Dear Colin,
That hardly says it, does it, how dear you are to me. I love you and I miss you. Come home soon. Or when you need to. No pressure. You need to do what you do as much as, well, you get the idea.
I miss you. I miss waking and finding you beside me. The bed feels so empty. I need you here. Especially now. I know you're trying to steer clear of magic, but I could really use a partner to help on some of these spells and conjurings as, well, there's always the sex magic. In case you're wondering, yes I am keeping up with the yoga and yes, it has helped with my back. I'd rather have a back rub from you, though.
I will spare you the details of our day to day operations _ I do enough paperwork as it is, but I feel, well, perhaps we aren't making a difference at all, but it's better than nothing. You were right, I do feel all grown up at last, now that I'm making my own decisions, and having someone listen to them.
How's the action where you are? I know you feel like a war bride, but I worry too. I'm sure the casualty department here could be just as exciting and useful.
Oh, Cordelia says hi.
I miss you. I want you here with me, under me...
Best not, in case someone else reads this, but you get the idea. I want to fuck you. Soon. For hours.
Come home soon.
W.
Wes,
A pile of your letters just arrived today. I was starting to worry. I can't help it. It's not like you're an accountant.
I savour each and every one. Please write more. I look forward to them more than I should. I love the feel of paper I know you've touched.
Now I'm sounding like a schoolgirl. I'm glad you've made a friend of Gunn. I think you need a few more friends there. I know you're work is secret and I'd rather live in Scotland, but if you want to save LA, I'm happier knowing you're not trying to do it all by yourself.
In answer to your questions, the food here is worse than school food. Yes, it is possible. Conditions are what could charitably be called rudimentary but it's that whole Franciscan physical discomfort plus charitable works equals soul saving ethos that seems to have crept into the whole organisation. Or perhaps it's always been there and it's only after the third week of dysentery and digging your own loos that you start to feel especially holy. Or at least, I was having visions. I'm better now, don't worry. This is definitely what the Americans would call a growth experience, though of the what doesn't kill me makes me stronger kind.
You couldn't find a few bottles of lucozade in LA for me, could you? I'd really love a bottle right now. I was craving it when I was sick.
Now I'm feeling better and becoming an old hand at this, your letters were the icing on the cake. I've already read them several times over. I miss you so much. I wish I'd been there for you, but you sound like you've landed on your feet. I'm so glad. I think this will be your growth experience.
Oh, I have to go. See you next letter.
Forever,
Colin.
Wes, my love.
I'm sorry, I just had to write to you again. I love you so much that if I think about it I feel like my body can't hold all the love I have for you.
That was clumsy but you know I'm not a poet. Just a guy in love. I'm so in love with you. I love the way you write, the way you loop your letters. I love the way you read, the sound of your voice. I love your brain, your hair, your eyes, your long fingers, what you can do to me. I love the way you taste. I love the way you smell. Though it's becoming hard to remember. Send me something sweaty, so I can sleep with it. I'll send you something of mine. Everything's sweaty here. Would you do my washing for me? :D No, really <pleading smile>.
How's business? Tell Cordy I want photos. I want a whole roll of you running your business and being in charge. I love it when you stand up for yourself. You always used to let Angel be the alpha male. I guess your father taught you how to kow tow too well.
Have you seen the bastard? How far gone is he? On a sliding scale of one to ten, with one being Jack the Ripper and ten being, well, I was going to say like a sit com dad but those guys always gave me the creeps. You know, ten being someone cool, calm, sane and sensible. I was going to say like Gregory Peck but his filmography probably doesn't bear scrutiny and you've heard enough about my Gregory Peck obsession but you know what I mean.
I only ask because I worry about you. I know it's your life and your calling but you can't stop me from worrying. You're my life and I love you.
I'm sending you a small charm from one of the local witchdoctors. He swears it's a protection charm. Most of those bastards are mad, bad and dangerous to know but this guy I kind of like. He seems better than most. He's here a lot, helping out, and seems more like the shaman you'd expect than the Hexes R Us fellows you usually see around here. He zeroed in one me, that's for sure. He knew who I was. What I was.
Did you get the dream I sent you? Probably not, with the time difference. I think I've been having some of yours. Either that or I really miss you.
Tell Cordy I need those photos.
I love you.
Colin.
Dear Colin,
Come back to me. I love you. You're everything to me: kindness, sweetness, generosity, humanity.
I miss you. I need you here, by my side.
Come home soon.
W.
GUNN
Cordelia's apartment.
Wesley sat quietly on the floor, still playing with his jacks, even after Gunn came in, all stomping boots and boisterous whoops. Still Wesley sat with nothing but the quiet click of the knuckle bones as he caught them over and over.
"Whatchadoin?" asked Gunn, noticing him at last, crosslegged on the floor.
"Playing jacks."
Gunn quirked an eyebrow. "Is this an English thing?"
"Yes."
Wesley threw up the jacks and watched them scatter, seeing how they lay.
"Can I play?" Gunn reached forward.
"No." Wesley's hand flew over the jacks, protecting them. "They're not to be touched."
"Okay." Gunn eased back. "They bone?"
"Yes."
"Cool." Gunn watched Wesley catch and throw the jacks. It might be a game but it was also magic, and Wesley was keeping track of the movements of each piece, hence his clipped tones. Wesley was usually only prissy when he was working or offended. So, okay, pretty much all the time. Gunn didn't mind so much now. He was used to Wesley. Respected him, even. Like the way he'd learnt that Wesley wasn't precious over his possessions because he was a spoilt brat. It was because some of his stuff just wasn't to be touched by untrained hands. Like sharp knives, it could be dangerous, and it could taint them. Wesley's things were Wesley's things, no matter how cool or weird they looked.
"How's the future holding up?" Gunn asked, settling on the couch, leg hanging over one couch arm, watching Wesley.
"Hmmm," was the non committal reply.
"That good, huh?"
Wesley said nothing. His ring flashed, catching the light as he snatched at the jacks in mid air again.
He wore the ring on his left hand now. Colin had stopped by with a firm proposal of marriage. Wesley had been unsure of his answer then. He'd since moved the ring to his left hand, signifying his intention. He could do worse than some who loved him and understood him, as Cordelia reminded, and it was better to find a soul mate who actually had a soul to give. A soul just as fragile but much less damaged.
"Set a date yet?" Gunn asked conversationally.
"No," Wesley answered quietly. Then, "Legally, it means nothing. Just a ceremony. Colin's already the executor of my estate. What more is there?"
"Colin gets your stuff?" Cordelia piped up from the kitchen.
Wesley leant back, no longer playing.
"What could you possibly want with any of my stuff?" he teased.
"Point."
"Anyway, it's not like An..." he stopped. "Some stuff will go to Giles, for safekeeping. The rest Colin can dispose of as he sees fit."
"Hey, this is way too morbid. It's bad luck to talk like that, Bro."
"I'm just being practical," Wesley sulked.
"You're being a jinx is what you is," Gunn groused, but there was affection beneath his growling.
Gunn kept watching Wesley's hands as he played the jacks. Such long elegant fingers. Colin got to suck those fingers, and more. Colin knew what that mouth tasted like, and more. Wesley was a nearly married man and it was wrong, but Gunn thought about it, a lot. Angel had been buggy for this guy. Gunn wondered about it, a lot.
One vision and one sewer later:
The boys swished through the dank, unthinkable water in single file. Gunn splashed about and swore.
"Hey, how come you're not walking into the walls," Gunn complained of Wesley as he wiped slime from the bricks onto the backs of his jeans.
"I can see perfectly," Wesley announced and forged a path ahead. Gunn followed and stumbled. He stopped, fished around for his torch in the bottom of one of his pockets and found it at last. He flicked it on.
"How the fuck can you see in here." He flashed the torch at Wesley. Wesley twisted his face away, but not before Gunn caught a flash of yellow.
"Fuck!" He had Wesley up against the wall and a stake at his heart before Wesley could speak. Wesley couldn't breathe, Gunn's other arm pressed down against his windpipe. Wesley's eyes had returned to blue and he forced himself to remain calm.
"It's not what you think," he managed.
"Prove it."
"Stake me and I'll bleed to death at your feet." Gunn pressed the stake close, making Wesley wince.
"Cross," Wesley suggested.
Still furious, still pressing the stake into Wesley's chest, Gunn fished a large wooden cross from his pocket and shoved it close into Wesley's face.
Wesley smiled, leant forward slightly and licked it, slowly, all the way up.
Gunn nearly dropped the cross like it burned.
"What are you then?" he demanded.
"Dhampir. A human infected by a vampire's blood. It happens. I can sense vampires. I'm a bit sharper, a bit stronger than I was. That's all."
"Does Colin know?"
"Yes. He's known for a while. It was Angel, of course."
"How?"
"None of your business. It wasn't entirely by consent though," he admitted. "Colin and I, we take precautions. We're perfectly safe."
"Does Cordy know?"
"No, but she knows what I've been up to. She's safe, too."
"You never told me."
"I wasn't intending to bleed on you."
"You should have told me."
"Told you now. Don't look at me like that. You don't know me. You didn't know what I might have had. You should always be careful with strangers."
"I thought we were friends."
A strange looked passed over Wesley's face for a moment, before he relaxed.
"Yes, we are, I'm sorry. I just...it was private."
"Angel infected you, I can see how you'd want to keep that quiet."
"No disrespect meant to you. I just didn't see the need to air my dirty laundry in public."
As opposed to the grief of Angel Wesley had been unable to hide. Even the lowest sewer crawler knew about it.
"I'm still me. I don't bite," Wesley reassured. "I can just sense..." he came to abrupt stop.
Vampires. Gunn's fist tightened on his stake.
My darling Wes,
That rain spell you sent me worked like a charm. You might have seen it on the news. Don't know my own strength <grin>.
Or maybe you didn't see it. I forget that they don't show world news in America. How those people can be so smugly proud of their own ignorance - okay, some of your best friends are American, but still.
Damn, I knew I was to fed up to write to you today, but I didn't want to miss the post and have you worry. It was a bad day today. It's not Butlins here any day of the week, but some days are really worse than others. Lost a few people I was fond of. Their jeep rolled off the road. It happens.
So how are you? Killed any good demons lately? I mean bad ones. You know what I mean. Fuck, this day. I can't write straight. Fuck that shithead American Captain.
No, I'm not drunk. Well, okay I am, but there are degrees of drunk out here. Drunk here is a complete lack of basic motor functions, if not consciousness. Oh Wes, do you have a spell to make it not hurt. Sometimes I really hate it here. I want to be with you. You sound like you're starting a new life there and I'm missing out on it. I miss you so much. I wish you were here with me right now. I need you.
I think I'll finish up now. The Kings have got a rugby game going and it sounds like fun.
All my love
Colin
Wesley slipped from dream to waking restlessly, tangled in sheets. It was still dark and he was beyond tired. He picked up his clock and peered at the dial. 4.20 am. He lay back with a harsh breath. Three hours sleep. He twitched irritably and switched on the light, putting on his glasses and scanning the room for anything that might have woken him. It was clean.
He laid his glasses back on the table and flicked off the light, settling back to stare at the ceiling, as though he had the slightest chance of falling asleep again. He could only hear the low rumble of the bin men in the distance. He was itching with something, he couldn't quite tell what. Maybe it was the warmth in the air, the pollen, the haze over the sky, or a sense of foreboding, of something shifting and settling somewhere. Spring and summer were coming. He could feel it, under his skin as much as outside it. He shifted between the sheets, restless and itching.
Gunn slammed through the door. Wesley was lying on the old couch they'd acquired, deep in concentration. Cordelia was at the desk, the only desk, doing the books. Well, re-doing the books and trying to squeeze every quarter cent from their meagre budget.
Wesley looked tense, in spite of his languid pose.
Gunn cocked an eyebrow towards the prone Englishman.
"How long has he been in?"
Cordelia shrugged. "He was here when I got here." She leant forward conspirationally. "Letter from Colin," she whispered, regarding the squares of paper Wesley was studying so intensely. Drawing back she announced: "I'm going for coffee. Want to come?"
"No, I'm good," decided Gunn.
Cordelia frowned, not fathoming why Gunn would want to stay here with Wesley who was very shortly going to be in one of his post letter moods. She shrugged, swung her tiny hand bag over her shoulder and left. Gunn would learn, the hard way, if need be.
The door swung shut and they were alone. Gunn studied Wesley, not really seeing him but aware of him, long and thin and powerful.
Gunn felt he was trapped in the corner of the room, unable to look anywhere but Wesley. Drawn again and again to the long lean figure on the couch. The more he tried to fight it, the more it made him sweat. He was hot, he could feel the heat boiling through him, and he knew there was only one release.
"Gunn, what are you doing?" Wesley asked as Gunn knelt beside him, rubbing a hand up his thigh.
"I want to know what that letter says."
"Gunn - I don't think - what the hell - Gunn -" Wesley tried to protest as Gunn's hand repeated the pressured stroking.
"He's telling you how much he wants to touch you and taste you, feel your skin under his fingers..."
"Gunn."
"No words," Gunn demanded quietly. "Close your eyes and pretend that it's his hand that touches you," he breathed. "His fingers." His thumb pressed along Wesley's already hard erection. "His lips." His mouth slowly followed his fingers.
Gunn knew he was bewitched, drawn into the waves of sex and need that were rolling off Wesley, and he didn't care. He only knew he needed to feel Wesley in his mouth, nothing else mattered in this world.
Wesley watched him with desire darkened eyes as Gunn pulled apart the fabric and tasted him. Wesley's hands coiled over Gunn's shoulders as Gunn's soft lips sank down over his shaft. Oh god, yes. Gunn had done this before, Wesley suddenly knew this deeply. Gunn was keeping the pressure just right, flicking his tongue just here, squeezing and rubbing and sucking and Wesley's head rocked back as he pumped deep and hard into Gunn's throat. Wesley breathed out harshly, still not sated, dragging Gunn on top of him and kissing him with hungry, mouth fucking kisses, grabbing hold of each other, half fighting with each other, half fighting against this, grinding together.
"Uh, guys?" Cordelia asked from the door, holding a tray of Starbucks.
They sprang apart, breathing hard, still staring deep into each other's eyes, the spell not yet broken.
Cordelia felt the shimmer of heat falling off them, but shrugged it off.
Wesley rebuckled his belt, Gunn wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and Cordelia pretended not to notice, setting the cups down on the desk. Nobody spoke for several, long minutes, then Wesley got up and asked which one was the decafe skim milk latte.
Cordelia wrinkled her nose then made a crack about Wesley going native, which earned her a glare. They slipped back into work, with Wesley and Gunn sharing the occasional glance, but saying nothing.
mad_jock@yahoo.co.uk
Hello.
The Aussie Army set up a net cafe for their boys. For a few beers I've bought a few minutes on here. It was a choice of looking at porn or writing to you. Guess who won?
I like the Aussies. They're the biggest pissheads outside of Scotland.
So, how are you? I had a bad vibe from you yesterday. I assume you were in the shit. All taken care of now, I trust? You know I worry.
It's still hot here. Thanks for the last care package. Especially the underwear I asked you for. You minx. Very much appreciated.
I love you. I miss you. write soon. Remind Cordy I want more photos of you.
Cheers
Col.
PS. I'm not drunk. Just bored.
ANGEL
He felt like he'd swallowed a massive overdose of Spanish Fly with an E chaser. His skin was burning and itching. Under the skin the burn was worse, the itch was worse, so much worse. It was driving him mad. Nature Boy, Cordelia called him, only it wasn't funny. He could feel the ice begin to thaw in Canada, he could the sap rising, his own sap rising. He was itching, itching all the time, and his chosen mate was thousands of kilometres away, sending him letters that only made the itch burn more. Maybe it was the demon blood inside him, maybe it was the first flush of Spring, but he had an itch and it needed scratching in the worst possible way. He needed sex. Mindless sweaty animal sex, and he needed it now.
He needed to fuck his brains out or he needed to stop it, all he knew was, he needed it. He needed release or more than household electrical goods would be exploding about him.
The pounding beat overwhelmed his heart, pounding through it, around it, demanding it keep relentless time with the bouncing and grinding bodies that surged together over the dance floor. The strobing light in his eyes forced his brain to match the beat.
Wesley could feel the sweat prickling on his skin, the fabric brushing up against his skin, every hair brushing the air currents.
The coloured lights cut across his field of vision, the music throbbed deep in the middle of the drink he held.
He didn't know what he'd expected to find here. It had been a mistake to come here. He met a pair of eyes, then looked away, unable to make the connection.
He was...restless. He sipped at his drink, the cold alcohol numbing the tip of his tongue but little else. He had an itch he couldn't scratch. The answer wasn't here. Though, somewhere....He turned, but he couldn't see through the thrusting crowd of well toned bodies.
Alone in a sea of humanity. Wesley suddenly felt the weight of his calling pressing down on him, and put his drink down angrily. He wouldn't find what he was looking for here.
Gunn had followed Wesley to this gay bar, had watched him stand and consider, then leave alone. Gunn followed, still drawn in Wesley's wake, unsure of what he was doing, unable to stop himself.
Wesley walked home alone with a nervous energy that flared and peaked and burned around him. He was twitching with unspent power. It was driving him mad. He needed release.
As he approached each street light it would begin to dim until only the pale filament was showing, or it would go out completely when he was underneath it, and it would not glow again until he had passed by it, and the next streetlight was beginning to fade. He put his hands in his pockets, his head down and walked on quickly. It was freaking him out and also humiliating him to a great degree. He remembered nights like this walking home as a young boy in England, and he remembered how furious his father had been that he could not control it. He couldn't stop it, even now. He didn't know how, and the more he tried the worse it got so he just put his head down and walked and tried to not notice the shadow that followed him down the street.
Lurking behind the lights, laughing, another shadow followed him home, walking easily and silently along the footpath.
Wesley fumbled with his keys, hands shaking, senses dulled by too much alcohol. Not enough to dull the fire that burned inside him, but enough to make him almost squeak in surprise as a preternaturally strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder, swung him around and slammed him up against his door.
Wesley squirmed like a trapped insect but he knew it was pointless. It just amused Angel, who was smiling at him.
"Hi, Wes, how are you?" Angel asked, maliciously.
Wesley glared at him.
"What? That's it? One dirty look. No entreaty to come back to the fold, that we can work this all out, that it's not too late to save me from the dark side?"
Wesley continued to glare at him.
"Wes, Wes, Wes," Angel shook his head sadly. "You said you'd love me forever. Do you still love me, Wesley?"
"No."
"Liar." Angel was stroking Wesley's cheek softly, his fingertips sliding down Wesley's throat to caress the scars of bite marks that still covered the vessels that pulsed there. Pulsed fast and bright. Angel trapped Wesley against the wall with both hands, grinding his hips against Wesley's erection.
"You still want me, you bad, bad boy," Angel taunted.
"Don't."
"Don't what? Give you what you want? Wes, this is my gift." He brushed his lips over Wesley's in the ghost of a kiss, then the kiss deepened, his tongue digging deep into Wesley, making Wesley breathless and dizzy.
Wesley felt Angel's mouth slide to his throat, the pressure, the delicious sucking, then the bite, Angel's teeth breaking through his skin, his blood welling up hot and salty into Angel's mouth in a burst of release, and Wesley succumbed as Angel held him tight and sucked him. Angel grabbed him harder and drank more greedily as Wesley spilled across his lips.
Angel was tearing him; he was hurting, demanding too much, too fast. Wesley tried to push against him, but he couldn't, Angel had him in a death lock. Before, sometimes Angel had got carried away, and nearly forgotten to stop. There was no forgetting here; he was going to take this to the end. Wesley whimpered and wished he'd been smart enough to pack a cross. The flat number on his door was bruising into his back as Angel growled and buried himself deeper in his throat.
The body blow was followed by a hard smack across the face with a wooden cross. Angel spun away, face flaring with the burn marks. He growled low in his throat but Gunn stood his ground, holding the cross with the same dark menace he'd use with a .45. Angel snarled again and Gunn popped a stake from his jacket and held it up too, ready.
The vampire glowered and swept off around the corner. Gunn dropped the cross and stake and knelt beside Wesley who had slumped shocked and bleeding against his door.
"We've got to get you to a hospital, man," Gunn insisted as he pulled him to his feet.
"No, I'll be all right by tomorrow, I promise."
Gunn doubted him. That was a bad, ugly wound in his throat and he was still bleeding.
Wesley fished blindly on the floor for his keys where he'd dropped them and somewhat weakly managed to unlock the door and push it open, inviting Gunn across the threshold as habit. Gunn dropped him on the chair and went straight to the bathroom for Wesley's wonderful old tin first aid kit. It killed Gunn that he knew where this was, but would be lost if Wesley asked him to get out the best china. He didn't even know where Wesley kept the tea if it hadn't been left out on the counter.
He came back with the tin tucked under his arm to find Wesley hunched over, shivering and shaking. Damn, he was crying. Gunn dropped the tin, sat on the couch and pulled Wesley into his arms and just held him. Courage could only take you so far, and Gunn knew Wesley probably could have taken any other vampire attack, by any other vampire. If Angel had done this to scare Wesley, shake him up and break him, he'd succeeded. Bastard.
"Why didn't you kill him?" Gunn had to ask.
"I couldn't move," Wesley admitted miserably.
"So, toast the fucker."
Wesley's head snapped up, horrified at the very idea.
"I can't," he whimpered.
"Because you're still in love with him?"
Wesley's eyes hardened for a second. "Because he was pushed too far, he was pushed over the edge, and I did nothing to help him or stop it. I let them do this to him. I won't finish the job for them. I won't, I can't punish him for being weaker than I am." Wesley slumped forward, defeated.
"That burns, don't it. Angel was meant to be the big hero. You thought he was your white hat, your protector, big daddy to keep the nasties away." Gunn saw something else flash in Wesley's eyes that made his stomach twist. Gunn had seen that look before. Oh, fuck no. No wonder Wesley was all messed up. Fuck. So it was true; rich white kids could end up more fucked up than poor black ones.
Wesley pulled away suddenly, ashen.
"I need to..." he mumbled, but he never made it, falling to his hands and knees as he puked violently on the floor. It was nearly all booze, Gunn noted with distaste as the warm sick fermented smell wafted up. No wonder Wes hadn't taken Angel down. He'd been drunk, and weaponless, making himself easy pickings or an easy kill and maybe he'd been that desperate. Angel had known it. He'd waited and followed Wesley home. Gunn hadn't. He'd only come here to apologise for that morning, something he couldn't have seen himself doing a week ago.
A week ago they weren't in this mess and while Wesley played leader and laughed and organised and said only he was disappointed, inside the man was screaming soundlessly as he fell into a bottomless black abyss. Angel had ripped his heart out and it looked like he'd come back here to finish the job. Bastard.
Gunn cursed himself for a fool who deserved to be knocked on the head by something nasty, 'cause he'd messed up. He'd trusted one, dismissed the other, and now he knew who the strong one was. Wesley wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, stood shakily and toddled into the toilet to finish throwing up. Gunn cleaned up the mess in the tiny lounge room. He wasn't squeamish, hell, he'd cleaned up worse in his time, he just hated to see a friend messed up. Wesley might be stronger than Angel, but he had his breaking point, just like Angel.
Gunn managed to get Wesley into bed, stripping him of his blood and vomit soiled clothes and pulling the sheets up around the thin white body. Thin white shivering body. Wesley looked like he was in shock and Gunn knew he shouldn't be alone, so Gunn Gunn flopped down beside him, spooned up to Wesley and let him take his warmth.
Gunn was sound asleep when Wesley woke him. Confused for a moment as to where he was, and with who, his mind quickly got up to speed when he felt Wesley pressed against him, his skin now fever hot.
Wesley's hand grabbed his arm and his eyes said only one thing. Cock. Now.
Gunn wasn't a fool. He shucked off his pants, rolled Wesley under him and snapped on a rubber.
Wesley pressed his hips back against Gunn, and felt Gunn's arms tighten around his waist.
Wesley didn't have to say it. Fuck me. Make it hard and make it nasty. Wesley slammed himself back on Gunn. Gunn grabbed those bony hips and pumped.
Gunn heard Wesley mutter something under his breath. It sounded like "1875", and Gunn knew he might as well not be here. Anyone would do. Wesley just needed somebody's cock to fill the hole inside him, just for a few minutes, just to feel alive.
Gunn woke in tangled sheets. Tangled alone. He didn't need to go look, he knew he was utterly alone, deserted in Wesley's flat. He pulled on his clothes, wondering how on earth he could have slept through Wesley getting up, getting dressed and leaving. Asshole can move like a cat when he needs to. Gunn found everything pretty much left scattered about from last night. The first aid kit still lying open. Blood splatters now dried on the floor. Holy fuck, and more blood, hastily smeared over the back of the door with strong smelling ashes in a roughly drawn symbol which Gunn took to be the international symbol for 'no vampires allowed'. No messages, no single stem rose on the pillow, nothing. Gunn shrugged his shoulders and was glad again that his own father had lit out well before teaching him how to be a complete bastard.
Wesley, no matter how much he fought against it, was his father's son. Cruel, secretive and callous. No wonder he and Angel had a thing.
Gunn might have fucked Wesley last night but he still had no idea what went on in that guy's head. He didn't really want to.
Gunn shrugged again, annoyed. He was nobody's black bitch. And yet, the twist in his stomach wasn't anger, but worry for Wesley, about where he was, about what he might be doing if the blood letting was any indication of his current state of mind.
Gunn dropped into Wesley's local, painfully aware of the stares and very intense glares from the patronage, and not a little fear as to his purpose and intent, given his appearance. He knew how Angel must feel. Sometimes it was a rush, and sometimes it made his skin crawl. He scanned the booths, seeing nobody but a bunch of sad English guys hunched over their beers. All reminding him of Wesley, but not Wesley. He turned and left, aware of their eyes upon him, but not sensitive enough to feel one pair more than others, one that tracked him all the way out onto the street.
Gunn sat behind the wheel of his truck. Next stop, Caritas, if it was open. Hell, he'd bang on the door and scream and threaten until it was.
Wesley wandered around in a circle, then slumped down, cross legged, head hanging forward. He was exhausted and fed up.
He'd woken up and found Gunn's tall body crowding him in his bed. It had been too much. The last straw. He'd been unable to...deal.
Muttering a small concealing spell, he'd crawled out of bed, dressed, thrown a few essentials in a backpack and ridden for several hours due east, right into the desert. Dust under his helmet, in his teeth, eyes, ears and nose, and he didn't care. Then he'd seen it, a low mountain on the horizon. He'd ditched his bike and just climbed. Now he was here and he still didn't know what to do.
Wesley stood, mad as hell and not wanting to take it any more.
"For fuck's sake, help me!" he screamed to the clear blue sky.
No answer. Nothing. Wesley watched and waited, but there was nothing. He could make it storm and thunder, to match his mood, but that would make a hard ride home even more unpleasant.
Wesley screamed in frustration, screamed loud where no one could hear him, making the air shimmer and the ground rock and crack, then hung his head, his rage spent. What good did it do anyone, anyway. He looked up again. He couldn't run away from his chosen path. He was better than Angel. He had to be.
"I have no fucking idea what I'm doing!" Wesley screamed to the rocks and sky. Nothing but silence in return.
He sat down again, tired and upset. He should have had a teacher. He was probably one of the most powerful mages since Myrrdin, and there was probably a reason for that if he knew his genealogies, but he'd had no teacher. Surely he should have had a teacher, a teacher who would have taken him away, not left him with his father to be handed over to the Watchers as a small boy. The Watchers had taught him some things, but none of the truths he'd since discovered on his own. Had his father known? Had he been bred, or was he a genetic freak, a monster to be locked under the stairs until they'd figured out a away to control him.
Why hadn't The Powers That Be done anything to help him? He should have had a teacher. There was always a teacher. Though, as he sat there, bowed over and cross legged, he kept glimpsing of an image of an elderly gentlemen, looking not unlike a doddery old university professor, being struck down on a pedestrian crossing by a car, a sleek black car driving ever so fast. On the crossing outside his old primary school. The car... it had looked like there was no driver, and the old man...just lying crumpled and dead on the tarmac outside the school gates and Wesley's little hands pressing the steel bars between his fingers until they were white with pain. Memory, dream or vision? He no longer knew any more. A teacher would have shown him the difference, but with an absolute certainty Wesley knew his teacher was dead, and had been dead these many years.
Wesley had no choice. Go back, or run away, again. No choice at all.
JOHN
Wesley watched the tiny bubbles float to the top of his beer to form a soft creamy form. Tracking the journey of a myriad bubbles was somehow soothing, taking him out of himself, out of this city.
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear," announced a voice with an accent that wouldn't be out of place in a Guy Ritchie film. "Looks like they've dropped you right in it, my old son."
Wesley's shoulders hitched together. Every hair, every piece of skin and sinew twitched at the sound of that voice.
"Look at the state of you," the voice gloated cheerfully.
Wesley slumped forward on the bar. No, no, please no. Now he knew with absolute certainty he was the butt of a great cosmic joke. Help, he begged, and look who shows up.
The forty something chap with the dirty blond hair and razor blue eyes, not to mention the shit eating grin, slid onto the bar stool beside Wesley, still wilfully smoking a Silk Cut in the non smoking premises. He ordered a pint and sat there grinning at Wesley.
"'ello, Wes." A breathe of smoke between them, and another leer. "The Watchers must be so proud."
"Sod off, John."
"Now is that anyway to treat a fellow traveller in this barbaric land."
Wesley glared. "What do you want, John."
Constantine ground out his cigarette and lit another.
"Funny as it sounds, I'm here to help you. Your little whimper the other day created quite a ripple about the place. Feeling sorry for yourself, are you? You knew the price, Wes. You can't say that you didn't."
"I know, but...I'm not qualified...not to wield this much power...I'll fuck up big time."
"That's the general idea, I think, but I know a few tricks that'll help us get around that." He patted Wesley's shoulder. "Never fear, 'Uncle' John is here."
Wesley grimaced. Great. Fabulous.
"Still, you're looking in better shape than when I last saw you."
Wesley grimaced. New Orleans. He tried to forget. Not that he ever would.
John's hand stroked along his collar. "That's new. Still getting nocturnal visits? I'd heard you were estranged."
Wesley glared at him. "Is my personal life of such interest to everyone?"
"A Watcher shagging Angelus? What do you think?'
Wesley grimaced again and took a long pull on his beer.
"Ex Watcher," he corrected primly.
John smiled to himself. Three for three. Wesley was so easy to play. It was cruel, like teasing a dumb animal. Constantine's smile widened; and just as much fun.
John tilted Wesley's head to the side and examined the faint white scars in the dim pub light.
"Fuck with vampires and they'll always fuck you."
Wesley glowered into his beer.
"You ever killed a vampire?" he challenged.
"I've done a few in my time," John answered back, smugly.
Proud, this one, John mused. So proud and so brittle. That's what made it so much fun. Wesley was so easily hooked on his easily bruised ego. Seeing how far the little toff had fallen was fun, too. The horrors written in the blue eyes though, that wasn't quite so amusing. John was an out and out bastard, and he enjoyed playing games with people, screwing them over, fucking them more badly than he ever actually intended, and the road to hell was crazy paved with his good intentions. He hadn't meant to make Wesley part of his collateral damage, not just yet.
Damn, he was fond of the little wanker, in spite of himself. Wesley tried so hard, he was like a stupid stray at times, and now he'd come into his power, he'd be a better ally than enemy. If John didn't step in, someone else might. That could be for better or worse for Wesley, but only worse for John. He'd take his little stray, teach him a few more tricks, maybe keep him alive long enough to make him a major player, if he wasn't already.
"Ow." Wesley protested suddenly.
"Don't be such a baby. Take your mind off it."
Wesley opened another tin of beer, the fifth out of six in front of him. He was kneeling naked in a circle with John, equally naked, kneeling behind him, tattooing small symbols on the base of Wesley's spine by candle light, using only a sewing needle and some ink.
"Oh." Wesley arched his back like a cat, his eyes dark, his face lit by candle light. They were sitting together in the circle. Wesley was down on fours, John behind him, arching each time John moved. John's hands marked out sigils, tattooing them into the base of Wesley's spine.
Wesley flexed, his head resting on his folded arms, mouth pressed tight as John slowly picked out the sigils on his lower back, tattooing them into Wesley's skin. As John moved, Wesley felt John move inside him; John was inside him, hard and moving slightly as each symbol was traced out in ink. Wesley breathed out, an oddly contented expression on his face. The sensation of pleasure and pain was exquisite.
"There," John announced at last, and sat back to admire his work. A small spell, a few sigils, all grouped together rather exotically just above Wesley's arse. "That should hold the tiny bit of demon at bay. The rest of it is a bit of a handbrake, a container for your energy, and a bit of protection." He pushed Wesley forward onto his hands and knees. "Now to sign it."
"John," Wesley squeaked as he felt John press naked up against his arse, his balls stroking Wesley's cheeks.
"I've already got my demonic taint," John grinned, pushing all the way in nearly dry and raw. He grabbed Wesley's hips, pulling him back, running his hand over the still bleeding tattoo. Lovely work. He rubbed his hand over the bare white arse. Lovely.
Wesley was lying on his side, watching him. Those dark blue eyes sent a coil of lightning straight to his groin.
John was unnerved. This was not the same man he'd run into just over a year ago. He'd leant so much, so fast. John supposed he had the vampire to thank for that. Wesley's need washed over him like a wave, and reeled him in like a fish on a line. So strong, so quickly. It was true what they whispered about him, every word of it. He could be the one. He could go either way right now, still so naive and untrained, and John did not want him for an enemy.
John knelt on the bed with him. No wonder everyone was suddenly sniffing around. This was fucking mind blowing, just touching his skin.
"Use the lube," was all Wesley said to him as he rolled over and dutifully assumed the position. He was learning already. No looking, no kissing. John licked the tattoos that curled on Wesley's lower back, then tailed his tongue down in a straight line. Wesley twisted his hips, enjoying it, then suddenly pulled away.
John understood. Something private, probably with the vampire. John didn't need to see the bite marks on Wesley's neck to know those wounds were still raw. Clever, to use the vampire as a boat anchor, dragging Wesley down. Not that John was a Saint, but he did so enjoy the 'do as I say not as I do' lectures he imparted with alarming frequency to young and up and coming mages. At least he could warn Wes about some of the shit he was going to have to live through.
John woke to an empty bed. He rolled over, pulled on his shorts and found Wesley already dressed in overly snug and sexy jeans and t-shirt. This boy was working out and he filled out both now very nicely. As he bent to coax the gas stove on, his t-shirt hitched up at the back, revealing those little sigils.
John ran a hand over them, feeling the warm and silky skin and the power beneath. It was a pleasure for both of them, just the briefest touch.
Wesley swore, threw the lighter away and ignited the gas with a glare.
"Why do you even bother with the lighter?"
Wesley shrugged, setting the kettle to boil. "Habit, I guess, and it's only recently I had enough control to guarantee I wouldn't take out the whole block with a stunt like that."
"Fuck," John acknowledged.
"With great power comes enormous opportunity to really fuck up," Wesley trailed off in that prim voice of his, looking for the second box of tea bags, PG Tips, for John. Wesley caught John's expression, wondering how exactly Wesley knew how he liked his tea.
"No, it really is just an old fashioned trick. I researched you. I'm afraid that was no more magic than the old guess who's watch this is trick. Just preparation, nothing more."
John distracted him, brushing his throat softly, turning his head gently to the light.
"That is very recent. Ex boyfriend troubles?"
"The other night. He... do you know any sure fire vampire repellents? Mine seem to be...easily breeched in moments of weakness."
"Just say the word."
"Please?"
Those eyes. That was the word.
John stubbed out his cigarette and drew a sigil for Wesley on his notepad.
"Is that it?"
"Yeah. It'll stop just about anything."
"But now you know how to get in."
"Yeah, but I'm on your side, Kid," John grinned, lighting up another Silkcut off the stove.
Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Wesley handed John his tea, hoping that would distract him. Like hell. His nervousness was like candy to John.
"So, to what do I owe the honour of this visit? Are you really here to help? To show me the way? Set me on my path? If I can take the pebble from your palm, I've passed the test?"
John grinned, saying nothing.
Wesley arched an eyebrow. "You know for a Scouse bastard you can be amazingly cryptic. I thought Northern Men liked to be direct."
John was still smiling.
Wesley leant back against his kitchen counter.
"So what can you teach me, John? How to cheat at cards? How to choose the wrong friends?"
John said nothing. That was a low blow and they both knew it.
"So, what's my quest, John?"
"You know it already."
Wesley suddenly looked at him. "No." Then: "No. No way. It can't be. It never could. Especially now. I'm not only a failure, I'm corrupt. Tainted. I carry the blood of a demon."
"So did Merlin."
Wesley shook his head vigorously. "Oh no. Don't compare me to him. You can't."
"It's not me you have to worry about. I'm not the only one who thinks it and you know it."
"Oh, John, please tell me you haven't been talking about me. I'm a failed Watcher. I'm nobody."
"You can't hide under a rock forever."
"I can bloody well try."
John caught Wesley's hand for a second, turning over his palm, before Wesley snatched his hand back.
"The sun cross," John accused, knowing the symbol that had been scarred into Wesley's palm.
"So you've already been chosen."
Wesley shrugged it off.
"I fought a shadow demon. It was nothing."
"You were crucified."
Wesley's face grew hard. "That's none of your business."
"It bloody well is. It's the crux of my business. And yours. You wear the sign of Odin, you were pinned to a tree."
'Bad luck. Bad choices. Coincidence."
"Wesley - "
Blue eyes met his.
"What if I don't want to be chosen?"
"I don't think you have a choice, my son."
Wesley turned away, swearing under his breath.
"Not what you wanted to hear?"
"No," Wesley admitted.
Wesley watched as John tapped the air bubbles out of the needle, though Wesley wasn't adverse to going out on an embolism right about now.
John leant close. "Are you sure about this?"
"Yes, intravenous is quicker than ingestion."
"I meant about doing this. You've got some serious crap here, Wes. A right nasty little cocktail of psychotropics. You might not come back."
"Does it matter?"
"You might be more use to the world sane than insane."
"Settle for half and half?"
Wes..."
"I absolve you of all responsibility. Now, do it."
John stuck the needle deep in Wesley's arm and pushed the plunger home. He pulled the needle free, pressing his thumb over the bleeding prick mark. A second later Wesley's eyes rolled back into his head. Then he arched up, jerking in spasms.
"Oh, shit." John climbed on the bed, fighting to hold Wesley down.
The visions flashed in Wesley's head, so fast and furious. They spun him around and kicked his feet out from under him, like being flung about in heavy turbulence, trying to understand a fleeting memory. Every time he read from an image it darted away and he fell forward. He wanted to be sick. It just rolled on and on and on and over him, unrelenting blasts of sound and colour like a Baz Lurhman film. He was spun and dazed and he couldn't understand. The images flashed faster and faster, repeating in a nauseating insistent chain like a fever dream. This meant something but he couldn't grasp it.
A sword. An arrow. A grove. Stones. Men dying. Blood dripping into a bowl. Antlers and marshes and men being strangled. Bloody weapons thrown into water. Blood painted onto trees. The howl of wolves. The flights of eagles. Walking into mist shrouded hills. Walking on old, old paths. Stone circles moving, spinning, or was it just him. Falling down, his blood on the grass. The arrow piercing him again and again. The feel of Angel's blood, mixing with his. An oddly familiar burn that spread through him. He could see the wind in the trees, hear the call of the birds, the cries of seals in deep water. He could see, he could see, it was there, buried deep in the earth, buried and waiting. The feel of fur and feathers against his face, the feel of paint and blood. The weight of his sword in his hand. The smell of the darkness. The smokiness of caves. The feel of power, of a secret place. The words in his head. The calling.
"No!" He woke with a start.
"What did you see?"
"Home," he answered simply.
"You're needed."
"I can't. I have a job here."
"Did he speak to you, the old one?"
Wesley remembered, standing in the stinking darkness, half blind, feeling the ancient power.
"Yes, but I've forgotten," he lied. "I've forgotten."
Wesley stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling.
"You're trembling." John ran a finger down a twitching limb. "What did you see?" he pressed.
"Stuff. Quests."
"Not the quest you thought you were meant to be on?"
Wesley closed his eyes for a moment. No, obviously not. Nothing worse than asking for guidance and being shown another direction entirely.
John felt Wesley's eyes on him.
"Wes?"
Wesley's hand covered his.
"Wes?"
Wesley sat up, eyes alarmingly dark.
"Two powerful, demon tainted mages - imagine the magic we could make."
"Wes, old son, you're still high."
"So much the better."
John tried to break eye contact with Wesley, but he couldn't. He was a scrawny little prick, and yet, there was a gravitational pull that even had Angelus in orbit. What the hell, it could be interesting.
"This has been a very strange day..." John started but was cut short when Wesley kissed him.
"Shut up. I want to fuck your brains out," Wesley insisted.
John didn't say another word.
Cordelia slapped Gunn's hand away from the phone.
"Don't you dare. Wesley said he had a friend visiting." She gave him a look of meaning. "We can handle it."
Gunn gave her a look.
"Fine, you want to interrupt Wesley?"
Gunn shook his head emphatically. He stood, feeling himself beginning to break out in a sweat. Cordelia could feel heat coiling down her spine, but shook it off.
John rolled Wesley over, kissing him with the need of a long dry spell breaking. He was rough and Wesley liked it.
John's hands were on his hips, his thighs, his arse. John's tongue was gouging the grand Canyon in the slit in Wesley's cockhead and sucked it dry. Wesley's fingers were digging in his scalp, demanding more.
Angel closed his eyes and remembered the taste of Wesley spurting hot and salty in his mouth. There was a hollow clatter as the knife crashed through a pile of ancient pots and pans. He opened his eyes and tried again, hitting the wall this time at least. He pulled the knife free of the plaster. Cleaning the blade against his trousers, uncaring of the white smear he left.
The taste of Wesley's hot mouth under his own...crash. He snatched up and threw the third knife, landing just outside the target.
Wesley lay sulking on the couch, watching John pace his apartment, taking an inventory, like a school head making an inspection, clucking approval or disapproval.
"No photos of your man then?" John asked, noticing the distinct lack of personal items, wondering if Wesley was overly cautious or just mean with collecting private mementos.
Wesley pouted on the couch.
John laughed.
"Wes, in our game you're going to have to learn there's sex for magic, sex for payment, sex for need and sex for love. Your Colin, you do him for pleasure. You and me, strictly business. I'm not looking to marry you, love."
Wesley still pouted. He wasn't entirely sure whether that made him happy or not.
"You don't draw a line between work and play, Wes, you'll fuck yourself up, if you haven't already," John noted pointedly.
It was a reference to Angel, and maybe Gunn. Damn, did everyone know. Wesley knew he was a slut, but the need...
"Tools of the trade, Wes. You use what you've got, what you have to. We are the oldest profession, after all."
That didn't help either, no matter how correct the bastard was. Wesley had been brought up to...to what? Repress his true nature? John was right. They'd wound him so tight it was no wonder he was spinning out of control so badly.
"You're still pretty squeamish about everything, aren't? you" John observed, popping open a small carved wooden box to see what it contained. Matches, thread, scissors, all rather innocuous.
"I've only been practising for about eighteen months. Freelance that is. Before in the Council, well, it was all so schooled, and in Sunnydale, well, I wasn't needed. I'm one of the chosen and I've only been learning on the job for less than two years. Isn't that so funny. I told you, I have no idea what I'm doing."
John snapped the box shut. "You will. You'll loose that revulsion. You'll do what you have to and you'll learn not to care, or you'll go insane. Trust me, I know. You'll get hard and you'll get bitter and you'll be alone. That's the price you pay for your magic. You won't be able to trust any one but yourself, and you won't want to risk any one but yourself, either. Not after the first dozen deaths, anyway. You'll fuck up, Wes, it happens, and they'll burn. Even if you get really good, you'll be dangerous, and your friends will pay the price. It's always the price we have to pay. How much have you lost so far?"
Wesley's face was his answer, he didn't need what he'd heard.
"This Colin of yours, trust him?"
"Yes."
"Does he trust you? Going to strange places, fucking strange people, fucking strange people showing up at your door...how do you think he'll cope?"
"Just because you're a sad lonely bastard..."
"Doesn't mean you'll be one. Wes, you wrote the book on sad lonely bastards. Colin might stay for a while, but he won't stay forever. It's not a path two can travel on. If you take my advice, you'll send him away before he gets disappointed, dead, or worse."
"It won't be like that," Wesley insisted through gritted teeth.
"Fine, tell him about young Gunn then, see how well he understands. That is if he doesn't know already," he indicated the rune carved into Wesley's chest.
Wesley pouted angrily like a child.
John flipped through a book.
"Try and keep him then, but don't come crying to me if he gets tossed out a window by the first demon who comes calling when you're not home."
The phone interrupted them.
"Hello, Cordelia," Wesley sighed. "Yes, I'm alive. Yes, I know what time it is, it's two in the afternoon. No, I won't be coming in today, or maybe tomorrow. I've got a friend from England visiting. " He scowled suddenly. "He stayed on the couch. All night," he lied. He turned away from John. "Cordy, don't, now isn't the time. I'm fine. I just want to catch up with my friend, that's all. I'll see you later. I promise." He turned back and made a face at John.
"She's worried." John was amused.
"If she knew who you were, she would be. She'd be over here with a baseball bat without any detours. She might yet." Wesley smiled to himself. "We're family," he explained. "She's very protective." That little smile. And didn't the bastard just like it that way, John thought.
Wesley's smile faded. The bastard was still sulking.
"What do you want, Wes? Advanced magic 101? It doesn't work that way. You learn through experience, like with everything else. I'm just here to offer you advice."
"And that would be?" Wesley arched an eyebrow.
"Follow your heart."
Blue eyes contracted.
"Oh no. No, no, no." Wesley waved his hands in defence. "That way lies badness." In his panic, he adopted Cordelia-speak. "My heart has already led me down some dark blind alleys. It has no idea what it's doing. It's a bad, bad thing."
"No, it's not. Angel brought you here."
"Yes."
"Is it so bad? You know who you are, who you could be."
'No," Wesley shook his head. "You're wrong."
"Am I? Want me to shave that head of yours and take another look at that weird little tattoo you've got there."
Wesley shook his head. It wasn't 666 at least, but he'd been surprised to see it, that night, drunk and mad with grief. He'd shaved his head and burnt most of his belongings and set out on the road. Another moment of truth was fast approaching. He could feel it. He feared it.
John could see that fear.
"You could use a drink."
Wesley glanced up. "This early?"
"Just in bloody time, I would have thought," John disagreed.
Wesley stood, cast impossibly handsome and seductive under the lights, crooning Blue Bayou very credibly. Now Angel was gone Wesley's confidence and self possession had blossomed and he held the light, lost in his own world, and every eye in the place was drawn to him.
"Shame about the vampire," mused the Host over an impossibly fruity and fluffy cocktail that sprouted so many umbrellas, straws, toothpick skewered fruit and swizzle sticks it could be considered a lethal weapon in its own right. "Of course, we all hoped for the best, but you just knew it wasn't going to last. Big dumb ox, gorgeous as hell, but too wrapped up to see the good thing he had when he had it." The Host sighed. "Of course, I was going to make my move on the boy, then you blow into town." He looked at John suddenly and directly. "You hurt one hair on his head John, and I'll kill you myself," the Host threatened quietly, then smiled and returned to gazing at the stage. "Oh, blue is right. Blue, blue, blue, my sweet little boy." He smiled sadly. "Thursday's child has far to go, and it's going to be a hard, hard path. You look after him John. You and that cute little Scottish bit he found. He'll need all the help he can get."
"Is he the one?"
The Host turned and gave John a calculating look, sizing him up. "Playing the odds again, are we? No one can say for sure, but he can be a great one, he has the potential, in spades, baby. Oh yes, he's golden. He might be, that's all I can say. The cards are stacked against him though. He's taken a few blows already. I'd help him, John, for your karma as much as his. Ease him through the rough patches and you might yet see him flower." The Host sipped his drink. "Oh yes, I'd like to see him open up like a flower. Wouldn't that just be something to see?"
John felt his trousers hitch. Yes, it would, he thought, remembering the heat and taste of Wesley beneath him. He looked up at Wesley on the stage, bathed in blue and golden light, eyes closed, singing, long delicate fingers wrapped around the microphone. Fuck. John tried to look anywhere but at Wesley, but he couldn't. Fuck, surely he was too old and too cynical for all this. Fuck, it was just magic, right? Earth magic, squeezing his balls and twisting in his gut and making his heart kick for a second over a skinny English geek banging out a hackneyed tune John would not normally waste spit on. It was the booze and the fags and the magic and nothing else and John just wanted the Whitsun owing him. That's all it was.
The Host just smiled at him and said nothing. The whole room was under Wesley's spell. What made John think he was special?
John took another hard swallow of his tequila.
"Oh dear. Like that is it, honey? Got under your skin, did he? I wish he'd gotten under mine, but never mind. Seriously, what were you thinking, John. Or weren't you even thinking at all? He's out of your league. Not the usual gutter dwellers you run with."
"You don't know him. He's dangerous enough. He's got a dark side."
"Oh, do tell," squirmed the Host, stopping only when John gave him a look.
"He's been burned, John, but not too badly, not yet. You leave him alone. I think the burning is another one's job, don't you?"
COLIN
The passengers streamed past Wesley in an anonymous, uncaring flow.
Colin was there. Wesley walked up to him and they stood there, grinning stupidly at each other, lost for words. Wesley caressed Colin's stubbled cheek for a second, then turned away, leading on with the shrug of one shoulder.
"This way. I think I parked the bike illegally, but it's close."
"Wes," Colin spoke.
"Yeah," Wesley agreed, smiling.
It was all that needed to be said, for the moment. It was enough.
Wesley pulled off into the beach car park and cut the engine, feeling the bike settle between his thighs.
"Uh, Wes, is this the long way home or is there something you want to tell me about your living arrangements?"
Wesley pulled his helmet off, twisted around and smiled softly.
"No, nothing like that. I just wanted to watch the dawn come up, with you."
His face was so gentle, so ready to be pleased. Who could resist?
They sat lazily on the cold sand together, leaning against Colin's large and crammed to bursting back pack, watching the cream topped waves roll in and out as the sky lightened. At first only the white tops of the waves could be seen. Then the sky cast everything in soft greys, blues and lavenders. Now sky, ocean and sand were tinged with rose and bronze.
A sea breeze ruffled their hair. Wesley's thumb stroked Colin's hand, held between his own. He turned to Colin, but Colin shook his head. Don’t say it. Not yet.
Wesley studied him, understanding lightening those eyes, the colour of the sky a short while ago.
"I'm here for you Wes. I'll help you. I'm not going anywhere."
"I love you," Wesley murmured and reached across, kissing him, caressing his cheek with his thumb.
The kiss sparked the fires and he pressed Colin down into the sand, laughing. Colin rolled him over onto his back. Wesley's hips rubbed up against his.
"Wes, in a public place?"
"Trust me," Wesley grinned. "This won't take long."
They pulled zippers open, kissed hungrily and jerked each other into a sticky wet mess, laughing.
"Oh god, I've missed you," Wesley declared happily, kneeling up, tidying himself, just a little.
Colin just lay there on the sand, smiling and watching him, framed against the ocean.
"You're gorgeous, you know," he announced at last.
Wesley blushed sweetly, his cheeks matching the rose coloured dawn.
Colin grabbed Wesley's wrists and dragged him up until they were kneeling together in the sand, the wind ruffling them softly again.
"I, Colin James McDonald…"
"No." Wesley sealed his lips with one fingertip. "Don't say it. Please," he begged softly. "I can't bear it. I love you so much, but I can't do this. I can't do this to you. Where I have to go, you can't follow."
"I want to."
"I know," Wesley regarded him sadly. "But I can't. I won't do that to you. I love you. I can't...I won't lose you."
"So you lose me know? You're sending me away?"
Wesley bowed his head. "It's easier this way. At least this way I know you're safe."
"Yeah, right. Did it feel safe and better when Angel told you to get out of his life?"
"Don't."
"Don't what? Tell you the truth? I love you. I will gladly die for you. Take me with you and I can save you."
"No." Wesley's mind was made up. "I can't do this. I can't do this to you."
"So this is it?"
Colin saw the desperate need in Wesley's eyes; the pain, the guilt and the loneliness and the fear.
No, he realised, Wesley had already chosen.
"No you don't. I know what you're going to say and no. It's complete bollocks Wes. I know who you are and I know what you are. I know what you do for a living. I know what your friends do for a living. I know what you were trained to do and I know what they did to you. I know you had your heart broken into a million pieces by a jealous, psychotic vampire ex boyfriend. I know you're one of the chosen. I know that you don't have to go through this alone.
"Colin -" Wesley's voice broke. The long held tears broke.
"Ssh," Colin soothed him, kissing the tears. Colin stroked his cheek. "It's not enough, is it. You have a destiny and I don't think I belong in it. Maybe, one day, our paths will meet."
Slowly, he let Wesley slip away from him.
"Come find me when you're ready," Colin stroked Wesley's cheek, then let his hand fall away as he stood.
His eyes held Wesley's. "I will always love you and you will always have a place in my heart, but I can see it's just not meant to be, not now." He stood slowly, shouldering his backpack.
"Alright, I'll go. For now. I'll always love you, Wes. You'll never be completely alone, and if you need me, just call."
"I remember. I'll whistle. I'll just put my lips together and blow, " Wesley promised, trying to smile.
"Damn world," Colin agreed. "It was too much to hope for, that we'd matter."
"We do," Wesley spoke softly.
"I'll send you postcards, I promise. Maybe one day, Wes, you'll be mine. Someday. You have things to do. Great things. I know that, I do."
Wesley just watched him.
"Be seeing you," Colin bade him, then turned and slowly walked away across the sand.
Wesley just hunched forward, resting his head on his knees, unable to look at anything, rigidly holding back the tears.
Colin glanced back once at the tight, hunched over back, then kept walking. What else could he do?
The waves hissed halfway up the beach, and still Wesley would not look up. His eyes were rimmed with unshed tears, blurring everything about him, and he didn't want to se. He just sat, huddled over, his head bowed, all alone.