Third Face

serasempre

Summary: One more meeting.
Rating: NC-17
Story Notes: Spoilers through Conversations With Dead People. Inspired by Eve and the dormouse, for Minim
Disclaimer: The characters and world portrayed herein belong to Mutant Enemy/Joss Whedon. I just borrowed them to play with for awhile. I promise to put them back right where I found them.


She'd stood frozen a minute, maybe two, while the dust dissipated and words she'd never expected to hear echoed.

"You know Spike? How?"

"He's the guy that...what was that word again?"

"Sired."

"Yeah, he's the guy that sired me."

It had to be a lie. Only, who said a soul kept a vampire from doing evil?

"He's the guy that sired me."

She checked the time, just after midnight. Mr. Tai Kwan Do had come out of that grave pretty fast. Maybe, maybe she'd have time to, well, no, nothing was happening with Spike. Everything was fine, but maybe she could just find him, and talk to him. Just to make sure. She walked, fast, through the cemetery, dodging headstones, trees and ornamental pools with the ease of memory. It's not like she didn't spend half her life in this place, after all. She was jogging by the time she hit the gate, one palm slapping the side pole to add force to her swing through the gate, and then she hit her stride.

The roar of a motorcycle, the glare of a single headlight and then the bulk of the machine cutting her off left her disoriented for a moment. She stopped, breathing deeply, refusing to think about Spike while she adjusted to this unexpected intrusion. The rumble of the machine pulsed through her, bringing her focus back to the here and now rather than on some future confrontation that maybe, maybe didn't have to happen at all.

"Wesley? What brings you to Sunnydale? She sounded too happy to see him and dialed it back. "I thought you had plenty of vamps of your own to kill."

He smiled at her, a tired smile and too quickly gone. "I was recently reminded of my past, a rather unwelcome reminder, and felt the need for a road trip. I decided to take the chance to look about me and remember why I'm here, how much things have changed." He shrugged. "Sunnydale seemed like it belonged on the itinerary." He paused. "You look like you're on a mission."

Buffy's eyes narrowed. When was she not on a mission? He looked, she reluctantly admitted to herself, good, really good. Good in a way she never expected Wesley to look. Okay, hot. She could admit hot. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. He was wearing black leather boots. When had she ever seen Wesley in flannel, much less boots? The day before never, that's when. Weird. Wierder was the tear in the jeans, at the knee, and another, she realized as he kicked the stand and swung his leg off the bike, yeah, another tear just under his ass, frayed, revealing a little, too little, skin. Definitely hot. The shirt was open a button, showing off the strong lines of his neck, highlighting the contrast between that smooth skin and the scruffy face. And a scar. He had a scar. When did he get that? And when had he last shaved? Not recently enough. He looked....dangerous. And hot. Definitely hot.

She shook her head. Focus. She needed to focus. She had a lot on her plate. She counted off the offenses, as if to make them manageable. She'd just been told not only that she was afraid to commit, but also that she had a superiority *and* an inferiority complex...and...yeah, the kicker, Spike was siring vamps. Easier to think about the psychobabble. And Wesley. Being hot. But she didn't need Wesley distracting her on top of all this.

"Mission?" Oh, yeah. Mission. She brought herself back to the here and now. "I'm looking for Spike."

Concern etched deeper the lines bracketing his mouth. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" She'd squeaked. Buffy cleared her throat. "Nothing's wrong. Exactly." She cast around for something else, change the subject, she needed to change the subject. "I didn't think I'd see you again after... after that last time. You know, last year." Oh. Definitely the wrong choice. She hadn't appreciated then the lean body, the face, those hands he was even now revealing, stripping off black leather gloves. She gulped as the images came quickly, a highly detailed picture of exactly how much she hadn't appreciated, and what, and what he'd done, and.... She focused on his face again. Try again Buffy. She smiled brightly. "So, anyway, your past?"

He really grinned, this time. Bastard. He could obviously read her better than she'd hoped. "I just thought I'd see how you're doing, Buffy, that's all. I do care about you, you know."

She wondered what it said about her that she was attracted to men with accents, or shady pasts, or both. "Yeah, okay, well, I just dusted a vamp who'd been taking Psych 101. Before I dusted him, he had to tell me that I always, subconsciously, knew my relationships were doomed. Because I was better than them." She'd meant to sound flip, uncaring, not... serious. She turned away, walking back into the cemetery, seeking the covering of trees, the privacy of the dark.

He fell into step beside her. "Did you?"

"Did I what?"

He reached out and took her hand. "Did you know they were doomed?"

She smiled bitterly. "I wouldn't have thought so. I mean, it's not like I looked around and said, 'Oh, souled vampire, that's gotta be a good-long term prospect!' "

Wesley squeezed her hand comfortingly. "Well, I think you can be forgiven. I believe you met Angel, got to know him, before you knew he was a vampire? He's attractive. He's good. You didn't know he'd lose his soul. I'd say that's more his fault, if you need to put blame somewhere. But then, I'm not exactly an expert on relationships, am I?"

"I wasn't talking about Angel."

"What?" That came out louder than he intended. He pulled Buffy to a stop, swinging her around to face him. "Who were you talking about, then?"

She blushed, hot enough that he could see it with only the light from the moon, half hidden above the trees. "Oh" She made a vague movement with her hand. "Nobody." She paused a beat before going on, in for a penny, in for a pound, wasn't that what all these English guys said? "Wesley, I'm afraid."

"Of what?" He asked impatiently. It was clear he thought she was stalling. And she was, yes, she was.

She looked away, biting her lip. "A lot of things. Of not being enough. Of going back to what I was last year." She paused, and the rest came tumbling out in a rush. "I don't know if you know. I didn't come back from hell, when I came back. I came back from someplace... warm... and safe, really safe. I was happy there."

He reached out to her but she sidestepped him, embarrassed. "I'm okay now, really." He looked skeptical. Really, I'm okay! But, you know, last year was pretty... ugly. I didn't want to be here. I couldn't...feel....anything." She looked up at him, blurted out something she'd never meant to say. "You helped me feel, for the first time, when you came to visit my grave that day and found me instead."

He felt bewildered, gratified but horrified as well. He'd left thinking that she was happy, relieved at being home, though, of course, justifiably disoriented by her experiences. How blind could he be? Really, though, wasn't that kind of obvious? Anger at himself, resentment, burned. What he'd done was inexcusable then, but wasn't it always? He wrenched his focus back to Buffy again. He could castigate himself, later. He was good at that.

Buffy laid a hand on his arm. She could see the anger on his face as clearly as he'd seen her blush. "You helped me, Wes. You did. It wasn't a bad thing, I promise."

He sighed, a look of pure sorrow flowed over his face and was gone, his expression schooled to gentle inquiry.

"So, what's the matter, then? Tell me."

"There's something coming. Something big, something evil." She shook that off. "There's always some big evil coming. I don't know. This feels different." She looked up at him again, tears visible at the corners of her eyes. "For the first time, I feel, I feel like I might fail. The truth is, I don't have the answers. Maybe I never did."

They leaned, side by side, against a headstone, quiet, touching at arm and thigh. She hesitated for a moment, and then laid her head on his shoulder, absorbing his warmth and strength with a sigh.

"I don't either."

"What?" Her head came up in surprise.

"I don't have the answers. I never did. Everything I touch falls apart." He looked away, over the moon-washed landscape of headstones, black and silver trees, a white monolith raised here and there, giving the cemetery the glamour of a dead city, lost in time.

She sat for a moment, absorbing that. "You think maybe there are no answers?"

His arm went around her and she rested her head on his shoulder again. "Perhaps. Or, perhaps, there are answers, but no one has them. Perhaps the struggle is all about finding the answers, or realizing that we can't."

"Maybe everyone is really all alone, and the struggle is just to touch and be touched. To feel." She laughed, a small, hollow sound. "We're all philosophical."

He squeezed. "Yes, and so we are. I suppose it's as good a way as any to spend a reunion. Better than comparing income or hairstyles." He took a deep breath and felt the tension leave his body.

"Oh please," She snickered. "Let's not talk about income. So, what's with the bike?"

"I felt the need to rebel. To remind myself of the na´ve ideals of a rogue demon hunter."

She could hear the laughter in his voice. "No, hey, that was a good thing! It is a good thing."

He nodded. "I guess. If you like that kind of stupid, self-destructive behaviour." He raised his fist, posing. "One man alone against the forces of evil."

"At least you never fucked Spike."

"Ah hah!"

"What ah hah?"

"You're telling me you fucked Spike."

"I'm not really telling you. I mean, I didn't mean to tell you!" She attempted, half-heartedly, to slide out of his encircling arm, but he gripped her shoulder and she subsided, pleased that he'd persisted.

"So, explain, if you will." He was grinning. The bastard was grinning, and there was a distinctly evil light in his eye. "You fucked Spike, once? Twice? And how was it? Did he recite poetry to your eyes?"

"It was violent, and kind of ugly."

The levity subsided immediately. "I could tell you about ugly."

"Really?" She looked hopeful.

She was, to his mind, far too young and attractive to wander cemeteries at night. Wes absentmindedly tucked a curl behind her ear and left his hand there, stroking her scalp. "Yes, really. I've been fucking a lawyer."

She shuddered, mocking him gently. "Oh yeah, that's fucking the evil undead."

"She is, actually." At her questioning look. "Evil, that is. She struck a deal with the devil."

Professional concern, though he wasn't sure how serious, shadowed her face. "You mean he's real?"

He laughed, god, how good it felt to laugh. "No, or, I don't know. She is evil though."

She grinned back at him. "At least she's human, and alive, or, you know, a lawyer, so, maybe undead, but not obviously so."

"Have you told anyone about Spike?"

Ugh. Not the question she wanted to hear, or answer. "Not, not really. I mean, they know some of it. They don't know..." She trailed off unable to find the words.

"They don't know the reality of it."

She nodded.

"So, something else we can't tell our friends." She looked at him enquiringly. "Oh, no," He grimaced. "No one at Angel Investigations knows about Lilah."

"But I know." Her voice was soft, pleased.

"Yes." There was enormous satisfaction in that. "And I know about Spike." Satisfaction there, too. He smiled at her look of indignation. "You don't have to tell me details. Believe me. I know ugly, ugly and...necessary, yes, necessary. And maybe, a little something else, that touch you were talking about."

"Oh. Yeah. That's it, pretty much, necessary touch." She rubbed her arms, nervously searching for something else to say as a thick tension rose between them.

He stood and turned, pulling her up from the headstone and loosely encircling her with his right arm, his left hand still at the nape of her neck. "It's okay, Buffy."

She stood for a moment, helplessly, comforted without knowing how to return it, or what to do next. She couldn't shake the thought that if she just put her hands around him a little low, she could trace that hole in his jeans, for strictly scientific purposes, of course.

Huh, and why not? She slid her hands around his jean covered thighs, sliding, yes, just as she thought, sliding the fingers of her left hand between the fraying threads to rest just under his ass. Oh, yeah.

"Buffy?"

"Hmm?"

He felt smooth to the touch, very hot, but very smooth right there, where the skin folded, the ass cheek rising in a solid globe just above her toying fingers, the thigh, increasingly hairy below.

"Buffy?"

She looked up, her eyes a little glazed. "Buffy, tell me. What do you want?"

"Want?"

"Considering the fact that you are currently toying with my ass, I believe I have the right to ask what your intentions are." Wes was smiling, a lovely, gentle smile.

"I have no intentions."

He raised an eyebrow. "No? No intentions at all?"

Buffy smiled back, feeling, suddenly, playful. "No, none at all. I'm just getting to know... your ass."

He guffawed, there was no other way to adequately describe such a startlingly deep belly laugh.

"I see. Then, perhaps, I should get to know yours." His right hand slid down her back, and cupped her ass, sudden and hard.

"Oh!" Her belly jumped. "Uh, wow."

"Indeed." He was almost purring at her reaction.

She wondered what she could do to even the score, and her fingers were moving almost as quickly as the thought. Oops. She heard denim tear, the small hole becoming a rather large slash as she curled her fingers around the globe of his ass and just stroked his asshole. He sucked in a quick breath and froze. Huh. That was interesting. The other hand gripped his fully clothed right ass cheek and she did it again, a gentle probe. His breathing grew ragged.

"I believe," he paused to regain his equilibrium, taking a deep breath. "I do believe the balance of power has shifted." He grinned again. "I'll have to see what I can do to remedy that," he said, before lifting her, startling her. She released his ass and grabbed for his shoulders. His muscles bunched and released under the flannel as he perched her up on the headstone and her legs spread almost without thought. He stepped into the waiting hollow smoothly and settled against her. They matched.

She rested her forehead against his and took her own steadying breath. "I like this."

"Do you?" He smiled, grateful.

"Yes. I do. I declare this an attempt to get the answers."

She watched his mouth move. "To touch, and be touched," his voice was hushed.

"Yes. Exactly." She leaned into him and their lips clung.

He slid his hands under her shirt, slightly roughened fingertips skipping over her skin as she deepened the kiss, rubbing her tongue over his lower lip, dipping in to moist heat and the taste of Wesley, no one tasted like Wes, how could she have forgotten this taste?

She wriggled, heat creeping over her skin, shivers trailing his fingertips as he played over the skin of her belly, her ribs, sliding around to her back to count the vertebrae. Suddenly desperate, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, fingers skimming through his hair, as they both ignited, kissing one another, savaging lips and tongue, fighting with their mouths, building the heat.

He abandoned the gentle approach, sliding his right hand up to squeeze her breast almost painfully. She gasped and arched into his hand, intensifying the pressure. His mouth left hers to skip across her face, teeth nipping at the line of her jaw, her earlobe.

Her heart thundered, she couldn't seem to breathe. She leaned back, gripping his hips with her thighs, and began pulling at his shirt, ripping it free from his jeans. She scrambled at the buttons, popping the last until his shirt hung loose from his shoulders. She felt clumsy in her frantic need to get her clothes off, his clothes off, feel skin to skin.

He released her breast and slid his hands out from under her shirt as she moaned in protest. "Shhh, Buffy. Buffy, it's all right. There's no hurry." He gripped her busy hands, stilling them.

"I want..." her plaintive cry trailed off as he lifted her hands to his mouth and kissed her palms, one after the other, then kissed each fingertip before sliding her left pinky into his mouth. Her muscles turned to water and her legs slid down his, feet landing on the ground as the rest of her followed. He came down with her, pushing her back to lie still, her eyes shadowed by the headstone.

He stripped her slowly, hard hands pressing and stroking, thighs, over her knee, stopping so he could nibble her ankle, the suck and pull of lips, tongue and teeth, then sliding back up, stroking the backs of her knees before rolling her over, her body boneless and welcoming.

He unclipped her bra, a flick of finger against her spine making her shiver, and pulled it off, then sat back, admiring her body, gleaming in the moonlight, her ass dappled by the shadows of night-black leaves.

"Ah, there's the ass I want to get to know." His voice was deeper, rough.

She looked over her shoulder at him, the shadow of the headstone making it hard to make out anything but the flash of her smile and the shine of her eyes. "I believe, it wants to get to know you, too."

He looked up, into her eyes. Was she saying what he thought she was saying? "Well then, perhaps a closer look might be in order."

She smiled again, a little uncertainly, but impatient, admiring the smooth planes of his chest, shadowed and revealed by the tattered flannel. Her breath hitched at the raw appeal of him, leaning back on his heels, his legs spread, the jeans very tight across his thighs and groin. "Something is...in order...soon."

He grinned again, leaning forward to lick the curve where ass met right thigh. His voice barely reached her, low and growly. "Are you quite sure? There doesn't have to be anything happen at all."

She growled right back, low in her throat, as she lifted her ass toward his face. "Yes, damn, I'm sure. Something *does* have to happen, now." He bit her ass and she jumped, muffling a squeal.

"I live to obey my lady's commands," he said, before the blood rose up and began thumping in her ears, drowning out everything but the harsh rasping of her breath.

He ran his hands from knee to hip and back again then spread her legs with a firm grip on each knee, insinuating himself between her legs, kneeling on the cool dark grass, the rasp of his jeans clad leg exciting, an insult to the skin of her inner thighs.

The grass felt cool and damp under her belly, individual blades tickling her breasts, sides, crotch. She inhaled the clean smell of wet earth, the smell of night, when things were supposed to be peaceful and good children were all tucked up in their beds. One of his hands lifted from her leg to unbuckle his belt, unzip his jeans. She looked back over her shoulder again and watched, excitement rising from the pit of her stomach, threatening to choke her when he lowered his jeans just enough to free his dick, and she realized he wasn't going to take them off.

He quirked an eyebrow at her, looking seriously dark and she stared back, trying to control the shaking. He reached behind him, pulled his black leather gloves out of his back pocket and pulled them on, tugging, making sure they fit smoothly.

She watched his face as he slid those leather-gloved hands up the backs of her thighs until she couldn't see clearly anymore, and then turned her face back to the dirt and grass, closing her eyes, resting her forehead on her hands.

She felt him, impersonal fingers, cool leather warming to him as he pressed, gently, a little harder, forcing one finger into her pussy, then, oh god, two, stretching, confusing, taking away her belief in the absolute safety of Wes. Good, kind... Wesley.

It made her come, a long, raw moan ripped from her throat as she convulsed in the grass, against the pressure of his fingers inside her and his other hand, still gripping her ass, his fingers still filling her as she stilled.

"There we are." He pulled his fingers free. Silence. She heard him licking, then, "Ah, better than treacle," he whispered. The aftershocks of her orgasm intensified. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, perhaps we should get on to this."

"What?" Disoriented, lethargic, still feeling a pulse deep inside her belly, she was slow to react as his fingers returned, dipped into her pussy and slid out again to rub against her ass, dipping again, spreading the slick juice, before insinuating one fingertip, sliding into her ass, then knuckle, rotating, pressing to each side, a little harder, a little more intensely, then sliding out to be replaced with his thumb, thicker, different. She was startled by the greed she felt, the visceral, gut pulling need, as his black leather fingers pressed against her asshole. It loosened her knees, made her arch her back, raise her ass. She growled. "More."

She felt the tension in him rise, the grip on her ass suddenly enough to bruise as he pulled his thumb free and slid one arm around her to put her ass where he wanted it. He moved quickly, pulling the leather gloves off with his teeth, first one, then the other, and holding her until she steadied on elbows and knees, nipples brushing grass with every movement. He rested his left hand on the small of her back, and rubbed the head of his penis against her ass, pressing a little harder with every pass until, impatient, she pushed, felt rewarded, still greedy, felt the slide, past the burn of tight muscle, panting as her body automatically tried to tighten further, increasing the burn. He wrapped his arms around her torso and rested his face between her shoulder blades.

"Easy." His beard rasped her skin, raising goose bumps and sending shivers down her spine. Hot breath bathed her shoulder. "Easy now. Let's not rush this introduction, shall we?"

She protested, a kitten-like sound from the back of her throat, then subsided, realizing superior strength wasn't a lot of help when she wanted this, just exactly this from this man in this position. And maybe what she wanted was even easier. To ask and be answered. To let someone else do the work. "Please?"

"What?" He responded, roughly. The single whispered word sent a vicious thrill through him. Yes. She was begging. Only, on second thought, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Wesley didn't want to reduce her to begging. Good god, he wanted it to be mutual. Two people who understood, who sympathized, who, god help him, cared about one another, gave a shit if the other lived or died. He froze uncertain of how to go on.

Realizing something was wrong by the sudden tension, she looked back over her shoulder. He wasn't looking at her, wouldn't meet her eye. He was staring blindly into space. "Wes."

He shuddered.

"Wesley!"

"I'm sorry. What? I don't know what to do." She couldn't remember when he'd looked so vulnerable, worse than when he'd embarrassed her all those years ago in the library. Now he was grown, powerful, he seemed to have survived everything else well enough, but, now, he looked lost.

"I want you to fuck me." He turned to face her, his eyes still blind. Buffy went on, her voice growing stronger. "Wes. Fuck me. In the ass. I want you to. I'm asking." Her voice turned plaintive. "I even said please!"

He laughed, a shaky sound. "You want this?" He pushed, denim catching on her thighs, hot penis filling her ass.

"God, yes!" She almost shouted in relief. "I want it, you. I want you to fuck me, for you to do it. I don't want to have to do all the work. I always have to do it all. I don't want to. Please." She almost wept at having to say so much.

He relaxed, stroked her, began to move, slowly, gently, easily.

"More." She dropped her head forward. "More, please."

"Yes, all right kitten. All right. Easy." A fine sheen of sweat broke out as he bent his knees a little and drove into her, harder, harder. Her body rocked with each blow. She began to pant, moaning. Her hips twisting in his hands.

"Oh, god, yes!"

"Fuck." Wes slammed his dick into her ass. "I. Always. Think. Too. Fucking. Much." He rocked her, side to side, trying to keep from coming and breathing hard through his nose, his lungs pumping like a bellows.

She screamed, her cry echoing eerily across the cemetery. He held her tightly dropping to her back and wrapping his arms around her as she thrashed. He rose quickly, just as she finished, and slammed home again, once, twice, and once more, groaning as he came.

He held her until she relaxed enough to pull free easily, gently, and then collapsed onto his back on the grass, panting. She collapsed beside him, breathing hard as well. They shared a few moments of peace, fingers touching, staring at the sky.

"So, was that this year's spell requirement?" She sounded...forlorn.

He looked over at her, puzzled for a moment before he realized. Sick at heart, he answered quickly. "Oh, no, definitely not!"

"It's not? Does that mean the spell will make us do this again? Is it trying to make up for lost time? Gets... uh, exponential, or something?" She turned her head away from him, trying to hide the confusion, the feeling of loss she could feel, he would see in her eyes.

He lay still for a moment, wondering exactly how to say this. Best to get it over with. Sooner begun, sooner done, or some such nonsense. "Buffy?" He was greeted with silence. "I have a confession to make." The response was more a sniffle than an assent, but he went on. "The spell is dead. I did it wrong. If we'd avoided one another that first time for, approximately 24 hours, most likely, nothing would have happened to begin with. By the time we saw one another again, last year, there weren't even ghostly remnants of it acting on us." Silence. He cleared his throat nervously. "I didn't know that, last year. I thought it was still..." This wasn't going well. "Are you very angry?"

She didn't respond for, at least a minute, at least a full bloody sixty seconds, maybe more, and then her body convulsed and she rolled away from him. The sound she was making had to be... she was hysterical. Oh god, what had he done? He rolled toward her, carefully resting a comforting hand on her back, hoping that was the right thing to do. It took him another guilt ridden few moments to realize she was laughing.

"Buffy? You're all right then?"

Suddenly, Buffy rolled over and faced him, leaning on one elbow, and attempted a menacing look. "Kitten?"

He laughed in sheer relief, in delight at her nonsense. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Oh. God. Time?" He just looked at her, confused. He hadn't even gotten his breath back. Where did she get her energy?

She sounded frantic. "What time is it?"

He raised one arm and squinted at his watch. "A quarter past 3, by the look of it."

"Oh my god. Spike. I have to find Spike."

"Why?" He sat up and began fastening his jeans as she searched the grass for her clothing, pulling each piece on as she found it.

He got up and straightened her bra strap for her.

"I think he's started siring vamps again."

Wesley pulled the ragged edges of his shirt together and, realizing that buttoning it was a lost cause, stuffed the tails into his jeans. "How can I help?"

"You can't."

"Buffy, I..."

She interrupted him, resting her fingertips on his mouth. "You can't. You have, oh you have so much. But I have to do this. This is my mission. Yours is, who knows where, but this one is mine. You helped, tonight. You reminded me that I'm not always alone." She stood up on tiptoe to kiss him. "Thank you."

"Buffy, wait!" He called out, but she was gone.