Chapter 1 of 1
“Where’ve you been, Wes?” The beloved voice is gentle, sleepy, concerned and doesn’t warrant the snappish reply it’s about to receive.
Wesley shuts the door, turns the locks and shrugs stiffly out of his windbreaker. His back and shoulders are alternately hot and cold. The skin on them feels as if it’s been flayed. “Out wreaking havoc and cheating on you, of course.”
“You were gone three days without a phone call. I think I’m entitled to less snark and more explanations.”
Wesley turns to face his lover. Alan is a small man, smaller still in Wesley’s old, sprung sweatpants and a worn white t-shirt. His face is worried a shade of pale, unmarred, but for the dark circles just beginning to form under round, green eyes.
“Let’s - not do this now, Alan. I’ve had a rough few days and all I want is to lay down and slip into a coma.” Wesley shuffles past Alan and automatically checks the answering machine - no new messages, lovely - ignoring the twitch and spasms rolling across his lower lumbar region.
Alan’s hand on his waist is simultaneously startling and comforting. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, I just - I worry about you.” The hand slides ‘round to his stomach and rubs gently. Alan’s body presses into his back and Wesley waits for the pain, the searing burn. . . .
When it doesn’t come, he sighs and leans back against Alan gladly. “You shouldn’t.”
“But I do.”
“But you do.” Wesley puts his hand over Alan’s and squeezes it. The flood of affection and need he feels for this man is overwhelming and painful. It’s sucking the breath right out of him, as a matter of fact.
Though perhaps that’s just the newest Marks.
“Wes. . . I don’t like what he’s doin’ to you. He’s changin’ you in ways that aren’t good.” Such a vibrant voice, exasperation and fear leaking around it’s edges, making it waver and crack slightly. “Can’t you see - feel what that old snake’s - teachings and spells are doin’ to you?”
“Must we do this every time?” Wes mutters, pulling away from arms that have only loved him and tried to keep him safe. He staggers off to their bedroom, feeling like a bastard.
But then, he’s rather used to that.
Their bedroom is large, comfortably cluttered. It’s lit by one bedside lamp, the homey, yellow glow as welcoming as the arms he’d just left and ultimately as denied to him.
Wesley’s formerly spare and sterile life has become cluttered in many small, pleasant ways since inviting Alan to share it.
He stands over the bed swaying with exhaustion, debating how feasible it would be to go to sleep without taking off his shirt. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulls off the turtleneck, tossing it in the general direction of the bathroom. Better for Alan to see the latest Marks now, rather than discover them when they’re in the shower or while they’re making love.
“You’re right, let’s don’t argue. I’ll run you a hot bath, make you some supper and - dear God, Wes. . . !” Alan takes a few steps into the room then pauses, startled and obviously at a loss for words. “What is that thing?”
“It’s nothing, just a few new glyphs. More protections and wards.” A connecting, ever-growing series of tattoos and - other things, twisting and crowding their way down Wesley’s back. For his own protection, he’s been told.
When one delves as deeply into the dark arts as he has, without the patronage of a God or higher being, any protection offered is best taken.
No matter how damaging.
“His glyphs? His protection? A contradiction in terms, if ever there was one.” Alan’s laugh sounds more than a bit hysterical. When cold, trembling fingers touch Wesley’s back, trace the patterns of ink and scars, he flinches away. It’s not likely the Mark would do anything to hurt Alan, but there’s no point in taking chances. Not while the magics that went into it’s making are still so - active.
“Your hands are like ice.” There’s a gentle creak as Alan sits on their bed.
“No, your back is on fire.” The concern Alan tries to force out of his voice still comes across clearly and Wesley feels even guiltier. He can see through most of Alan’s facades, knows what it costs him to keep himself under control. “These things, love, they're wrong. They make you burn, make you tired, change the way you feel to me. . . .”
“If you wish to leave me, you needn’t make excuses. Just get your things and go.” The words, the coldness aren’t what he wants to say, yet it’s flowing past his lips like poisonous bile.
“Wes -” Alan’s strong, hands catch his own, pull him to the bed. He’s too drained to resist sitting and being tugged back into the soothingly cool embrace.
“Isn’t that what you want to do? Get out of dodge, make tracks before I corrupt you like he’s corrupted me?” Wesley closes his eyes and holds onto the arms wrapped around him, waiting for the words he’s been dreading to fill the silence.
“Love,” Alan says softly, his voice like mist and shadows. A cool finger traces the line of Wesley’s collarbone then follows the trail of hair down his chest and abdomen, to his belt buckle. Desire is as sudden as Wesley’s next breath and for one, horrifying moment, it’s only his weariness that prevents him from throwing Alan down onto the bed and taking what he wants so very badly.
“You should leave me. Before I drag you down.” And Wesley should be trying harder to convince, but even his eloquence has been used up. The only source of viable energy left is - magical in nature and utterly unthinkable, with Alan so near.
“My Wesley.” Alan lays down, taking Wesley with him. They instinctually shift into their sleeping positions: Alan draped over Wesley, their arms around each other. Gentle fingers brush Wesley’s face and the lines of tension slowly smooth out.
“Why on Earth do you put up with me?” The Marks burn white-hot, a momentary agony, and he whimpers. Alan tucks his face into the crook of Wesley’s neck and the agony is suddenly dimmed.
“I don’t put up with you, jackass. I love you. I love you.” Kisses it onto Wesley’s throat then whispers it against his lips before snuggling back into his former position. “Sweetheart, you’re burnin' up. If these Marks are s'posed to be helpin' you, why d'you feel like you’re bakin' from the inside out?”
“The magic has to work it’s feats on mortal flesh, which it wasn’t made to do. Technically, I should be dead. But I’ve built up a rather impressive tolerance for the wards, over the past year.”
And the only price of this protection? His lover’s peace of mind and his own. Not at all a high price to pay, when one thinks about it.
Though if one were to think for slightly longer, one might cry one’s self to sleep every night. . . and that simply wouldn’t do.
“Alan. . . I know I’m not the same man you met three years ago. I know I’ve changed in many ways, most of them not for the better. Most days. . . I can’t even remember what it feels like to be that man -”
“You are that man, Wes. You’re honorable and kind and the most courageous person I’ve ever met.”
“You obviously need to meet some new people, then.” Did he used to sound so bitter and cynical? Probably not.
“It’s not you, it’s the damn Marks. It’s the damn magic. If you gave up them up -”
“No.”
Alan sits up, taking away the soothing coolness of his body; it's like being suddenly shoved into the heart of a sun, for Wesley. There are hot metal shavings under the skin of his back and molten lava fusing his spine.
Wesley’s own magic isn’t yet strong enough to dull the newest Mark making itself felt.
He opens his eyes; deep, concerned green is all he can see. Alan’s eyes search his intently before he tucks his head back under Wesley’s chin and hugs him tightly, sighing.
“And of course, you won’t listen to reason,” is muttered against Wesley’s collarbone.
“I’m being perfectly reasonable, Alan! I’ve entered into a contract with Sybbus Vale to be his apprentice for a certain amount of time. You’re dreadfully naive if you think he - or the magic will just let me walk away before they’re done with me. But you can still get away. It’s not too late - go. I really wish you would.”
“No.”
“Are all Irish as mule-stubborn and thick with it as you are?”
“English bastard.”
They lay there silently, holding each other. Wesley controls his breathing in an attempt to control the pain. The cool, steady, silent caress of Alan’s tears on the hot skin of his throat makes any measure of self-control impossible. He reaches up to brush the tears away but more replace them.
“Don’t you find it appalling that lately, all I ever seem to do is break your heart?” It’s not really a question, but stones made of words, to weigh down Wesley’s heart. “Go, please? I don’t wish to hurt you anymore than I already have, I -” want you to stay and never leave me. Always love me. Always believe in me.
“You’re my heart and soul, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, so if you think I’m gonna leave you, you’re not just a jackass, you’re a damned fool.”
“And you’re full of blarney.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“You’re intolerable, sometimes. But I've become extremely fond of you.” A Wyndham-Pryce sweeping-declaration-of-undying-love, as it were.
“Show, don’t tell.” Alan’s hand ghosts over the feverish skin of Wesley’s stomach then grips his belt buckle.
“We can’t, not now, not so soon after -” the runes, pictographs and scars that feel as if they’ve been branded into his flesh writhe just under his skin. A jolt of electricity and fire runs through Wesley’s veins, making him feel clearer, energized and hard. Every iota of magic in his flesh - in the marrow of his bones - eats at him like acid, trying to get to Alan.
This is what scares him most of all concerning the Marks that cover his body. Not only does the magic want Alan, but it’s never more active than when Wesley’s near him.
“Wes, it’s been three brutal, worrisome days. Like Marvin Gaye said: I want some sexual healin’, yeah?”
But Marvin Gaye never had possibly-evil, mystical ink burning holes into his back, as far as I know, Wesley thinks. Certain areas of his body are already responding to Alan’s touch despite his extreme fatigue.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers miserably. Unfortunately, he can’t speak for the magic. He’s sure that whatever it wants from Alan is not in Alan’s best interest.
“You can’t hurt me. Remember?” The sudden prick of purple spikes against Wesley’s neck is like an aphrodisiac and he moans, pulling Alan closer. The hand that’s been tugging at his belt buckle slides a little lower and strokes enticingly. Without his mind's consent, Wesley’s traitor-body bucks up into the touch.
“I’m not entirely sure what I can or can’t do, anymore.” It hurts to admit this, to admit that he doesn’t know what all the runes mean, can’t be sure the wards are purely that.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” Alan murmurs, unbuckling Wesley’s belt with nimble fingers. Down goes the zipper.
“OhGodIloveyou!” Wesley has always felt guilty that he’s only able to blurt that out when his cock is in contact with some part of Alan’s anatomy.
“I know,” Alan purrs, pressing his own erection against Wesley’s thigh.
“You’re sexy, even when you’re smug,” Wesley gasps. “Though - your hand down my trousers may be biasing me.”
“I'm not smug, I’m. . . content.” Alan is chuckling while he strokes, something which shouldn't turn Wesley on, but does. He rolls on top of Alan and pins his hands to the bed. Garnet-red eyes set in a green, spiky face stare back at him expectantly; the same eyes Wesley fell hopelessly into three years ago.
He’s never tried to find his way back out; probably never will.
“Are you content?”
“At this moment in time?” Alan sighs happily and wriggles under Wesley. “Very.”
He’s the same. . . Wesley thinks, and it’s like a revelation. Though he’s grown in remarkable ways, Alan has never ceased to be the person I fell in love with. If possible, he’s become more that person.
“Am I your - long haul guy?” The silly phrase carries potent memories from Wesley’s turbulent past.
We both know we aren’t each other’s long haul guy, Wes. . . .
Wes had known no such thing.
“What? Like, do you drive the big rigs across long distances for me?” Wesley’s suddenly yanked back into the present; Alan’s human-face blinks up at him, pale, perfect and puzzled.
“Yes - no! I meant -”
“I’m just teasin’, man. I know what you meant and yeah, you’re my long haul guy. Unless you have objections.” There’s a flicker of uncertainty in Alan’s eyes that Wesley can’t abide even for a moment. “Do you?”
“None.” Several dozen, at least, but not on his own behalf. There will come a day when Alan realizes he’d be better off without a reserved, secretive sorcerer for a lover. Fortunately, that day isn’t today. It won’t be tomorrow, either, if Wesley has his say.
“You are so beautiful.” He leans down to steal a kiss or ten; unsurprisingly, the pain dims again. The burn of the Marks on his back has settled to a dull ache, like a mild sunburn. But his blood feels like quicksilver in his veins.
The magic can be rather unsubtle about what it wants.
“Beautiful, eh?” Alan shivers when Wesley nibbles his ear and hooks his left leg around Wesley’s right one.
“Amazingly beautiful, dazzlingly sexy, wonderfully warm. . . .” Wesley sits up to look into dancing green eyes. “Surpassingly sweet.”
Alan laughs. “Now who’s fulla blarney?”
“Hmm, that’d still be you. And about to be full of Englishman, as well, I expect.”
Wesley can be unsubtle about what he wants, as well.
“Really? Well, I s’pose I’m just lucky that way.” Alan’s tone is wry and dry, but the look in his eyes is painfully sincere.
“Alan, I -“ will always love you? Will never stop wanting you? Would lay down my life for you? Won’t ever let you go? “- promise everything will turn out for the best, you’ll see.”
Alan’s smile is gentle and sad. More stones on Wesley’s heart. “I know it will, Wes.”
“I promise.”
Wesley swoops in for a kiss before either of them can tell another lie.
Chapter 1 of 1