FIC: Iowa Field Notes 13: Dreaming is Free
Title: Iowa Field Notes 13: Dreaming is Free
Author: Trepkos
Pairing: Spike/Riley - Wes
Rating: NC17 I suppose …
Spoilers: None (except for previous stories in this 'verse)
Summary: Wesley pays a visit to the farm
Thanks for beta: shapinglight
Feedback: please, I beg of you ...
Links to all my fic so far: Altered States
Dreaming is Free
The drive from LA to Huxley had been relatively uneventful. Wesley had only spotted two species of demon throughout the entire journey.
Just outside the Hyperion, he’d caught a small and inoffensive Flitsch in his headlights; the creature was rummaging in a trash can for its favourite food: discarded Chinese takeaways. Then, after he’d been driving for a couple of hours, a gang of Hellions had zoomed past him on their road-hogs or whatever they call them, without - to his considerable relief - giving him a second glance in their many wing mirrors.
That had been just as he was leaving California.
He’s only been at the farm a couple of days, but that life is already starting to feel very far away. This morning, though, when he wakes up in Riley’s old room, it is so utterly quiet that he feels a twinge of homesickness for the Hyperion, and even for his unassuming little apartment, with the constant noise of traffic and sirens and city life.
So he goes to the kitchen - the hub of the family home - to find some company.
Sarah is there, and she clearly senses that he is feeling a little lost.
“Hey Wes: up early today.”
“Yes; I seem to have finally caught up on all the sleep I’ve been missing.”
“You work late?”
“Indeed. Saving the world can be a little time-consuming,” he says with a self-deprecating smile.
“Is it worth it?” she asks, smiling back.
“The jury’s still out,” Wesley says wryly; but when Sarah places a cup of tea in front of him he relents: “Yes, of course it is!”
As he drinks his cup of tea, Wesley studies the carvings on the table in fascination. He’s noticed them before, but never had a chance to look closely. Some of the names, he recognises of course, but some …
“Prince?” he says, raising an enquiring eyebrow.
Sarah brushes a lock of hair off her face. “He was one of our dogs. He passed away a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah; he was a good old boy. We put our animals’ names there along with everyone else’s, if they have to stay over at the vet, or if they get lost, or … you know. They’re part of the family too.”
“And how long have you been doing this?”
Sarah tilts her head, considering. “About 30 years I think.”
“It’s a lovely idea”, Wesley says a little wistfully.
“Well, you don’t have to be dead to get on there; you just have to be missed by someone who’s here. You’ll find your name there next time you visit.”
“Next time?”
As the implications sink in - both that he will be missed, and that he is welcome to return - his heart swells with gratitude, and a little pride.
“That’s most kind of you.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to get away again? You could bring someone. Do you have a girlfriend?”
Wesley shakes his head.
“… or a boyfriend,” she adds carefully.
“No; there’s no one I could bring.”
The unequivocal nature of his response leaves a slightly awkward silence in its wake.
“I’m sorry, that sounds very self-pitying doesn’t it?” Wesley says; then he lies - “I’m fine on my own, really.”
She lays a hand on his shoulder and assures him - “You won’t have to wait long: good-looking man like you.”
“I hope not,” he says quietly. And it’s past time; but he isn’t completely without hope.
~~
But now he finds that - in all innocence - Sarah has thrown his isolation into sharp relief. He sees them touching - William the Bloody and Riley Finn: sees them all the time. Of course, he’s seen them touch before, but now he feels how very much alone he is that much more keenly. He remembers how he used to love to see them together. He’s missed them, in the few weeks since they left LA, and has a great affection for them both - though his feelings for Spike are more by proxy. He loves that they have each other. No one should be alone if they don’t want to be. But still, the seeds of resentment begin to split and crack and push their pale and sickly fronds into the light.
It isn’t that they are all over each other: they’re not. Their touches are mostly covert or casual: a slight brush of fingertips; a nudge of elbows; the way they sit together, perceptibly closer than if they’d just been friends: and that’s what he envies most. And worse: it’s starting to turn him on: to see them, or to think of them lying with each other, while he has lain cold and chaste: alone, for just about ever, except for a casual fuck here and there. Not love. Never love.
And Spike’s not a fool: Spike notices. For all that Wesley tries to control himself - he’s been trained for it after all - there are some things that are bound to be obvious to a vampire, especially one as astute as Spike.
And Wesley sees that Spike sometimes snatches his hand back without touching Riley - and he squirms with embarrassment, that Spike knows.
~~
Riley is mildly perplexed when, on the third evening of Wesley’s visit, as they get ready to go to bed, Spike - apparently out of the blue - suggests that they should ‘cool it in front of Wesley.’
Riley looks sideways at Spike; it’s not as though they’ve been playing tonsil hockey all day.
“Really? Why? It never struck me that he had a problem with … us; it’s not like we go round holding hands. I’m sure he’s not homophobic or anything like that.”
“No but it’s makin’ him uncomfortable: seein’ us so lovey-dovey; it’s making him jealous.”
Riley swallows: a little panicked. “Spike, I never gave him any encouragement, I swear. I thought we were just … friends I guess.”
“Don’t worry, love; I’m not gonna go off the deep end. Probably should have said ‘envious’, not ‘jealous’. He’s not in love with you - or me for that matter. Bloke just feels … left out, is all. Think it’s called ‘couples envy’; and yeah, I know: too much daytime TV. He’s lonely: comes off him in waves. Guess Angel’s not come up with the goods.”
“Shit! I feel really … I mean, I invited him because I thought it’d give him a break from LA - the whole thing; didn’t mean to drag him across the country to make him miserable. I guess there’s not much we can do about it: just, like you say, not be too couple-y around him.”
“Make sure we do stuff we can all enjoy -” Spike suggests: “- like, drinking beer.”
Relieved, Riley agrees - “Beer is good.”
~~
But the next day - all day - Wesley can’t help noticing them not touching: going out of their way to include him; he hears his name too often, and now it’s perfectly clear that they both know. He excuses himself with a headache and goes to his room. He’s dying inside - of embarrassment; but he still has four days left before his flight. He sits on his bed with his head in his hands.
What on earth would his parents have said?
He’s come all this way to make a fool of himself; he could have done that perfectly well at home.
Having formulated a strategy, he emerges, and goes to find Riley and Spike. He does his best to affect casual when he says - “I’m thinking of changing my flight: going home a day or two early. Er … Angel called. He seems a bit snowed under; I think he could use my help.”
“Okay Wes - if you have to.”
Riley accepts what Wesley has said at face value, but Spike isn’t so easily fooled; he must know that Wesley’s phone hasn’t rung all day. Mercifully though, Spike doesn’t call him on it, but instead - perhaps more worryingly - he follows Wesley to his room, and stands in the doorway, studying him: unreadable: at least, he is to Wesley.
In a heart-stopping moment, it occurs to Wesley that he is miles from help, and in fact, his phone is in need of recharging. For a moment he is afraid. A jealous vampire is not something he is eager to face.
They both speak at once:
- “I would never try to come between you -”
- “Stay, Wes -”
They stop, and then Spike carries on - “I know you wouldn’t, mate.”
Wesley breathes again.
“No need to flog your conscience. I know how you feel, believe me. Bein’ on the outside - I’ve been there, time past: it’s not nice. But don’t just run off and hide. We’re all grown-ups here. Stay.”
“I - just can’t. I feel I’ve disgraced myself, or if I haven’t already, then I almost certainly will.”
“At least come spend the evening before you make up your mind. Have a few beers; sleep on it. Go on; ‘s only polite.”
Spike has played the only card that could trump Wesley’s reluctance. He comes. To do otherwise would be unpardonably rude.
And they sit, and they drink, and they watch a horror film, and they talk about demons: a subject about which they all know a good deal, but Spike, most of all. As Spike talks about the past, he gets loud and mellow, and throws an arm around Wesley’s shoulders. He drinks some more - though perhaps not as much as he’d like them to believe - and slides bonelessly to the floor, between Wesley’s knees and Riley’s.
They’re all a little drunk, but Riley is a quiet drunk, and Wesley a maudlin one; only Spike is drunk enough to bring up the subject of Angel; to ask Wesley - “He still obsessing too much over the Slayer to look your way?”
It’s the first time his crush has been mentioned, and Wesley considers denying his feelings; but it would be futile. The mere mention of Angel’s name has been enough to cause his heart to beat faster; his face to flush.
“I’m afraid so,” he admits.
His alarm is swallowed up by a feeling of utter defeat.
“Everyone knows?” he says forlornly. “Am I that obvious?”
“To everyone except numb-brain ... and maybe Harmony,” Spike says.
Well, that’s something, Wesley supposes.
“You’re gonna have to spell it out for him,” Spike continues, gesturing expansively. “Either that, or just have a bit of confidence; give him a big smacker on the lips.”
It’s not that he hasn’t considered it: he has. He’s fantasised about it, and berated himself for being like a lovesick girl, but -
“Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly …” Wesley says, rubbing his eyes. “And anyway, he knows. He’s said … no.”
“His loss,” Spike says vehemently, then huffs out a sympathetic sigh. He gets up on his haunches, and turns; looks up at Riley. “Doesn’t appreciate what’s on offer, eh Riley?”
Wesley sees Riley nodding silent agreement, and feels Spike’s hand on his thigh, and now Riley’s arm is around his shoulders, and oh, god the things he’s thinking. He’s so hard and it’s so obvious, but still, he tries to get up; leave, and end this exercise in humiliation.
But Spike presses him back down again; glances at Riley; tilts his head. Riley blinks and nods: his chest heaving, his eyes wide and stunned. Wesley feels himself break out in a sweat. This was the last thing he expected.
“C’mon Wes; you’re free: to stay.”
Spike looks up at him, enigmatic, and slides a teasing thumb back and forth between his thighs. “Let me give you a helping hand.”
“Oh!”
“Riley doesn’t mind; do you, love?”
Riley swallows and shakes his head like a man under hypnosis.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly … impose …”
“Not imposing … ‘cos this isn’t happening right? ‘s just a dream we all had … Drink can do funny things like that. Has to be a dream, see?”
Spike’s voice is hypnotic - soothing.
How can something so soothing be so damn sexy at the same time? Oh: yes; Spike’s hand stroking his cock through the denim might be helping it along.
“’Cos you’d never catch me doin’ anything like this,” Spike says, in defiance of the evidence. “After all, me and Riley … I’d never do this in front of him. He wouldn’t stand for it. Jealous type, he is.”
And Wesley knows this is true, and it’s confusing; but the way Spike says it, doesn’t make him do what he ought to - which is get out of this situation, before it goes any further. It makes him lean back against Riley’s chest with a sigh, surrendering to his mercy.
“I’m right aren’t I, Finn?” Spike says with a languid brush of his cheek against Wesley’s hip as he looks up and past Wesley: looking for confirmation from Riley.
“Yeah, I’m jealous alright …”
Wesley gasps.
And Spike’s hand is rubbing over his seam, between his legs, and he almost comes just from that, and then before he knows it, his jeans are undone, and he’s spilling over Spike’s fist, and Riley’s looking - Wesley knows he is, though he can’t see his face - watching, and stroking his ribs, and murmuring reassurance as if he were an un-backed colt, which in terms of what’s going on here, he most definitely is.
If this is a dream, it’s a damn good one.
But he comes too soon - almost immediately - and wants to cry with disappointment; but the dream isn’t over.
~~
If you’d asked Riley Finn before tonight, he’d have told you he’d never stand for it.
But now, what he’s feeling is a strange mixture of jealousy and pride. He can’t believe Spike is handling another man; can’t believe he’s watching it happen: gave, and is still giving the act his consent.
But that’s what this is about, isn’t it?
Giving.
This man that Spike is handling is his friend, so in some twisted way, it’s like Spike is doing it for him; and when Wesley gasps, and stutters his thanks: that’s to him as well. He just keeps his hand on Wesley - wraps his arms around his chest, to let him know it’s okay - even when Spike goes down on Wesley, and his hips arch up off the sofa and Spike makes him come again.
Because this isn’t about sex: not for Spike anyway. Spike isn’t even aroused; the ring is telling him that.
Well, okay, he is: a little; but that’s not why he’s doing it; not for sex, but out of care, and sympathy and friendship; not sex, but the highest form of love.
Spike looks at Wesley, then past him to Riley, anchoring them together, and takes Riley’s hand in his.
~~
Blinking slowly - sated and shocked - Wesley is afraid that now, he’s ruined everything: but he hasn’t. Because this is just a dream they all shared; are still sharing.
Riley gets up from the seat behind him, leaving space for him to lie down, and when he does, Riley hauls Spike to his feet. Then they are covering him with a comforter, and Spike is leading Riley towards their own bed. They leave him to sleep - or not; he knows that if he wants to, he may lie drifting, and share with them, as they take each other to bed. He hears them reassuring each other, then more urgent breathy sounds as Riley takes Spike back.
They make love: make love with him in the room; and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so … at peace.
And in the morning, it isn’t weird at all.
~~
Before going through the gate to meet his flight three days later, he says, “Thank you: both of you; it’s been unutterably wonderful.” He hugs them both warmly - and they hug him back.
“Takin’ a few happy memories with you, I hope,” Spike whispers suggestively in his ear, giving permission for a thousand fantasies.
It was just one night: like Spike said, just a dream.
Wesley knows it won’t happen again; but he’s already had more than he could have expected.
On the plane, he makes use of the blanket to cover himself. He closes his eyes, and remembers the feeling of Riley’s forearm across his chest, and his back resting against Riley, while Spike …
If he’d wanted, he could almost have let himself imagine that it was Angel who was holding him thus; Angel’s broad chest he rested on; Angel’s muscular arm securing him; but he didn’t - and won’t - allow himself to do his friends that disservice.
When he steps out of the airport, Angel - against all expectation - is waiting for him. One of his friends must have phoned ahead with his flight arrival time.
Angel blinks and studies his face.
“You look … different.”
“Do I?”
Wesley tries not to smile. He hasn’t shaved for a week.
Disconcerted, Angel hefts one of Wesley’s bags and stows it in the trunk.
“Place hasn’t been the same without you,” he says as he slams it closed. “We missed you.” He pauses, considering, then looks up and meets Wesley’s eyes. “I missed you.”
Author: Trepkos
Pairing: Spike/Riley - Wes
Rating: NC17 I suppose …
Spoilers: None (except for previous stories in this 'verse)
Summary: Wesley pays a visit to the farm
Thanks for beta: shapinglight
Feedback: please, I beg of you ...
Links to all my fic so far: Altered States
Dreaming is Free
The drive from LA to Huxley had been relatively uneventful. Wesley had only spotted two species of demon throughout the entire journey.
Just outside the Hyperion, he’d caught a small and inoffensive Flitsch in his headlights; the creature was rummaging in a trash can for its favourite food: discarded Chinese takeaways. Then, after he’d been driving for a couple of hours, a gang of Hellions had zoomed past him on their road-hogs or whatever they call them, without - to his considerable relief - giving him a second glance in their many wing mirrors.
That had been just as he was leaving California.
He’s only been at the farm a couple of days, but that life is already starting to feel very far away. This morning, though, when he wakes up in Riley’s old room, it is so utterly quiet that he feels a twinge of homesickness for the Hyperion, and even for his unassuming little apartment, with the constant noise of traffic and sirens and city life.
So he goes to the kitchen - the hub of the family home - to find some company.
Sarah is there, and she clearly senses that he is feeling a little lost.
“Hey Wes: up early today.”
“Yes; I seem to have finally caught up on all the sleep I’ve been missing.”
“You work late?”
“Indeed. Saving the world can be a little time-consuming,” he says with a self-deprecating smile.
“Is it worth it?” she asks, smiling back.
“The jury’s still out,” Wesley says wryly; but when Sarah places a cup of tea in front of him he relents: “Yes, of course it is!”
As he drinks his cup of tea, Wesley studies the carvings on the table in fascination. He’s noticed them before, but never had a chance to look closely. Some of the names, he recognises of course, but some …
“Prince?” he says, raising an enquiring eyebrow.
Sarah brushes a lock of hair off her face. “He was one of our dogs. He passed away a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah; he was a good old boy. We put our animals’ names there along with everyone else’s, if they have to stay over at the vet, or if they get lost, or … you know. They’re part of the family too.”
“And how long have you been doing this?”
Sarah tilts her head, considering. “About 30 years I think.”
“It’s a lovely idea”, Wesley says a little wistfully.
“Well, you don’t have to be dead to get on there; you just have to be missed by someone who’s here. You’ll find your name there next time you visit.”
“Next time?”
As the implications sink in - both that he will be missed, and that he is welcome to return - his heart swells with gratitude, and a little pride.
“That’s most kind of you.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to get away again? You could bring someone. Do you have a girlfriend?”
Wesley shakes his head.
“… or a boyfriend,” she adds carefully.
“No; there’s no one I could bring.”
The unequivocal nature of his response leaves a slightly awkward silence in its wake.
“I’m sorry, that sounds very self-pitying doesn’t it?” Wesley says; then he lies - “I’m fine on my own, really.”
She lays a hand on his shoulder and assures him - “You won’t have to wait long: good-looking man like you.”
“I hope not,” he says quietly. And it’s past time; but he isn’t completely without hope.
~~
But now he finds that - in all innocence - Sarah has thrown his isolation into sharp relief. He sees them touching - William the Bloody and Riley Finn: sees them all the time. Of course, he’s seen them touch before, but now he feels how very much alone he is that much more keenly. He remembers how he used to love to see them together. He’s missed them, in the few weeks since they left LA, and has a great affection for them both - though his feelings for Spike are more by proxy. He loves that they have each other. No one should be alone if they don’t want to be. But still, the seeds of resentment begin to split and crack and push their pale and sickly fronds into the light.
It isn’t that they are all over each other: they’re not. Their touches are mostly covert or casual: a slight brush of fingertips; a nudge of elbows; the way they sit together, perceptibly closer than if they’d just been friends: and that’s what he envies most. And worse: it’s starting to turn him on: to see them, or to think of them lying with each other, while he has lain cold and chaste: alone, for just about ever, except for a casual fuck here and there. Not love. Never love.
And Spike’s not a fool: Spike notices. For all that Wesley tries to control himself - he’s been trained for it after all - there are some things that are bound to be obvious to a vampire, especially one as astute as Spike.
And Wesley sees that Spike sometimes snatches his hand back without touching Riley - and he squirms with embarrassment, that Spike knows.
~~
Riley is mildly perplexed when, on the third evening of Wesley’s visit, as they get ready to go to bed, Spike - apparently out of the blue - suggests that they should ‘cool it in front of Wesley.’
Riley looks sideways at Spike; it’s not as though they’ve been playing tonsil hockey all day.
“Really? Why? It never struck me that he had a problem with … us; it’s not like we go round holding hands. I’m sure he’s not homophobic or anything like that.”
“No but it’s makin’ him uncomfortable: seein’ us so lovey-dovey; it’s making him jealous.”
Riley swallows: a little panicked. “Spike, I never gave him any encouragement, I swear. I thought we were just … friends I guess.”
“Don’t worry, love; I’m not gonna go off the deep end. Probably should have said ‘envious’, not ‘jealous’. He’s not in love with you - or me for that matter. Bloke just feels … left out, is all. Think it’s called ‘couples envy’; and yeah, I know: too much daytime TV. He’s lonely: comes off him in waves. Guess Angel’s not come up with the goods.”
“Shit! I feel really … I mean, I invited him because I thought it’d give him a break from LA - the whole thing; didn’t mean to drag him across the country to make him miserable. I guess there’s not much we can do about it: just, like you say, not be too couple-y around him.”
“Make sure we do stuff we can all enjoy -” Spike suggests: “- like, drinking beer.”
Relieved, Riley agrees - “Beer is good.”
~~
But the next day - all day - Wesley can’t help noticing them not touching: going out of their way to include him; he hears his name too often, and now it’s perfectly clear that they both know. He excuses himself with a headache and goes to his room. He’s dying inside - of embarrassment; but he still has four days left before his flight. He sits on his bed with his head in his hands.
What on earth would his parents have said?
He’s come all this way to make a fool of himself; he could have done that perfectly well at home.
Having formulated a strategy, he emerges, and goes to find Riley and Spike. He does his best to affect casual when he says - “I’m thinking of changing my flight: going home a day or two early. Er … Angel called. He seems a bit snowed under; I think he could use my help.”
“Okay Wes - if you have to.”
Riley accepts what Wesley has said at face value, but Spike isn’t so easily fooled; he must know that Wesley’s phone hasn’t rung all day. Mercifully though, Spike doesn’t call him on it, but instead - perhaps more worryingly - he follows Wesley to his room, and stands in the doorway, studying him: unreadable: at least, he is to Wesley.
In a heart-stopping moment, it occurs to Wesley that he is miles from help, and in fact, his phone is in need of recharging. For a moment he is afraid. A jealous vampire is not something he is eager to face.
They both speak at once:
- “I would never try to come between you -”
- “Stay, Wes -”
They stop, and then Spike carries on - “I know you wouldn’t, mate.”
Wesley breathes again.
“No need to flog your conscience. I know how you feel, believe me. Bein’ on the outside - I’ve been there, time past: it’s not nice. But don’t just run off and hide. We’re all grown-ups here. Stay.”
“I - just can’t. I feel I’ve disgraced myself, or if I haven’t already, then I almost certainly will.”
“At least come spend the evening before you make up your mind. Have a few beers; sleep on it. Go on; ‘s only polite.”
Spike has played the only card that could trump Wesley’s reluctance. He comes. To do otherwise would be unpardonably rude.
And they sit, and they drink, and they watch a horror film, and they talk about demons: a subject about which they all know a good deal, but Spike, most of all. As Spike talks about the past, he gets loud and mellow, and throws an arm around Wesley’s shoulders. He drinks some more - though perhaps not as much as he’d like them to believe - and slides bonelessly to the floor, between Wesley’s knees and Riley’s.
They’re all a little drunk, but Riley is a quiet drunk, and Wesley a maudlin one; only Spike is drunk enough to bring up the subject of Angel; to ask Wesley - “He still obsessing too much over the Slayer to look your way?”
It’s the first time his crush has been mentioned, and Wesley considers denying his feelings; but it would be futile. The mere mention of Angel’s name has been enough to cause his heart to beat faster; his face to flush.
“I’m afraid so,” he admits.
His alarm is swallowed up by a feeling of utter defeat.
“Everyone knows?” he says forlornly. “Am I that obvious?”
“To everyone except numb-brain ... and maybe Harmony,” Spike says.
Well, that’s something, Wesley supposes.
“You’re gonna have to spell it out for him,” Spike continues, gesturing expansively. “Either that, or just have a bit of confidence; give him a big smacker on the lips.”
It’s not that he hasn’t considered it: he has. He’s fantasised about it, and berated himself for being like a lovesick girl, but -
“Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly …” Wesley says, rubbing his eyes. “And anyway, he knows. He’s said … no.”
“His loss,” Spike says vehemently, then huffs out a sympathetic sigh. He gets up on his haunches, and turns; looks up at Riley. “Doesn’t appreciate what’s on offer, eh Riley?”
Wesley sees Riley nodding silent agreement, and feels Spike’s hand on his thigh, and now Riley’s arm is around his shoulders, and oh, god the things he’s thinking. He’s so hard and it’s so obvious, but still, he tries to get up; leave, and end this exercise in humiliation.
But Spike presses him back down again; glances at Riley; tilts his head. Riley blinks and nods: his chest heaving, his eyes wide and stunned. Wesley feels himself break out in a sweat. This was the last thing he expected.
“C’mon Wes; you’re free: to stay.”
Spike looks up at him, enigmatic, and slides a teasing thumb back and forth between his thighs. “Let me give you a helping hand.”
“Oh!”
“Riley doesn’t mind; do you, love?”
Riley swallows and shakes his head like a man under hypnosis.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly … impose …”
“Not imposing … ‘cos this isn’t happening right? ‘s just a dream we all had … Drink can do funny things like that. Has to be a dream, see?”
Spike’s voice is hypnotic - soothing.
How can something so soothing be so damn sexy at the same time? Oh: yes; Spike’s hand stroking his cock through the denim might be helping it along.
“’Cos you’d never catch me doin’ anything like this,” Spike says, in defiance of the evidence. “After all, me and Riley … I’d never do this in front of him. He wouldn’t stand for it. Jealous type, he is.”
And Wesley knows this is true, and it’s confusing; but the way Spike says it, doesn’t make him do what he ought to - which is get out of this situation, before it goes any further. It makes him lean back against Riley’s chest with a sigh, surrendering to his mercy.
“I’m right aren’t I, Finn?” Spike says with a languid brush of his cheek against Wesley’s hip as he looks up and past Wesley: looking for confirmation from Riley.
“Yeah, I’m jealous alright …”
Wesley gasps.
And Spike’s hand is rubbing over his seam, between his legs, and he almost comes just from that, and then before he knows it, his jeans are undone, and he’s spilling over Spike’s fist, and Riley’s looking - Wesley knows he is, though he can’t see his face - watching, and stroking his ribs, and murmuring reassurance as if he were an un-backed colt, which in terms of what’s going on here, he most definitely is.
If this is a dream, it’s a damn good one.
But he comes too soon - almost immediately - and wants to cry with disappointment; but the dream isn’t over.
~~
If you’d asked Riley Finn before tonight, he’d have told you he’d never stand for it.
But now, what he’s feeling is a strange mixture of jealousy and pride. He can’t believe Spike is handling another man; can’t believe he’s watching it happen: gave, and is still giving the act his consent.
But that’s what this is about, isn’t it?
Giving.
This man that Spike is handling is his friend, so in some twisted way, it’s like Spike is doing it for him; and when Wesley gasps, and stutters his thanks: that’s to him as well. He just keeps his hand on Wesley - wraps his arms around his chest, to let him know it’s okay - even when Spike goes down on Wesley, and his hips arch up off the sofa and Spike makes him come again.
Because this isn’t about sex: not for Spike anyway. Spike isn’t even aroused; the ring is telling him that.
Well, okay, he is: a little; but that’s not why he’s doing it; not for sex, but out of care, and sympathy and friendship; not sex, but the highest form of love.
Spike looks at Wesley, then past him to Riley, anchoring them together, and takes Riley’s hand in his.
~~
Blinking slowly - sated and shocked - Wesley is afraid that now, he’s ruined everything: but he hasn’t. Because this is just a dream they all shared; are still sharing.
Riley gets up from the seat behind him, leaving space for him to lie down, and when he does, Riley hauls Spike to his feet. Then they are covering him with a comforter, and Spike is leading Riley towards their own bed. They leave him to sleep - or not; he knows that if he wants to, he may lie drifting, and share with them, as they take each other to bed. He hears them reassuring each other, then more urgent breathy sounds as Riley takes Spike back.
They make love: make love with him in the room; and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so … at peace.
And in the morning, it isn’t weird at all.
~~
Before going through the gate to meet his flight three days later, he says, “Thank you: both of you; it’s been unutterably wonderful.” He hugs them both warmly - and they hug him back.
“Takin’ a few happy memories with you, I hope,” Spike whispers suggestively in his ear, giving permission for a thousand fantasies.
It was just one night: like Spike said, just a dream.
Wesley knows it won’t happen again; but he’s already had more than he could have expected.
On the plane, he makes use of the blanket to cover himself. He closes his eyes, and remembers the feeling of Riley’s forearm across his chest, and his back resting against Riley, while Spike …
If he’d wanted, he could almost have let himself imagine that it was Angel who was holding him thus; Angel’s broad chest he rested on; Angel’s muscular arm securing him; but he didn’t - and won’t - allow himself to do his friends that disservice.
When he steps out of the airport, Angel - against all expectation - is waiting for him. One of his friends must have phoned ahead with his flight arrival time.
Angel blinks and studies his face.
“You look … different.”
“Do I?”
Wesley tries not to smile. He hasn’t shaved for a week.
Disconcerted, Angel hefts one of Wesley’s bags and stows it in the trunk.
“Place hasn’t been the same without you,” he says as he slams it closed. “We missed you.” He pauses, considering, then looks up and meets Wesley’s eyes. “I missed you.”