Habit, Part One
Mar. 23rd, 2004 09:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thebratqueenSo as I started writing the bunny I realized this was going to be more of a "post in installments" thing than a "get it all done tonight" thing. This is so unusual for me because, as we know, I am an expert in knowing exactly how long all my stories are going to be.
Ahem.
Anyway, here's part one of the new bunny. It's called "Habit" and it's a little bit kinkfic, little bit WIP. It's also dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wesleysgirl, who is an evil, evil woman.
[ETA: some tweaks were made to correct word choices I didn't like, and to clarify a part that was inadvertently ambiguous.]
***
The lobby of Wolfram & Hart looks much as it did five years ago. The colors are the same. The logo the same. The layout much as Wesley's brain remembers it, though of course he never liked to remember it for long.
The lift deposits him into the middle of chaos. People move, talk, click away at computers with monitors that are ironically paper-thin. The disorder of it hurts, and for a moment he thinks of turning around and vanishing before he can be noticed.
"Wesley!"
"Charles," the smile on Wesley's face is genuine. The firm hug the other man gives him is even moreso. A hard hand slaps his back in the once-twice-three times pattern of men who must drum out assurances of their heterosexuality, then they step back, enough room between them for someone to pass.
"Flight okay?"
"Fine, fine," Wesley nods. He rests his hand on his satchel, feeling the worn leather beneath his fingertips. "We arrived on time. Actually ahead of schedule, but we had to circle before we could land."
"You know the company jet - " Gunn starts to say, but stops when he sees the look on Wesley's face. "Right. Well the offer - you know - if you ever - "
"Thank you," Wesley says, mercifully helping him to abort the sentence before it can miscarry.
"I'm sorry," Gunn says, speaking the words everyone has come to speak to him once the preliminary greetings are done and put away. "About - "
"Yes, thank you," Wesley says, not wanting that sentence to come to life either.
There's silence. Phones chirp all around them. Charles puts his hands in his pockets, as though intending to do so the entire time. Then says, "So how you doing?"
"Tired," Wesley says, because he is. "Jetlag," he adds, and then makes a face as though the two words are somehow connected.
"Can imagine," Gunn says. He nods his head, motioning Wes to follow him. "Don't worry. We'll put some coffee in you. Can't have the big brains nodding off on us, right?"
"Right," Wesley agrees, though he wonders how much even a cup of caffeine will throw off the careful balance in his system. The long plane ride has left him feeling uncertain at best. "Or tea, if you have it? Perhaps something to eat?"
"We'll take care of it," Gunn promises, pressing his hand to a plate in the wall, then stepping aside so Wesley can walk through the doors that then open.
"How is everyone?" Wesley asks, his eyes now noting the extra security. He studies the walls, the ceiling, wondering where the cameras and microphones are hidden.
"Good," Gunn says. "Lorne's got a gig in NY but he'll be back next week. Spike's helping Andrew out in Vegas. Terry earned his stripes last year fighting a group of - "
Wesley tunes him out, not caring about the names of those he knows only through second hand introductions. As he walks he notices there *have* been changes. Even to the colors. He simply remembered it wrong.
"Wesley!"
"Lindsey," Wesley says, nodding a greeting to the somewhat literally born-again lawyer.
Lindsey grasps Wesley's hand, pumping it in an easy shake. "What's this horse shit I hear about you in a conference room? Screw that. Give me five minutes, I'll get my things, your office is yours again."
"It's not necessary," Wesley says. "Thank you."
"You sure?" Lindsey asks.
"Positive, I - "
But Lindsey's already moved on to other matters. "Gunn, I've got Ramirez up my ass about the Argudo case. Don't wanna hustle you but if we don't make that call - "
"I got it," Gunn says.
"I'm keeping you," Wesley says. He tries to look apologetic. Or, failing that, self-reliant. "If you need to go, I'm sure I can - "
"Nonsense," Lindsey says. It's a slap on Wesley's arm now, and another pump of his hand that's delivered as Lindsey is already walking past him and down the hall. "You let this guy take care of you. Make sure he gives you the best food in the house. Order in. None of that crap from the cafeteria. And you are not leaving LA until you and me have a drink Trust me, I know a bar, thirty year old bourbon. It'll be great. Gunn? Seriously, the call's in fifteen."
"I'll see you there," Gunn promises.
"Honestly," Wesley says, "I can find my way."
"You don't have the security clearances," Gunn says, a twist of his mouth punctuating the statement. "Sorry about that. It's just at the last minute and you being MIA - "
"It's fine," Wesley says, and accepts the truth of that. It fits nicely beside Lindsey's courtesies, the offers no more heartfelt or sincere then those given to any of their clients. He wonders if Lindsey offered bourbon because he thought Wesley might like it, or because he knew box seats at a Laker game would mean absolutely nothing to him. He wonders why Lindsey bothered offering at all. "One can't expect to go on leave and come back to find things as they were."
"Are you?" Gunn asks. "Back?"
But there's more familiar faces before Wesley is forced to respond. "Angel."
The vampire smiles. "Wes. It's been - "
"Wesley!" a female voice cries, and Wesley is knocked back several paces as Harmony launches herself at him. "You're here!"
"Indeed," Wesley says. He pats her awkwardly, feeling her strength around his ribs. "Er - oxygen? Please?"
"Right," she dances back, her smile bright and unwavering. "It's good to see you! How have you been? Was your flight totally horrible? What's the latest with - "
"Harm," Angel says, the syllable said with years of practice, "Wes asked you to let him *breathe*."
"What?" she frowns, then gets it. "Oh. No questions?"
"Maybe later," Angel says.
"Sure," Harmony nods. She holds up an overstuffed file folder. "I've got things to do. We can catch-up after. Maybe over drinks?"
Wesley shifts, over-consciously wondering why so many are offering him alcohol. "Er - yes? Perhaps? If there's time."
"*So* good to see you!" Harmony says again. She goes up on tiptoe to hug around his shoulders. Then, far too loud to be a proper whisper, says, "And don't worry. I didn't tell *anyone* about the night of you know what."
Harmony dashes off down the hall. Wesley turns to see Angel and Gunn looking at him with almost identical expressions of bemused innocence.
"She told everyone, didn't she?" Wesley guesses.
"In her unique way, yeah," Angel confirms.
"It was a spell," Wesley tells them. "You remember. It was *the* spell."
"Spell, right," Gunn says, then is interrupted by a buzzing noise inside of his coat. "Damn. I gotta take this."
"Go," Angel tells him. "I've got Wes."
"Sure?" Gunn asks, kindly looking to the both of them for confirmation.
"It's fine," Wesley says.
"Positive," Angel says.
Gunn leaves. They're alone in the hallway.
"Angel - " Wesley starts.
The vampire silences him with a firm, lasting hug. "Come on. My office. Let's get you some privacy."
***
The sunset filters through the blinds as Wesley sits on Angel's leather couch. He puts his satchel down, resting it near his lap and very definitely within his eyesight. Angel shuts the doors behind them, then turns his phone off as well. When he sits across from Wesley the light falls over him, striping his tailored suit in rose and shadow. The air between them is weighted, filled with the months - years - since their last real conversation.
"So," Angel says at last, "you and Harmony, huh?"
A bark of laughter escapes before Wesley realizes it. "It was a spell! As you bloody well know."
"Did I?" Angel asks. His eyes are warm, filled with amusement. "Seem to remember the spell just making you *kiss* people. Don't remember you going all the way with everybody you came across. You know if I knew *that* I might have handled things a little differently."
"It was the spell," Wesley says again. He finds himself giddy from this patter, this familiarity between them. The words tumble out automatically. "It meant nothing."
The quirk of Angel's eyebrow holds double meaning. "Nothing?"
"Harmony," Wesley says, then falters. "I mean - "
"It's okay, Wes."
Wesley remembers a confused moment in the office that now has Lindsey's name on it. The feeling of strong hands and stronger lips is as keen as if Angel had just held him - though perhaps it is the recent hug which is coloring his memories. Not knowing what Angel might want to hear, Wesley says, "Harmony and I - it was the spell. It doesn't count if it's a spell."
"It only counts if you want it to count," Angel says, and though the words sound like agreement Wesley feels as though they were actually contradiction. However, Angel continues before Wesley can ask. "You look good."
Wesley's fingers fuss at the clasp on his satchel. "Thank you."
Angel's eyes are studious, observing. "Lost a little weight."
There's truth behind that statement that Wesley doesn't want to touch. Fortunately there are other things he can work with. "I haven't had much time to take exercise."
"Can imagine," Angel says. He's sober now. Quieter. "How'd it go?"
Wesley rubs the metal buckle of his bag, running his thumb up and down the brass as though he could clean tarnish off of it. He thinks about the funeral. About *both* funerals. "As well as could be expected."
"I heard after - "
"I know."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Months ago, perhaps. Now Wesley shrugs. The organization that fell into place after his parents' deaths made it such that Wesley never had to talk about it. It was someone else - aunts, uncles, cousins, servants - who swarmed out of the woodwork and made all the necessary phonecalls. Yes, a car accident. Yes, she died on impact. No, he's in hospital. Yes, Wesley is there with him.
In the end Wesley had only been needed for the comparatively mundane details. It had fallen to him to identify the twist of skin and bones that had once been his mother. Then, later, to make the decision that his father had been so thoughtful as to *not* provide a will for. Assuming, apparently, that his wayward son would automatically know the old man's wishes.
It had taken a month and a half before Wesley finally gave the order. The doctor stood beside him, oozing the same professional courtesy that Lindsey had shown just moments before. He'd offered a sympathetic face, and the name of a good counselor. "This… can be difficult," he'd said. "Doing this. You want to do what's best but you can still feel guilt. As though it's your fault. As though you murdered him."
Wesley had pocketed the card and not even looked at the man. "It wouldn't be the first time," was all he'd replied.
Now he had Angel looking at him.
"The funerals were nice," Wesley offers.
"Yeah," Angel says. "Giles mentioned it. Your dad's, anyway."
The Council, such as it was, had turned out in force to honor his father - which had been more than any of them could have been bothered to do for his mum. It was the old guard, naturally. The ones who had served with Roger, and sneered at the new upstarts and their legions of Slayers from behind warped wooden shelves of thick, dusty books that were now completely useless. But Rupert had shown up, his eyes defying anyone to challenge him as he stood beside Wesley and blocked anyone who attempted to bog Wesley down with conversations about old times. After, Rupert took him back to his flat. They drank tea and literally spoke of nothing at all, instead letting the silence do all the work for them until it was time for Wesley to take the train back to London.
Rupert's presence had been an unexpected blessing. Then, later, a mistake. But Wesley doesn't care to linger on that now.
Angel watches him, his eyes worried. "Wes - "
"I'm fine," he says, then belatedly realizes that hadn't been a question. He rubs his eyes. He wishes he were better at this. He wishes that he didn't want to be here.
"I would have come," Angel says. His voice is earnest, and gentle. "If you'd called me, if you'd told me - I would have come."
"I know," Wesley says. He doesn't tell Angel that's precisely the reason why he did not invite him.
"Any time, Wes," Angel says. The words are library-quiet now, a promise for only Wesley to hear. "Any time. Just ask, or - "
"Yes, thank you," Wesley says, then winces because it's the same tone of dismissal that he has given to everyone, and Angel isn't and never was part of the masses. "I'm sorry. I meant - thank you. Honestly."
"Think you're up for this?" Angel asks.
They're back on professional matters. Wesley can handle this. "Yes. Yes. You think you have an infestation?"
"Not sure what to call it," Angel says. "But I think we've got something to worry about. Giles said you were the one to talk to."
"I've been studying them," Wesley says. He opens the satchel, pulls out notebooks and texts. "Prollta'c demons. They're new. Or they are to our dimension."
Angel glances at Wesley's notes. He nods in recognition when he sees one of the sketches. "Giles said you ran into some of them last year?"
Wesley isn't certain how casually to answer the question. "Yes. In Rome."
"We've got them here now," Angel says. He stands up, gets his own set of files and folders from his desk, hands them over to Wesley. "That's what we know so far, which is pretty much nothing. I need everything you can give me, Wes. Everything you've got."
Wesley tucks the papers into his bag. His hands tremble, but he thinks perhaps Angel doesn't notice it. "I'll tell you everything you need to know," he says, and marvels at how these days Angelus isn't the only one who knows how to lie with the truth.
***
Ahem.
Anyway, here's part one of the new bunny. It's called "Habit" and it's a little bit kinkfic, little bit WIP. It's also dedicated to
wesleysgirl, who is an evil, evil woman.[ETA: some tweaks were made to correct word choices I didn't like, and to clarify a part that was inadvertently ambiguous.]
***
The lobby of Wolfram & Hart looks much as it did five years ago. The colors are the same. The logo the same. The layout much as Wesley's brain remembers it, though of course he never liked to remember it for long.
The lift deposits him into the middle of chaos. People move, talk, click away at computers with monitors that are ironically paper-thin. The disorder of it hurts, and for a moment he thinks of turning around and vanishing before he can be noticed.
"Wesley!"
"Charles," the smile on Wesley's face is genuine. The firm hug the other man gives him is even moreso. A hard hand slaps his back in the once-twice-three times pattern of men who must drum out assurances of their heterosexuality, then they step back, enough room between them for someone to pass.
"Flight okay?"
"Fine, fine," Wesley nods. He rests his hand on his satchel, feeling the worn leather beneath his fingertips. "We arrived on time. Actually ahead of schedule, but we had to circle before we could land."
"You know the company jet - " Gunn starts to say, but stops when he sees the look on Wesley's face. "Right. Well the offer - you know - if you ever - "
"Thank you," Wesley says, mercifully helping him to abort the sentence before it can miscarry.
"I'm sorry," Gunn says, speaking the words everyone has come to speak to him once the preliminary greetings are done and put away. "About - "
"Yes, thank you," Wesley says, not wanting that sentence to come to life either.
There's silence. Phones chirp all around them. Charles puts his hands in his pockets, as though intending to do so the entire time. Then says, "So how you doing?"
"Tired," Wesley says, because he is. "Jetlag," he adds, and then makes a face as though the two words are somehow connected.
"Can imagine," Gunn says. He nods his head, motioning Wes to follow him. "Don't worry. We'll put some coffee in you. Can't have the big brains nodding off on us, right?"
"Right," Wesley agrees, though he wonders how much even a cup of caffeine will throw off the careful balance in his system. The long plane ride has left him feeling uncertain at best. "Or tea, if you have it? Perhaps something to eat?"
"We'll take care of it," Gunn promises, pressing his hand to a plate in the wall, then stepping aside so Wesley can walk through the doors that then open.
"How is everyone?" Wesley asks, his eyes now noting the extra security. He studies the walls, the ceiling, wondering where the cameras and microphones are hidden.
"Good," Gunn says. "Lorne's got a gig in NY but he'll be back next week. Spike's helping Andrew out in Vegas. Terry earned his stripes last year fighting a group of - "
Wesley tunes him out, not caring about the names of those he knows only through second hand introductions. As he walks he notices there *have* been changes. Even to the colors. He simply remembered it wrong.
"Wesley!"
"Lindsey," Wesley says, nodding a greeting to the somewhat literally born-again lawyer.
Lindsey grasps Wesley's hand, pumping it in an easy shake. "What's this horse shit I hear about you in a conference room? Screw that. Give me five minutes, I'll get my things, your office is yours again."
"It's not necessary," Wesley says. "Thank you."
"You sure?" Lindsey asks.
"Positive, I - "
But Lindsey's already moved on to other matters. "Gunn, I've got Ramirez up my ass about the Argudo case. Don't wanna hustle you but if we don't make that call - "
"I got it," Gunn says.
"I'm keeping you," Wesley says. He tries to look apologetic. Or, failing that, self-reliant. "If you need to go, I'm sure I can - "
"Nonsense," Lindsey says. It's a slap on Wesley's arm now, and another pump of his hand that's delivered as Lindsey is already walking past him and down the hall. "You let this guy take care of you. Make sure he gives you the best food in the house. Order in. None of that crap from the cafeteria. And you are not leaving LA until you and me have a drink Trust me, I know a bar, thirty year old bourbon. It'll be great. Gunn? Seriously, the call's in fifteen."
"I'll see you there," Gunn promises.
"Honestly," Wesley says, "I can find my way."
"You don't have the security clearances," Gunn says, a twist of his mouth punctuating the statement. "Sorry about that. It's just at the last minute and you being MIA - "
"It's fine," Wesley says, and accepts the truth of that. It fits nicely beside Lindsey's courtesies, the offers no more heartfelt or sincere then those given to any of their clients. He wonders if Lindsey offered bourbon because he thought Wesley might like it, or because he knew box seats at a Laker game would mean absolutely nothing to him. He wonders why Lindsey bothered offering at all. "One can't expect to go on leave and come back to find things as they were."
"Are you?" Gunn asks. "Back?"
But there's more familiar faces before Wesley is forced to respond. "Angel."
The vampire smiles. "Wes. It's been - "
"Wesley!" a female voice cries, and Wesley is knocked back several paces as Harmony launches herself at him. "You're here!"
"Indeed," Wesley says. He pats her awkwardly, feeling her strength around his ribs. "Er - oxygen? Please?"
"Right," she dances back, her smile bright and unwavering. "It's good to see you! How have you been? Was your flight totally horrible? What's the latest with - "
"Harm," Angel says, the syllable said with years of practice, "Wes asked you to let him *breathe*."
"What?" she frowns, then gets it. "Oh. No questions?"
"Maybe later," Angel says.
"Sure," Harmony nods. She holds up an overstuffed file folder. "I've got things to do. We can catch-up after. Maybe over drinks?"
Wesley shifts, over-consciously wondering why so many are offering him alcohol. "Er - yes? Perhaps? If there's time."
"*So* good to see you!" Harmony says again. She goes up on tiptoe to hug around his shoulders. Then, far too loud to be a proper whisper, says, "And don't worry. I didn't tell *anyone* about the night of you know what."
Harmony dashes off down the hall. Wesley turns to see Angel and Gunn looking at him with almost identical expressions of bemused innocence.
"She told everyone, didn't she?" Wesley guesses.
"In her unique way, yeah," Angel confirms.
"It was a spell," Wesley tells them. "You remember. It was *the* spell."
"Spell, right," Gunn says, then is interrupted by a buzzing noise inside of his coat. "Damn. I gotta take this."
"Go," Angel tells him. "I've got Wes."
"Sure?" Gunn asks, kindly looking to the both of them for confirmation.
"It's fine," Wesley says.
"Positive," Angel says.
Gunn leaves. They're alone in the hallway.
"Angel - " Wesley starts.
The vampire silences him with a firm, lasting hug. "Come on. My office. Let's get you some privacy."
***
The sunset filters through the blinds as Wesley sits on Angel's leather couch. He puts his satchel down, resting it near his lap and very definitely within his eyesight. Angel shuts the doors behind them, then turns his phone off as well. When he sits across from Wesley the light falls over him, striping his tailored suit in rose and shadow. The air between them is weighted, filled with the months - years - since their last real conversation.
"So," Angel says at last, "you and Harmony, huh?"
A bark of laughter escapes before Wesley realizes it. "It was a spell! As you bloody well know."
"Did I?" Angel asks. His eyes are warm, filled with amusement. "Seem to remember the spell just making you *kiss* people. Don't remember you going all the way with everybody you came across. You know if I knew *that* I might have handled things a little differently."
"It was the spell," Wesley says again. He finds himself giddy from this patter, this familiarity between them. The words tumble out automatically. "It meant nothing."
The quirk of Angel's eyebrow holds double meaning. "Nothing?"
"Harmony," Wesley says, then falters. "I mean - "
"It's okay, Wes."
Wesley remembers a confused moment in the office that now has Lindsey's name on it. The feeling of strong hands and stronger lips is as keen as if Angel had just held him - though perhaps it is the recent hug which is coloring his memories. Not knowing what Angel might want to hear, Wesley says, "Harmony and I - it was the spell. It doesn't count if it's a spell."
"It only counts if you want it to count," Angel says, and though the words sound like agreement Wesley feels as though they were actually contradiction. However, Angel continues before Wesley can ask. "You look good."
Wesley's fingers fuss at the clasp on his satchel. "Thank you."
Angel's eyes are studious, observing. "Lost a little weight."
There's truth behind that statement that Wesley doesn't want to touch. Fortunately there are other things he can work with. "I haven't had much time to take exercise."
"Can imagine," Angel says. He's sober now. Quieter. "How'd it go?"
Wesley rubs the metal buckle of his bag, running his thumb up and down the brass as though he could clean tarnish off of it. He thinks about the funeral. About *both* funerals. "As well as could be expected."
"I heard after - "
"I know."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Months ago, perhaps. Now Wesley shrugs. The organization that fell into place after his parents' deaths made it such that Wesley never had to talk about it. It was someone else - aunts, uncles, cousins, servants - who swarmed out of the woodwork and made all the necessary phonecalls. Yes, a car accident. Yes, she died on impact. No, he's in hospital. Yes, Wesley is there with him.
In the end Wesley had only been needed for the comparatively mundane details. It had fallen to him to identify the twist of skin and bones that had once been his mother. Then, later, to make the decision that his father had been so thoughtful as to *not* provide a will for. Assuming, apparently, that his wayward son would automatically know the old man's wishes.
It had taken a month and a half before Wesley finally gave the order. The doctor stood beside him, oozing the same professional courtesy that Lindsey had shown just moments before. He'd offered a sympathetic face, and the name of a good counselor. "This… can be difficult," he'd said. "Doing this. You want to do what's best but you can still feel guilt. As though it's your fault. As though you murdered him."
Wesley had pocketed the card and not even looked at the man. "It wouldn't be the first time," was all he'd replied.
Now he had Angel looking at him.
"The funerals were nice," Wesley offers.
"Yeah," Angel says. "Giles mentioned it. Your dad's, anyway."
The Council, such as it was, had turned out in force to honor his father - which had been more than any of them could have been bothered to do for his mum. It was the old guard, naturally. The ones who had served with Roger, and sneered at the new upstarts and their legions of Slayers from behind warped wooden shelves of thick, dusty books that were now completely useless. But Rupert had shown up, his eyes defying anyone to challenge him as he stood beside Wesley and blocked anyone who attempted to bog Wesley down with conversations about old times. After, Rupert took him back to his flat. They drank tea and literally spoke of nothing at all, instead letting the silence do all the work for them until it was time for Wesley to take the train back to London.
Rupert's presence had been an unexpected blessing. Then, later, a mistake. But Wesley doesn't care to linger on that now.
Angel watches him, his eyes worried. "Wes - "
"I'm fine," he says, then belatedly realizes that hadn't been a question. He rubs his eyes. He wishes he were better at this. He wishes that he didn't want to be here.
"I would have come," Angel says. His voice is earnest, and gentle. "If you'd called me, if you'd told me - I would have come."
"I know," Wesley says. He doesn't tell Angel that's precisely the reason why he did not invite him.
"Any time, Wes," Angel says. The words are library-quiet now, a promise for only Wesley to hear. "Any time. Just ask, or - "
"Yes, thank you," Wesley says, then winces because it's the same tone of dismissal that he has given to everyone, and Angel isn't and never was part of the masses. "I'm sorry. I meant - thank you. Honestly."
"Think you're up for this?" Angel asks.
They're back on professional matters. Wesley can handle this. "Yes. Yes. You think you have an infestation?"
"Not sure what to call it," Angel says. "But I think we've got something to worry about. Giles said you were the one to talk to."
"I've been studying them," Wesley says. He opens the satchel, pulls out notebooks and texts. "Prollta'c demons. They're new. Or they are to our dimension."
Angel glances at Wesley's notes. He nods in recognition when he sees one of the sketches. "Giles said you ran into some of them last year?"
Wesley isn't certain how casually to answer the question. "Yes. In Rome."
"We've got them here now," Angel says. He stands up, gets his own set of files and folders from his desk, hands them over to Wesley. "That's what we know so far, which is pretty much nothing. I need everything you can give me, Wes. Everything you've got."
Wesley tucks the papers into his bag. His hands tremble, but he thinks perhaps Angel doesn't notice it. "I'll tell you everything you need to know," he says, and marvels at how these days Angelus isn't the only one who knows how to lie with the truth.
***
