'Watching, Waiting, Anticipating' Part Five Faith/Wesley

[janedavitt]

It's been a long time since I wrote this... This is dedicated to lovesbitca and it was going to be the last chapter but obviously it's not going to be because Something Happened right at the end :;headdesk::.

The set up is that after Wesley found out about the mindwipe he left L.A. and took Faith to New York to train her. I can't be bothered (yes, I know, bad me) to work out the timeline but let's say with Wesley gone, things went differently - as they would've done - and rather than all being wiped out in a blaze of glory/idiocy whatever, Angel and co are still slogging away at Wolfram & Hart, keeping their heads barely above water. Meanwhile Faith is frustrated beyond words as Wesley's brooding and control over her life leave her feeling, well, frustrated. Part Four ended with Faith recuperating after being attacked on patrol, with Wesley sleeping beside her.



Previous parts here



Watching, Waiting, Anticipating

Part Five

As soon as her hand strokes anxiously along his face, fingers clumsy because she's just not so used to this kind of touch, he wakes, the noises cutting off abruptly. They stare at each other, and has she ever been this close to him for this long? Because even in the shadow-dark room, she's seeing details, filling in the lines of the stick-figure she's drawn and labelled 'Wes'. Like, his eyes are blue, yeah, sure, but the fringe of lash around them adds two shades of grey to the mix, and there's a dent in his chin she wants to press her thumb against and –

"Stop staring at me," he whispers, but the note of command's left his voice and she smiles and carries on looking until he sighs and closes his eyes in defeat, ceding her the ground.

"You gonna try and leave now you're awake, Wes?"

"I might," he says without opening his eyes. "If I did you'd hardly be able to prevent me, would you?"

She slips her hand down his arm and locks her fingers around his thin, strong wrist.

"Wouldn't count on that. Slayer, remember? I'm feeling almost back to normal now."

He tugs, as though he's testing her claim and smiles slightly when her grip tightens possessively. "As your Watcher, your health is a primary concern. I wouldn't want you to over-tax yourself unnecessarily."

"That your way of telling me you're going to get under the covers now?" she asks archly.

His eyes open again and he looks at her with a frown. "No."

"Fine," she says with a frustrated growl. "Fine, Wes. Just fucking –"

"If you say 'fine' again, I'll yawn. And then I'll most likely fall asleep," he warns her.

She props herself up on one elbow and gives him a glittering, dangerous smile. "Go right ahead, Wes. Promise I won't take advantage of you."

"Could you at least try to make that sound believable?" he asks.

"What's the point?"

"Flattering though it is to know that you're so desperate to be fucked that even I'll do –" he begins.

"What? Wes, that's either the most blatant fish for compliments ever or you're insane." She purses her lips. "Lots of girls go for the moody, miserable, mopey type. Really."

"Really," he echoes dryly. "Thank you for that concise, admirably accurate summation, Faith."

"Well, it's true," she tells him. "You're pissed at Angel – no, don't look away and don't even fucking think about running away – but it's been a while now. Get over it."

"I can't," he says stiffly and then he melts, just a little, just enough and he reaches out and touches her face with the tips of his fingers. "Your concern, well, it's unexpected and I'm grateful, but –"

"You know what," she interrupts, feeling the fuse attached to her temper start to fizz and burn in a soft explosion of heat, "you know fuck-all, Wesley. You want tragic? Welcome to my life. And it's probably gonna be a short one, the way things are, so why you think I wanna waste it in mourning the way things aren't like they ought to be, I don't know."

He frowns as if he's trying to work that out and she waits for three long seconds before giving up. With a scissoring kick of her legs that makes her lips tighten with pain, she jumps off the bed, flicks on the light, and makes it to a chest in the corner loaded up with stuff she keeps meaning to sort through and never does. Holy water... does that ever go off, she wonders? Hell of a note if it does and there's no expiry date on the bottle – stakes that need sharpening and sanding down, because the last thing a girl wants is a splinter and, oh yeah. Those.

She dangles the cuffs in front of him with her eyes on his face. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

He's sounding bored but there's a catch in his breathing that gives him away.

"Use them or wear them, Wes. Your choice."

"Why do we need them at all?" he asks, never taking his eyes off them as they swing from side to side.

She sighs. "Something tells me neither of us is all that much of a vanilla fan."

"Possibly not," Wesley allows, "but even so I've no interest in ever being at your mercy again, Faith." He sounds pretty calm, all things considered. "As I recall, you have none..." She doesn't look away. It wasn't fair to bring that up, but like she's going to tell him that.... "And although I can't say the sight of you naked and cuffed to the bed wouldn't be aesthetically pleasing –"

"What the fuck does that mean?" she snaps, growling with frustration as he takes the cuffs from her and tosses them off the bed so that they land with a clink on the carpet. "Good enough to jerk off to?"

"More or less," he says agreeably. "But one of my goals as your Watcher is to make sure you're never helpless, Faith, and it goes against the grain to render you so."

"Fine," she says, "so how do you want to play this?"

The bastard gives her a smile, all closed-lips and frostily twinkling eyes and sits cross-legged in front of her, still wearing jeans, still bare-chested. She's naked, which means as she gives a long-suffering sigh and copies him, he gets an eyeful, but like she cares. Besides, is he even looking at her snatch? Not likely.

"Play? Have you forgotten that this is supposed to be part of your training?"

And he can pretend that all he wants, but if he doesn't fuck her soon, she'll be doing her best impression of a staked vampire because she's this close to exploding. She opens her mouth to tell him that and he stands up and slides off his jeans without a flicker of self-consciousness.

"Get in bed, please," he tells her.

"What? Under the covers?"

"Discipline sadly lacking, I see," he murmurs. "Faith, when I give you an order, even when I phrase it as a polite request, I expect it to be obeyed."

Only Wes can lecture her with his dick out, hard and twitching with every word, and have her eyes locked on his face because she can't look away from that taut, tight tension around his eyes and mouth. God, does he ever relax?

"Fine," she mutters, sliding in between the sheets. "I'm all tucked up. Now what?"

The light clicks off and they're in the dark.

"Uh, Wes..."

The bed shifts and he gets in beside her, which is all that stops her from starting to complain really loudly.

"I find I'm in the mood for vanilla, Faith," he says solemnly. "There's something novel about the idea, although, contrary to what you might think, most of my... encounters have been fairly –" He pauses, searching for the right word, and his hand slides over her shoulder in a slow sweep as he thinks. "Normal?" he offers eventually.

"Never had normal," she says. "Don't know if it exists."

"Oh, it does," he tells her. "It's simply whatever you usually do." His hand comes to cup her breast and he smiles through the darkness at her. "But if we're going with the more common definition..."

She shuts him up with a kiss, slamming her mouth against his, all hot and hungry and wet, and he lies there and waits patiently for her to realise that he's not kissing her back.

With one final, despairing swipe of her tongue against his, she pulls back. "Takes two, Wes."

"Are you always in such a rush?" he asks snidely. "Really, Faith. Lie back, please and don't be so precipitate."

"I don't know what you want me to do," she grits out, rolling onto her back and lying stiff and angry, staring up at him as he looms over her. "Getting all kinds of mixed fucking signals here."

'Then you're not paying attention," he tells her. His hand slips around her wrist and he brings her hand to his cock, letting her feel that he's hard. Like she doesn't know that already; he's in bed with her, and they're naked; if he hadn't been, she'd have started to worry.

"Can't we just fuck?" she begs, whimpering slightly as her hand's pushed away. "Nice, normal, two minute fuck? Get it out of your system and then we can do it properly?"

"You mean your way?" he says dryly. "Faith on top, lots of squirming, excessive repetitions of the words, 'fuck', 'yes' and 'Wes, you animal?'"

There's a pause while she adjusts her world view to include a Wesley who can make her giggle and then she gives him a fairly gentle punch in the ribs. "Gotta earn that last bit, Wes," she hisses. "So far, I'm not feeling inclined to flex a finger, let alone squirm and wriggle."

"I think we can do something about that," he says. "This is training after all and it's important that you're physically... challenged, heartbeat elevated all that sort of thing. But all in good time. Let's warm you up first."

Screaming 'whatever' and rolling her eyes isn't going to go down well she guesses, even assuming he can see her in the murky darkness, so she settles for a bitten-off, impatient sigh and gets what he probably thinks is a reward in the form of a single fingertip dragged slowly across her nipple. It hardens, but she's starting to feel the crawly-ants jitter of frustration under her skin. She's not good at this. Not good at slow, not good at waiting. She's conditioned to have her tits grabbed, squeezed, pawed at and she's aching for more than Wesley's careful, curious exploration.

"Why is the light off?" she asks.

"I prefer it that way," he says absently, finally upgrading to using all of his fingers and his palm and scooping up her breast so that it lies in the curve of his hand with his thumb flicking, still way too gently, at her nipple.

"Not breakable," she says tartly.

He raises his head from his blind contemplation of her breast and Slayer-sight lets her adjusting eyes see him smile. "I could break you, Faith," he says, and the shiver that races down her has her nipples aching hard and fierce and her clit throbbing in sync with it.

He can tell, holding her like this, this close, he can tell, and he dips his head and sucks at the ache hardening her nipple until it's soothed and somehow deepened at the same time, his tongue lapping away and his teeth – oh God he's biting down with a precision that has her hips lifting off the bed and her legs spreading, just a little, just this side of involuntary so she's got an excuse. Perfect pain, driving her forwards, pushing her nearer – then it stops and she gets a final, thoughtful smooch that wipes out the lust and makes her want to giggle again.

He gives her a frown, all puzzled eyes and furrowed brow and she snickers again. "You're being all kinds of cute, Wes," she tells him, what passes for a good mood restored.

"I am not, never have been, and never will be 'cute'," he says sounding snooty as fuck about it.

She shapes the words, "Yes, you are," and maybe Wes has been munching his carrots because he hisses with annoyance and rolls her over to her stomach leaving her to smother her amusement in the pillow, quivers running through her as she fights to stay quiet.

"Insubordinate and uncontrolled," he says, sounding satisfied by that, as if she's just confirmed every judgment he's ever made about her.

"Going to teach me to behave better?" she asks with an insinuating lift to her voice and a helpful hint in the shape of an ass-wiggle.

His hand comes down on her ass in a soft, patronising pat. "Delightful though that sounds, it hardly qualifies as vanilla."

"More people do it than you'd think," she tells him.

"Not the way I'd do it," he says, and there's that fucking perfect edge to his voice again and she whimpers, just a bit, just to encourage him. "And I think it's less that it's common and more that you bring out the urge in people."

She kicks out with her foot and gets a grunt of pain from him. "Didn't say I was the one getting spanked, Wes. Something about me that has people picturing me in leather thigh-high boots and not much else, if you get my drift."

"Hmm. Doesn't sound very practical for Slaying."

His fingers trail across the back of her thighs, high up, just where the boots would chafe and rub, and she sighs, easing her legs apart.

"I'm not always Slaying, Wes."

His fingers pause and then go between her legs, burrowing and scrabbling at the wet heat until she's making frantic little sounds, trying to get them inside her. "You're always a Slayer," he tells her coldly. "Hands and knees, Faith."

She struggles into position, letting her head hang down as she sucks in some oxygen, getting ready because she can almost taste the syrup trickling down on the mound of vanilla ice cream, feel the crunch of the sprinkles... and OK, maybe she's hungry and taking this way too literally but if it gets her the unleashed version of Wes then who cares how he changes the rules. Assuming there were any to begin with.

He moves behind her and she feels his hands on her ass, palming it. "Endurance," he whispers. "Very important. Stay quite still, Faith. Show me how you can take anything and remain... unmoved."

And she can, or she would've sworn she could, but when anything is his fingers, slow now, dragging and probing and tweaking and touching, finding her hole, finding her clit, slip-sliding over skin that she's drenching with her juices, she starts to wonder.

His fingers are wet now – hell, his whole hand is, front and back, the way he's rubbed it insistently between her legs as she arched her back, his bony knuckles nudging against her soft, wet skin – and he brings one to her asshole, swirling it around the sensitive skin, pressing in just enough to make her mewl and roll her head, fingers tightening on the cover.

"You like that," he states and he sounds so fucking impassive that she almost expects him to pause and scribble a note down on his clipboard which just has to be lurking somewhere. Before she has chance to tell him exactly what she did to the last guy who lost his way down there, he's taken his finger away and replaced it with his thumbs, rubbing both of them over her asshole as his hands spread her wide.

The flicker of his tongue against the skin between his thumbs has her making sounds she didn't know she knew, and he's remorseless now he's found something that's making her arms tremble and start to give.

"Wes, fuck, please," she begs, "need you in me. God –"

He takes that in a different way than she'd imagined and she feels the soft slither of his tongue inside her ass, bringing a shriek from her and a babble of protest that adds up to 'don't stop or I'll fucking kill you' apparently because he corkscrews his tongue deeper and slides a hand between her legs, finding her swollen, aching clit on the second try and turning her arms boneless so that she collapses forward, coming in graceless jerks and quivers, forgetting how to speak so that nothing emerges from her mouth but gasps, open-mouthed and silently-loud.

She's just coming down from that when he moves away and flips her over, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth – gonna take more than that, she thinks - and nodding his head slowly.

"B minus," he says dryly. "You can do better than that."

"Not when it's been fucking weeks since I came with company," she tells him.

"Oh, we're back to that, are we?" he sighs. "Do you know how many Slayers died virgins?"

"No, but I'm betting they're the ones who died early," she says.

"You all die early," he says sombrely.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Wes, enough with the doom," she snaps. She jerks her head at the bathroom. "Go and fucking gargle or whatever and get back here so I can take care of you." She reaches out and flicks on the bedside light, sick of peering at him through the shadows.

He gives her a level look and shrugs a shoulder in what looks less like resignation than indifference before vanishing into the bathroom and closing the door. He's gone longer than he needs to be and she only has to drop her eyes south a bit to work out why.

"For fuck's sake, Wesley!"

He dresses without looking at her. "I don't need to get fucked to be a better Watcher," he says. He gives her a glance that holds an infinitesimal amount of regret. "We'll do this my way, Faith. Rest now. I'll expect you to patrol tonight but only for a short time in view of your injuries."

When the door closes behind him she officially gives up. Packing takes less time than showering and she's out of the door and into a cab when the tears start.

"Where to, lady?"

She sniffs up snot and salt. "Airport," she says.

She's not the one who broke Wesley. Stands to reason she's not going to be the one who puts him back together.