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~