Wesley watches a slender black spider slink, gracefully, across his desk. Its legs are like that of a ballerina – elegant, precise. Feather-light.
Like the way Angelus kisses the back of his neck.
That shiver-quiver sensation, like a fingernail tracing the upward curve of his spine.
“I’m going to kill you,” Angelus says, and Wesley sighs.
“I know.” Quietly. Not quite forgiving, but… resolved. “I don’t suppose you’ll be quick about it?”
“Where would be the fun in that?” Angelus smirks, scraping his fangs gently over the nape of Wes’s neck.
“You could at least spare me the predictable taunts.” He turns his head. “I won’t be much fun for you, I’m afraid.”
Angelus’ powerful hands are now sliding down his arms possessively, rubbing up his chest, smoothing and stretching his sweater beyond recognition. The spider has frozen on the table, trepid.
“Why’s that, Wes?”
The air in the room is heavy, musty. The hotel is permanently saturated in gloom. Angelus can surely sense his struggle to breathe. “I don’t really mind dying.”
“I see. That does put a bit of a damper on it.” Angelus moves like a cat, sliding up against his forearm, sitting on the edge of the desk. “What’s got the Watcher so depressed, I’m wondering?”
Wesley says nothing. He just grips the arms of the chair.
“I mean, aside from the fact that your life is utterly pathetic and Angel doesn’t love you?”
He winces. Can’t help it. Disappointing, really. He thought his father had done everything possible in helping him create the ultimate poker face. But there is no self-control where Angel was concerned. Only cracked armor and bruised pride.
“I thought I’d asked you to spare me the predictable taunts?” He gives a lopsided smile. “Can’t you do any better than that?”
Angelus studies him. Trails a forefinger up and down his cheek until he shudders. “There’s no accounting for his tastes. I mean, Manilow; what is that?”
Wesley snorts. “True.”
“You’re pretty enough, Watcher. And certainly not out of the scope of his interest…” Angelus leans closer, whispering in his ear, “In point of fact, I think the only reason he doesn’t touch you is because he doesn’t want to break you. Now isn’t that sweet?”
So close. Smells the same. Feels the same. Everything there but the soul, and even its absence Wesley could learn to crave. He shuts his eyes and tilts his head back, offering his throat. But the vampire doesn’t bite – oh no – he kisses. He laves. He sucks, hotly. Until Wesley can only moan and hate himself for his desire, which knots, tightens, makes everything seem taut.
This is a kind of torture he inherently recognizes. He is almost grateful….
“You smell like coffee and desperation, Wesley. Tell me you want me.”
The front door clatters open – Cordy and Gunn are back from patrol – oh God, no. Wesley’s eyes snap open. Angelus will make him watch.
A tiny smile — feral — the mask of an angel, while Angelus strikes out and squishes the spider between the desk and his open palm. He wipes his hands on one of Wesley’s texts. Then he brushes his lips over Wesley’s chin and mouths, “Another time.” A flick, a flash, and Angelus is gone.
Wesley is still gripping the chair’s arms when Cordy and Gunn get to him.