Spoilers: Through late S3, probably somewhere around "The Price."
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. I am merely borrowing them, with no hopes of personal gain. I'm just an unemployed housewife with no money, and I don't expect to profit from writing this or any other fan fiction.
Distribution: Only with my explicit permission, but if you ask, I will almost certainly give it.
Notes: Written for the second Fic Challenge ("Behind Blue Eyes" lyrical inspiration) at Peaches Won't Be Happy.
The scrape and settle as that someone gets up onto the ledge beside him and sits, looking out across the city. There've been nights when the lights and sounds seemed nearly alive, but tonight isn't one of those.
Tonight, L.A. feels far away.
"Nice night," Spike says finally.
Wesley doesn't even turn his head to look at him. "Go away."
Spike just sits there. After another minute or so, he lights up a cigarette.
Wes tells himself that he's not going to say another word. It'll just encourage Spike, and that's the last thing Wes needs. Another stupid wanker of a vampire to hang around, making him... He shakes his head. Some thoughts don't deserve to be completed. Still, "Why do you do that?"
"What?" Spike asks. He sounds disgustingly chipper.
"S'a habit," Spike says with a small shrug that causes his shoulder to brush against Wesley's. It brings to mind other touches, both accidental and deliberate. Other nights like this one, when Spike had suddenly shown up without warning. "Besides, gives me something to do with my hands."
This sounds like Wes is being baited, and he refuses to play. He hasn't the energy, and he doesn't care enough. He'll never care that much again. His throat burns inside and out and he chokes the memories down with another swallow from the bottle that's been sitting at his side for the past... several hours. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there. Doesn't know what time it is.
"Here, give me some of that," Spike says, and takes the bottle from his hand. Takes a long swig that Wesley only sees in his peripheral vision because he is *not* looking at Spike. "You're not drunk," Spike tells him.
"No." He might like to be, but he's not. He hasn't gone to enough effort to get there.
"Something I can do?" Spike's offer, when it finally comes, is hesitant, but sounds genuine.
They sit there for a while longer. The night's cold -- it's not often this cold in L.A.. Wesley thinks he's been sitting here too long -- when he came up it was just to watch the sun set, and the roof of the building had still been radiating heat. Now it's just cold, and his t-shirt is too thin, and his hand is starting to ache.
"Whatcha got there?" Spike asks, nudging Wes' knee with his own and nodding at Wesley's clenched fist.
Wesley doesn't answer, and after a moment Spike sets the whisky bottle down behind himself and reaches out for Wes' hand. Wesley watches as Spike pries his fist open -- he isn't resisting, and in fact he thinks that he might not have been able to open his hand up on his own.
They both look down at the key resting on his palm. "To the... office," Wesley says.
Spike snorts. "Didn't think he ever locked the place."
"Oh, he doesn't." Wesley's own voice sounds quiet and rough. "It's the principle of the thing." And before he can think about it any further, he tilts his hand and lets the key slide off, watches it disappear into the dark air below. Throwing it would be overkill. This way it just... slips away.
"That's it then?" Spike asks. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Wesley agrees, detached. God knows it wasn't that simple -- not just like that. It had already been over; this was just the moment in which he officially acknowledged it. The moment in which it had actually ended hadn't been so easily defined. Had it been when Angel had tried to kill him? When he'd taken that step through the threshold with Connor in his arms? Or when Justine had slit his throat?
Maybe it had been when he'd written down the translation.
Wesley shivers. There's an indentation in his skin that's shaped a bit like the key. He closes his fist again, hoping that the pressure of his grip will erase it.
"You're cold," Spike says.
"It doesn't matter." Wesley has been cold for a long time.
But Spike is already shrugging out of his coat and draping it over Wesley's shoulders. The leather isn't warm because Spike's not, but it smells of smoke and decay. It's comforting, and so is the arm that Spike wraps around his waist.
They don't say anything for a time.
"I know what happened." Spike leans closer and rests his chin on Wesley's shoulder.
"I thought as much." Wesley's not sure how Spike found out, but is grateful that he won't have to tell the story in his own words. It doesn't matter to him what version of the events Spike heard.
"You don't want to talk about it."
Wesley gives a bark of laughter. "That would be the understatement of the century." He swallows, and tilts his head slightly so that it rests against Spike's, closing his eyes and letting the utter stillness of the vampire wash over him. "Do you believe in predestination?" he asks finally.
Spike's voice is a low and strangely comforting growl near his ear. "Fate, you mean?"
"No. All those prophecies and everything, they don't mean anything. Just some people's way of, you know, trying to make sense of what happens."
Wesley sighs. "So you wouldn't have done it."
Spike's hand strokes little circles on Wesley's hip, underneath the heavy layer of leather that's draped over him. "Would I have taken Angel's son? No, safe to say I wouldn't have. But not because of the fate thing."
"Because you hate him."
"And you did it because you love him," Spike says, in a tone of voice that says he understands but doesn't agree.
"No," Wesley says, even though the actual answer might be yes. It's so complicated that there would be layers of words on top of layers, and in the end it just becomes a jumble. In the end, he's ended up right where --
It's too much. Abruptly, Wesley moves away from Spike and stands up, teetering on the edge of the ledge for just a split second before stepping down onto the roof proper.
"I'm going to bed," he says. It's not an invitation, not exactly. He tells himself he doesn't care if Spike comes with him or not.
Five minutes later, feeling Spike's smooth skin against his own, Wesley realizes that he's become more adept at lying than he would have thought possible, even to himself.
It's the first time that they've been together that Spike hasn't spent a great deal of time worrying at Wes' throat with lips and teeth, but he must think that the scar tissue's too fresh. Must hear it in Wes' voice. It's the first time that the sex isn't frantic and hard and fast, as if someone's set a time limit and they musn't chance running over.
Spike's cock is as hard as the rest of his body, honed and sharp-cut like stone. It slides across Wesley's skin, bumping against his own aching erection, driving him to distraction even though for once Spike seems to have all the time in the world.
"Would you just fuck me already?" Wesley says.
"Shh," Spike tells him. The kissing is languid, liquid. "What's your hurry?"
And of course Wesley just wants to come -- he doesn't want to muck about with feelings and gentleness. He wants Spike to fuck him, hard, to drive all of the anger and pain back. He wants Spike to help him maintain the facade, the mask that lets him continue to function.
Spike slides down, licks the head of Wes' cock, circling it again and again until Wesley thinks that he really might not survive this encounter. His thigh muscles are trembling uncontrollably and his arm is thrown up over his face, hiding his eyes. He wants to come and he wants Spike to fuck him and damn it all, there's just no end to the things he wants. Which only brings the point home more forcefully that he does still care, no matter how much he might wish he didn't.
Wes finds his leg being shoved outward, bent at the knee, his thigh at a right angle to his body, and then Spike's tongue moves lower, back behind his balls, and pushes wetly inside of him. Wes groans and shivers, spreads his legs further apart. Lets Spike do what he will.
Long minutes later, he's holding onto the headboard with both hands, his cock a stiff desperation against his stomach, his eyes closed. He can feel his orgasm waiting at the base of his spine, coiled, wanting the release that's being so casually teased from him.
Spike rears up suddenly, the vampire's cool weight pressing Wesley down into the mattress, cock pushing into him like a force of nature that twists the rules more than it ought to. Wesley chokes back a groan as Spike fills him, but his hips tilt upward at the same time, forcing Spike's cock deeper. He wraps his legs around Spike's waist as they fuck, Wesley's arms outstretched, fingers digging into the mattress padding.
He's holding back the noises he normally would have been making because he's afraid that any sound he makes might be incorrectly interpreted.
Spike, on the other hand, doesn't have any reason to be quiet. He moans and thrusts and mutters things that make Wesley want to tell him to shut up. He doesn't deserve to be told that he's good and warm and amazing. They're all lies.
When Spike takes Wes' hand and folds it around his own cock, Wesley lets him. None of this is about resistance, it's just that... well, he's so far away. Not far enough that he doesn't feel this, though, and his fingers tighten around his slick erection and pull the orgasm from it, as Spike's hips stutter and he comes too.
The sound of Wesley's own breathing follows him into sleep.
It's torture, slow and simple. Slow motion so absurdly slowed down that he can feel each millimeter of his skin parting beneath the blade. It takes half an hour for his throat to be cut. He can feel the blood spurting, as if he could count each cell as it leaves his body. The pain is such a bright bloom that it eclipses everything else, and so it's easy to push it into the background and focus on everything else.
What he could have done differently.
Who he should have called, but didn't, because he didn't know what to say.
And through it all, the emptiness. The knowledge that he did everything he could have. That he made the right choice, and the end result was still wrong.
He's cold, and the dirt underneath his cheek is rough, and damp with his own blood. Every breath is torture, but he has to hold on. He's not going to die here, not without having a chance to explain, to keep them from hating him --
And then Wesley is awake, gasping for air, and there are strong cool arms around him, holding him. Holding him together. Spike whispers soothing words in his ear, runs his hands up and down Wes' back.
"S'okay. Just a dream, you're all right."
But all right is the last thing Wesley is, and that's when he learns that sooner or later, everyone falls apart.