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Here's part three of this co-written fic which ::peeks at the end:; might sort of end at a bad place, but it's nearly 5,000 words and we have to stop somewhere!
Thanks to all who've been commenting - and I mean all. I've been enjoying the discussions with the readers who aren't totally happy with the fic as well as the feedback from those who are, because it's always good to get the chance to explain story choices but usually no one cares; they just want to read it ::g:: So thanks.
Previous parts are here
Hollow Heart
by Jane Davitt and Bit
Chapter Three
He has to clench his hand momentarily into a fist to keep from plunging his fingers into the wetness waiting for them but the self-denial's worth it for the sound she sighs as he caresses the exposed skin of her inner thigh. It's redolent with anticipation and expectation and it's enough to make his cock jerk hard, a prickle of heat chasing over him.
He's not sure which of them he's tormenting the most as his fingers skirt the shadowy folds of her cunt, his mouth parted as if they're under his tongue, painting his lips with her scent, her arousal. Not sure about anything but that he wants to feel her come on his fingers, squeezing them tight.
With a whimper that catches in his throat, he gives in and rests his hand lightly against the soaked heat, feeling her press up against his palm with a lazy tilt of her hips.
When they fuck, she's going to kill him, Wesley thinks, dizzy from lust and need.
And her cunt is a siren luring him onto the rocks and he can't resist its call any longer. The angle's all wrong but he'll suffer a broken wrist just to get inside her and as he slowly pushes two fingers deep, she's silky wet and tight and his eyes cross as she clamps down and hisses between her teeth.
His thumb searches and finds that insistent little nub that throbs approvingly when he rubs it, worries at it, while Faith's hips do this slow shimmy. He keeps his movements slow and deliberate, not rushing because he wants the memories of these moments imprinted in his mind for all eternity; the smell and sight and, good God, the feel of her.
It feels like she's sucking on his fingers, getting them messy, caressing them with her cunt and as his fingers skitter against the smooth walls, he says a silent prayer of thanks to Lilah, and gently presses against the tiny bump he's found.
"Fuck!" They say it together as she clenches tight around him, fucking herself on his fingers, all pretence at sleep abandoned as she raises herself up on her elbows so she can arch her back and stick out that miraculous arse ready for the tiny, fierce bite he gives it.
When she comes, she gives this guttural groan which is the exact same sound she makes when she kills something. He keeps his fingers inside her cunt, intoxicated by every tiny tremble and tremor, then pulls them out and sucks them into his mouth as she shifts and then rolls over.
Her eyes are bright and hot as she stares at his fingers. Wesley takes them out of his mouth and runs his tongue over his lips without thinking.
"You gonna wake me up like that often, Wes?" she asks him, her voice an octave lower. Her nipples are tight and hard and he reaches out and rubs his thumb across one just to watch the slow sway of her high, heavy breast as she sucks in a swift breath.
"No."
She pouts and he relents as he always does when that particular expression crosses her face. "I have a suspicion that your boredom threshold is rather low, Faith and I'd hate to be predictable. Variations on that general theme, though; that's entirely possible."
"Unless I wake up first," she says slyly, her gaze falling to the clear outline of his cock through his trousers.
He grins at her, feeling unexpectedly, profoundly happy. "Eat your breakfast," he says. "We need to get back on the road."
*****
They stop off in Carlisle to buy provisions and Faith new clothes, using a Wolfram & Hart company credit card that Wesley is pretty certain never got cancelled. It certainly beeps away merrily as the sales assistant in Topshop sweeps a mound of dark coloured clothing into carrier bags and Faith throws an assortment of brightly coloured underwear on top.
"Hey, no peeking," she grins when he eyes a lacy, pink bra with interest. "You wanna see my frillies, then you have to buy me dinner, mister."
The salesgirl's eyes almost pop out of her head and as Wesley leans forward to tap in his pin number his arm settles easily around Faith's waist.
"As I recall I saw a lot more than that just from buying you breakfast," he tells her smugly and she rolls her eyes and smirks.
"Don't know what you're on, Wes. I was asleep the whole time."
But when they get back in the car and head in the direction of the M8, she settles back in the seat with a contented little sigh, so different from the tight bundle of nerves she'd been a few hours before.
By the time he's snapped at her for getting them lost for the third time in an hour, necessitating driving over a cattle grid that shakes his fillings loose, and a herd of Highland cattle that merited 'cute' the first time and now has them both sighing heavily, her lips are tightening again.
"Wes, is this country even inhabited? Because it's been, like, hours since we saw a human being."
"You have the map book open at the wrong page," he discovers after pulling over to the side of the road when they pass a signpost informing them that Clannoch is six miles away. "I don't bloody believe it."
He's well able to ignore the pout this time but the muttered, 'sorry' three miles later has his hand reaching out to take hers until the ruts in the road put their reconciliation on ice.
"Seriously, Wes," she says, glancing around at misty-topped mountains and heather, "this place is freaking me out. It's empty."
"Good," he says. "This way, if someone comes near us, they'll stand out, won't they?"
"We can't stay here for ever," she says.
"I know," he admits as he turns into the narrow lane leading to the cottage, nestled against a pine forest. "But it'll give us a little time to think."
"Never been my strong point, Wes."
He thinks about some of the decisions he's made rationally, logically and carefully, and finds himself sharing her pessimism.
The house key's just where it's supposed to be, though, and he's fairly certain that the dead mouse in the kitchen sink isn't an omen.
He spends the next hour doing all sorts of useless tasks such as switching on the back-up generator, getting the fridge to work and unpacking, while Faith wanders aimlessly around the small cottage and has a minor meltdown. Helpfully, she provides a running commentary, just in case he was in doubt that she was "freaking the fuck out."
"There's no TV," she exclaims in a horrified voice as he takes the perishables out of the cool box and makes a mental note to go to the shop in the nearest village, which is six miles as the crow flies, to buy ear plugs. "And, like, no stereo or a microwave and it smells kinda funky too. Reckon that mouse wasn't an only child, Wes."
"I'm terribly sorry about the lack of facilities, but my aunt doesn't really feel the need to catch up with the latest episode of Desperate Housewives," he bites out as he unpacks the last of the milk and shuts the fridge door.
His most sarcastic voice doesn't even register. "She doesn't know what she's missing. Man! Thought prison was bad, gonna go stir crazy here."
"Nonsense, there's plenty of things to do," he insists stoutly.
Faith whirls around from where she's been contemplating his aunt's bookcases with a sceptical expression and plants her hands on her hips. "Yeah? Like what?"
Like losing themselves in each other. Fucking her in the long grass outside so all he can smell for hours afterwards is sex and heather. "Well, we can do some hiking and there's a beautiful cove a couple of miles away where we can swim," he substitutes rather lamely because from the petulant look on her face she seems to have rather gone off the idea of wining and dining and making love, if she can't watch America's Next Top Model afterwards.
There's a short, loaded pause as she processes that and then she grins. "Am I being a brat?"
"A little," he says cautiously.
The smile vanishes. "Wish you'd left me at B's mercy?"
"No."
He's definite enough about that to make her face soften and she takes three quick steps and does that thing where one minute he's standing up and the next he's fighting to keep his footing because she's swarming all over him, arms tight, hands wandering, mouth hot and frantic. "Was so fucking scary, Wes. Should've seen her -- "
He unwinds her arms and leads her over to the couch, settling them down with her on his lap. "Suppose you tell me about that?"
She's been remarkably reticent on what prompted her to escape, even when the long hours of driving had provided dozens of opportunities to talk.
"I don't want to."
"Nevertheless."
It's the sort of voice his father used to use on him and he hates that it can come out of his mouth weighed down with just as much inflexibility and resolve.
"You said that Buffy was trying to persuade Giles to have you returned to prison?"
She bites down on her lip. "Yeah. Guess sisterly solidarity only stretches so far these days, you know?"
"He wouldn't have done that." Wesley's not quite sure why he believes that -- for all the certainty he puts behind his voice, he can't know it, not really, not given Giles' current state of mind.
She slides off his lap with an apologetic grimace because they both know that she's not the kind of girl who likes to snuggle but then she stretches out the length of the couch, resting her head on his leg, which works surprisingly well too.
"You keep going away," she says, seemingly apropos nothing. "And you don't see B and Giles together as much as me, Wes. Girl's got a jones to push everyone away because she's mainlining on guilt and grief and all that other fun stuff."
"And you're adamant that Giles will do anything to remain in Buffy's life?" he asks, cautiously smoothing the ends of her hair.
Faith turns her head so she can look up at him. "Giles and me… we get on OK most of the time, that gets B's mad on, too and, like, I never fucked him but me and Angel… don't need to tell you this, Wes, but he was there for me when I had no one, when I couldn't go on, didn't fucking want to and…" She tails off.
"And we deserve the right to grieve him too," Wesley says heavily. "I think about him at the oddest times. When I'm doing translations or opening a bottle of red wine…"
"Can't even look at a donut anymore," Faith chimes in and gives him a lopsided smile, which makes his heart skip a beat.
"I'm sorry I wasn't a better Watcher for you, Faith." He's about to launch into an impassioned speech he's been rehearsing for at least 18 months detailing all the ways he failed her but she reaches up and clamps her hand over his mouth.
"Yeah and I'm sorry I was a sad sack of shit Slayer so we're even, right? 'Cause where we are now, it means we don't have to be all big with the apologies. I know and you do too, so just save it."
It's oddly hard to agree to that, even though he's no more inclined to emotional speeches than she is. Perhaps it's because, deep-down, he really does feel that she's owed an apology and, which is the motive he suspects for most acts of contrition, it'll make him feel better. He settles for biting the hand across his mouth which gets him a chuckle and leans back.
"I still want to know what happened. Exactly. Giles was -- not himself, I agree, but he knows as well as I do that prison isn't the place for you."
"Got a jury in California that'd beg to differ, Wes."
He curls a lock of her hair around his finger, studying the sheen on it. "You needed that time to reflect. You proved that you were capable of thinking about someone other than yourself both by going to prison and breaking out." He tugs gently on her hair. "You don't need to do it again, Faith. You've changed."
"Lot of girls have changed," Faith murmurs. "Don't need me when there's a shit-load of Slayers out there."
"I shan't dignify that with a response," he tells her. "Except to say that all Slayers aren't created equal, and that was true even before Willow's spell. You're special, Faith. You and Buffy both, which is why you don't get on, I expect, except in times of crisis. We really need an apocalypse, don't we? It's been far too quiet recently."
"She hates me," she says, her voice low, ignoring his admittedly weak attempt at humour. "Really fucking hates me and that - fuck, Wes, it hurts, you know? Thought we were over that."
"Really, it would have been better if we'd stayed in the States," he muses out loud and she twists her lips in a gesture he can't interpret.
"'Cept there was that whole me being an escaped convict thing," she points out finally. Then sighs. "It's easier for B to hate me and blame me for how fucking miserable she is, then dealing with how she turned her back on Angel when he needed her. And yesterday, she kept coming in and she wanted to know what happened when we did the Jedi mind swap and I wouldn't tell her 'cause it's private and it's all just flashes anyway. Then she got madder and the drugs were wearing off and I lost it again."
"Though there were no handy chairs," Wesley ventures and she unconsciously rubs her fingers against the chafe marks on her wrists where she was chained.
"Didn't need a chair," she mutters. "Hurt her worst than the chair ever did just by opening my big, fat, stupid mouth."
Her beautiful, pouting mouth is currently clamped shut again and he risks moving his hands so he can gently knead her shoulders and as he works on a particularly spectacular knot, it's like he's found the right key to unlock the final door.
"Told her about the strip search and how Giles just stood there the whole time staring at me with his hard-on almost busting out of his trousers." She smiles thinly. "Shut her up for all of five seconds at least. And now you know why she wants me back on the chain gang 'cause even if she doesn't want Giles, then she sure as shit doesn't want anyone else to have him."
He's fighting off too many emotions to be able to speak for a moment. When he does, his voice is thick with anger.
"Giles is going to apologise to you for that, Faith. I promise you he will."
She shrugs. "Hey, didn't bother me, Wes. I'm naked and he wasn't hard, I'd start to feel insulted, you know?"
"The circumstances --"
"Kinda kinky, yeah. You saying you didn't know Giles gets off on that?"
"On what?"
She's relaxing now, a small, smug smile in place, as if knowing something he doesn't is making her happy. "Compared to some of the freaks I've hooked up with he's vanilla, but, yeah, I'm thinking he's got hidden depths." Her smile turns secret, knowing. "So what would it have done for you, Wes? Watching two guards peel me out of my duds, hands in all sorts of places, me bent over, legs spread and --"
"Stop it," he says, struggling to his feet, outrage and revulsion washing over him. "God, Faith. I'm going to fucking hurt him for this."
"Hurt him." She purses her lips, rolling onto her stomach and staring at him. "Most men would say 'kill him' and not mean it, but you don't go for the empty threats, do you?" She shakes her head. "You got really scary, Wes. That down to me, as well?"
"I don't think so."
"Kinda hope not."
He stares out at the sunset from the cloudy glass in the front door. "Would you like to go for a walk?"
"Where to?"
"I don't think it matters."
She stands up in one easy, fluid movement and walks over to him. "Always matters where you're going, Wes." She wrinkles up her nose. "Okay, that was close to fortune-cookie wisdom."
"Verging on it," he concedes, opening the door. "Very well. There's a cave in the forest where I used to keep an assortment of the stuff boys generally keep hidden --"
"Porn? Cigarettes?"
"A slingshot and some mildly violent comics actually." He shrugs. "I was only nine."
"Wes, aged nine," she muses, as they amble down the garden path. "Bet you were all kinds of cute. Big, blue eyes and sorta gangly and…"
"I was not cute," he protests but Faith just reaches up and pinches his stubbly cheek.
"Aw, you're being pretty cute right now, Wes," she laughs and he's wondering what Faith, aged nine was like. Small for her age, permanently skinned knees and the same sad, dark eyes that she still has.
"If you persist in pursuing this line of enquiry I won't share the bottle of wine or the chocolate I've bought," is all he says and he manages to keep his voice light, considering that he's still inwardly seething about Giles running his perverted eyes over Faith bent and spread over a table. And he's still not sure what's making him the angriest? Giles daring to look at what he's only had shadowy glimpses of, or that his cock is still half hard from the thought of that little tableau.
"It smells weird here," she says over her shoulder and throwing in an insouciant little wriggle of her hips that he's sure is deliberate. "Like, earthy or something."
"I believe that would be called fresh air, just a theory you understand."
Faith gives another bathwater gurgle then concentrates on negotiating the last few steps down a little gulch that leads to the cave where he used to while away the long summer afternoons. "Cool," she says approvingly, as he spreads out the rug he brought with them on the gravelly ground. She's already delving in the rucksack. "Wine," she says, pulling out the bottle, and then grabbing handfuls of chocolate bars. "Dine." She arches an eyebrow at him as he sprawls out next to her and the silence is deliciously loaded before she throws the corkscrew at him.
As ever, there's something about drinking out of doors that has each swallow going straight to his head. The gathering shadows make the edge of the clearing indistinct and mysterious and it's warm but a little late in the year for midges, thank God.
They drink, and if the chocolate makes the wine taste a little less than perfect, it's worth it for the chance to lick slowly at her lips, cleaning them until the only sweetness left comes from her.
"This is all kinds of romantic," she sighs, propping herself up on an elbow and letting the ends of her hair tickle his face. "You going to fuck me now, Wes?"
"Would you like me to?" he asks.
She shrugs and collapses on top of him, squirming gently and reaching down to caress his burgeoning erection. "Wouldn't suck."
"I suppose it wouldn't," he says gently. "But I think I'll wait until you're rested and not feeling grateful, if you don't mind."
She stiffens on top of him. "Excuse me?" She says it the exact same way that people say, 'Fuck off.' "You think I want to fuck you because I'm grateful?"
"That's not what I meant, Faith," he sighs. "I simply…"
But she's already scrambling off him, kneeing him so viciously in the groin that he doubts it's an accident.
"You think I just wanted some mercy hump?" she shouts, face red with rage. "Well, fuck you!"
And that was rather the matter in hand, so to speak, but Faith is already turning on her heel and racing up the track; and by the time he's managed to stagger to his feet and press his hand to his crotch which is now throbbing for all the wrong reasons, she's already a small, very pissed off, black-clad figure in the distance.
He takes his time going back to the cottage. Truth be told, he's dragging his heels because he doesn't know how to deal with her fury. He never did.
The lights are all blazing when he crests the top of the hill, the door wide open and he breaks into a run, terrified of what he might find. A dozen Council wetworkers, Buffy wielding that bloody scythe or… Faith flinging her clothes into a holdall.
"What are you doing?" he asks tiredly, putting his own bag down on one of the kitchen chairs.
"What the fuck does it look like?" she snarls. "Not staying here with you, Wes. Don't want you scared to go to sleep case you think that I'm going to jump your unwilling bones. Asshole!"
"They wouldn't be unwilling," he says softly.
"Yeah, right."
Anger lends him the strength to rise above the ache in his balls and the panic at what might happen to her if she heads out into the descending night.
"Excuse me for not wanting to be added to the list of people who've taken advantage of you!"
For a moment he thinks he's got through to her but the indecision on her face hardens to anger again and he sighs. "Faith, I've wanted to fuck you since the moment we met. You're beautiful. You've featured in many fantasies and been responsible for many solitary moments of pleasure. Happier now?"
"You jerk off over me?"
He keeps his face expressionless with an effort. "On occasion."
"Huh."
"More of an 'uhnn' really," he says diffidently.
When she starts to laugh he feels the tight bands of tension around his chest ease a little.
But she's still eyeing him warily, even as she drops the holdall on the floor. "Is that what you think then, Wes? That I'm some poor little victim that people kick around?"
She rests her hands on the back of the sofa and he risks a step towards her before something desperate in her eyes makes him halt. "I think you're a victim of circumstance," he says carefully and she makes a small, indistinct sound.
"I guess that's fancy Wes speak for loser," she says without rancour and glances around the small sitting room. "Don't suppose you brought the rest of the wine back?"
He hands her the half full bottle of wine and settles down on the sofa next to her to watch her drink it with the single minded purpose of someone who craves oblivion.
And it would work if, bless her, she wasn't the happiest drunk he's ever come across. By the time she's got to the bottom of the bottle, her legs are hooked over the arm of the couch and she's giggling feebly about how she heard an owl on the way back to the cottage " -- and, honest to God, Wes, thought I was going to pee my pants."
She's the most infuriating, maddening, irritating, utterly bewitching woman in the world, he thinks as she gives him a cross-eyed look and one of those fearsome pouts because he's not prostrate with mirth.
"So you're telling me that you're not cut out to be a twitcher, then?" he murmurs, doing a bit of deft twitching himself as he takes the bottle from her just before it slides through her fingers and crashes to the floor.
"What the hell is a --?"
"Bird watcher," he says blandly. "I'm not saying the, ah, panty-wetting wouldn't occur if they saw something rare, but I suspect they'd view your reaction with some amusement."
He's sounding stuffier by the moment and he knows he's retreating into the Wesley she first met, buttoned-up tight and starched-stiff. Reminding himself that he's dangerous, sexy and knows at least seven things to do to her nipples that would have her whimpering, he leans over and kisses her.
She blinks up at him. "That doesn't count as taking advantage of me?"
"I'm trusting that you're too drunk to remember it in the morning," he says solemnly.
"Wouldn't forget a kiss from you, Wes," she says and takes his breath away because she sounds as if she means it.
"Faith --"
"Kinda like to have more to remember than a kiss and a finger fuck though."
"I suppose that could be arranged," he says.
"What changed your mind?"
Her eyelashes drift closed slowly and she's asleep before he can answer, which is just as well.
It must be a combination of the drugs still in her bloodstream, the fresh air and the best part of a bottle of wine, Wesley thinks as he tucks the blanket around her, enjoying the gentle flutter of her eyelashes in time with her deep, even breaths.
He's not in the least bit tired, after sleeping for most of the morning and some of the afternoon. Instead, he nabs a glass of Scotch from his aunt's drinks cabinet and an Agatha Christie that he doesn't remember reading and tiptoes upstairs to have a long, decadent bath.
The hot water convinces him that he's relaxed; the tension of the last few days ebbing away but when he's standing in front of the bedroom window watching the moon high up in the night sky and thinking about the girl sprawled out on the sofa downstairs, immediately he's taut with worry and want and all things in between.
He's pretending that he might go to sleep soon when he hears her quiet tread on the stairs, then the bathroom door opening. There's a rubber shower head that attaches to the bath taps and he can hear the patter of water against the enamel and he's so far from dropping off now as he imagines her naked in the next room, imagines what would happen if he got out of bed and went to her.
But then he doesn't have to imagine because the bedroom door is opened just a crack and she's in the room, naked flesh ghostly pale in the moonlight, creeping towards the bed because he's lying there with his eyes shut and his mind full and she must think he's asleep. She pulls back the sheet and slips in next to him, and he's holding his breath as she lets out a breathy sigh and plants a delicate kiss against his shoulder blade.
"Sweet dreams, Wes," he hears her whisper and then she's doing the unthinkable; turning away from him and settling down to go to sleep.
'They'd be sweeter if they weren't dreams," he says, which is more the sort of thing he wishes he'd said later, when he's re-writing a conversation, so he's left feeling rather proud of himself.
There's a pause and then she turns back and he can smell mint and Faith and wine and she's achingly close and managing not to touch him.
"Wes? Did I ask you something just before I passed out?"
"I think -- yes, yes, you did."
Her hand emerges from the darkness, visible once it clears the sheets, and her fingers stroke down the side of his face. "Tell me then."
"What changed my mind? You did." It's easy to be honest in the dark, he finds. "I'm sorry if my scruples --"
"Wes?" Her lips find the corner of his mouth and start to kiss across it. "Forget it. Doesn't matter. We're both --" She gives a complex full-body shrug that somehow finishes with her pressed up against him, her hand on his hip and stroking down. "Jittery." Her hand moves a crucial few inches and it's on his arse. "Fucked-up."
"Yes -- " he says thoughtfully, filling his palm with the soft weight of her breast and flicking his thumb across her nipple and finding it hard and waiting. "Want to unwind?"
"Want to fuck," she says emphatically. "We on the same page yet, Wes?"
Part Four
Thanks to all who've been commenting - and I mean all. I've been enjoying the discussions with the readers who aren't totally happy with the fic as well as the feedback from those who are, because it's always good to get the chance to explain story choices but usually no one cares; they just want to read it ::g:: So thanks.
Previous parts are here
Hollow Heart
by Jane Davitt and Bit
Chapter Three
He has to clench his hand momentarily into a fist to keep from plunging his fingers into the wetness waiting for them but the self-denial's worth it for the sound she sighs as he caresses the exposed skin of her inner thigh. It's redolent with anticipation and expectation and it's enough to make his cock jerk hard, a prickle of heat chasing over him.
He's not sure which of them he's tormenting the most as his fingers skirt the shadowy folds of her cunt, his mouth parted as if they're under his tongue, painting his lips with her scent, her arousal. Not sure about anything but that he wants to feel her come on his fingers, squeezing them tight.
With a whimper that catches in his throat, he gives in and rests his hand lightly against the soaked heat, feeling her press up against his palm with a lazy tilt of her hips.
When they fuck, she's going to kill him, Wesley thinks, dizzy from lust and need.
And her cunt is a siren luring him onto the rocks and he can't resist its call any longer. The angle's all wrong but he'll suffer a broken wrist just to get inside her and as he slowly pushes two fingers deep, she's silky wet and tight and his eyes cross as she clamps down and hisses between her teeth.
His thumb searches and finds that insistent little nub that throbs approvingly when he rubs it, worries at it, while Faith's hips do this slow shimmy. He keeps his movements slow and deliberate, not rushing because he wants the memories of these moments imprinted in his mind for all eternity; the smell and sight and, good God, the feel of her.
It feels like she's sucking on his fingers, getting them messy, caressing them with her cunt and as his fingers skitter against the smooth walls, he says a silent prayer of thanks to Lilah, and gently presses against the tiny bump he's found.
"Fuck!" They say it together as she clenches tight around him, fucking herself on his fingers, all pretence at sleep abandoned as she raises herself up on her elbows so she can arch her back and stick out that miraculous arse ready for the tiny, fierce bite he gives it.
When she comes, she gives this guttural groan which is the exact same sound she makes when she kills something. He keeps his fingers inside her cunt, intoxicated by every tiny tremble and tremor, then pulls them out and sucks them into his mouth as she shifts and then rolls over.
Her eyes are bright and hot as she stares at his fingers. Wesley takes them out of his mouth and runs his tongue over his lips without thinking.
"You gonna wake me up like that often, Wes?" she asks him, her voice an octave lower. Her nipples are tight and hard and he reaches out and rubs his thumb across one just to watch the slow sway of her high, heavy breast as she sucks in a swift breath.
"No."
She pouts and he relents as he always does when that particular expression crosses her face. "I have a suspicion that your boredom threshold is rather low, Faith and I'd hate to be predictable. Variations on that general theme, though; that's entirely possible."
"Unless I wake up first," she says slyly, her gaze falling to the clear outline of his cock through his trousers.
He grins at her, feeling unexpectedly, profoundly happy. "Eat your breakfast," he says. "We need to get back on the road."
They stop off in Carlisle to buy provisions and Faith new clothes, using a Wolfram & Hart company credit card that Wesley is pretty certain never got cancelled. It certainly beeps away merrily as the sales assistant in Topshop sweeps a mound of dark coloured clothing into carrier bags and Faith throws an assortment of brightly coloured underwear on top.
"Hey, no peeking," she grins when he eyes a lacy, pink bra with interest. "You wanna see my frillies, then you have to buy me dinner, mister."
The salesgirl's eyes almost pop out of her head and as Wesley leans forward to tap in his pin number his arm settles easily around Faith's waist.
"As I recall I saw a lot more than that just from buying you breakfast," he tells her smugly and she rolls her eyes and smirks.
"Don't know what you're on, Wes. I was asleep the whole time."
But when they get back in the car and head in the direction of the M8, she settles back in the seat with a contented little sigh, so different from the tight bundle of nerves she'd been a few hours before.
By the time he's snapped at her for getting them lost for the third time in an hour, necessitating driving over a cattle grid that shakes his fillings loose, and a herd of Highland cattle that merited 'cute' the first time and now has them both sighing heavily, her lips are tightening again.
"Wes, is this country even inhabited? Because it's been, like, hours since we saw a human being."
"You have the map book open at the wrong page," he discovers after pulling over to the side of the road when they pass a signpost informing them that Clannoch is six miles away. "I don't bloody believe it."
He's well able to ignore the pout this time but the muttered, 'sorry' three miles later has his hand reaching out to take hers until the ruts in the road put their reconciliation on ice.
"Seriously, Wes," she says, glancing around at misty-topped mountains and heather, "this place is freaking me out. It's empty."
"Good," he says. "This way, if someone comes near us, they'll stand out, won't they?"
"We can't stay here for ever," she says.
"I know," he admits as he turns into the narrow lane leading to the cottage, nestled against a pine forest. "But it'll give us a little time to think."
"Never been my strong point, Wes."
He thinks about some of the decisions he's made rationally, logically and carefully, and finds himself sharing her pessimism.
The house key's just where it's supposed to be, though, and he's fairly certain that the dead mouse in the kitchen sink isn't an omen.
He spends the next hour doing all sorts of useless tasks such as switching on the back-up generator, getting the fridge to work and unpacking, while Faith wanders aimlessly around the small cottage and has a minor meltdown. Helpfully, she provides a running commentary, just in case he was in doubt that she was "freaking the fuck out."
"There's no TV," she exclaims in a horrified voice as he takes the perishables out of the cool box and makes a mental note to go to the shop in the nearest village, which is six miles as the crow flies, to buy ear plugs. "And, like, no stereo or a microwave and it smells kinda funky too. Reckon that mouse wasn't an only child, Wes."
"I'm terribly sorry about the lack of facilities, but my aunt doesn't really feel the need to catch up with the latest episode of Desperate Housewives," he bites out as he unpacks the last of the milk and shuts the fridge door.
His most sarcastic voice doesn't even register. "She doesn't know what she's missing. Man! Thought prison was bad, gonna go stir crazy here."
"Nonsense, there's plenty of things to do," he insists stoutly.
Faith whirls around from where she's been contemplating his aunt's bookcases with a sceptical expression and plants her hands on her hips. "Yeah? Like what?"
Like losing themselves in each other. Fucking her in the long grass outside so all he can smell for hours afterwards is sex and heather. "Well, we can do some hiking and there's a beautiful cove a couple of miles away where we can swim," he substitutes rather lamely because from the petulant look on her face she seems to have rather gone off the idea of wining and dining and making love, if she can't watch America's Next Top Model afterwards.
There's a short, loaded pause as she processes that and then she grins. "Am I being a brat?"
"A little," he says cautiously.
The smile vanishes. "Wish you'd left me at B's mercy?"
"No."
He's definite enough about that to make her face soften and she takes three quick steps and does that thing where one minute he's standing up and the next he's fighting to keep his footing because she's swarming all over him, arms tight, hands wandering, mouth hot and frantic. "Was so fucking scary, Wes. Should've seen her -- "
He unwinds her arms and leads her over to the couch, settling them down with her on his lap. "Suppose you tell me about that?"
She's been remarkably reticent on what prompted her to escape, even when the long hours of driving had provided dozens of opportunities to talk.
"I don't want to."
"Nevertheless."
It's the sort of voice his father used to use on him and he hates that it can come out of his mouth weighed down with just as much inflexibility and resolve.
"You said that Buffy was trying to persuade Giles to have you returned to prison?"
She bites down on her lip. "Yeah. Guess sisterly solidarity only stretches so far these days, you know?"
"He wouldn't have done that." Wesley's not quite sure why he believes that -- for all the certainty he puts behind his voice, he can't know it, not really, not given Giles' current state of mind.
She slides off his lap with an apologetic grimace because they both know that she's not the kind of girl who likes to snuggle but then she stretches out the length of the couch, resting her head on his leg, which works surprisingly well too.
"You keep going away," she says, seemingly apropos nothing. "And you don't see B and Giles together as much as me, Wes. Girl's got a jones to push everyone away because she's mainlining on guilt and grief and all that other fun stuff."
"And you're adamant that Giles will do anything to remain in Buffy's life?" he asks, cautiously smoothing the ends of her hair.
Faith turns her head so she can look up at him. "Giles and me… we get on OK most of the time, that gets B's mad on, too and, like, I never fucked him but me and Angel… don't need to tell you this, Wes, but he was there for me when I had no one, when I couldn't go on, didn't fucking want to and…" She tails off.
"And we deserve the right to grieve him too," Wesley says heavily. "I think about him at the oddest times. When I'm doing translations or opening a bottle of red wine…"
"Can't even look at a donut anymore," Faith chimes in and gives him a lopsided smile, which makes his heart skip a beat.
"I'm sorry I wasn't a better Watcher for you, Faith." He's about to launch into an impassioned speech he's been rehearsing for at least 18 months detailing all the ways he failed her but she reaches up and clamps her hand over his mouth.
"Yeah and I'm sorry I was a sad sack of shit Slayer so we're even, right? 'Cause where we are now, it means we don't have to be all big with the apologies. I know and you do too, so just save it."
It's oddly hard to agree to that, even though he's no more inclined to emotional speeches than she is. Perhaps it's because, deep-down, he really does feel that she's owed an apology and, which is the motive he suspects for most acts of contrition, it'll make him feel better. He settles for biting the hand across his mouth which gets him a chuckle and leans back.
"I still want to know what happened. Exactly. Giles was -- not himself, I agree, but he knows as well as I do that prison isn't the place for you."
"Got a jury in California that'd beg to differ, Wes."
He curls a lock of her hair around his finger, studying the sheen on it. "You needed that time to reflect. You proved that you were capable of thinking about someone other than yourself both by going to prison and breaking out." He tugs gently on her hair. "You don't need to do it again, Faith. You've changed."
"Lot of girls have changed," Faith murmurs. "Don't need me when there's a shit-load of Slayers out there."
"I shan't dignify that with a response," he tells her. "Except to say that all Slayers aren't created equal, and that was true even before Willow's spell. You're special, Faith. You and Buffy both, which is why you don't get on, I expect, except in times of crisis. We really need an apocalypse, don't we? It's been far too quiet recently."
"She hates me," she says, her voice low, ignoring his admittedly weak attempt at humour. "Really fucking hates me and that - fuck, Wes, it hurts, you know? Thought we were over that."
"Really, it would have been better if we'd stayed in the States," he muses out loud and she twists her lips in a gesture he can't interpret.
"'Cept there was that whole me being an escaped convict thing," she points out finally. Then sighs. "It's easier for B to hate me and blame me for how fucking miserable she is, then dealing with how she turned her back on Angel when he needed her. And yesterday, she kept coming in and she wanted to know what happened when we did the Jedi mind swap and I wouldn't tell her 'cause it's private and it's all just flashes anyway. Then she got madder and the drugs were wearing off and I lost it again."
"Though there were no handy chairs," Wesley ventures and she unconsciously rubs her fingers against the chafe marks on her wrists where she was chained.
"Didn't need a chair," she mutters. "Hurt her worst than the chair ever did just by opening my big, fat, stupid mouth."
Her beautiful, pouting mouth is currently clamped shut again and he risks moving his hands so he can gently knead her shoulders and as he works on a particularly spectacular knot, it's like he's found the right key to unlock the final door.
"Told her about the strip search and how Giles just stood there the whole time staring at me with his hard-on almost busting out of his trousers." She smiles thinly. "Shut her up for all of five seconds at least. And now you know why she wants me back on the chain gang 'cause even if she doesn't want Giles, then she sure as shit doesn't want anyone else to have him."
He's fighting off too many emotions to be able to speak for a moment. When he does, his voice is thick with anger.
"Giles is going to apologise to you for that, Faith. I promise you he will."
She shrugs. "Hey, didn't bother me, Wes. I'm naked and he wasn't hard, I'd start to feel insulted, you know?"
"The circumstances --"
"Kinda kinky, yeah. You saying you didn't know Giles gets off on that?"
"On what?"
She's relaxing now, a small, smug smile in place, as if knowing something he doesn't is making her happy. "Compared to some of the freaks I've hooked up with he's vanilla, but, yeah, I'm thinking he's got hidden depths." Her smile turns secret, knowing. "So what would it have done for you, Wes? Watching two guards peel me out of my duds, hands in all sorts of places, me bent over, legs spread and --"
"Stop it," he says, struggling to his feet, outrage and revulsion washing over him. "God, Faith. I'm going to fucking hurt him for this."
"Hurt him." She purses her lips, rolling onto her stomach and staring at him. "Most men would say 'kill him' and not mean it, but you don't go for the empty threats, do you?" She shakes her head. "You got really scary, Wes. That down to me, as well?"
"I don't think so."
"Kinda hope not."
He stares out at the sunset from the cloudy glass in the front door. "Would you like to go for a walk?"
"Where to?"
"I don't think it matters."
She stands up in one easy, fluid movement and walks over to him. "Always matters where you're going, Wes." She wrinkles up her nose. "Okay, that was close to fortune-cookie wisdom."
"Verging on it," he concedes, opening the door. "Very well. There's a cave in the forest where I used to keep an assortment of the stuff boys generally keep hidden --"
"Porn? Cigarettes?"
"A slingshot and some mildly violent comics actually." He shrugs. "I was only nine."
"Wes, aged nine," she muses, as they amble down the garden path. "Bet you were all kinds of cute. Big, blue eyes and sorta gangly and…"
"I was not cute," he protests but Faith just reaches up and pinches his stubbly cheek.
"Aw, you're being pretty cute right now, Wes," she laughs and he's wondering what Faith, aged nine was like. Small for her age, permanently skinned knees and the same sad, dark eyes that she still has.
"If you persist in pursuing this line of enquiry I won't share the bottle of wine or the chocolate I've bought," is all he says and he manages to keep his voice light, considering that he's still inwardly seething about Giles running his perverted eyes over Faith bent and spread over a table. And he's still not sure what's making him the angriest? Giles daring to look at what he's only had shadowy glimpses of, or that his cock is still half hard from the thought of that little tableau.
"It smells weird here," she says over her shoulder and throwing in an insouciant little wriggle of her hips that he's sure is deliberate. "Like, earthy or something."
"I believe that would be called fresh air, just a theory you understand."
Faith gives another bathwater gurgle then concentrates on negotiating the last few steps down a little gulch that leads to the cave where he used to while away the long summer afternoons. "Cool," she says approvingly, as he spreads out the rug he brought with them on the gravelly ground. She's already delving in the rucksack. "Wine," she says, pulling out the bottle, and then grabbing handfuls of chocolate bars. "Dine." She arches an eyebrow at him as he sprawls out next to her and the silence is deliciously loaded before she throws the corkscrew at him.
As ever, there's something about drinking out of doors that has each swallow going straight to his head. The gathering shadows make the edge of the clearing indistinct and mysterious and it's warm but a little late in the year for midges, thank God.
They drink, and if the chocolate makes the wine taste a little less than perfect, it's worth it for the chance to lick slowly at her lips, cleaning them until the only sweetness left comes from her.
"This is all kinds of romantic," she sighs, propping herself up on an elbow and letting the ends of her hair tickle his face. "You going to fuck me now, Wes?"
"Would you like me to?" he asks.
She shrugs and collapses on top of him, squirming gently and reaching down to caress his burgeoning erection. "Wouldn't suck."
"I suppose it wouldn't," he says gently. "But I think I'll wait until you're rested and not feeling grateful, if you don't mind."
She stiffens on top of him. "Excuse me?" She says it the exact same way that people say, 'Fuck off.' "You think I want to fuck you because I'm grateful?"
"That's not what I meant, Faith," he sighs. "I simply…"
But she's already scrambling off him, kneeing him so viciously in the groin that he doubts it's an accident.
"You think I just wanted some mercy hump?" she shouts, face red with rage. "Well, fuck you!"
And that was rather the matter in hand, so to speak, but Faith is already turning on her heel and racing up the track; and by the time he's managed to stagger to his feet and press his hand to his crotch which is now throbbing for all the wrong reasons, she's already a small, very pissed off, black-clad figure in the distance.
He takes his time going back to the cottage. Truth be told, he's dragging his heels because he doesn't know how to deal with her fury. He never did.
The lights are all blazing when he crests the top of the hill, the door wide open and he breaks into a run, terrified of what he might find. A dozen Council wetworkers, Buffy wielding that bloody scythe or… Faith flinging her clothes into a holdall.
"What are you doing?" he asks tiredly, putting his own bag down on one of the kitchen chairs.
"What the fuck does it look like?" she snarls. "Not staying here with you, Wes. Don't want you scared to go to sleep case you think that I'm going to jump your unwilling bones. Asshole!"
"They wouldn't be unwilling," he says softly.
"Yeah, right."
Anger lends him the strength to rise above the ache in his balls and the panic at what might happen to her if she heads out into the descending night.
"Excuse me for not wanting to be added to the list of people who've taken advantage of you!"
For a moment he thinks he's got through to her but the indecision on her face hardens to anger again and he sighs. "Faith, I've wanted to fuck you since the moment we met. You're beautiful. You've featured in many fantasies and been responsible for many solitary moments of pleasure. Happier now?"
"You jerk off over me?"
He keeps his face expressionless with an effort. "On occasion."
"Huh."
"More of an 'uhnn' really," he says diffidently.
When she starts to laugh he feels the tight bands of tension around his chest ease a little.
But she's still eyeing him warily, even as she drops the holdall on the floor. "Is that what you think then, Wes? That I'm some poor little victim that people kick around?"
She rests her hands on the back of the sofa and he risks a step towards her before something desperate in her eyes makes him halt. "I think you're a victim of circumstance," he says carefully and she makes a small, indistinct sound.
"I guess that's fancy Wes speak for loser," she says without rancour and glances around the small sitting room. "Don't suppose you brought the rest of the wine back?"
He hands her the half full bottle of wine and settles down on the sofa next to her to watch her drink it with the single minded purpose of someone who craves oblivion.
And it would work if, bless her, she wasn't the happiest drunk he's ever come across. By the time she's got to the bottom of the bottle, her legs are hooked over the arm of the couch and she's giggling feebly about how she heard an owl on the way back to the cottage " -- and, honest to God, Wes, thought I was going to pee my pants."
She's the most infuriating, maddening, irritating, utterly bewitching woman in the world, he thinks as she gives him a cross-eyed look and one of those fearsome pouts because he's not prostrate with mirth.
"So you're telling me that you're not cut out to be a twitcher, then?" he murmurs, doing a bit of deft twitching himself as he takes the bottle from her just before it slides through her fingers and crashes to the floor.
"What the hell is a --?"
"Bird watcher," he says blandly. "I'm not saying the, ah, panty-wetting wouldn't occur if they saw something rare, but I suspect they'd view your reaction with some amusement."
He's sounding stuffier by the moment and he knows he's retreating into the Wesley she first met, buttoned-up tight and starched-stiff. Reminding himself that he's dangerous, sexy and knows at least seven things to do to her nipples that would have her whimpering, he leans over and kisses her.
She blinks up at him. "That doesn't count as taking advantage of me?"
"I'm trusting that you're too drunk to remember it in the morning," he says solemnly.
"Wouldn't forget a kiss from you, Wes," she says and takes his breath away because she sounds as if she means it.
"Faith --"
"Kinda like to have more to remember than a kiss and a finger fuck though."
"I suppose that could be arranged," he says.
"What changed your mind?"
Her eyelashes drift closed slowly and she's asleep before he can answer, which is just as well.
It must be a combination of the drugs still in her bloodstream, the fresh air and the best part of a bottle of wine, Wesley thinks as he tucks the blanket around her, enjoying the gentle flutter of her eyelashes in time with her deep, even breaths.
He's not in the least bit tired, after sleeping for most of the morning and some of the afternoon. Instead, he nabs a glass of Scotch from his aunt's drinks cabinet and an Agatha Christie that he doesn't remember reading and tiptoes upstairs to have a long, decadent bath.
The hot water convinces him that he's relaxed; the tension of the last few days ebbing away but when he's standing in front of the bedroom window watching the moon high up in the night sky and thinking about the girl sprawled out on the sofa downstairs, immediately he's taut with worry and want and all things in between.
He's pretending that he might go to sleep soon when he hears her quiet tread on the stairs, then the bathroom door opening. There's a rubber shower head that attaches to the bath taps and he can hear the patter of water against the enamel and he's so far from dropping off now as he imagines her naked in the next room, imagines what would happen if he got out of bed and went to her.
But then he doesn't have to imagine because the bedroom door is opened just a crack and she's in the room, naked flesh ghostly pale in the moonlight, creeping towards the bed because he's lying there with his eyes shut and his mind full and she must think he's asleep. She pulls back the sheet and slips in next to him, and he's holding his breath as she lets out a breathy sigh and plants a delicate kiss against his shoulder blade.
"Sweet dreams, Wes," he hears her whisper and then she's doing the unthinkable; turning away from him and settling down to go to sleep.
'They'd be sweeter if they weren't dreams," he says, which is more the sort of thing he wishes he'd said later, when he's re-writing a conversation, so he's left feeling rather proud of himself.
There's a pause and then she turns back and he can smell mint and Faith and wine and she's achingly close and managing not to touch him.
"Wes? Did I ask you something just before I passed out?"
"I think -- yes, yes, you did."
Her hand emerges from the darkness, visible once it clears the sheets, and her fingers stroke down the side of his face. "Tell me then."
"What changed my mind? You did." It's easy to be honest in the dark, he finds. "I'm sorry if my scruples --"
"Wes?" Her lips find the corner of his mouth and start to kiss across it. "Forget it. Doesn't matter. We're both --" She gives a complex full-body shrug that somehow finishes with her pressed up against him, her hand on his hip and stroking down. "Jittery." Her hand moves a crucial few inches and it's on his arse. "Fucked-up."
"Yes -- " he says thoughtfully, filling his palm with the soft weight of her breast and flicking his thumb across her nipple and finding it hard and waiting. "Want to unwind?"
"Want to fuck," she says emphatically. "We on the same page yet, Wes?"
Part Four
Tags:
- btvs,
- fic,
- het,
- threesome,
- wesley/faith