ethrosdemon ||| Buffy & Angel

Like A Thief in the Night
by ethrosdemon HRH EMAIL: naturallycalm@yahoo.com


Distribution: List archives, people who have my other things, just no one compiling a court case against me.
Disclaimer: Joss made it up, too bad he is an incompetent ninny. Mutant Enemy and others own the rights. No suing please.
Rating: R
Pairing: A/Wes
Dedication: Lar who made up a plot bunny on the spot to help me get over my block. This is just a writer's block fic.
Note: This is just a writer's block fic.
Spoilers: Gen season 2

-----

Truly, there must be worse things than having to slip past Cordelia when she is "having an episode" as she refers to it. Like Cerberus and the other hounds of hell pumped up on double espressos. One would think she actually believes that I hid her blasted car keys. Angel's car keys that she is making off with while he is out. Out with Gunn saving someone from impending…looking for Darla. Looking for Darla's bloody path. And, even if I did have an engagement this evening, being invited would be welcome.

Expendable. Far too much of every day spent in peril to start to envision one's self as the individual who could be sacrificed if the situation came down to it. If it came down to Gunn or I, would it depend on Angel's whim? Who had on better shoes that day? If his blood was fresh that afternoon? The chaos theory of why. Why choices fall the way they do. It's not really paranoia when you could die at any second of any given day and betrayal is like a well rubbed totem in your pocket.

Thankfully Cordelia is entirely wrapped up in her dance lesson or what rot to give me too much mind when I was coming down here. The old stomach clutch and break for the bathroom routine. She goes for it every time. There is at least one thespian amongst us.

As far as dank, musty basements go this one is an overachiever. No lighting to speak of past the stairwell. Water drip, drip, dripping somewhere unseen. Probably pooling directly on some power cord that I will step on shortly. How humiliating to die electrocuted whilst shuffling around surreptitiously looking for a safe little cubby- hole. Hopefully they will find my remains AFTER I secret away my contraband. Oh, the stimulating life of a demon hunter extraordinaire.

Under the stairs would be too exposed. How often does Angel come down here, I wonder? Aside from doing his laundry, does his come down here every so often to scout out interstices where demons could ferret themselves away, or where he could shunt us in case of dire emergency? Rather dodgy that. If I were seeking out a hidden victim, the basement would be the first place I looked. Could be my life experience talking. Come to know more than one basement well enough to have three or more niches to wedge my body into as tightly as breathing would allow.

Perhaps over there in that corner, oh yes, where all the hanging cords are strung. Garrotting and electrocution in one. How lovely.

So, what is on the other side of this door? Bullocks. Locked. Why wouldn't it be?

"Wesley? What are you doing down here?" And suddenly I remember Watcher's Rule Number One: never leave your back turned while having a conversation with yourself in a dark basement.

"Angel. Yes. I would be…scouting. Scouting for hiding places in case of attack."

"Why are you facing the door? And do you have a reason to think we might be attacked sometime soon?" This will take delicacy and probably some gypsy mind-tricks to get through. Turn around, Wes.

"Always have to be on one's guard. Just thought since I had some time on my hands I would make use of it to prepare for the worst." That sounds plausible. Why is he moving closer? To lure me with vampire enrapturing techniques involving the glint, glimmer of the rings around his right hand raising to brush through his hair and a quirked up grin.

"So, what're you hiding behind your back?" Liquid motion, and this is close. Too near to see his entire body without moving my head, and that crick from the Leriar four nights ago wants to be heard.

A slight roll on the balls of his feet, loose arms, and I do believe that I just heard the cosmic tables shifting, because I think tonight, Angel's grace might not be due to his non-human nature.

"Have you been drinking?" Furtive glance to the side and one stutter- step away from my personal circle. Whiskey. And cigarettes. Reeeally. I might have to say a little prayer sometime in the near future for this turn of the wheel.

"Maybe. But even if I have, you're still hiding something." The grin is trying to make a comeback. Not a grin. A huge, half-drunk leering smile which is in close-up now that he has his left hand pressed firmly against my chest and his right wrenching my secret from behind my back. Too bad I'm not drunk as well to pillow the horror.

"This is my jacket." Utter confusion as he releases me but only pulls back to stand upright and shake the jacket out.

"Wes, what are you doing with my jacket, sneaking around the basement? And, possessed should not be part of the answer." Might as well own up. When caught out, it's always better to fall on your sword, or some other such rubbish.

"I was going to hide it." I don't think he's really listening to me, since he appears to be occupied by the flask he just produced from his hip pocket.

"Wes, right, you were going to hide my jacket from me here in the basement. Or were you hiding it from the aliens?" This little comic relief is punctuated with a pull from the chrome flask. Engraved. Calligraphy A. How often does he carry that with him?

"I borrowed it the other night when I was pressed for time and I had to meet Virginia.It is your least favourite, the brown one and what not, I thought it wouldn't be such a huge breach of trust. And then I had a run in with a pickled beet." My explanation doesn't appear to impress him much since he is presently smelling the collar quite ardently.

"You didn't get it cleaned." His attention is back on me. Full attention it would appear.

"Want a nip?" Bundling the coat up under his arm and stretching the other out to proffer the what has to be single malt.

"Why not?" His eyes fixate on my hands as I reach out and bring the metal container to my mouth. Certainly still have my talent for determining what a man drinks.

"As I was saying, a renegade beet leapt onto the jacket, and I couldn't have it cleaned, so I…" Another pull on the flask, bad form to do so in the middle of a sentence, but what are bad manners between friends? And my nerves are dictating that a drink is order here. Maybe more than one or two drinks.

"You couldn't have it cleaned? Why not? Cleaner's Union Strike?" Retrieves the flask and finishes off the contents. Squirrels it back into his pocket. I'm wondering what's brought on this flippant mood of his. Usually he doles out these sorts of quips sparingly and to demon foes rather than to me.

"Well, not as far as I am aware. The reasons are complex and…"

"Because you haven't been paid in a month." Brings the jacket back to his face and steps in closer.

"I know that money is tight, and I would never presume to tell you how to arrange your finances. I'm truly…" His left hand whips out to cover my mouth. His face follows but moves past mine to hover near my ear.

"Haven't we had the `stop apologising' talk? It's not the first time you borrowed that jacket without cleaning it, is it?" Peels his hand away and rests it on my upper arm. His face looming, and this is exactly what I would have voluntarily thrown myself into the electrified puddle to prevent. Every system in my body exposing me to him, my breath too rapid, my heart rabbiting, blood flooding under my skin.

"How did you know about the jacket before? I've only seen you wear it once." Parts his lips to draw in the breath for a sigh, the dimple forms and the miniscule quiver of the bottom lip denoting emotive statements.

"I only wore it once because I didn't want my scent to overpower yours." Life sometimes brings us jagged, bright realities. They might even appear from the lips of a half-drunk, undead Saviour of Humanity.

The jacket is now discarded on the pock-marked, cement floor, because both of Angel's hands are registering on my body. One gripping just this side of pain on my arm and the other fluttering over my lips.

This is not my world. The world of Wesley Windham-Price is not populated by vampires declaring fetishes for my scent. Or for that matter bosses, companions, sliding their smoke flavoured lips along my jawline and pushing shaky fingers under my shirt.

So the situation needs to be rectified. Brace my shoulders against the door, plant both hands on his biceps and gain a semblance of dignity.

"Wes? Don't be afraid. We don't have to worry about the curse. It doesn't…" Shock and longing. This world is taking on complexities that I am not fortified to sort through tonight.

"Angel. I'm here for you. To share and carry part of your burden, but this is not something we can have. I don't, that is, I'm not attracted to men. Surely you know…" A chasm where his body was. His back receding towards the stairs. The jacket laying crumpled five feet from me. I should pick it up.

"Wes." His body twisted with one foot on the bottom stair and his torso over the railing. Jaundiced yellow light falling in bars across his body.

"You know where I am when you realise you're full of shit." Rapid footbeats up to the lobby.



back to top