Into the Black

Author: _jolielaide

Spoilers: up through AtS 4.1, "Deep Down"

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Wesley/Angel implied

Disclaimer: Not mine

Thanks to: piedmargaret, saussy, and wiseacress-- fic goddesses, hot chicks, and all-around world-rockers. Much of what's good in this ficlet, if anything, can be credited to them. The mistakes that remain are my own. Thanks also to Psyche at www.studiesinwords.de for transcripts; and to Steven DeKnight for an amazingly fucked-up jumping-off point.

Dedication: This one's for my best girl, Mr. Slut.

Author's notes: the first bit, in script form, is taken directly from the episode transcript. I'm including it because I think it's good background. Skip it, if you want to. :)

~~~

Out of the blue and into the black
You pay for this, but they give you that
Once you're gone, you can't come back
When you're out of the blue
And into the black
-- Neil Young, "My My, Hey Hey"

Wes slices across the inner side of his left forearm then moves to the table and holds the cut down over Angel's lips. Angel's hands come up and he holds Wes' arm in place as he drinks.

His apartment is dark and close when Wesley finally returns to it. The door shuts behind him with a barely audible snick, and for a moment, he just stands there, alone in the quiet, letting his eyes adjust. Not thinking. The light switch is there, to the left of the door, but he doesn't reach for it. He can hear the hum of the empty refrigerator, the ticking of his bedside alarm clock, and his own breathing, which is remarkably, surprisingly, even. Considering.

He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. His left arm -- wet and sticky -- hurts, and dimly he knows he should probably be worried about it. Later, he thinks absently. Feeling his way through the room, Wesley palms the smooth back of the chair he never sits in, barks his shin against the coffee table as he always does. He doesn't even feel the bruise anymore. He easily finds the bottle on the counter and grasps it with a shameful kind of desperation and relief, and he's suddenly aware that his mouth is dry, and his hands are shaking, and his breath is coming fast and ragged and not so even after all.

Quickly, he flips the cap, and the scotch hits his lips with a burn, and it's throbbing and hot down his throat and into his belly. He takes a long pull from the bottle, feeling the rich peaty smoke of the whisky unwind and curl through him. When he finally sets it back down on the counter, the bottle feels lighter and he feels heavier-- more weighty and substantial, somehow. He drags the back of his hand roughly across his mouth, shakes his head hard and focuses again on his breathing. In, out. See, it's easy, he thinks. His lips press into a bitter grimace, which he immediately rubs off his face, feeling stubble and grit against his fingertips. He realizes that he can smell himself, smell the sharp low fear-sweat and his dirty clothes. When was the last time he washed this shirt? He can't remember. And now it doesn't matter. The shirt is ruined.

The need for sleep claws up at him suddenly, pulls at him so hard he's actually afraid for a moment that his knees will buckle and he'll go down right there, dropping to the bland, nubby carpet and not waking up until sometime next week. At which point, all this will be over and behind him, and he can just go back to fucking Lilah and screwing himself. But he doesn't collapse because sleep is not that kind to him, and besides, he knows he really ought to deal with his arm.

The knife in his own hand. His movement so quick and sure, like he'd cut his wrists a hundred times before. And the pain, the tearing-- the ripping, breathless hurt of it. Angel's eyes. Angel's mouth on him.

Now, he supposes, the accounts are settled. Paid in full. He's in the black.

He grabs the bottle and makes his way through the dimness into the bathroom. The streetlight, blazing halogen through an open window, illuminates him in the mirror, making him look both haloed and haggard. And then the streetlight goes out, and he almost laughs at the obviousness, the absurdity. Now he's in the dark again.

Flipping the switch, he blinks at the fluorescents as they pop on, incongruously clean and anonymous, and winces at his reflection. The halo is gone. Only the haggard remains. Rolling his bloodied sleeve, Wesley contemplates the mess. He'd actually made a clean cut, but then Angel's mouth had ravaged it, and now it's rough and torn. It hurts, and he's glad. It's the first real thing he's felt in months.

Wesley closes his eyes for a moment, feeling again the pull and the surging of his blood against Angel's lips and tongue. He imagines he can still feel his blood moving through him, though he knows it's a ridiculous conceit. But he thinks harder, thinks of his pulse, his heart. Wills himself to feel the strong fragile muscle and the blood that feeds it. The beating, the throbbing.... And he feels the blood moving to his cock, filling it in a rush and making him hard.

Eyes still closed, he takes another pull from the bottle, but this time it doesn't steady him as before. Now he just feels the scotch pooling, hot and acid, in his empty stomach. He sets the bottle down, and steadies himself against the cool porcelain of the sink. In the medicine cabinet mirror, he catalogues his hollowed cheeks, his stubbled chin, the lines etched at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Stilling himself, he listens again to the quiet of his nearly bare apartment: ticking, humming, the muffled sound of carpeted floors above and below and beside. Other lives, other rooms. Watching his face in the mirror, Wesley slowly drags his thumb firmly along the wet red gash in his left arm. Pressing, digging into the torn flesh. He bites the inside of his cheek, breathes, and presses harder, until he's dizzy, until he feels far, far away.

Still watching himself in the glass, he reaches down, thumbs open the button of his jeans, slides down the zipper. Grapples himself out and he's so hard it hurts. Wesley pulls his cock roughly. He doesn't recognize himself in the mirror, this man with glassy eyes and pale skin and a bright hectic flush. He strokes himself as if he's someone else, heedless of pleasure or intent or care.

Almost -- but not entirely -- without thinking, he raises his left arm, presses the open wound to his lips, and tastes himself, the thick salt of his blood. He's bucking hard into his fist now, jerking his cock in rough brutal strokes. The scotch is still unfolding in him, and he's shaky and unstable. He closes his lids against the stranger in the mirror, and sees instead Angel's dark eyes and desperate mouth. He sucks against his forearm harder, feeling the blood start flowing fresh against his lips, rubbing and dragging his teeth against the cut. He's yanking his cock, thrusting and grinding, and suddenly he comes with a short sharp groan, his orgasm indistinct from the pain in his arm and the buzzing in his head.

He stands there for a long minute, gasping and bleeding, staring at the corner of the sink with soft, unfocused eyes. Abruptly, he shoves himself back into his jeans, zips up, and wipes the blood from his mouth with a brisk hand. Flips open the medicine cabinet, pops out four Excedrin; pours one long shot of scotch over the gash in his arm and swallows the aspirin with another. He shuts the light and staggers blindly through the dark apartment to his bed.

End.