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There's something about conversations in the middle of the night that don't count...
Previous parts here
Third Time Lucky
Part Three
It sounds like a joke, he thinks. 'How many second chances does it take for you to realise that no matter where you are, and who you're with, you'll spoil it?'
And he has, he's sure of that. Taken the warm, unstinting generosity of two people with no reason to feel warmth towards him; guilt, yes, but guilt's greasy and cold, acid-green and sour, never warm, never -- and certainly no need of him when they have each other, and tossed it back at them dismissively.
Perhaps he's just overwhelmed. Either of them would have been enough; both of them is -- was --
More than he deserved.
Oh God, he's back there again, is he?
He turns and settles down with no real hope that this time he's found the perfect position in which to fall asleep within moments. That position exists, he knows it does. It's not even a position, as much as a single condition; Giles and Faith within reach.
Faith's usually in the middle, which, as she's the one who gets up to pee most, makes no sense, but somehow neither of them complain when she climbs over them, dragging the sheets down, paying toll with a sleepy kiss if they stir. Wesley always does, feeling the press of her lips on whatever part of him was closest linger until she returns and it's Giles' turn to be disturbed. She's fair in that, at least.
Once they fell asleep with him between the warm wriggle of Faith and the solid safety of Giles and he woke to find Giles' arm around him and Faith's head tucked into the crook of his own arm. He'd held still, muscles craving movement and being sternly denied, feeling utterly happy, until they both woke and stirred, and even though the sex that followed had them all exchanging smiles for the rest of the morning, those few moments where he was safe in Giles' arms and cradling Faith were what he remembered.
Wonderful. It's three in the morning, he's tired, hung over, and has somehow managed to drive Faith to the point of issuing an ultimatum -- never a good idea to push her that far -- and Giles -- doesn't want him any more.
Those kisses... and Giles had just sat there, when Wesley had wanted, oh God, what had he wanted? What had Giles expected would happen when he pulled Wesley down to his knee like that? Faith loves curling up against Giles. Wesley found them both asleep in that chair once, their heads touching, Faith's hand lost inside Giles' sweater, his arms around her in a protective circle.
The chair wasn't big enough for three, but he hadn't minded, really he hadn't.
The idea of him in Faith's place is ridiculous, though, and he doesn't know what Giles had been thinking of.
Really, the man's got to see that the current situation's untenable. Two Watchers, one Slayer? It had been a failure the first time and it was doomed the second. Giles isn't going to step aside even a little to make room for him and Wesley's waited long enough for a place of his own --
Oh God, he doesn't want to be here, alone in this room, with only the bitter consolation of knowing that the other two are as unhappy as he. Is that what he's reduced to? Is that what he's done to them? Spoiled it for them, as much as for him? When he arrived they were so happy...
He's reached maudlin. Time to get up and get a drink that doesn't leave him drunker. He's wearing a T-shirt and shorts which makes it a simple matter of standing and walking out -- naked is for the three of them, when Faith doesn't give them any choice. He's been told how she waited for Giles to leave one morning and then went through his wardrobe and got rid of his pajamas.
And then lain on the bed, bare from the waist down, reading a comic and kicking her feet idly, waiting for the spanking that Giles had delivered with rather more vim than usual.
Wesley can admit to the silent darkness that he'd have rather liked to have seen that one.
Giles is such an odd combination of ruthless and indulgent when it comes to Faith. It puzzles Wesley which, these days, is a synonym for 'irritates'. He'll train her until her hand shakes as she reaches for a towel to blot the sweat from her face or flip her over his knee unceremoniously and administer a series of stinging slaps if she's cheeky or disobedient. Oddly, when it's done like that, as far as Wesley can see, it rarely arouses either of them, although at other times it's all it takes for Giles to get hard and fuck her until she's writhing under him, sensuous and smiling gleefully.
Wesley can whisper to the waiting night that it always gets him hard. Always.
He can't imagine Giles ever doing it to Buffy but he knows just why Faith likes it; the simplicity of the swift, known consequence and the unspoken agreement that once given whatever she's done is past, forgiven and forgotten -- well, Wesley can certainly see the appeal of that.
And if Giles tries it with him, he'll break his bloody arm.
He pushes open the bedroom door and sees that there's a faint light coming from the front room.
He's still just drunk enough to welcome the idea of a fight. Brooding and trying, unsuccessfully, to jerk off between sheets that don't smell right because they were washed before he arrived and Faith's swapped her detergent allegiance since then, haven't sent him to sleep; perhaps he just needs to be deprived of any hope that he'll ever again sleep and wake between people who look up and smile when he walks into the room.
Giles is still in the chair but he's asleep, the dim light falling over his face, creating mystery from shadows, each crease in the skin blurred to a deceptive smoothness. Wesley drags over the ottoman trying not to think of the last time they fucked Faith over it because he's about to wake Giles up and he doesn't want to do it with a vacant, blissful look on his face. He's peeled sweat-damp skin off it himself a time or two, if it comes to that; it's the perfect height for Giles no matter who's draped over it, fingers clutching at leather, legs forced wide.
He hasn't fucked Giles yet, although Giles has made it clear that he can if he likes.
All he has to do is ask.
Sod that for a game of soldiers.
He knows that Giles is awake even before he sits down on the ottoman, his knees brushing against Giles' but he only gets to stare into sleepy green eyes when he asks, "When you masturbate, which of us do you think about?"
Giles yawns and scrubs irritably at his face. "I'm flattered you think I've sufficient energy to do that these days. Neither of you; why would I fantasise about what I already have?"
Somehow, that's never occurred to him. His own hand slips and grips with a background of the two of them to urge him on. He's climaxed recalling the heavy, weighted curve of Faith's breast against his face as he blindly seeks the impudent point of her nipple with his tongue, been thrust over the edge by a memory that doesn't exist of Giles beneath him, head down as he pants and rides out each stroke Wesley gives him, from hand or cock...
He can't decide if he's insulted, or not.
Giles sighs and glances at his watch. "Why are we having this particular conversation now? It's very late."
"Couldn't sleep." Hopefully that, although brief, will be sufficient and he won't have to confess to tangled sheets that don't smell right and an ache of need for this man and the bitch-darling girl who's banished them both.
There's a flicker of sympathy in Giles' eyes. "I wasn't either, not really."
"You were giving a convincing imitation," Wesley tells him. They share a grin and he's trying very hard to remember that they're supposed to be fighting. Of course, Giles doesn't know that. Giles still thinks Wesley cares which of them Faith glances at first when she's at a loss, or kisses first in the morning.
Hardly.
It'd be so simple if that was all there was at the heart of this; a straightforward fight for first place in Faith's life. But it isn't, because that was never what he wanted, not from the first hiss of water against his skin as their hands pulled him under, took him in.
He wants to belong but not out of pity, not out of guilt. He doesn't give a fuck if Faith tortured him and Giles ignored him, belittled him and undermined him. They're past that. He's died since then, for God's sake.
He's died.
He looks at Giles and sees what Faith saw. Sees the waiting refuge, sees the strength. He crawls into Giles' lap and kisses him with his eyes closed so that he doesn't have to see the weariness.
Previous parts here
Third Time Lucky
Part Three
It sounds like a joke, he thinks. 'How many second chances does it take for you to realise that no matter where you are, and who you're with, you'll spoil it?'
And he has, he's sure of that. Taken the warm, unstinting generosity of two people with no reason to feel warmth towards him; guilt, yes, but guilt's greasy and cold, acid-green and sour, never warm, never -- and certainly no need of him when they have each other, and tossed it back at them dismissively.
Perhaps he's just overwhelmed. Either of them would have been enough; both of them is -- was --
More than he deserved.
Oh God, he's back there again, is he?
He turns and settles down with no real hope that this time he's found the perfect position in which to fall asleep within moments. That position exists, he knows it does. It's not even a position, as much as a single condition; Giles and Faith within reach.
Faith's usually in the middle, which, as she's the one who gets up to pee most, makes no sense, but somehow neither of them complain when she climbs over them, dragging the sheets down, paying toll with a sleepy kiss if they stir. Wesley always does, feeling the press of her lips on whatever part of him was closest linger until she returns and it's Giles' turn to be disturbed. She's fair in that, at least.
Once they fell asleep with him between the warm wriggle of Faith and the solid safety of Giles and he woke to find Giles' arm around him and Faith's head tucked into the crook of his own arm. He'd held still, muscles craving movement and being sternly denied, feeling utterly happy, until they both woke and stirred, and even though the sex that followed had them all exchanging smiles for the rest of the morning, those few moments where he was safe in Giles' arms and cradling Faith were what he remembered.
Wonderful. It's three in the morning, he's tired, hung over, and has somehow managed to drive Faith to the point of issuing an ultimatum -- never a good idea to push her that far -- and Giles -- doesn't want him any more.
Those kisses... and Giles had just sat there, when Wesley had wanted, oh God, what had he wanted? What had Giles expected would happen when he pulled Wesley down to his knee like that? Faith loves curling up against Giles. Wesley found them both asleep in that chair once, their heads touching, Faith's hand lost inside Giles' sweater, his arms around her in a protective circle.
The chair wasn't big enough for three, but he hadn't minded, really he hadn't.
The idea of him in Faith's place is ridiculous, though, and he doesn't know what Giles had been thinking of.
Really, the man's got to see that the current situation's untenable. Two Watchers, one Slayer? It had been a failure the first time and it was doomed the second. Giles isn't going to step aside even a little to make room for him and Wesley's waited long enough for a place of his own --
Oh God, he doesn't want to be here, alone in this room, with only the bitter consolation of knowing that the other two are as unhappy as he. Is that what he's reduced to? Is that what he's done to them? Spoiled it for them, as much as for him? When he arrived they were so happy...
He's reached maudlin. Time to get up and get a drink that doesn't leave him drunker. He's wearing a T-shirt and shorts which makes it a simple matter of standing and walking out -- naked is for the three of them, when Faith doesn't give them any choice. He's been told how she waited for Giles to leave one morning and then went through his wardrobe and got rid of his pajamas.
And then lain on the bed, bare from the waist down, reading a comic and kicking her feet idly, waiting for the spanking that Giles had delivered with rather more vim than usual.
Wesley can admit to the silent darkness that he'd have rather liked to have seen that one.
Giles is such an odd combination of ruthless and indulgent when it comes to Faith. It puzzles Wesley which, these days, is a synonym for 'irritates'. He'll train her until her hand shakes as she reaches for a towel to blot the sweat from her face or flip her over his knee unceremoniously and administer a series of stinging slaps if she's cheeky or disobedient. Oddly, when it's done like that, as far as Wesley can see, it rarely arouses either of them, although at other times it's all it takes for Giles to get hard and fuck her until she's writhing under him, sensuous and smiling gleefully.
Wesley can whisper to the waiting night that it always gets him hard. Always.
He can't imagine Giles ever doing it to Buffy but he knows just why Faith likes it; the simplicity of the swift, known consequence and the unspoken agreement that once given whatever she's done is past, forgiven and forgotten -- well, Wesley can certainly see the appeal of that.
And if Giles tries it with him, he'll break his bloody arm.
He pushes open the bedroom door and sees that there's a faint light coming from the front room.
He's still just drunk enough to welcome the idea of a fight. Brooding and trying, unsuccessfully, to jerk off between sheets that don't smell right because they were washed before he arrived and Faith's swapped her detergent allegiance since then, haven't sent him to sleep; perhaps he just needs to be deprived of any hope that he'll ever again sleep and wake between people who look up and smile when he walks into the room.
Giles is still in the chair but he's asleep, the dim light falling over his face, creating mystery from shadows, each crease in the skin blurred to a deceptive smoothness. Wesley drags over the ottoman trying not to think of the last time they fucked Faith over it because he's about to wake Giles up and he doesn't want to do it with a vacant, blissful look on his face. He's peeled sweat-damp skin off it himself a time or two, if it comes to that; it's the perfect height for Giles no matter who's draped over it, fingers clutching at leather, legs forced wide.
He hasn't fucked Giles yet, although Giles has made it clear that he can if he likes.
All he has to do is ask.
Sod that for a game of soldiers.
He knows that Giles is awake even before he sits down on the ottoman, his knees brushing against Giles' but he only gets to stare into sleepy green eyes when he asks, "When you masturbate, which of us do you think about?"
Giles yawns and scrubs irritably at his face. "I'm flattered you think I've sufficient energy to do that these days. Neither of you; why would I fantasise about what I already have?"
Somehow, that's never occurred to him. His own hand slips and grips with a background of the two of them to urge him on. He's climaxed recalling the heavy, weighted curve of Faith's breast against his face as he blindly seeks the impudent point of her nipple with his tongue, been thrust over the edge by a memory that doesn't exist of Giles beneath him, head down as he pants and rides out each stroke Wesley gives him, from hand or cock...
He can't decide if he's insulted, or not.
Giles sighs and glances at his watch. "Why are we having this particular conversation now? It's very late."
"Couldn't sleep." Hopefully that, although brief, will be sufficient and he won't have to confess to tangled sheets that don't smell right and an ache of need for this man and the bitch-darling girl who's banished them both.
There's a flicker of sympathy in Giles' eyes. "I wasn't either, not really."
"You were giving a convincing imitation," Wesley tells him. They share a grin and he's trying very hard to remember that they're supposed to be fighting. Of course, Giles doesn't know that. Giles still thinks Wesley cares which of them Faith glances at first when she's at a loss, or kisses first in the morning.
Hardly.
It'd be so simple if that was all there was at the heart of this; a straightforward fight for first place in Faith's life. But it isn't, because that was never what he wanted, not from the first hiss of water against his skin as their hands pulled him under, took him in.
He wants to belong but not out of pity, not out of guilt. He doesn't give a fuck if Faith tortured him and Giles ignored him, belittled him and undermined him. They're past that. He's died since then, for God's sake.
He's died.
He looks at Giles and sees what Faith saw. Sees the waiting refuge, sees the strength. He crawls into Giles' lap and kisses him with his eyes closed so that he doesn't have to see the weariness.
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