A Thousand Hours
by Pablo (little_claps at yahoo.com)
Summary: Wesley, Wesley, Wesley . what has the boy been thinking, angsty, sad . well that's the intention. Wesley POV thinking about the man of his dreams.
Rated: NC-17 for M/M slash
Dedication: Firstly to both Kassie and Kate for Betaing my first story to within an inch of it's life. Whether or not I actually paid attention J. Also to all the writers who have inspired me to finally get off my arse and actually write a story instead of saying No, no he wouldn't do that he'd do this, and then this, oh and he'd so do a little bit of that. And finally to Yvette cause babe, no-one can wear High Heels quite as high as you do !!!
A Thousand wasted hours a Day
Just to feel my heart for a second
A Thousand Hours - The Cure
No matter how hard I try not to think about it my mind always goes back to the same thing, well the same person, or non-person as the case may be. On my way to work in the mornings, walking past couples drinking coffee together, holding hands. I envy them, think about what it would be like for me if Angel just knew the way I feel about him. Maybe he does, but I still haven't had the courage to tell him, fuck that I've only just had the courage to admit to myself that I Wesley Wyndham-Pryce am in love with my employer.
When I'm alone at home, sitting in front of the television watching (or not watching) endless awful American situational comedies, I start to drift slowly to sleep. It's almost the same every night, a trail of spit from my mouth, when I'm barely grasping on to consciousness my mind torments me with glimpses of what it might be like, laughing with Angel, holding Angel, making love to Angel. But every time, just when I start to smile at the thought, and my twisted brain has convinced itself that I'm happy and we're together and that Angel feels the same way about me as I feel about him, something snaps, a raucous laugh from the television, my head slipping in my hand, I wake up. Wake up to the dreary life I call my own, wake up to nothing, days and nights spent without the comfort of anyone let alone the man I truly want and dare I say need. When I drag myself to bed he is the last thing I think about before I fall to sleep
When I wake in the morning, his name is on my lips, the memory of his face is burnt deep onto my eyes. His soft voice whispering to me is the only thing I hear. Fading memories of him, somehow I think that when I wake up one day and those memories aren't there, there will be nothing to fill the void, nothing left but a hollow shell rotting on the outside like how I feel myself rotting from within. I think I hate waking up more than anything else in my life, oh and there's so much to hate don't you worry. Realisation crashes back down on me in the moments I wake. You'd think I'd be used to it, but every morning my heart breaks, torn by the clarity that only real life brings, torn by the fact that what made me smile in my sleep, and I think it is the only time I ever really smile, is just the longing that my heart and body has created. A torment that I must endure.
Always the same dream, the same torment. Angel pressing his body against me, the coldness always startles me, living on borrowed life, you'd think I' d be used to this by now. I throw my head back, mouth open as his lips first touch me. I can feel him laugh against the flesh of my chest as he kisses me, he knows the way he makes me feel, soft kisses circling my chest, his tongue licking, sucking my nipples as he presses me back against the bed. We 're both naked, he presses his full body against me as he moves his way up, kissing me, kissing my hot skin. My cock so hard against him, he makes me so hard. The first touch, the first time I feel him pressed against me his tongue laving my neck, my collarbone I can't help myself, my mouth opens, a gasp escapes. He looks up at my face, smiling that beatific smile, the smile of an angel, that smile just for me, he continues to kiss my neck moving up to my chin, my face as he grinds his hardness against me. 'Angel .' I sigh almost reverently, there is a certain reverence, worshipping at this altar. He moves up licking over my chin biting so sweetly the tender skin around my mouth, licking along my lips, parted for him, parted so wantonly. 'Angel, please .' he chuckles again 'you only have to ask Wes.' He kisses me almost chastely on the lips and reaches his hands between our bodies. His first touch almost drives me wild feeling his cool fingers wrap around the shaft of my cock, my aching hardness, you make me feel this way Angel, my Angel. I arch up to him, God I need this, the way he feels when he touches me the way he makes me feel. He moves down my body, his eyes always locked on my face. His hand still around me, he stops knowing he'll get my attention. My eyes open questioningly I meet his gaze 'Oh God Angel, I need you now I need you so much more than anything, please.' Whilst still watching me I see him mouth the words 'I love you Wes'. His mouth around my cock, hot, moist like the earth, returned to where all life begins. 'Oh God Nnhnnhnnn' I mumble. Every time I want this to last longer but as soon as his mouth is around me I come hot spurts into his throat as he devours me. Never letting up until I 've finished, my body writhing like I'm possessed nothing on earth should be allowed to feel this good. He's smiling again.
As he moves up my body kissing me tenderly I can feel his hands stroking my sides, I try and twist away, I don't want him to see, I don't want this to end the same, please no not again, 'Wes, what's wrong' He holds my face firm but still so tenderly as he realises. I look into his eyes and see concern 'What's wrong my Wes? Why are you crying' Tears stream unchecked down my face now my body convulsing as the tears take on a life of their own. 'Wes? Oh God love what's wrong'
Always the same, consciousness tears me back, back to my bed alone, back to my pain alone, back to my life alone. Even in my dreams I cry
But the waking, it must be true what they say about falling dreams, if you don't wake up you'll die, each morning I wake hoping that I'll keep falling, keep falling and never wake up, always falling into those sweet coffee coloured eyes. Those eyes which have seen so much pain, lived through hell. The demon with the face of an angel. From the first time he turned those eyes on me I knew he would forever own me, maybe not willingly on his part but then again I was powerless to deny him. Oh I tried, masking my true feelings but really all I did was make things worse. He may sometimes have a tentative grasp on his soul but if he ever needs it he will always have mine.
So I walk past the couples I see every morning, stumbling unconsciously, drawn by a silken cord attached to my brain (body?), to him. And I'm sure they only do this to torment me, acting freely, unconsciously on their desires, the light touch of hands brushing through each others hair, without thought. Yes I'm sure they only do it to torment me, to remind me of what I can never have, throwing back in my face the fact that he doesn't love me. The fact that sometimes I question whether he even knows I exist. Trained as a Watcher, trained to observe, always be on the outskirts, the periphery. Trained to not be noticed. Well, Wes old boy, congratulate yourself on that one. You've finally succeeded at something.
Now he has Gunn, what real purpose do I serve? And before that Doyle, always destined to be second fiddle, fifth wheel, God even Cordelia seems to be a more productive member of Angel Investigations. How can I hope to make Angel notice me? Always in the shadow of others, he's in love with a dead man, how can I compete with that? I wonder sometimes how much I could compete with anything.
I never really seem to remember the walk to work, young twentysomethings, heads thrown back, couples sharing intimacy, laughter. Like a knife twisting in my heart. If it hadn't been torn out earlier, my heart would crumble. Walk, barely registered, the doors to the office lurch out before me. As I climb the stairs (Like a lamb to the slaughter?) I brace myself for that first glimpse, hoping beyond hope (Thought?) that the next time he looks at me, it might be different. I might see the same feelings reflected back in his eyes, the way I feel about him. Although now I have trouble meeting his gaze.
I push through the doors, paper, briefcase in hand. Cordelia already at her desk, I must have dawdled on the way here, I can't recall. Inane chit-chat, barely registered like white noise nothing exists until I hear his voice. That first glimpse switches on the power to my mind, my body. Before then I'm running on empty. Move towards the coffee maker, caffeine this time of the morning, mumble something in reply to whatever Cordy has asked me. Must resemble an intelligible response as she seems to accept my half hearted reply. Pouring coffee into the mug I brought in during my first week. Plain grey chipped slightly on the outside, coffee staining the inside like wax dripping, the way I feel my insides must look, a pale reminder of what was, the stains a torment of what is. Coffee, no milk I reach for the sugar, the door behind me opens. My knuckles white gripping my coffee mug, I 'm scared I'll drop it. I can hear him walking towards me. Cordy babbling something. My eyes pitched down low, I move back slightly, his feet to my left, black slacks of course. Pretence of stirring my coffee, eyes gradually raised, the smooth white skin of his hands (every night they feel so cold against the warmth of my body, caressing me, making my body love him as much as I do in my mind, his touch like electricity coursing through me, those hands making me do things I didn't know I would, could. Teasing me, stroking me, owning me). Stirring coffee, he raises his cup to his lips, my eyes follow irresistibly, he sips, lips so red, the colour of blood (sweet honey lips, as they kiss up and down my body, circling my neck, nipping my throat where my blood pulses, causing my heart to beat faster, up over my chin, slightly stubbled as I wake up again in his arms, to my lips. I part them slightly, give him access, anything my love, tasting the sweet bitterness in my mouth as his tongue kisses and licks my lips, my love, he tastes so sweet, like the sugar I mix into my coffee hands shaking, those lips kissing my face licking my ear, I can't help moaning, those lips that whisper softly in my ear, Wes my love, only for you, always for you.)
'Wesley ?' Sharp snap of reality, 'Wesley? I asked how you were?' My eyes lock with his, concern ? amusement ? . love ? Confusion. 'Oh yes, fine and yourself?' A non-committal grunt. 'too early for him, hasn't had his coffee yet' Cordelia laughs in her high pitched voice. 'Coffee, yes' I mumble. I look at my hand, skin reddening where the coffee has spilt, I hadn't noticed, hand still shaking. I put the cup down and remove my handkerchief. Control, control, control. 'I'm very well thank you and how are you this morning Angel?' I enquire, forcing a smile, craning my neck looking over the rim of my glasses I address . Angel? The room, it seems so dark now no light, nothing, he's already gone. I can feel the flush on my cheeks, I hope Cordelia doesn't notice. White noise again. I move towards the door.
I spend most of the day apart from the others, don't think anyone notices, The days seem to be more and more like this. Reading new books I purchased, old ones of Angel's (Wes my love, only for you, always for you.), no-one sees me cry, when you cry to yourself as much as I seem to do now, you learn how to hide it, the acidic burning in my throat the only evidence of how my day has been spent. I almost think without the crying, the loneliness, the despair my life would be as empty as my heart feels.
I try and keep away from him, bid Cordelia good day when she packs her things to leave. Open another book whilst I sip my fresh cup of tea steaming straight from the pot. It's starting to get late. Gunn tells me he and Angel will be out for a while, then he appears again in the doorway to the study where I have sequestered myself. 'Wesley, why are you still here? You should have left hours ago'. I turn my face away from him, mumble a reply 'I was just, uh, tidying up and on my way home' my voice feels thick like toffee in my throat. Fuck, clumsy, tea spilt on my notes, writing smeared across the page, resembles the cracks you see in old buildings resulting from neglect, from no longer being loved, the cracks that open further inside me. The now cooling tea creating a translucency on the page, skin stretched to breaking point, revealing the hollowness inside. 'I-I'll just clean this up and be out of your hair'. 'Angel, come on man, evil waits for no-one' Gunn's voice screams from the next room. 'OK' he leaves.
Left alone, my notes ruined, my whole day wasted (like my life?), back at the same point as I was yesterday. The same point as every day. I bin the pad I'd been writing on.
I walk home, only a few blocks, try and convince myself I didn't take this apartment cause it was the one closest to him. Try but fail. Through the door, tie loosened, drop my bag by the door, onto the couch. I flick the TV on, rest my head back on the arm of the second hand couch I bought, almost the only furniture in the room, feet up. My eyes start to close, weariness taking over. Eyes shut. Another night alone. Drifting towards sleep.
(Wes my love, only for you, always for you.)