neck. Clean. Easy. But then the accent would be gone. And he literally would be cold. Which isn't the same as wishing for it. I lean forward to kiss him but he turns away. Which is kind of a surprise because we've done this dozens of times before but at the same time, not, because he always turns away the first time. If he can deny me once then he can rationalize all of this in his mind. And the second time always goes much easier. I move in to his neck and place gentle kisses along the collar bone. My tongue slides forward to lick along the top of his shoulder blade to the place where blood flows readily back to his heart. A whimper escapes his lips when I pull him closer and he shudders from the bittersweet danger of allowing a creature like myself near enough to kill him. I would think he'd be use to it by now but really, each time, he only trusts me less. And, each time, it only gets better. He pulls away from me to go light a candle sitting on the table by the bed. I stare after him, contemplating the uselessness of such an action on a windy, reckless night like this. But that's the way he is. He likes to be thorough, even with practices he would never whisper a word of, unless it's in my ear. And the only time I'll get close enough is when he's smothered beneath me. Then all he's able to do is whisper, of me. The second he turns back our lips collide. Gasping hot first breaths into my mouth. Deeply passionate, hopelessly desperate. I push him backwards against the bed, following him down. The downward spiral. My lips burn feverishly against his, trapping him beneath me, warmth fighting cold. I'm silent but he murmurs meaningless words through gasps for air. The accent against my ear, just like always. The same familiar unrepressed desire and fervour of someone drunk on a danger, drowning in addiction. My lips mouth wordless desire as I fight him, hard beneath me, for the dominance that I know is always mine. He shivers helplessly against me and I feel the ring start to build inside my head. Mindless pleasure, forgetting who I am, with who, for what. Dark, quiet and cold. For an hour or two. **Twelve o'clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.** I rise before the sun, pull on some clothes, leave the bed. I look back at the man lying there, who looks more dead than I. This always sucks the life from both of us. The blood in my veins is scraping at my skin with rotting disease. It's been two days since I've fed, since the last time I left here. My fingers reach out of their own accord and trail lightly along his neck. Up and down the vein until his eyes start to flicker. I pull away and walk stiffly across the room. "Angel?" He says, awake now, and I stop but don't turn around. I don't want to see his eyes when he speaks. They are far too wrong of a colour. He almost stutters when he speaks, having been silent for too long and I cringe at the weakness in it. "You. . . I mean. . . I don't mind if you want to. . ." He takes a breath in like uncertainty spreading through his bones. "If you want to feed from me." The way his voice shakes makes it sound damn erotic and I stand still for a moment, as if in consideration but there really isn't anything to consider. He has no idea what he's asking of me. The permanence, far greater than a scar. A replacement can't be claimed. "Go to sleep Wesley." I say simply. Softly, calmly. And he does. **The lamp said, "Four o'clock, Here is the number on the door. Memory! You have the key, The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair. Mount. The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall, Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life." The last twist of the knife.** I cross the room to the bar and my eyes scan across the row of bottles. Only the bourbon is open. The glass of reddish liquid still sits moistened on the bar and I drink it down in a single gulp, flinching at the delicious pain it burns down my throat. Smooth and warm. I understand his need for it. Glancing back at the bed, a trace of a favour crosses my lips before I turn and walk out the door. It's late and I want to make a trip to the kitchen before bed to quell the hunger. It's been a long night. And there's a reason we don't cross that way. finis. Feedback |