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slashthedrabble Jun. 11th, 2005 01:10 am)
hellespont.livejournal.com posting in slashthedrabble Jun. 11th, 2005 01:10 am)For my inaugural offering to Slash The Drabble, I offer 500 words of Angel/Wesley schmangst. No sex, no bad language, but I must warn against far too little plot and far too much indulgence of my own hurt/comfort obsession.
Angel brought Wesley the aspirin, and the juice, and the damp washcloth, and then gave him what he really wanted: Angel’s vampire-cool body wrapped long and smooth around Wesley’s burning flesh. The fever was bad, but it was better than the chills, when Wesley was so cold he mummified himself in blankets, and Angel was left to sit at the end of the bed and hate himself for not being able to offer his body heat.
There was so little Angel could do. The demon venom had hit Wesley hard and fast and their research was progressing poorly without his expertise. Every once in a while, if he wasn’t being watched, Wesley would drag himself out of bed, and over the bookshelf, and be found later staring intently at a copy of The History of Bureaucracy in the Watchers’ Council: Volume IX and Appendices. Just that afternoon, Cordelia had only been able to coax him back to bed by pointing out the sweaty palm prints he was leaving on the pages. The delirium frightened them all the worse for the stretches of lucidity with which it was interrupted. One could never be completely sure whether or not Wesley knew what he was saying.
From hot to cold, pathetically mad to bleakly sane, his body was caught in a constant tug-of-war – and it was a war, one Angel was grimly determined to win, without knowing his weapons or even his enemy, really. Right now, Wesley seemed to have settled into very hot and mostly lucid. He pressed his face into the coolness of Angel’s neck and muttered against him. “’S like a blanket, made of ice cream.” As long as he wasn’t wild-eyed and screaming, and he wasn’t talking to his father an ocean away, mostly lucid could have a broad definition.
“Oh, yeah? What flavour?” Again, Angel promised himself that Wesley would soon be better, and they would laugh about these conversations.
“Wool, I suppose. Blankets aren’t generally flavoured. Maybe Irish cream.” Wesley’s voice was distorted by his tongue gently resting against Angel’s neck, just where the pulse point should have been. “You feel good.”
“Good.” You don’t, he thought. You feel like hellfire and with all those nights I spent longing to curl up into your warmth, I never thought it would be like this. I never thought it would happen at all. Please don’t burn up, Wes. Don’t burn, and don’t freeze, and don’t die, and don’t leave me.
“I don’t mean to.” Angel had spoken his plea aloud, of course, or perhaps Wesley’s mind, which wandered so much now, had drifted into the place where Angel's fears ran free and savage. A place where the hell dimension he’d been delivered from was replaced by this, this strange hybrid of paradise and perdition, where he could hold Wesley in his arms but only to provide temporary relief from the poison that was killing him.
“Good.” Angel repeated himself, silently begging for another hour before the chills set in again.
Angel brought Wesley the aspirin, and the juice, and the damp washcloth, and then gave him what he really wanted: Angel’s vampire-cool body wrapped long and smooth around Wesley’s burning flesh. The fever was bad, but it was better than the chills, when Wesley was so cold he mummified himself in blankets, and Angel was left to sit at the end of the bed and hate himself for not being able to offer his body heat.
There was so little Angel could do. The demon venom had hit Wesley hard and fast and their research was progressing poorly without his expertise. Every once in a while, if he wasn’t being watched, Wesley would drag himself out of bed, and over the bookshelf, and be found later staring intently at a copy of The History of Bureaucracy in the Watchers’ Council: Volume IX and Appendices. Just that afternoon, Cordelia had only been able to coax him back to bed by pointing out the sweaty palm prints he was leaving on the pages. The delirium frightened them all the worse for the stretches of lucidity with which it was interrupted. One could never be completely sure whether or not Wesley knew what he was saying.
From hot to cold, pathetically mad to bleakly sane, his body was caught in a constant tug-of-war – and it was a war, one Angel was grimly determined to win, without knowing his weapons or even his enemy, really. Right now, Wesley seemed to have settled into very hot and mostly lucid. He pressed his face into the coolness of Angel’s neck and muttered against him. “’S like a blanket, made of ice cream.” As long as he wasn’t wild-eyed and screaming, and he wasn’t talking to his father an ocean away, mostly lucid could have a broad definition.
“Oh, yeah? What flavour?” Again, Angel promised himself that Wesley would soon be better, and they would laugh about these conversations.
“Wool, I suppose. Blankets aren’t generally flavoured. Maybe Irish cream.” Wesley’s voice was distorted by his tongue gently resting against Angel’s neck, just where the pulse point should have been. “You feel good.”
“Good.” You don’t, he thought. You feel like hellfire and with all those nights I spent longing to curl up into your warmth, I never thought it would be like this. I never thought it would happen at all. Please don’t burn up, Wes. Don’t burn, and don’t freeze, and don’t die, and don’t leave me.
“I don’t mean to.” Angel had spoken his plea aloud, of course, or perhaps Wesley’s mind, which wandered so much now, had drifted into the place where Angel's fears ran free and savage. A place where the hell dimension he’d been delivered from was replaced by this, this strange hybrid of paradise and perdition, where he could hold Wesley in his arms but only to provide temporary relief from the poison that was killing him.
“Good.” Angel repeated himself, silently begging for another hour before the chills set in again.
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Ah, well, a lady would never reveal such delicate information.....