Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,

  • Mood:


By Snow
For ats_endofdays
Episode 1x10 Parting Gifts
Set directly after 1x10
Beta by elucidate_this
Thank you.

This was not the Angel that Wesley remembered from Sunnydale. This was not the Angel that Wesley thought he knew. All those books, diaries, journals, essays that he’d read, memorized, obsessed over . . . wrong.

That Angel did not have friends. He did not make breakfast for the human friends that he did not have. Angel did not have a business that was based on helping people, because Angel was not supposed to care about people. Angel did not take in stray humans and give them jobs or places to stay until they found a suitable flat for themselves. Angel did not let himself care so deeply about the friends that he did not have, that he sat in the dark, alone, and cried for the one that had died.

And Wesley did not care if he did.

All the books Wesley had read.
All the knowledge he thought he possessed.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

All he really knew was that his life long preoccupation with Angel was not based on what had passed for fact in the Watcher’s Council, or the reality of living on the Hellmouth in Sunnydale. It was firmly planted and currently being nurtured and fed by this week of staying with Angel, living with him in his apartment. The close proximity, the constant contact, and the conversations that lasted all night and into the morning. Conversations that would start with contemporary politics and glasses of scotch and end up in a debate over demon psychology and strong, hot coffee. And the nights that would pass when not a word was spoken between them, Angel sitting in the dark corner of his bedroom and Wesley at the tiny kitchen table, reading and absolutely not thinking about Angel. Not at all.

Once, in the darkest part of the night, he had been woken by the quiet sound of Angel crying. Wesley hadn’t moved from the small couch, did not get up, go to Angel’s bedroom, nor offer him comfort. Because it could not have been Angel, not the Angel Wesley thought he knew and understood and had neatly categorized in his mind.

When it happened again, it was Wesley’s last night staying with Angel. He’d found a small, one-bedroom apartment and was signing the lease in the morning. Nothing fancy, just enough for him, close to work and on the bus line for days when it might rain and he wouldn’t be able to ride his bike. Practical. Economical. Affordable. Although if pressed hard enough, Wesley would have to say that the built in bookshelves that lined the small living room had sold the place to him from the instant he saw them. But the happy thoughts of filling those shelves were gone the instant Wesley heard Angel’s almost silent moan of pain. The sound stopped as abruptly as it started, as if Angel suddenly realized that he was crying. This time Wesley sat up, slipped off of the couch and went into the bedroom, moving by memory and feel in the absence of light.

“Angel.” Wesley kept his voice low, almost a whisper.

“Wesley, go back to sleep.” Angel’s tone was harsh and hard and Wesley stuck his chin out, unconsciously, determination colored with a touch of fear. One of the very, very few things Wesley did know was true about Angel, was that he valued his privacy over almost anything else.

“You need to deal with this. Talk to me. It’s unhealthy even for you to keep these feelings inside. Let me help you.”

“Wes, shut up.”

He couldn’t see Angel in the absolute dark of the basement apartment, but the sudden, cool feel of Angel taking his hand encouraged him.

“What is it Angel? Buffy, or Doyle?” Wesley had barely finished his question when he was pulled down onto the bed, against Angel’s hard, long body. Wesley tried to roll back, but Angel held him in place, his arms stone weights around Wesley.

“I said, shut up.” Angel whispered in Wesley’s ear, as if they were in a room full of people, sharing secrets.

Wesley cleared his throat and tried to keep panic out of his voice, “With whom am I dealing? Angel? Or Angelus?”

There was a soft, humorless laugh, then a sigh that held so much more than unneeded air, “Angel. Angelus. We’re one and the same. Always. Never forget that Wesley. He’s inside me all the time. One hundred and fifty odd years of torture and pain and maiming and killing, sometimes for food, sometimes for fun, and now? I still bring death. I’ve never stopped. It just hurts these days. And I can say there are reasons and meanings and purpose behind it all. But it won’t ever change the fact that I am not a nice guy. I never have been. Not even when I was like you,”

Wesley felt Angel’s hands move, palms open, long fingers stroking his back, pulling at his pajamas and his arms and a cool, wet kiss just below his ear.

“warm and salty, full of hopes and dreams and life . . .” Angel’s mouth started a slow descent of Wesley’s chest, his fingers opening Wesley's shirt, his voice trailing and skipping as Wesley felt Angel taste and lick and nibble, “ . . . life . . . so much here . . . Wes . . . give me some of this life . . . some of this warmth . . . it’s been such a long time . . . so very, very long . . .” And then those lips found a nipple, tongue lavishing it, teeth biting gently, and Wesley closed his eyes and arched his back, surrendering to a truth he’d not let himself acknowledge, not ever.

He’d wanted Angel from the first moment he opened a book and read about him. From the first likeness he’d seen; that deep, intense stare looking back at him from the page and warm tendrils of terror and lust would snake through his thighs and back from the tension in his groin.

Wesley felt the hard length of Angel’s cock rub against his leg as he moved, pushing Wesley onto his back. Angel’s hands yanked down his pajama pants, fingers trailing over his abdomen, and Wesley’s taught skin quivered and twitched. Then there was a moment of nothing. No movement. No touching. And Wesley knew that Angel was nose to dick with him and he wanted to say something, anything.

No. Don’t. You don’t have to. I’m fine, really. Only please, don’t stop. Ever.

But he said nothing to break the spell. Held his breath, lips caught between his teeth. The moment passed and Angel had Wesley’s cock in his mouth and Wesley’s brains left the building. Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for this. Not the years in the exclusive boy’s only prep school his father insisted upon. Where being weak and pretty and extremely smart had not helped Wesley fit in, anywhere, perhaps, but in the dark of the head master’s office. The door locked, and the shades drawn and his name never spoken out loud. Not the Watcher’s Academy where he fought nepotism and favored student status with arch dignity and aloof, superior behavior that belied the aching loneliness that threatened to crush him at night.

Angel deep throated him with an almost unbearable suction, strong fingers wrapped about the base of his cock, holding his imminent orgasm at bay. And the others, slick with saliva, rolling his balls, sliding in between the crack of his ass and up, into him. First one, gently, slowly, then another, scissoring and rolling, stretching Wesley and scraping over his sweet spot and Wesley couldn’t breath, couldn’t speak as Angel’s weight held him in place. Angel’s head moving up and down, teeth and tongue and lips on hot, wet, sensitive, silken skin. Wesley’s hands moved hesitantly then without conscious thought as incredible pressure built inside, stroking through the surprising softness of Angel’s short hair and digging into the cool, solid muscles of his large shoulders.

At the moment Wesley was certain his heart would stop, Angel loosened his tight grip and the explosion started from Wesley’s toes. Helpless tears running from behind his closed eyes and the swirl of colors in his mind just went on and on as Angel drank him down, urging every last drop out of his cock. And then Wesley passed out, or he thought that he must have, because the next thing he knew, Angel was lying stretched out beside him, not touching him and the silence between them was as wide as a canyon.

Wesley moved onto his side, his hand sliding towards Angel, then his wrist was caught in Angel’s iron grip.

“Please. Angel. Let me.”

“No. It’s not allowed. Remember?” Angel squeezed painfully tight, then let go. Wes could feel the dip and shift in the bed as Angel turned away from him. And even though Angel tried to hide it behind the low growl of his voice, Wesley could hear both lies and truth in the words that followed. “And besides, I didn’t do that for you. I did it for me. I’m not the good guy, Wes. I never was. I never will be.”


I could talk about Wesley all night long. I may obsess about Angel until the end of time, but I truly beleive that Wesley's character on both Buffy and Angel was the most three dimensional, real, incredibly deep character ever written for television. imo. I never get tired of watching the changes in him over the five year run of the show.
Tags: angel, ats, fic
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →