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Port in a Storm
by Minim Calibre
Story Notes: "Who is he?" "Oh he's a . . . he's a kind of acquaintance."
"Nothing of the kind, we hardly know him." "True . . . we don't know him very
well . . . but all the same . . ."
Part 1 of 2, Spoilers up to "Normal
Again" and "Double
or Nothing"
Pairing: Buffy/Wesley
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Belong to Fox, ME, Joss, etc. Not mine.
It felt almost like the last time. She'd grabbed a bag, bought her ticket, and
left a short note on her bed. Only this time, the bag was weekend-light, the
ticket round-trip, and the note said she'd be back soon. Buffy shifted in her
cracked vinyl seat and tried to ignore the smell of stale sweat and urine that
clung to the interior of the bus.
The steady rhythm of the vehicle lulled her into a state midway between waking
and sleeping. She stared out the window, occasionally focusing on
something—pebbles in the asphalt or shrubs off the shoulder, it didn't
much matter. Every time she focused, she let herself think before letting the
scenery blur again, leaving the thought trapped on the roadside. Buffy knew it
was only a short-term solution, a mental coat check. She'd collect her problems
on the return trip. She didn't need them where she was going.
The worn-down sigh of the brakes startled her. She got up slowly, still stiff
from the ride and the lingering effects of the demon sting, collected her
things, and headed to a pay phone to call a cab. It cost more than she
remembered, so she put a dollar in the vending machine for some stale candy she
had no intention of eating, then headed back to the phone booth to make the
call.
The driver was surly, and she was pretty certain he took the long way to the
motel, but she didn't have the energy to argue. Buffy paid him, frowning at how
much of her available cash she'd had to hand him. Lately, it seemed like
everything came with too high a cost.
She checked in, ignoring the leering suggestions of the manager, and went to her
room. With its faded shag carpet and beaten old furniture, it reminded her of
Faith's room. She wondered why she found the idea comforting.
Buffy set her bags on the bed and locked the door. She undressed quickly and
headed to the shower, wondering why it was that sitting on a couch for a few
hours didn't leave her sticky and gritty, but sitting on a bus for the same
amount of time did. She showered as quickly as she could, then did her best to
dry off with the small threadbare towel provided. The jeans and t-shirt she
picked out clung to her still-damp body, but she figured that as long as she was
clean, she could cope with clammy.
She slid into her shoes and out the door, heading down road until she found the
path to the beach. It looked almost the same as she remembered it. There was the
strangely listing tree that Dawn had insisted on climbing when she was four, and
the spot where she'd fallen and ended up lucky she only got the wind knocked out
of her (except she hadn't, but Buffy didn't know if she had any memories about
the tree that weren't monk-made), and the curve in the trail where Buffy had
panicked because her mom and dad had rounded the corner when she wasn't paying
attention and she'd thought they'd abandoned her. She hadn't been back since
she'd learned she was the Slayer. It was safe here, the only ghosts from the
past happy ones.
The sand crunched under her feet, and she wondered if it was worth the risk of
broken glass and needles to take off her shoes and feel it squishing between her
toes.
"Guess even the safe places have their dangers," she muttered.
Buffy wandered along the beach admiring the sunset and losing herself in memory,
a piece of driftwood swinging from her hand just in case. She didn't notice the
man leaning up against a log until she'd tripped over his legs. She went
sprawling, her makeshift stake flying from her hand as she caught herself.
"Ouch." She rubbed her wrists as she got up, and turned to glare at the man,
wondering why the hell he hadn't told her she was about to step on him.
The bandage across his neck brought her up short, as did the empty look of
recognition in the dark blue eyes.
She frowned, trying to place him. When she did, her eyes widened and she almost
laughed.
"Wesley?"
He closed his eyes, and she noticed the tension in his face. He looked like he
hadn't slept or shaved in days.
"What are you doing here?"
A quick expression of exasperation crossed his face, and he grabbed the pen and
notepad off the ground next to him. He scribbled something quickly, and handed
her the pad.
Does it matter? she read.
"You look like hell," she said, handing the pad back.
He wrote another message.
As do you, Ms. Summers.
"I feel like it, too." she mumbled.
Wesley raised his eyebrows.
She felt the urge to clarify.
"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 slumped down next to him and stared out at the water.
"I've tried so hard and it hasn't been enough, not for any of them, not for me."
"Besides," she added quietly, "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?"
The harsh inhalation of breath startled her, but not as much as the raw pain she
saw on Wesley's face when she turned to look at him.
She suddenly realized what a bad idea it was for someone weakened by an
obviously recent wound to be out by himself waiting for the sun to set.
"Do you even care that any vamps who happen to be out tonight will smell the
blood on you from a mile away?"
He shrugged and picked up the notepad.
Not especially.
She stared at him, wondering what to say.
"I used to come here when I was younger," she stated suddenly. "I thought it was
the most beautiful place on earth. We'd get a room in town for the weekend, and
Dawn and I would build sandcastles and play in the water while mom and dad
relaxed in the sun. I don't remember them ever fighting here, but maybe we
stopped coming before that really started. It was always so peaceful."
"I came out here because I needed that again. The peace. It's the one place I
thought I could go where I wouldn't have to remember that I'm the Slayer, but I
guess I was wrong."
"It's not you," she added. "Even before I tripped over you I was prepared."
Buffy pointed to her discarded stick. "Exhibit A, one strong piece of
driftwood."
"I was finished. Done. At peace. And then I wasn't, and suddenly, nothing made
sense anymore. Not my friends, not my family, not my enemies. And I made the
least sense of any of it. The idea that it was all just a hallucination, that
none of the pain and confusion was real made so much sense to me. So much sense
that I almost killed everyone I loved so I didn't have to face the reality of my
life."
"The reality is my friends decided to bring me back from the dead because they
loved me and they thought I was in hell, and now I can't even talk to them,
because they're still filled with some fucked-up combination of guilt over what
they did and frustration with my inability to get over being ripped out of
heaven."
"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."
The expression on the ex-Watcher's face wasn't the disbelief or disgust she'd
expected. It looked uncomfortably like compassion.
Any port in a storm?
Buffy gave a wan smile. "I guess so."
She'd never noticed how young Wesley was. At 18, she'd just lumped him in the
adult category and left it at that. She hadn't really thought about him much,
even before he'd left Sunnydale. After that, the only time she thought about him
was when she'd gone to L.A. to confront Faith. Despite the lines of worry and
exhaustion on his face, she figured he was only about a decade her senior. Only
five or so years older than Riley. Not that she was thinking about Wesley that
way.
"Where are you staying?" she asked.
He shrugged and wrote I hadn't given it any thought.
"Why don't you come back to my motel?" Buffy winced at how that had come out. "I
mean, it's late, you don't look like you are in any shape to go anywhere
tonight, and besides, I think the manager kind of expects me to show up with a
strange man, and I'd hate to disappoint him. Not that this is a come-on... far
from it, I mean... you're a good-looking man, but I'm so not ready to deal with
that sort of thing, not after Spike, and besides you used to be my watcher, and
you don't like your in any shape to..." she stopped as he pressed a note into
her hand.
Yes, I'll stay. And yes, I'm well aware that it was not a come-on.
She smiled again, a twist of rue to it. "I must have sounded pretty stupid. Want
to head back now?"
It wasn't really a question. She stood up, grabbing the closest stick.
"Follow me. It's not far."
She waited until he was standing, and gently took him by the hand to lead up to
the trail. They walked slowly and silently back to her room, pausing
occasionally so he could catch his breath.
"It's not very impressive," she warned him as she unlocked the door, "but at
least it's inside and there's a bed. Which you should take, by the way. I'll be
fine in the chair."
Wesley was too tired to argue. He set his backpack next to her bags before
staggering to the bathroom. Buffy listened to the water run while she arranged a
blanket and pillow on the chair. He came out as she was turning back the covers.
"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."
She took her time in the bathroom, flossing carefully and brushing until she
heard him slide under the sheets. He was already asleep when she walked back
into the room, so she quietly turned off the lights and curled up in the chair.
The light from the parking lot kept the room too bright for comfort, so she
covered her face with the blanket and drifted off.
The sound of a struggle woke her. She'd bolted out of the chair ready to fight
whatever it was until she realized it was just Wesley, face turned towards his
pillow as he fought against his nightmare. Buffy shook him awake as gently as
she could. His eyes flew open and he raised his hands as if to shield himself
from someone.
"Shhh... Wesley, it was just a dream."
Not knowing what else to do, she sat next to him and wrapped her arms around
him. He clung to her as though his life depended on it.
"Shhh... it's okay. It'll all be okay."
She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead and cheeks as she rocked him until
his panicked gasps changed to harsh, nearly silent sobs. Buffy felt his shaking
ease, so she kept caressing and kissing him until somehow one of them shifted as
she was about to press her lips to his cheek and she found herself kissing the
corner of his mouth instead.
Her tongue darted out before she could think, teasing his lips until they
opened. She'd forgotten lips could be so warm. She covered his mouth with her
own, hands tangling in his hair as she tasted him, gently licking the curve of
his lower lip. A hint of hesitation, and he was returning the kiss, lips moving
against her, hands loosening their grip to stroke her back. The warm breath
mingling with her own felt foreign and familiar and right, and suddenly she
found herself on top of him, pressing into his body urgently as his hands slid
under her shirt.
She could feel his heart pounding against her chest and the sensation startled
her back into awareness.
What the fuck was she doing?
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she heard herself start to babble as she scrambled off
the bed. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... I don't normally. G-d, what's
wrong with me?"
Buffy sat on the edge of the chair and forced herself to look at him. He was
propped up on his elbows, face revealing nothing of his thoughts.
"I'm sorry. Do you need anything? A glass of water? Another pillow?"
He closed his eyes and shook his head, the abrupt motion making him wince.
"Are you okay? Will you be able to sleep?"
The answer was a small nod. Keeping his eyes shut, he settled back down on the
bed, rolling to one side so his back was to her. Buffy didn't bother trying to
sleep, she just sat and watched him. He was thinner than she remembered, the
bones of his spine painfully visible through the thin white shirt. His hair was
a soft mess of tangles, rumpled from sleep and her hands. She could still taste
the salt from his skin on her lips.
When she was certain he was asleep, she got up quietly, grabbed her purse, and
locked the door behind her.
It didn't take her long to get to the convenience store. She grabbed a box of
doughnuts, a carton of juice, some paper cups, and a bottle of shampoo. On her
way to the register, she added a box of condoms. She wasn't expecting to need
them, but as it seemed she couldn't trust herself, she figured it was best to be
prepared. The cashier was almost as rude as the motel manager, and she wondered
if she had the word "whore" tattooed on her forehead. Given how she'd acted with
Wesley, she considered it more than possible.
He was still asleep when she let herself into the room, sprawled like a chalk
outline on the sheets. She set the grocery bag down on the table and walked to
the edge of the bed, hands fisted to keep from touching him. His shirt had
ridden up, exposing the taut stomach marred by a still-livid scar. There were
other thin white scars scattered like terrible confetti over the pale skin. She
stared at them, wondering how to reconcile the man in her bed with the pompous
ass from three years before.
It didn't really seem possible. The uptight, overdressed Wesley she remembered
didn't make her insides clench as though she'd stumbled across a banquet after
weeks without food. Not like this one, all hard shadowed eyes and hot smooth
skin and damn, she wanted to crawl inside him and lose herself and she really
had to stop this train of thought before she did something she'd regret not
regretting.
She was still staring when he woke up. The steady rise and fall of his chest
changed to something ragged and shallow. Buffy tore her eyes from the scars to
look at his face. He was watching her, expressionless again, and she felt the
blood rush to her cheeks.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."
She turned, ready to go back to the chair. The unexpected feel of his hand on
her arm stopped her. Buffy turned back cautiously.
He let go of her, and fumbled on the nightstand, first for the light switch,
then for his glasses and notepad.
Stay.
"I beg your pardon?"
Stay. I don't especially relish the notion of being alone at the moment.
She stared at him in disbelief, wondering if she'd fallen asleep on her feet and
was dreaming.
"Wesley, are you coming on to me?"
He just looked at her, either unwilling or unable to answer, she couldn't tell.
Buffy slipped off her shoes and climbed into the bed before she could change her
mind. She awkwardly arranged herself at the edge, body held as tightly as she'd
held her fists when she'd watched him sleep. Eyes closed, she listened as he set
glasses and notebook down and turned out the light and settled in, making no
effort to touch her. The sheets rustled softly, brushing against her arms as he
pulled them up. She relaxed and let herself fall asleep to the sound of his
breathing.
Waking with her face pressed into warm skin under thin cotton wasn't conducive
to self-control. Hands moved of their own volition to push the offending
material away from flesh they needed to touch, fingertips leaving a path for her
lips to follow. She traced the outlines of his scars, fingers and tongue
offering benediction. Wesley stirred, pulled her up until she was lying next to
him, and kissed the faded scar on the side of her neck with an offering of his
own.
Her hands wanted to be everywhere at once, impulse translating into a frenzy of
greedy touches—the curve of his spine, the rasp of his cheek, the soft
skin behind his ears—she claimed them for her own, committing the
sensations to memory. When he traced the underside of one small breast, she
whimpered, hands abandoning his body to frantically tug off her shirt. He
lowered his head and took one lace-covered nipple into his mouth while he undid
her jeans, pushing them down until she could kick them off.
Buffy was shaking, breath coming in pleading gasps. His hand slid under the
waistband of her underwear, stroking slowly, heel of the palm rocking against
her clit. Hips buckled and two fingers slipped inside, teasing and tormenting
until she heard herself begging him for nothing and everything at the same time.
She lost track of herself, dimly aware that there was no longer anything between
her breasts and his lips.
"Bag. Table." she blurted.
He stilled, and she forced herself to try and make sense even though she
couldn't remember parts of speech.
"Condoms. In the bag. On the table."
He kissed the inside of her knee before getting up reluctantly. She watched him
navigate to the table in the near-dark, bed and body suddenly too cold without
him. She fought the urge to pull him back into bed as he set the box down and
removed his shirt and boxers, folding them before dropping them on the floor.
Lips pressed heated kisses against her belly as she traced the sharp edges of
his shoulder blades. Lightly calloused hands slid between her thighs, caressing
the soft skin until her legs opened. His mouth moved lower. She could feel the
heat of his breath at her opening, tongue barely more than a tickle at first,
circling and flicking and oh, damn, he was good at this. Her hands clenched
reflexively around his shoulders, drawing him closer until she couldn't stand
it.
"Now."
She still wasn't forming complete sentences, but her meaning was clear. The
ripping sound of foil confirmed it.
Eyes met as he pushed into her. His face was a mix of raw need and the wariness
that never quite left his eyes, and suddenly the biblical meaning of knowing,
source of so much adolescent humor, made perfect sense.
A lot of things made perfect sense.
She matched his measured thrusts with her own, the languid rhythm echoed in
spiraling flutters that grew until languid wasn't enough and she voiced her
demand for more in word and deed. Watched him hesitate for a moment that
stretched before snapping like saltwater taffy, let herself guide him past
thought and control before allowing instinct to take over her actions.
She woke up in a unfamiliar room that smelled of sweat and sex and groaned at
the memory of how it had gotten that way. This was getting to be a bad habit. At
least this time there was a bed, the building was still standing, and the
Englishman next to her was warm and breathing.
She prodded her mind, looking for regret but finding none. She'd done what she'd
done. She couldn't take it back, and wouldn't even if it were an option. Her
life was her own. It should have been such an obvious thing. Since she'd
returned, she'd just been floating aimlessly, drifting into whirlpools because
they happened to be in front of her and she couldn't be bothered to avoid them.
If she was honest with herself, she'd wanted to get lost in the undertow.
It had to stop.
She lifted her fingers to her throat to feel the pulse beating there. It was her
life. She hadn't asked for it back, but she had it none the less, and it was
time she started living it.
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