Behind the Eyes
by Te
November 2000

Disclaimers: If they belonged to me, I'd probably just sit and stare
dreamily every now and again.

Spoilers: Not a one, actually.

Summary: Angel is waiting at Wesley's place.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: The Spike wants A/W? The Spike gets A/W. Heh.
The Te has listened to "3 Libras" just once too often...

Acknowledgments: To my Webrain, of course, and also to Sheila for
audiencing and providing lovely fic in counterpoint.

Feedback: Please baby baby please.


There is no doubt that Wesley's been waiting for this. His behavior
has been, at best, pathetic, and he knows that very well. Longing looks,
far more casual touches than strictly necessary, and the general lack of
control that has meant he's been broadcasting his arousal to anyone with
a decent sense of smell nearly every day. Only when someone else was in
grave danger has he been able to... restrain himself.

And so it's no surprise to find Angel waiting for him outside his flat.
This is no business for the hotel, thank God. Wesley doesn't fear for his
position so much as for his pride.


He doesn't look up for a long moment, a slump somewhere between casual
and exhaustion distorting the lines of his body. Even now, even now
Wesley cannot help but stare, photograph with his mind, store for later.
After this. When he'll need to forget. Wesley waits patiently, half-
consciously cupping his keys with his hand so that they won't jingle.

Heaven forbid the moment is ruined.

Angel looking up is a brief moment of pure gravitational pull, yes, Wesley
must stare into his eyes again, some misguided instinct to be honest to a
fault with the man.


Opening his mouth, scrabbling to find words, because that tone. Low,
menacingly hungry... beyond the fact that the man is a vampire, but before
he can get anything besides a small, random vowel sound out Angel's hand
is covering his mouth and Wesley is hard.

Just like that, a dizzymaking relocation of blood, cool and calloused hand
pressing lightly against his lips and his eyes are closing, and his knees
want to buckle, and he wants to laugh. Was he worried for his pride? He
ought to be worried about the knees of his trousers, the stains in his

The possibility that his tongue will *not* stay still, and instead trace
the whorls of Angel's fingerprints.

"Invite me in."

"Yes. Come in." Stammer swallowed back, the barest trace of Angel's
finger over his upper lip, and then the pressure is gone, leaving him
aching to follow, and barely holding himself back.

Turns to the door, every hair from nape to the base of his spine standing
at attention, waiting for a touch that doesn't come. Inside, and unable to
turn around. He can sense Angel behind him, or perhaps just the precise
shape of the air he would inhabit.

"Can I... I have some blood. J-just in. Case."

"What if I want yours?"

"I..." Braces his leg against the coffee table, the only support within
reach. As much because of the words as because of the fact they were

Angel is here, inside his apartment.

Click of the latch catching behind them. "What if I want to bury my fangs
inside your throat and drain. You. Dry." Angel is close, only a thin layer
of air between his mouth and Wesley's ear and.

"I don't want to die."

"Would you be my mate, then? Let me turn you, set you loose on the

"You'd stake me."

"Funny how Drusilla and Spike are still alive...."


"Dull." Hands on his waist now, Angel's head resting on his shoulder.
Conversational growl: "I don't think you'd be a dull vampire, Wesley."

"Angel, what --"

"I'm just wondering, Wes..."

Angel's hands matter-of-factly undoing his belt, unzipping his pants and
oh, God, icy against him, still so hard. Harder.  Riding him through the
thin cotton of his shorts.

"I want to know what I can expect from you."

"I... I don't understand..." Bucking into that hand, Angel straightening,
pulling Wesley back against his own erection.

Angel grinding a little, push-pushing. "You *want* me, Wes, isn't that

"Yes, oh, please --"

"Please what, hmm? What part of the vampire do you want? Or do you
want the man? Because I'm not sure I can keep *that* one up --"

Clarity in a flash, melting quickly to the cock against his ass, the hand
stroking him, pressing and squeezing and "you're punishing me for
wanting you."

Other hand roving over Wesley's chest, short nails through cloth over
his nipples, buttons undone with ridiculous ease. "Am I?"

"Answer your own... oh. Oh, God answer your own question."

"I'd rather have you, Wesley. Every way I can... so where will you draw
the line, hmm? Give me a limit."

Mouthing at his neck now and Wesley can't keep his eyes open, he's
leaking pre-come steadily and Angel has him truly in hand, now, and Angel
is perhaps the only thing keeping him upright. Impossibly strong, and his
touch is everything and his touch is *wrong*.

"Speak up, I'm getting impatient."

"Don't... don't turn me."

"What about killing, hmmm? How do you feel about that? Come and die at
the same moment... I've heard it's wonderful."

"I don't want to have to ask you not to kill me."

"And I don't want to *want* you, Wes, but you can't help the way you
smell, can you?"

"Angel, please..."

Spun around, and eye to blazing eye. Angel isn't in game face. Yet. Teeth
gritted and nostrils flaring. Slowly, like stone on stone, "I'm going to
take your blood. And I'm going to fuck you."

And the only thing Wesley can do is lean forward, do his best to beat
back the tremble, and kiss Angel gently. He doesn't respond, and Wesley
makes love to the still mouth with his own, holding, caressing Angel's face
with his hands and kissing, licking and sucking and moaning his need. Cock
arching toward his belly, brushing and brushing against the light weave of
Angel's trousers.

Lightning when Angel does respond, shaking off his hands and pulling
Wesley in closer, maddening chafe on his cock, wide, slick tongue in his
mouth. Cool and Wesley wants to warm it, suck it, hold it in and let it fuck
his mouth and he knows he's moving against Angel now. Helpless, sluttish,
rubbing himself on Angel's body and... angry.

Definitely angry, because it *is* punishment and he *doesn't* deserve it.
No matter how much his body wants it. Inside elevator drop of terror,
need, and revelation. But this is not the place to explore these feelings,
and this.

Is not the man.

No matter how good it feels. No matter that he's letting himself be
guided to the bed, half thrown down. Unbuttoned and tugged and sweaty
and spread.

Angel at Wesley's groin, holding his cock steady and licking at him. Sucking
kisses and fast teases and that beautiful face until Wesley is almost
there and oh, so close and trying to hold back and it feels like everything
he is will leave him through his cock if Angel doesn't. If he won't --

Loss of contact, relief and screaming agony and Angel is staring at him.
Game face, tongue almost lolling.

Making sure he has Wesley's attention before turning to the vein in his
thigh and Wesley gathers a breath.

"I will hate you for this."

A heartbeat's hesitation and then *pain*. Impossible to duck and so
Wesley rides it, lets it become that ice burn of blood loss along with the
puncture wound and Angel is sucking at him and Angel is jerking his cock
and Angel is... humming.

Low tenor whine, buzzed against Wesley's skin and the breakaway feels
like an amputation, necessary torture and he bites back a scream. Falling
back toward the pillow even as he comes, arching weakly and terrified of
the warm wet of his thigh.

Silence, followed by the creak of the bed as Angel stands. Wesley keeps
his eyes closed, and does not grit his teeth at the sound of footsteps,
either going or coming.

Angel at his thigh again, this time with antibiotic spray, bandage, and

How very fucking solicitous.

"It will stop bleeding soon." And Angel's voice is. Off, and Wesley has
to look. There'd been no chance to remove his glasses, after all. Angel is
hovering at the foot of the bed, working a twist of tape between his
fingers. Not looking at Wesley.

"Look at me."



"Don't. Don't leave, Wesley. We need you."

"Well, I can hardly leave when I haven't been fucked yet, can I? Isn't
that what you said, Angel? *Look* at me."

Angel turns, finally, and his expression isn't static. Rushing between lust
and shame, rage and fear. And utter, blank emptiness beneath it all.

Just emptiness.

And Wesley has to smile. Laugh, too, but he can hold that back. Oh yes,
he can.

"Get out."

And Angel does.

And Wesley prods gently at the bandaged wound, and whispers the spell
to revoke invitations. Not really breathing until it's complete.