| |
Anchored
by Minim Calibre
Story Notes: Part 2 of 2, Spoilers up to "Normal Again" and "Double
Or Nothing".
Pairing: Buffy/Wes
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Belong to Fox, ME, Joss, etc. Not mine.
Send
Comments/Feedback
Home is the last place he wants to be. Everything still tidy
and neat except for the box in his hands, the one that reminds him
(as if he needs a reminder) that he did have one more thing to
lose after all. He sets it down carefully; decides to play the
messages he knows are waiting on his machine.
It's no wonder he wouldn't scream for Faith. He's far better
than she could ever be at the art of torture, even if the only
person he ever practices it on is himself.
He walks to his bedroom in a daze of painkillers and bitterness
and starts to pack. A few changes of clothing, a notebook and pen,
his toothbrush, some bottles of holy water and a stake. His car is
gone, as is most of his readily available money, but he hasn't
been given leave to drive yet, and besides, there are one or two
people in this town who still owe him a favour.
That's all he really needs.
He thinks about having someone contact his family, let them
know that he's been released, but then someone would have to
explain to them that he was in hospital in the first place.
Assuming, of course, that no one has informed them. Their voices
weren't on the machine, but that doesn't mean they didn't know.
Just that they didn't care enough one way or the other if he lived
or died.
He isn't sure if he can blame them.
It doesn't take him as long as he'd expected to call in
someone's marker. Transport up the coast and enough cash to get
back to Los Angeles if he so chooses.
The town is small and different enough from the city he's left
behind that he has a hard time believing they're even on the same
plane of existence. There's a beach, his driver mentions, out of
the way enough that he shouldn't have any problem with unwelcome
company. Wesley wonders if that includes himself, but merely
offers the demon a tight smile of thanks.
It seems as good a destination as any. He spends several hours
just watching the waves and forcing himself to keep breathing. The
last rays of the sun are setting the water on fire before he sees
another human. He turns his eyes to the thin blonde girl heading
towards him, hoping she'll turn back before she notices there's
anyone else out there.
She doesn't notice him, but she doesn't turn back, either.
Point of fact she trips over his legs and winds up falling in a
graceless tumble right in front of him. It's not until she picks
herself up and glares at him that he realizes he knows her.
"Wesley?"
Her eyes are huge in her gaunt face, and he closes his and
tries to will her away.
"What are you doing here?"
He bites the inside of his cheek and grabs his notepad, writes
Does it matter? and shoves it at her.
"You look like hell." Yes, tell him something he doesn't
already know quite well, thank you.
It's not as if she looks any better. A hint of spite to it, he
decides to inform her of that fact.
As do you, Ms. Summers.
"I feel like it, too."
She says it almost too quietly for him to hear, and he raises
his brows.
"It hasn't been the easiest of resurrections. Lots of stuff
has...happened, and I just wanted to leave it behind me for a
couple of days."
She sits down uninvited, bewildered and fragile, and he feels
an unwilling twinge of sympathy.
"It's just…I can't handle it. Any of it. I've tried
again and again, but it's never enough, not for any of them."
"Besides," she adds, voice as small as she is, "I think
after...well, I think that maybe it's a good idea for me to give
them some space. Do you have any idea what it feels like to know
you've betrayed almost everyone you care about for an
illusion?"
He's unprepared for that and loses his composure for a second,
everything flooding back at once.
She stares at him, concerned, looking a little more like the
girl he remembers.
"Do you even care that any vamps who happen to be out tonight
will smell the blood on you from a mile away?"
He thinks about it, gives her an incomplete answer.
Not especially.
She looks troubled, and starts to talk. She tells him about
coming here with her family, about mothers and fathers and
sandcastles. When she talks about her friends, she talks about
isolation, disintegration, and the many roads to hell, although
not in those words.
He remembers how important those friends were, remembers how
she was willing to go to any lengths to save them. She'd been
willing to die for them, eventually had died for them.
He'd wondered why she was telling him any of this, but it's all
become quite clear. She hasn't anyone else to tell.
"The only person I could talk to was Spike, which is wrong, and
I ended up fucking him so I wouldn't have to listen to what he had
to say, which is even worse."
He supposes he should be shocked, but he isn't. Not really.
She's looking at him, expecting condemnation. He can't, won't give
it. It's something he wouldn't do to his worst enemy, if his worst
enemy weren't himself.
Any port in a storm? he writes, and hands her the
pad.
Her lips move in something that might be a smile, and he feels
a tug of attraction that's more startling and even less willing
than the sympathy. "I guess so."
She's staring again, head tilted a little to one side, looking
at him as though she'd never seen him before. He wonders if she
realizes how much her face gives away and hopes for her sake that
she doesn't play poker.
"Where are you staying?" she finally asks.
His note reads I hadn't given it any thought, which is
true.
"Why don't you come back to my motel?"
She winces, and looks a little guilty, starts to babble an
explanation he doesn't really need.
He writes something quickly to quiet her.
Yes, I'll stay. And yes, I'm well aware that it's not a
come-on.
It's obvious that she means to head back immediately, even
before she stands up.
He's still weak. The walk up the trail leaves him winded, or
maybe it's something about her that's doing it. He's more aware of
her than he wants to be, all things considered.
She opens the door and offers him the bed in a tone he'd be a
fool to argue with. He suspects he may be a fool, but he isn't
going to argue. He sets his bag down, goes to clean himself up as
best he can before his eyes close while he's still standing. Now
that he's inside again, he's noticing how tired he is.
She's waiting when he comes out, hovering, nervous, and just
this side of brittle. "Make yourself comfortable, well, as
comfortable as you can. I think the mattress has seen better days.
Possibly the crusades. I'm going to go brush my teeth and let you
get ready for bed now."
The room's too bright, but it's not hospital fluorescents. He
closes his eyes and sleeps.
He can hear them, walking by, can hear his phone ringing
where it fell. He tries to call out, but he can't move, can't
speak, can only listen as the voices get dimmer. He can smell the
blood, and everything's fuzzy but he's got to hold on. Bright
lights, and Angel's there, talking to him, calm, too calm and the
pillow covers his mouth and nose and he can't breathe, can't
explain. Fred's standing there as well, watching as she and Gunn
hold hands looking like the van Eyck painting that terrified him
when he was a boy. She's talking, sweet voiced. 'Sorry, Wesley,
but it's all your fault, you know. You really should have trusted
us.' Gunn looks at her, just smiles and says 'My girl's got a
point' before they turn and leave.
"Shhh...Wesley, it was just a dream."
He wishes it were. Wishes he didn't re-live this every night.
Arms fold around him, warm, strong, cradling him and he clings to
her for dear life.
"Shhh...it's okay. It'll all be okay."
It won't be. It's all he can do to breathe and he's
pathetically grateful for the touch of her hand on his hair and
the softness of her mouth on his cheeks. He's horrified when he
hears the first sob escape. She just holds him closer and rocks
him, still stroking his head, still feathering kisses over his
face until he gains one sort of control and starts to worry about
losing another. Her mouth is so close...if he just moves his head
and suddenly he doesn't have to. She's kissing him and it's been
so very long he isn't certain what to do next and oh, yes, that.
Mouths. Touching. Touching is so very right and feels so damned
good and oh Lord, her skin....
And then she's backing away from the bed and he's waking up all
over again to a babble of apologies.
"I'm sorry. Do you need anything? A glass of water? Another
pillow?"
He shakes his head, too hard, too fast, and is rewarded with a
fresh burst of pain for his troubles.
"Are you okay? Will you be able to sleep?"
He nods, rolls over, unable to look at her.
This time he wakes up and there are no voices screaming in his
head, just the hollow pressure of implosion. No sounds outside of
his head either. He's alone and it terrifies him. He starts
translating the lyrics of pop songs into various languages until
he's chased away thought and can sleep again.
He hears the sound of the door in his sleep, thinks he hears
footsteps, but he can't force himself to wake up and see if
they're real until they've stopped. Opens his eyes and she's back,
standing next to the bed, eyes fixed on his exposed stomach. It
takes her a while to notice that he's awake. When she does, she
blushes deeply enough that he can see it even in the dim light of
the room.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up," she says quickly and
turns and he has to stop her before she leaves again so he grabs
her arm without thinking.
It works.
He lets go of her. He needs light. Finds it, makes a decision.
He puts on his glasses and writes the only thing that comes to
mind.
Stay.
"I beg your pardon?"
He hunts for the words.
Stay. I don't especially relish the notion of being alone at
the moment.
"Wesley, are you coming on to me?" She sounds
almost...hopeful.
Perhaps he is. He doesn't know for certain what he wants. He's
so damned sick of making decisions and having them turn out the
wrong way that he refuses to answer, but she gets into the bed
with him anyway. Fully clothed and distant, but still there. It
will do. He settles back in and pulls up the sheets, careful not
to touch her lest he end up unable to stop.
Sleep proves elusive. He's too aware of how easy it would be to
take advantage of both her generosity and her vulnerability, and
he's gone from second thoughts to fifth and sixth. She curls
against him in her sleep, cheek pressing tightly against his ribs.
If he were even half the man he wishes he were, he'd push her
away, but she's close enough that he can smell her, and she smells
like Ivory soap, dryer sheets, and saltwater and he's drunk on the
combination of primal and the mundane. He's very close to
cracking, knows it, and can't for the life of him remember why
that would be bad.
And then her hands are moving, pushing his shirt up and she's
caressing him, fingers and mouth follow the thin white lines that
were Faith's gift to him, soothe the still-angry mark where the
bullet entered, and it's too much.
He grabs her, pulls her up until he can bury his face in her
neck and trace the mark he knows he'll find there.
She explores his body with feathered strokes that never settle
in one place for very long. His hands slide lightly over her,
touch the curve of her breast and he's not sure if she's losing
control or taking it when she pulls off her shirt. Doesn't really
care anymore.
He closes his mouth around the tip of her breast, feels the
nipple tighten through the rough lace of her bra as he undoes the
hooks, hears her demanding whimper when he unfastens her jeans. He
slides a hand under the bit of lace and cotton that passes as an
undergarment to caress her. Slips in when she begs and feels her
clench around his fingers.
"Bag. Table."
He stops, trying to make sense of what she's just said.
She tries again. "Condoms. In the bag. On the table."
Well, that makes things quite clear. If he'd had any doubts at
all about where this was leading, they're gone now. He pulls
himself up slowly, trying to prolong the contact with her body.
The lights from the parking lot illuminate a spot on the side of
her drawn-up knee, and he kisses it before getting off the bed and
walking to the table. He fumbles in the bag, finds the box beneath
a pack of doughnuts.
He sets the box on the nightstand, strips, and gets back in the
bed, lowers his mouth to the dip of her navel, feeling oddly
detached as if he's still asleep and dreaming this whole thing.
And then she's touching him and he's very much aware that this
isn't a dream, because his dreams haven't involved anything but
nightmares for longer than he'd like to admit.
He runs his hands up her inner thighs, parts them and picks up
where he left off. He wants to taste her, and slides his mouth
down her body until he can. Kisses and caresses until her hands
grip his shoulders, nails digging in almost to the point of
pain.
"Now." It's a order rather than a plea.
He's happy to comply.
Their eyes meet when he enters her, and he's glad for the
barrier. Because when she looks into his eyes, she's seeing him,
really seeing him, and it almost sends him over the edge. She's
scorching and soaking even through latex, and he's shaking, moving
slowly, trying not to lose control and embarrass himself. Manages
until strong legs wrap around his hips, muscles tighten around his
cock, and a hissed voice urges "Faster." Then it's all a
blur. Frantic movements, creaking bedsprings, the slide of bodies
slick with sweat.
Afterwards, he doesn't sleep. It would be a good idea to do so,
but he doesn't want to hasten the arrival of morning. He's well
aware that there are some who would perceive what he's just done
as another betrayal. It's funny. He had expected he'd be amongst
them, but this feels more like redress than perfidy.
She's curled against him again, only this time it was a
conscious decision. He watches her sleep, pushes away the damp
strands of hair that cling to her cheeks, and absorbs the warmth
of her body.
The feeling is bittersweet, and he's thinks there's a good
chance he'll lose himself in the former and forget the latter. He
may have to, just so he can move on with the remainder of his
life. Sacrifice has culminated in excommunication and isolation,
and he has to do something, even if it means turning into
everything he swore he'd never become. But for the moment, he can
still allow himself to acknowledge the sweetness. He buries his
face in her hair, inhales the fragrance of shampoo and sweat.
Smiles at it, kisses the top of her head. Has a moment of
clarity.
He's finished.
He can't save them, can't save himself, and can't be bothered
to try anymore.
He's not her, nor would he want to be her. There's only so much
he has to give, only so many times he can risk everything for
friendship and loyalty. He's sick of winding up in hospital, sick
of being taken for granted, sick of being the one who has to
consider the repercussions. He's sick of the bloody lot of them.
Sick of the fight.
So when the morning comes, he'll leave the part of him that
still cares behind. Go home, pick up the pieces as best he can.
He's not certain what he'll do next. Teach fencing, perhaps. His
positions haven't exactly left him with a large number of
marketable skills.
Whatever he does, he wants to start living for himself for
once. Start dating again, have a sex life that isn't dependant on
a fortuitous encounter with an old acquaintance. He wants someone
to see him, not just note his presence.
If it's not too much to ask, he wants someone to forgive him no matter how
unforgivable the trespass seems.
Maybe then he can begin to forgive himself.
|
|
|