Destructive Behavior
by Princess Twilite

RATING: FRAO [ESS] [AU]

SUMMARY: Wesley. Fred. On the down low.

PAIRING: Wes/Fred with a bunch of slightness elsewhere.

TIMELINE/SPOILERS: Set post "Soulless". Season Four.

DISCLAIMER: Very much not my own. Joss has the rights.

DISTRIBUTION: List archives. WNW. Otherwise, archive by request. I won't say no.

DEDICATION: To Rach, the Wes/Fred whore. I am a mere fan fiction writer who is straddling ships.

WARNING: Sex (in a big, graphic way). Angst.

BETA READER: The lovable, multi-tasker (yes, I know that's not a word), Karen. I'm her bitch. Totally.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is for all those who have requested often and loudly that I try my hand at Wesley/Fred. I hope I haven't disappointed. Also, there will be NO Gunn bashing in this story. I'm very much against that. :)

Nominated for Best Fred/Wesley Fanfiction

Round Three

Things aren't always pretty. Things aren't always safe.

Angelus has spent his existence teaching this lesson to unsuspecting humans, and Wesley can only ache more, want more, NEED more.

Her breath whispers against his ear, a soft hushing sound that makes him swallow convulsively as he holds onto her wrists. They are small, breakable, and his heart beats roughly in his chest because of it. She doesn't pull away, doesn't use the powerful force he knows is within her, that has sustained her through years of suffering and assaults.

He has pulled her here, into the closet where it is dark and they can't see each other.

She doesn't scream, cry out, or fight him. Fred lets herself be held close and liquid in the shadows, where they can both pretend to be someone else. He's planned it all out to the exact minute; he knows Cordelia is taking a shower; Gunn has slammed the door behind him, hating both Wesley and Fred, but unable to stop loving them. And Wesley understands she knows it, allows it, wills it, without realizing it.

But it must be somewhere secret, where Gunn cannot stroll back in, with need and betrayal in his eyes, where Cordelia can't stumble from her fear, straight into the sight of them, touching as if they have the right.

"Wesley," whispers Fred and he takes a step forward toward her. She moves quickly back, flattening herself against the wall. He bends his knees to hitch himself down to her level. So little space, he thinks, for all the things he's thought of doing to her. "Wesley, this isn't---"

"Right?" he says to her, getting in the way of her resistant words, knows that her face is near his own, like a skin full of haunting right in front of him. He can see her eyes, glinting white and round in the dark. A slash of light peeks from beneath the door, throwing inside just enough illumination to fear it. "Because of him? Or because you're not allowed to do anything that's not nice? Not sweet. Not perfectly black and white."

Wesley feels her flinch, a bunching of muscle like an uprising of rage, and he struggles to contain his resentment. It's not her fault she hasn't yet fallen in love with him. If he'd behaved with a little more truth and a little less repression, it might be him sleeping with her at night, stroking the soft line of her belly, dipping his fingers under the elastic of her panties.

"You're not the same person I knew," and she says this like it's a crime. He smiles in the dark and thinks of the things Lilah has said to him. Soul or no, he wants Fred with a frustrated power that has urged him on for the past months, and he is himself as much as he has ever been. "Wesley, you're like this big, strange, impression of YOU and I don't know how to… I can't seem to… " She breaks off, frustrated, and a puff of her warm breath drifts over his mouth, makes him hungry.

"Resist me?" Wesley suggest, with just a little taunt. Her eyes rise, and then move away, over his shoulder. He feels her pulse flutter, jackrabbit quick beneath his fingers, and his stomach responds by jittering. "I'm right aren't I? You like knowing I want you this much. Does Gunn?"

"Don't talk about him," she whispers, and there is unsteadiness there. It is a wave of something unsure and hidden. "We don't have the right to say ANYTHING about him." She shifts to the right, just slightly, and their knees brush against a box of something heavy. They pause in their half- dance of denial, look down. Wesley's not sure he wants to know anything more about Angel's closet. There are too many skeletons, too many things to be pulled out.

"Then we won't talk about him," he complies, freeing her wrists and wrapping slender fingers around her jaw. His pinky finger trails low, feels the muscles in her throat shift as she swallows. Nervous, he thinks, a good sign. "We'll talk about something else."

"Is talking what you pulled me in here for?" she asks and seems to regret it, lifts a hand to push his fingers away so she can cover her mouth. Keep the words in. Hide, in the dark, like she has before.

"I pulled you in here," he says quietly, with deep emotion, knowing this is startling to her. Forever startling to Fred because it isn't supposed to be this way. So hard, so dangerous, so brutally cruel to everyone else's hearts. "Because I want you with me. There's no great motivation to it. It's just a fact. You've known it. I know you have. I made it clear just yesterday, after all was said and done."

"You kissed me."

"You kissed me back."

Stand off. Her shoes brush over the floor, scrape sullenly in the silence. He can hear the crackle, like something brown is on fire. He wonders what to do next, knows what he WANTS to do --- but this is Fred and there is no room to fumble as he has too many times before.

They are gravitating closer, thighs brushing together, hers clad in soft cotton joggers. It's late, a shiver of moonlight glossing over Los Angeles. Smokers are huddled in the last available place of safety, beneath archways and boxes, lighting up and staying warm. Wesley imagines that she was probably on her way up to bed where she would sleep and think about death in its abundance.

There is so much death, and Wesley can taste it in his mouth. Must wash it out. And there is only one thing he can think of that will make him feel clean.

"Nothing to say to that?" he asks her after a long silence. He can feel himself hardening, wanting something from her, anything she can give. It's sad when he thinks about it, how little he is willing to expect. Then, after all, he does plan to have it all one day. He can accept a very small crumb now, when that future looms pleasantly in his view.

"I didn't realize that required an answer." She must be taking lessons from Cordelia, because there is a sharp bite to her words. Then again, this is the woman who came to him, asking for a weapon to kill with. The sheer satisfaction he gets from knowing how secret and untouched this part of her is throbs through his blood, and he imagines Angelus can hear it pumping forcefully inside his veins. It is his and his alone, if he can only convince her to open up, for just a moment, and let him inside.

He'll never leave once she lets him in, and of course she probably knows. Maybe she understands the weight that comes from allowing him to touch her. A weight that can and *will* crush everyone around them.

"I suppose it didn't," he says, chuckling softly and deeply as he pushes forward so that their torsos make contact. Fred shivers, and a satisfied burn twists somewhere deep in his belly. "What I want to know is why? Why did you kiss me if you're so in love?"

"I-I don't know. You just… kissed me and it happened. I reacted. I didn't mean to." She hunches her shoulders and it pulls her stomach away from him, pushes him unwanted millimeters away. "I don't know what we're doing in here. You shouldn't have pulled me in here."

He thinks of standing here, in the closet, for nearly an hour. He'd been silent and patient as he peered through the crack, waiting for the perfect moment. And then, when it came, how he'd pushed the door wide, grabbed her wrist as she walked by, a swirl of flower-scented perfume and tied-back hair. She'd jerked her head in his direction, but slid smoothly into the dark anyway.

It's where she aches to be. With him in the dark, away from the world crumbling down around their ears. He could see it by the stripped gaze she had given him.

"Fred," he shakes his head, dips his forehead to press it against hers. Her breath is on him again, tastes sweet as it moves across his mouth and nose. "Don't feel bad. I don't want you to be hurt by this."

"I'm not the one we should be worrying about."

Wesley sighs, shifts lower so that his mouth hovers over hers.

"You can leave any time you wish," he says, breathing on her mouth, feeling her body tense into a tight knot of nervous flesh and bone. "You don't have to be in here with me. Just say the word and I'll step back and you're free to go."

Quiet. Interrupted only by a slight sniffle coming from her, as though she is crying.

"Oh, I don't know what to do anymore. There's been so much and I NEED…"

"Me," he says firmly, because he doesn't want to hear anything else. She might want to say: "something, anything." He just cannot stand that right now, not when she is all he needs.

The clock is ticking and he cannot leave this world without having her.

"You," she agrees, and it's not really a lie. She is trembling. Fred never lies and trembles at the same time. She grins like a banshee when she lies. Trembles when she's afraid of the truth. This he knows, and this he uses. "God, this is all so screwed up. We're just gonna go to Hell for this, I know it."

"Hell? Aren't we there already?"

And he has a point. They both know that he does.

Fred's hands move, hesitant at first and then gaining courage, up to trace along the lines of his face. Wesley leans into her touch, nearly shaking as they brush against each other in the dark, afraid but eager, as she presses along the side of his mouth. He wants to turn his head, open his lips, and suck her finger inside.

So he does. He's done with repression.

She gasps, a seductively frightened sound. He can only see her eyes, glowing at him through their combined anxiety. Fred shudders, curls her palm around his chin, holding on as he nips at the tip of her forefinger. Her short, blunt nails dig in, adding just a spark of urgency to his tongue as it strokes along the surface of her skin. Sucks.

Wesley thinks about the books he has layered over each other, resting on the desk that now feels like his own again. Wants her mouth more. He knows he will tear through the pages later, kill himself by working too hard, too long --- but still, he wants her mouth.

Her words echo in his head: "We shouldn't be doing this."

But he doesn't care, never has, because he's wanted her beyond distraction and it has been more of a torture than his father ever inflicted upon him. Or maybe he should say it's been an addition to that pain, though in a different way. Aching hurts, all around. But he has hurt for her, during long nights lying alone in his bed, and even those when he wasn't so much alone as he was without.

Wesley remembers falling for her, the slick and mean slope that was loving Fred. Like a changed- man, he'd walked about with a grin on his face and an extra skip in his heart. And then GUNN, his friend, his confidant, though not with this ONE thing, shifted abruptly from the side lines. He was in the way. Suddenly pounced and took Fred away. Basically, Gunn was a thief.

Wesley could hate him, and he does. Oh, how he hates Gunn passionately, for making the first move and having her. At that time, all Wesley could do was stutter through sentences and try to catch her attention. Gunn had her in an instant, like a gator snapping his jaws.

No, Fred does not belong to anyone, but he belongs to her. And he's tired of waiting for that someday moment to come, when he could make his move without it being sullied by her feelings for someone else. Someday is always so far away and it makes him ache to think about how far FAR really is.

Now is the time when he can suck on her fingers like salt-taffy, and move forward so that his body would be on top of hers if they were lying down. Somehow, in one too many of his memories, he is holding Fred against the wall, now he can add this one to the list.

*Now*.

Fred is shaking against him, like a leaf irritated by the wind, and making small noises inside her throat. She wants this, wants HIM. Though he has known this delicious secret even when she hasn't, it pushes him to drop her finger from his mouth with a wet pop. Grabbing the back of her neck, he tips her skull up, and kisses the bloody hell out of her mouth.

Fred groans. Something like a pendulum swinging. "Yes. No. Yes. No." But her mouth is open, dripping with hot saliva as he pushes his tongue past her chapped lips, and far inside, slipping it against her teeth. Hard little stones in her mouth that he wants to memorize, because he knows this cannot last forever.

Stolen moments are difficult like that.

He wants to feel angry, bitter, and full of resentment. Knows that he will be, later, when she runs away. But now --- now is for the lust between them, tipping body against body as he runs his hand up through her hair, getting it caught in a tangle and freeing it just as quickly. She kisses him in return, ferociously, with those teeth and her chin and nose bumping into his, like she's doing something bad and wants to be bad again.

'Be bad,' Wesley thinks. 'I can be bad for you, if that's how it must be.'

Fred's nails dig into his scalp, nearly scraping off rough skin, leaving him hungry for her to hold on tighter, want him even more. But it's enough that she is like a plucked string against him, vibrating and rubbing her stomach onto his, tilting her pelvis forward. He groans, ragged and tattered, stamping his mouth onto hers.

Again and again. Their kissing is harsh and seems to go on forever, the mashing of lips and the aching of bones as they strain. And then, with abrupt severity, she reaches down between them and grips his erection in her sturdy hand. Wesley imagines he hears Angelus laughing from his dirty cage as he arches into her fingers, nearly yelling out his relief at having her touch --- just touch --- God, he can't finish the thought, too frozen by passion.

Her lips close, small and tight, over his throat, sucking blood up and into his scar, as he grabs the back of her head, holding her there. See it, he urges with his fingers. Taste it. Understand what I'd do. What I've done.

"Is this what you want, Wesley?" she demands, clutching and stroking. He swallows and nods, bumping his chin into her ear, and wanting to apologize for his clumsiness but not knowing how. "Me? Touching you? Here?"

Wesley bites his lip hard and maneuvers until his finger is pressed up against the crotch of her sweats. Fred's teeth snap together, sharp and spiteful. He thinks about her mouth on him and feels the need to press his finger deeper, pushing the cotton inside of her as she rises onto her tiptoes. And then back down, accepting.

"Everywhere," he nearly growls. His hips shift, back and forth, increasing the friction of her touch until they are basically shoving at each other. Dark can be angry, dark can be mean. And he wants more than this, more than over-the-clothes petting. Wesley pulls back, feels her confusion radiate at him when they both stand apart, panting like steam engines.

Fred is too quick to speak, too fast suspect. She is already back pedaling, thinking of reasons WHY this should never happen between them. Wesley curses himself, knowing she's probably thinking about Gunn out on the streets, fighting for lives while they grope in this closet.

And now Wesley thinks of it too, gritting his teeth around it.

"You're right," she says in the stillness, and he hears her foot bump against something. "Y-ya. Stupid. This is--"

"No!" Crisp, like a belt being unbuckled. Wesley grabs her wrist when he hears the shifting of her clothes, a warning as she moves to leave, escape out into the light. He is aware of how little time they must have left. "Not stupid. It can't be. God, Fred, you know how I feel about you. You KNOW."

She does. It's like a scar between them, constantly throbbing as Gunn looks on, aching just as badly. They are just skins, Wesley thinks, wants to say. Skins that die every damn day. He has a brief mental image of being laid out on the floor like a rug, but quickly shakes it off. Disturbing.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you in love with me?"

It's a question he can't answer. It's like defining infinity. Wesley tells her this, but she just leans forward, presses her forehead into the wood. He thinks he hears her apologize, say she's sorry, but he's not sure whom she is talking to. Wesley wonders, if he releases her wrist would she grab for the doorknob and dash away like a damsel in distress? Does that make him the big bad beast? Wolf? He isn't sure about fairytales because he's never so much as read one.

He hadn't been allowed as a child, his father proclaimed that it bred pansies.

Wesley moves forward, presses his front to her back and leans his cheek into her throat. Arousal itched through him. He buries his nose into her messy hair, kisses the tip of her earlobe. Fred inhales, hard and slow, like she's having trouble swallowing air.

"Just a minute, just give me… a minute…" he mutters into her ear, knowing that he is begging but unable to stop. Fred stiffens, like a bolt relocking. In reaction, Wesley's heart does a triple back flip, and he edges away from her, by millimeters only, preparing for an attack.

Red alert, pull the shield back down!

Wesley has learned all about defense. From the moment a knife tore the flesh across his neck, leaving him weak, dragged along the ground, nothing to defend himself with but the blood gurgling from his throat. Help me, was all it could ask, and no one really has since. Lilah had tried, in a way, but they were beyond helping each other.

"I don't have a minute. None of us do." Then she's pulling away, shoving the door open with a huge gasp of breath and not looking back. Just staring off toward the front doors of the Hyperion for a long moment, where the black night peers in, the only witness.

Wesley can do nothing, only hang onto the doorframe and watch her guilt grow. Shoulders hunched, Fred tilts her chin down into her chest, and walks away. He watches her, as she walks, bare feet slapping against the floor as her speed picks up and she begins to run, gone -- up the stairs.

Cordelia comes down, with perfect timing. She is scrubbing a towel over her wet hair, doesn't seem surprised to find him hanging around in the closet. Wesley clears his throat, straightening as she looks at him with dead eyes.

He expects her to ask, "What are you doing?"

Cordelia doesn't, just turns her gaze toward the floor, where Wesley is sure Angelus is laughing like a loon. The heart aches when it is rejected. And Angelus must have heard the entire thing, listened intently to his handy work.

Desire is so deadly.

Things aren't always pretty. Things aren't always safe.

* * *

Wesley stands, feet set wide apart, weapon drawn as he keeps watch over Angelus. The cage doesn't seem so strong, doesn't seem like enough when you see the creature inside.

I'm not ready, Wesley thinks. But it doesn't matter, because once the soul is gone, so is the hope. It seems like Angelus can read his thought, only has to flick his eyes in Wesley's direction and all secrets are revealed.

"Can't get any?" Angelus taunts, sitting idly at the far wall. The shadows cut him into a stark figure, lazy and dangerous. But there is nothing lazy about Angelus; he's everything insidious, everything evil. "I understand," he continues, silky smooth. "Cordelia just doesn't ever hold up her end of a bargain does she? When I had a soul, and I'll pause for a moment to vomit later, all she did was tease and shake her ass around me? Never did go through with it though, did she? Too busy fucking my son. Oh, that's love!"

Wesley doesn't flinch, holds the weapon steady as he tries to think of a question to ask. Something that can help, something that will save them and he can finally, *finally* prove his worth once and for all.

"I'm sure you know what I'm talking about," Angelus murmurs and leans forward. A sliver of light strikes his pale face, glints in his eyes. "You smell like you almost had sex. But not quite. I don't know who you think you are, Wes. She's never gonna choose you."

"And Cordelia will never choose an inadequate beast like you, so we're even."

Angelus goes quiet, but waits. Wesley can hear him waiting.

* * *

With morning, comes the awkward tension of could-have-been. Wesley sits at the lobby counter, a glass of water in his hand. He takes slow sips, so he doesn't have to speak. Fred is nervously going through the contents of the refrigerator, shifting food and cartons around. In search of something mildly edible. Or maybe it's just an avoidance tactic. He doesn't really blame her.

She certainly has something to avoid.

Wesley listens to her behind him, the sound of her light breathing and cloth rasping as she moves. Fred is in denial, he can tell by the way she moves, fidgety but so careful not to be close to him at anytime. That would imply she needed to be near him. She also tries not to stay too far away, always skirting the edges of his space but never quite leaving it. That would imply she needed to be away from him.

And it would open up a whole different can of worms.

Another sip, another thought, Wesley leans against the counter and turns his head to the side. Watches her. Fred pauses as she shifts through the milk cartons, a single hitch in her motion. Like she can feel his eyes on her. A pleasant warmth worms its way inside Wesley's veins, lays a foundation in his stomach. It's not leaving any time soon, as he licks the edge of his mouth, catching a drop of water.

Fred is falling for him, whether she likes it or not.

"Good morning, Fred." He says this with the memory of her walking into the room, drawing up short and looking into his eyes with a pale, frozen glance. "Sleep well?"

"I slept perfectly," Fred replies, head still buried in the refrigerator. Her tone is absent, as if she is trying to forget he is in the room. Wesley takes the opportunity to stare at her behind, the shape of it beneath her jeans. It fits perfectly in his hands, and he wants to touch her again.

Patience, however, is a virtue. And soon it will all pay off, because she'll realize what he has known for far too long. There is nothing between the two of them that isn't worth the pain it will cause everyone else. He has to believe this.

"No dreams?" Wesley asks, the corners of his mouth tipped up sharply. Fred straightens, closing the refrigerator with a snap that rattles the glasses on top of it. She turns to him, darkness edging across her face. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, skin bare from the tank top she must have slept in and hasn't changed out of yet.

A pang of lust sparks in his groin, makes him uncomfortably heavy as he shifts in his seat. God, the things she's always been capable of doing to him. It should be illegal to make someone want you so much.

"Not a single one," she tells him, a bit cruelly. Fred tries for severity, shrugging her shoulders and crooking her head at him. Her hair falls forward, shields her cheek. "Did you think I would dream of you?"

Ouch, he thinks, but doesn't flinch.

"Someone is defensive," he points out, looking at her thoughtfully. "Something to hide, Winifred? Or are you just slightly scared? I wouldn't blame you. After all, realizing that you've been living a lie for half a year has got to burn." Fred tightens up, draws away to stand with her back against the opposite counter. He wedges his foot in the rungs of the stool and turns to follow her with his gaze. "Well?"

"I don't understand you," Fred says at last, wrapping her arms around her stomach, drawing her cards close to her chest. Keeping that secret part he desires hidden and protected. He raises an eyebrow, gestures with his palm for her to continue. Fred purses her lips together for a moment, tries not to burst with words, and then does anyhow. "You don't even KNOW me. You think you do… but how can you? You haven't been here. You decided we couldn't help, and played hero. Didn't bother to confide in your *friends*. Look where that got you. Nowhere."

"I *know* you," Wesley insists, narrowing his eyes at her. She shakes her head and goes to walk past him. Her stride is fast and jerky, a robot troubled. He reaches out, whip-quick, and grabs onto her upper arm. Fred is pulled up short, her shoulder dragged roughly into his chest. It will leave a bruise there but he doesn't mind, he's grown used to them. Lilah isn't exactly gentle, and he has trained himself vigorously with Angel's hiss in his ear: "You're dead Wesley! Dead!" She gives a small gasp but forces her gaze firmly and stubbornly ahead.

Wesley studies the side of her face. Her earrings are small and unobtrusive, glittering gently in her lobes. The scent of sleep wafts from her, warm and sweaty. He leans forward, until she shies away from his breath as it moves heatedly across the skin of her neck and the curve of her jaw.

A dangerous smile flickers over his mouth.

"I know you better than I know anyone," he whispers, heat that she can't see flaring in his gaze. With his free hand, he brushes the hair back from her neck, drags his fingers along her soft skin. Fred bites her bottom lip, but doesn't jerk her arm out of his grasp. "I've watched you, waited patiently… only to be turned away." Her muscles flinch beneath his palm and he pulls her closer, presses his nose into her hair. BREATHES. "I know you didn't mean to hurt me. But I also know that not everything is good and sweet about you, Fred. You've got the darkness in you, just like me. Just like everyone, and I love that you fight it. That you want to be good enough not to give in to it. But you have, right? In Pylea, I imagine. There were things you had to do in order to survive."

Fred shifts her head toward him, just barely, and meets his eyes with heavy sadness. There is something elemental in this gesture, as if he has dug beneath her surface and is holding the heart of her in his hands. His stomach shudders and drops, like a lift falling to the ground floor.

"Wesley," she says, nearly stutters. Her nostrils flare and he notices a single tear forming at the edge of her eyelashes. "How do you… Why do you think that?"

As if she doesn't know, as if she has no clue who she is, not really. This shocks him, but he catches his balance quickly, moves to press a kiss on the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darts out and he feels a quick swipe of the spongy surface of it across his top lip.

"Because I know you," he replies gently, releasing her arm. "Like I said."

Fred nods and steps away, rubbing shaky hands across the front of her jeans. She watches him warily, like he is a panther readying himself to pounce on his prey. To be honest, she isn't completely wrong. He would never hurt her, but he'd do what needed to be done to get her. Maybe it wasn't completely healthy, and maybe he wasn't the best person because of it, but that's the way it was.

"I'm starting to see that," Fred tells him after a short silence in which they are still and uneasy, looking at each other. She takes another step back, as if she cannot help herself. It doesn't hurt him that she does, as much as it makes something determined and red burn inside his lungs. "Wesley, I---"

The sound of footsteps moving down the stairs interrupts them and they lock eyes for a difficult, gossamer moment. And then they jerk their gazes away from each other, stung by the broken connection. Her breath whooshes out; when he looks up she is standing next to the refrigerator again, and Gunn is near the counter. Wesley meets his stare, and the man who had once been his friend, slowly drags his eyes over Wesley's shoulder. To Fred.

Wesley's heart hops, empathizes when he sees the pain ignite, flare, and spread. It eats everything in its path, Wesley remembers, burns it all to ashes. Then Gunn pivots on his heel and walks back in the direction he came from. Away. Fred swallows, loudly enough to be heard, and Wesley shrugs the guilt away.

He cannot allow himself to feel guilty. Not for this. *Never* for this.

* * *

"Down here, again?" Angelus grins at him, the bars' shadows crooked across his skin. Wesley takes the last step down into the basement, and saying nothing, just stares. "I could use the company, though I would prefer that Cordelia should live up to her end of the bargain. But she's always been a bitch. Then again, I know how to wait. I can wait forever."

Wesley sits in the chair, drills his eyes through the bars. Angelus tilts his head to the side, a mocking smile flitting across his devilish face. "I suppose you can too, can't you? Good thing. You'll never get the girl."

* * *

They have been arguing for hours, and everyone is listening but pretending they are not. Wesley makes no such attempt. They all know it would be a lie because they know how he feels about Fred. At one time it was a source of embarrassment for him, but now it's just a fact, like Angelus preparing to kill them and Lorne's ambiguous intentions.

Cordelia is sharpening her sword while she listens. This should disturb Wesley, but it doesn't. As much as he remembers the Cordelia of four years ago, bouncy and careless, he knows what she has been through. The change is apparent in the sharp glint of her eye as she stares down at the metal; in the tilt of her head to the side, chin jutting out and jaw locked. Cordelia has become an army of one.

As much as he resents her abandonment of him when they had been through so much together, a part of him understands if not accepts. If it had been him on the other side, and she had seemingly betrayed Fred, he would have done the same. Besides, now is not the time for demands and apologies.

It is the waiting season, and Wesley can smell the sea of blood coming.

There is an uncomfortable silence spread throughout the downstairs area of the Hyperion as Gunn and Fred continue to throw curses at each other. The kind of silence that spins its web across the walls and through the teeth of those who are listening. Wesley aches to go upstairs and add his own thoughts, but he cannot be a part of this.

He already is, but it is all up to Fred now. She's the one that has to make the choice.

Wesley hears something, like Gunn's fear being spat out across the Hyperion, and he looks up toward the ceiling, staring. Understands. The fear is justifiable because Wesley is indeed planning the greatest robbery of all time. A theft of a heart.

Fred is crying.

Wesley leans his head back against the desk chair and closes his eyes. It is the end of the world and he should be planning how to avoid his death --- but all he can imagine is what he wants in his life.

* * *

"Has she chosen you, Wesley?" Angelus asks of him when Wesley returns. He sniffs the air, finds Wesley's heart armed with anger and the need to hurt something. Angelus walks the length of the bars, back and forth, so slow and deadly one might not understand that he is getting antsy, irritated by his imprisonment. But he understands eternity better than Wesley ever will. "No, she hasn't, has she? You want her, but she's taking her sweet time. Isn't she?"

Wesley squeezes the crossbow in his hands, feels the metal and wood dig into his palm. Wants to kill.

"Maybe you're not a good kisser, Wes. Maybe she just likes that big cock she gets shoved up her every night. Maybe you just can't compare."

Yearns to kill. So badly.

* * *

The door creaks and Wesley bolts awake, his heart slamming hard against his ribs. All he can think is that Angelus got loose somehow, is going to kill them one by one, and he is next. All he can smell is his own blood, the possibility of death, and death already had… until another scent fills his nostrils, like leftover sleep and silk.

Fred.

He stares at the door as Fred peeks around the edge. He sits up in the bed as she pushes it open, and the sheets fall to his waist. His belly is grinding together, the muscles churning and a hungry sickness rising inside of him for whatever she has to say. When she slides through, like a shadow afraid of the moonlight, closes the door behind her without a sound, it becomes clear why she is coming to him. It is not for words.

His breath rolls into a pebble, catches in his lungs and stills his chest. Oh God, oh Jesus, he's not ready --- but he is and he sits up straighter, locks his joints together and raises his palm, opens it, waits for her.

There is no waiting, because she is moving in a tipsy way, and crawls onto his bed knees first, making it bend slightly beneath her weight. He swallows hard, catches the saliva in the back of his mouth, choking it down the dry shaft of his throat. Her silk top dips down and he can see the curve of her left breast, its pert nipple peeking out at him.

Wesley closes his eyes and grits his teeth over a hard chunk of need.

"Wesley," she says quietly, as though they're not supposed to speak but she *has* to. He opens his eyes, sees that she is closer to him than he knew, sitting on her heels a few inches away from his right hip. There are tears on her face and they slice him to the quick, leave him hurting. "Please, Wesley… God, I just can't take it anymore!"

"What happened?" Wesley asks, reaching out to rub a hand across the back of her arm where she holds herself up. A wave of goose pimples rise along her skin. He trails his callused palm along them, blowing breath out between his teeth in a hiss of pleasure. It's her skin -- HERS. Fred rubs her fingers over her eyes, catching tears, drying them.

"It's over," she answers, tired lips drawing down. "It's just… over." She doesn't have to say anything more, because he knows what 'it' is. Wesley wants to ask who ended it, but it doesn't matter. He won't let it matter. "Can I be with you tonight, Wesley? I mean, I don't know what's gonna happen tomorrow, but I want to be with you right now."

Wesley goes quiet, feels his heart fall to the bottom of his ribcage then bounce back up again, as he tries to make sense of what she is saying. He had known what she wanted by the stealthy look in her eye, but to hear it from her mouth made it that much more real.

Briefly he thinks of all the things that will happen tomorrow. One more day that could be their last. One more sunrise that could be the only one they ever see TOGETHER.

Wesley nods and wonders why she's begging. This is *him* and she must know how obsessed he has been, that he would never and COULD never turn her away. Her breath whooshes out and she leans forward to kiss him. He intercepts her, kisses her first with lips already open, tugging hers apart and pressing his tongue inside.

"Fred," he moans when she straddles him, smoothes her hands over his naked shoulders and pushes him flat onto the mattress. Her small breasts are crushed against his chest as she lies down on him. She isn't wasting any time, and his hands are shaking when he reaches up to push the curtain of hair back from her face, holding it away so he can look into her eyes as they kiss. Fred blinks, meets his gaze and then smiles tightly, pulling back so that she is sitting on his thighs.

Wesley is already hard and would be embarrassed if he hadn't been waiting so long.

Fred shifts her hips so that her heat is pushing down against him and he arches back with a gasp, pushing his skull into the pillows. His gaze shifts to the ceiling, stares dazedly as she rolls her pelvis into him, as though she knows what he likes. And she does, she obviously does.

"Yes," she whispers, and he drags his eyes down to watch her toss her head back. Her fingers slide down his chest, over the clenching muscles in his stomach, tugging the sheet down. He smiles when she arches an eyebrow, surprised to find him completely naked. "Makes it easy," she drawls, speaking to him like molasses. "Gonna get there quicker, ain't we? Gonna get the job done."

Wesley's erection lies on his stomach, eager and impatient. But he flinches when she reaches for it, holds it in her hand. Not ready, he thinks again, too much. Having her fingers wrapped around him is like having electricity jolted through his body and getting what he wants is difficult to take.

"Oh, God," he growls as she works him, fingering the skin at the head of his penis, sliding her palm down to cup his sac. "Jesus. Stop. Stop." Fred freezes, her face a parody of lust and shock. "Too much, just -- Fred, you're so…"

"Sexy?" she suggests, flicking her eyebrows and moving like a nymph. Her silk shorts brush along the outside of his thighs. "Wicked? Desirable? Talented?"

The way she says it, the slight accent tilting over the words makes his head spin and he reaches down to cover her hands with his own, pulls them away. She's flicking that eyebrow again, eternally curious, as she pulls her hands up and kisses her fingers, breathing into them.

"All of the above," he concedes and she chuckles, trying to tug her hands away. Wesley won't release them, and there is a brief struggle that becomes less than amusing. The smile drops from her face. "This isn't going to be fast. This isn't going to be fucking. I've had my fill of fucking and I'm sick to death of waiting for you. Maybe, sometime, we'll fuck. But that's not what I want from you right now."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Fred mutters, swinging her hair down to cover half her face so he can't see. Wesley lets go of her hands and firmly pushes the hair away, finding her eyes staring at him stubbornly. "Things looked fine to me, until you got weird."

"You want to be bad, am I right?" Wesley slides his hands down to her shoulders, pushes down on them as he arches up, thrusting his hips against hers. Her lips pull back, teeth clenching together as she glares at him, and tries to pull away. Wesley wraps his arms around her and sits up, pushing their torsos together and staring her hard in the eyes. "It's dangerous to go to someone who knows you, Fred. Haven't you learned that since coming back from Hell? If you want to have a quick shag with someone who won't call you on it, you're better off going with someone who doesn't give a bloody shit about you. I do. Before I'm inside of you, you'll understand that or it won't happen."

Fred says nothing, and that's fine because he hadn't expected her to. What is there to say in a situation such as this? There certainly isn't a book on etiquette for it, and he's got used to silence. Wesley wraps his fingers around the back of her skull and pulls her mouth down to his.

She doesn't fight him, so he takes this as her understanding that this is more than a one time thing. He just *takes*.

Kissing her is a never-ending battle of want and want-more. Wesley doubts he'll ever grow used to it, and if the day comes when he does, he hopes she murders him in his sleep. He'll give her the weapon to do so. Again.

Her nails rake through his hair; they scrape along his scalp as she tilts Wesley's head back, using his mouth like a well to draw water from. They kiss deeply, in ways that speak of a desperate need she has denied and he has sought. Fred moves to straddle him more firmly, tucking her thighs around his hips, her knees up near his waist, feet planted flat on the mattress.

Wesley groans his approval as his erection gets caught between their bellies, and she hitches her crotch down against him, wetness seeping through the silk. He frees her head and slides his hands, palms hot and firm, down her back until they can slip beneath the elastic of her shorts. Her stomach clenches against his wrists as he moves his hands around to the front, flattened against her hipbones, fingers rubbing against the crease that was the beginning of her thighs.

She gives a gasp that has his fingers sliding between her legs, finding her without panties and as hot as the sun. But wetter, slick like a glass of wine. Fred hums into his mouth, shifting her legs further apart to give him better access. Wesley takes advantage of it, gripping her thigh with one hand to keep her open, and using the other to tease her with his thumb. He presses it against her clit, a hard nub that demands more attention.

Fred's hips hop against his hand, grinding. Wesley grins up at her, rubbing his fingers into her crotch, spreading the lips and flicking. She jerks and grabs onto his shoulders like she's going through free fall.

"Fu-, Wesley. Please."

"Shh," he hushes, stretching his neck to kiss her lips softly. Down below, Wesley pushes his hand further into the shorts and moves a finger toward her entrance. Carefully, he probes and works the finger inside. Her eyes catch his own, go wide and then roll back as she begins to ride him.

He bites his bottom lip, urging her on by moving his thumb in a flurry against her clitoris, telling her to ride it out, let it happen.

It does, with jerks. Fred climaxes in his hands and Wesley's nostrils flare. She clenches around his finger, flinches against his thumb, and her eyes slam shut. Fred's shoulders draw up, roll back, and her neck arches like a bow, tipping away from him. Wesley draws his teeth along the column of white flesh, catches the taste of sweat and continues to finger her, helping her along.

He's nearly glaring at her, he realizes, but can't help it, too caught up in the delirium of having her ride herself to completion against his palm. The scent of Fred fills the room as he leans forward, catching her bottom lip between his teeth. She kisses him back lazily, drawing slow circles in his mouth with her tongue, still moaning, but quietly.

"Oh," she murmurs as she pulls back, as if surprised. Her cheeks are flushed, red flags painted across her skin, highlighted by the silver wash of moonlight across her face.

"Oh, well done? Or oh, let's try again?" Wesley draws his hand from between Fred's legs and her thighs reflexively clench around his hips. He raises his eyebrows, fingers tugging teasingly at the elastic of the shorts, waiting for her answer.

Fred licks her lips, catching her breath. After a moment, she replies with a slight smile curving her mouth. "Well done AND let's try again."

"I can do that," he mutters against her mouth as she kisses him, and then pulls away, pushing her onto her back. Facing the bottom of the bed, he gets to his knees and reaches for the waist of her shorts, slowly slipping them down. "No problem with trying again."

"Practice makes perfect." Fred lifts her hips to let the fabric slide out from beneath her, drag along the back of her thighs, and finally come off of her legs. Wesley stares down at her as he tosses the forgotten silk aside, circling her ankles with his hands. Slowly, with care, he slides his palms along her calves, spreading her knees open as he goes.

Fred's muscles twitch nervously. She has had an orgasm in his hands, but this revealing of herself is much more intimate. He knows this about her, this secret fear of getting too close. Wesley stops moving his palms when he reaches the top of her thighs, then just strokes the skin gently, staring down at her flesh, exposed to his eyes.

"Wesley, just-" Fred moves to close her legs, but he holds them open, un-phased as he leans down and puts his mouth on her. She nearly shrieks, feet kicking out past his hips while he licks at her nether lips with his tongue. She tastes almost bitter, but good and hot. He drags his tongue over the heated flesh and feels her thighs shaking around his face. "God," she says, and he smiles into her, "God."

Wesley wonders briefly if Gunn has done this for her and then dismisses the thought along with the burning it causes in his stomach. Of course Gunn has done this. Fred's fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, but Wesley remains where he wants to be, burying his mouth in her most private place.

'Try to hide your cards now,' he dares silently, as his tongue probes her. 'I'd wager my soul you can't.'

Swiping his tongue along the pink, spongy flesh, Wesley groans into her. Acknowledges that he is here, it's HIM not Gunn doing this to her, making her moan. And finally, finally, Fred was free for the taking. Wesley is so lost in her, so caught up in the enormity of the entire situation, that he is nearly surprised by her orgasm when it happens.

Fred shudders hard, starting with her toes curling into his shoulder blades. It shimmies into her stomach and she is rolling like a wave against his bed, whimpering and crying out his name. "Wesley," a growl almost, a plea, as the pleasure works its way through her body. "Oh, please, Wes." Her voice cuts off as her legs fall slack and the vibrations come to a halt. Her thighs slip to the bed, remain lax and spread as he gives her one last lick that makes her jolt and then crawls up her body.

Fred's eyes are closed and her mouth is parted as she breathes fitfully. Small drops of sweat slide down the side of her face, curling into her hair. Wesley watches her face, eager for the slightest change, as her breathing slows, calms. Beautiful, he thinks, just so damn beautiful. Her eyelashes flutter, part, and suddenly she is staring at him, eyes wide and compelling.

"You did say that you wanted to try again," Wesley teases her, but she nods without smiling. His own grin slips away as he watches her face. He's so intent on her expression that he doesn't notice her hand rising from its position above her head until she is brushing her thumb and forefinger across his chin, his jaw. Wesley blinks and moves his cheek into her palm, sighing heavily.

"You're so pretty," she tells him and he finds it startling. It jump-starts his heart as his erection throbs against her slack thigh. Arousal, ignored for her pleasure, coils tight in his stomach, aches with demands. "I can't get around how pretty you are."

"I'm not a girl," he responds. "I should be something like manly, rugged, or gruff."

Fred smiles then and taps her finger on his wet lips. "Ah, you may be rugged, but that don't mean you're not pretty."

"You have very convoluted logic." Gently, Wesley leans forward and with his eyes on hers, kisses her chin. Nips the tip with careful teeth. Her lips part again and her breath whooshes out onto his face. "I adore it."

"Do you, now?" Fred pulls her fingers away, trails them over the skin of his chest, then presses her palm flat and shoves him back, away from her. He goes, briefly confused and then quite pleased when she kneels with him, running her fingers down his belly. "Just how badly do you adore it?"

"Badly," he gasps, when her fingers trail down into the territory he had pushed her away from earlier. "So very, very badly." Breath hisses from him when she takes him into her hands again, cupping his sac and stroking his penis until he is grimacing with pleasure. "Too much."

"Do you want to cum?" she asks him, in a quiet way that shows him how she is different from those who he has had before. Wesley shakes his head. No, he doesn't want to let go, not yet. Fred tilts her head at him curiously, before nodding and giving him one last squeeze. Wesley's hips buck into her hand and he leans forward, pressing his forehead onto her shoulder for a moment until he can regain his equilibrium. Fred releases him, a soft sigh brushing across his hair. "You wanna have sex now?"

"Eager?" he chuckles into her shoulder, but his fingers move to the hem of her silk shirt. "Up we go." Fred lifts her arms and Wesley tugs the shirt off of her with a whoosh of air that has her hair standing up with static. Smiling softly, Wesley smoothes her hair back down and she just looks at him, seeming very small in the liquid light.

Wesley looks down at her small, but pert breasts. Grins. He palms them gently, fingers smoothing across the sensitive flesh with practiced ease. Fred gives a silent gasp, mouth opening as she looks down between them. Her hair falls forward, draping across his forearms. The sensation is beyond incredible.

Amazing.

His hands are large on her body, makes her slim figure seem almost boyish. Fingers splayed out, he drags them away to pinch her nipples. Not quite gentle, and because of this, she arches into him, like she's saying, "more."

"Okay," Wesley says, feeling the burst in his groin flaming outward, further inside his belly. The waiting can only last so long and he's nearly reached his peak of tolerance. Patience. It is lovely and more incredible than he can describe to touch her, but he wants more than that. He wants to be inside of her. "Okay. Fred, lets-"

"Have sex." Fred interrupts, because she KNOWS and can say it more keenly than he is able to in his current lust-ridden state of mind. "Lots and lots of sex."

"Thank the heavens," he whispers in relief and allows himself to fall back against the sheets. Fred climbs on top of him, muscles shifting as she moves. Her lips are wet and the light glints off them. Wesley is suddenly very glad that he's far sighted and not near. That would take so much away from this experience.

He uses his hands to guide her over him; he can see her thighs clench and pull taut as she waits above him. The tip of his erection brushes against her entrance and he feels burnt. Wesley's head lands sharply on the pillow because it's hard to hold his skull up at a time like this. Every sensation is acute and sweet agony; in the feel of the sheet beneath them, getting wet with their sweat; the pillow scraping against his neck. And then there is her.

It's Fred, with her satin skin all over him and the curls between her thighs irritating and seducing his penis, making him hungry. Her hair falls down onto his face as she leans forward, placing moist lips onto his for a hungry kiss. And then she pulls back and lifts her hips. Gripping his erection, she drives his erection inside of her in a single thrust.

They both cry out, bodies arching and curling forward. This is why sex is often referred to as the naked pretzel, Wesley thinks bizarrely. His bones are locking together, his teeth grinding, face contorting as Fred wraps her arms around his neck and does it again.

So tight. Too tight. God, he's INSIDE.

And really, calling upon a deity at a time like this cannot be the proper thing to do. Then again, he'd given up propriety in his fight to have her.

"Wesley," she chants, on every rise and fall of her hips. Like it's his name dragging her under the waves. Wesley forces his eyes to remain open, tries his hardest to keep them on her, undulating on him. Sweat pools in the hollow spaces of his body. It drips down between her breasts, the smooth length of her belly as it twists and clenches, past her thighs and onto his pelvis.

He watches it, struck anew by what they're doing.

This is FRED.

It hits him like a hammer across the side of his head and Wesley tosses it to the side, slamming his cheek into the mattress and flipping her over. Fred goes with a squeak, landing on her back with wide eyes and an open, shocked mouth. Wesley's panting as he quickly moves between her spread legs and slams himself home. Fred almost screams but he catches it with his palm, pushing himself all the way inside of her.

"Shh," he begs as he thrusts inside of her. "Quiet."

Someone might hear them.

Fred nods, biting her bottom lip, biting his palm, trying to keep the sounds muffled as he moves swiftly, spreading her legs with his thighs and pushing them to the point faster then they would both like. But he needs it and he can tell by the glint in her eyes that she does as well.

Trying to be gentle, Wesley pushes his arms beneath Fred's, grips her shoulder blades and hugs her body to his. He buries his face in her hair and gives a mighty shudder, bucking his hips into hers. Fred's teeth sink into his right shoulder, her groan of pleasure vibrating through him.

It's too much. He can't fight it. Has never been able to fight what he's felt for her.

He's gone.

* * *

Angelus stares at the ceiling, a small smile curling up his lips. More of a smirk really, the kind that leers at bar maids.

"Somebody's getting some."

* * *

If the morning before had been awkward, this one was ten-fold. It was as though everyone knew, just by looking at them, that they'd had sex last night. All night, until she'd pushed him away, gasping. His thighs were already raw, so he could imagine Fred hurting worse than he was.

They hadn't been able to let go of each other; it was as if the end of the world was already upon them and these hours would be their last together. Who knows? They could have been. The day is not yet through, and Wesley can feel his heart drop every time he thinks of The Beast or Angelus waiting below, saying mocking things to the camera. Angelus is killing hearts from the distance of a black and white screen.

Fred winces every now and then, as she moves in a particular way, and quickly glances toward him. Their eyes catch and hold. Wesley smiles and she ducks her head, a blush working its way up her cheeks.

She's embarrassed, even a little ashamed, of the things they have done. But he knows she doesn't regret it and that's enough. After all, if she didn't think of others, she wouldn't be Fred. And if she wasn't Fred, he wouldn't be in love with her. So by default, she's going to be a little worried about Gunn.

Wesley swallows this bitter pill and allows it to burn away in his stomach. Because he knows that this time, she'll be coming to him.

It's still slightly hard to digest that Fred has made love to him, and Wesley imagines it will be until the end, whenever that may be. WITH him. All those nights spent imagining were for naught, because they were nothing like the original. If Wesley was to align his fantasies next to the real version, they'd fade away into dust. Insubstantial. A mere fraud. Not even close.

Wesley leans back in his desk chair and surveys all the things that have been returned to him. Maybe it was a bit Neanderthal-like, but scanning the Hyperion through the small, windowless space and seeing Cordelia sitting at her desk, and Fred carrying a stack of books to her… it felt like he was in the right place again.

HIS place.

The chair squeaks satisfyingly as he tips it back, just a little. The sound is familiar and Wesley heaves a chest-splitting sigh. He should be miserable, terrified and harried. The end was coming, was nipping at their heels and Angel's soul was missing. But all he could think about, all he could care about was the hope he could almost SMELL in the room.

Hope returned, and nothing was quite as captivating.

Fred pauses mid step as she is about to hand another armful of books to Cordelia, and her gaze swivels toward the stairs. Wesley's stomach jerks and he sits forward, sees what she does. A cough works its way from his throat and Wesley clears it, forces the tickle down. Doesn't want to draw attention to himself.

Gunn is coming down the stairs, looking miserable and sick. Even a little mean.

Wesley watches Fred look down at the books in her arms and then swivel her gaze to his own. He smiles at her tightly and Fred nods, giving a visible sigh and finally handing off the heavy load she is holding. Cordelia takes them, like she doesn't care about the tension in the room.

Gunn meets Wesley's eyes across the expanse of the Hyperion, over Cordelia's desk and over Fred. Wesley swallows and his hands clench together beneath the desk, the only sign of any emotion that he allows. And he only allows that because no one can see it. Misery, Wesley thinks, I understand it so well. Gunn's feeling it hard.

Gunn knows what they've done, Fred whom he loves and Wesley, the person with whom it wasn't supposed to ever happen. Knows, and can't stand it.

There will be a confrontation one day, and there won't be anyone there to stop them when it happens. It will be another story, for another time.

Wesley nods slowly, sees Gunn's face tense into a horrible grimace, near tears. As always, Gunn shakes it off, forces it down. And then the black man is walking in quick, easy strides toward the door, muscles shifting beneath his red t-shirt. Wesley can empathize as Gunn pulls the door open, letting the sunlight blast inside, and steps through it.

Outside.

Gone.

The door doesn't slam behind him and Wesley knows he isn't gone for good. That's one thing about Gunn, even when he hates you, he'll save your life. When Wesley pulls his gaze away, he finds Fred looking at him, a soft sorrow in her eyes.

But there's hope. That tricky emotion can never be completely banished. In this moment he wants to tell her he loves her, but she already knows it and it's not the time. Instead, he lifts his hand and gives her a half wave. Fred purses her lips, as though thinking hard, and then waves back before turning away to lean over Cordelia's desk and say something.

Wesley smiles and leans back in the chair, rocking it slightly. The squeaking happens again, every time the chair tips at a certain angle.

Things aren't always pretty. Things aren't always safe.

But sometimes things just ARE the way they are.

Almost perfect.

© February 2003

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