Title:  "trembling on the vine"
Author:  Mala
E-mail:  malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom:  "Angel"
Rating/Classification: 'R', ficlet, angst, Wesley POV.
Disclaimer:  Grrr aaargh,
Summary:   Bad bunny!  Bad bunny!  I blame saffron for using two names and the word "slash" in the same sentence.  This might push some squick buttons.  Takes place after the horrendous s3 season finale.

"But I fear
I have nothing to give
I have so much to lose
here in this lonely place
tangled up in our embrace ."
      --Sarah McLachlan.

His shoulder blades are sharp, pointed, on the pale canvas of his skin.  You don't know why, but you expected him to have wings.

  He cannot possibly remember, but the last time you held him, he was a mere babe in arms.  In your arms.

So small, so helpless.  Staring up at you with such trusting eyes.

  He is none of those things now.  All edges and angles and curves and rage.  And all you see in his eyes is contempt for a stranger.

  You could snap a picture, but no one would believe you.  Creatures such as him, so fragile and spun and beautifully violent with his razor-needle teeth, don't really exist.

  He does not know you.

  Whether that is a blessing or further proof of your damnation, of your disintegration, you're not sure.

But he appeared, seemingly out of the very air, in front of you, and said one simple thing: "Let's go." And so you did.  Followed him out of the club with eager strides, with something dark like anticipation, even though you tell yourself you couldn't have known it would lead to *this.*

      Of course you knew.

You're no idiot.  You can read the want-lust-hunger in a boy's face. 

         You know it all too well from the fragments of the shattered mirror in your apartment.

      Was it instinct that led him to choose you?  Some Greek tragedy stored in the back of his mind?  Or just the wildness of your unshaven jaw, too-long hair, and the scar on your throat?  Pain speaking to pain?

  You held him once.  And let him go.  And now you'll hold him again.

  You close your eyes.

  And whisper.

  "This is not happening.  This cannot be happening."

  Flutter.  Scratch.  Fly.

  He fucks you with his father's mouth and laughs, bitterly, when you shudder and  gasp the name he never told you.


  He wipes the taste of you from his lips with deceptively delicate fingers, dresses quickly and gracefully, and does not look back as he takes flight. Simply speaks.

  The name you didn't *need* to tell him.

  "Yes it is, Wesley.  Yes, it is."

  And, then, you let him go.  Again.


May 21, 2002.

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