Fic: Interregnum; Wesley/Lilah, Justine; PG-13
Title: Interregnum
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: between Season 3 and 4 of AtS
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Wesley/Lilah, Justine
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ or ME’s toys.
A/N: Many, many thanks to myfeetshowit and yourlibrarian for the very helpful beta.
Written for likeadeuce’s Between the Seasons Ficathon. Yay!
For juliet42 who requested: Wesley, Lilah, Justine; any rating; prompts: Wesley’s apartment and the end of day/night; no Fred, Gunn or AU
Interregnum
“Tell me a secret,” he cajoles, caressing a piece of her hair with his fingers.
“What?” she replies. She rolls onto her back, pulling the sheet across her as she evades his touch, turns away, and fixes her gaze on the ceiling. “So that you can use it against me at some later date? Pillow talk, Wesley, is not really your strongest weapon. Besides, you’re not clean enough.”
Wesley glares at her tilted head, her ear, her high-boned cheek, the corner of her eye. She rolls her tongue around the side of her mouth, putting on a show as best she can.
“But being the strong silent type,” she smiles toward the ceiling, “now that’s what makes you really you.”
He pulls her toward him and smashes his lips onto hers, stilling the words.
**
Justine’s not sure whether it’s day or night - it could even be somewhere in between - but the way that her stomach yearns to be filled and her wrists are beginning to numb from the chafing pain, tells her that time has passed. A hell of a lot of it too.
Wesley has forgotten to feed her again, and it’s not as if she’s living off a five-star menu every night, but she reckons it should be coming toward dinnertime. Sometimes she can distinguish what meal he is having by the way he clashes his utensils together. It’s all a mind game, she supposes, he has what she does not. And vice versa.
Justine could move, she could clang her iron manacles together and make so much noise that he comes rushing into the blackened closet just to shut her up. Only he has a guest again, and sometimes there’s more to be gained by being as still as possible and just trying to observe.
This particular guest calls by on a regular basis. In fact, regular has gotten a whole lot more often these last few days. Justine’s recognised the clip clop of the woman’s stiletto heels as she crosses Wesley’s apartment floor from front door to bedroom just about every night in the last six or seven days.
Justine doesn’t think it could be one of them, one of the Angel Investigation team. (The gangly girl never would wear heels, would she?) Justine thought she caught something flicker in Wesley’s eye the last time he came to her and she taunted him, asking where all his friends had disappeared to, now that Angel was at the bottom of the sea. She’d got the silent treatment after that - and with Wesley “nothing” told her a whole lot more than “something” ever would.
And where, why and who had left Angel in his current predicament would stay a secret.
For as long as she can hold out.
**
Lilah lies as still as possible until she can hear the shift in Wesley’s breathing, deepening and lengthening, telling her that he’s asleep. Or as close as he can be to rest.
She knows he’s got some huge secret, hidden somewhere in his apartment, but as yet she hasn’t discovered it. She should have some crack Wolfram and Hart team at her disposal, scoping out his apartment when she’s not there. Lilah often thinks - between the moments spent devising her cat and mouse routine with Linwood and Gavin - that she just hasn’t found the time to ferret it out yet. She convinces herself that Wesley is no longer a priority, no longer a loose cannon who will upset any and all plans the Senior Partners have going. Besides, there’s a whole summer to waste and Angel has, for the moment, slipped the trap that everyone laid out - friend, foe and family alike.
But when she enters Wesley’s apartment, it’s like there’s a spotlight on her and there’s a role she has to bring to life. She has to seduce him into his bed; at all costs, she has to cut the chit-chat and get laid or else it’ll all be wrong. He’ll discover her secret, the real her.
So she makes a deal with herself to delay her efforts - tomorrow, the day after, sometime in the future - and lies there some more, focusing on the way Wesley’s chest, still sheened in sweat, rises and falls. And even when all about her the apartment is quiet, except for Wesley’s breathing, the tick-tock of his bedside clock and the distant clinking sound of iron on iron.
**
Wesley feels her stir beside him. She’s getting up to go and he wants to reach over, draw her into the box his arms would make around her and whisper into her lustrous hair, “Stay.”
But instead, he turns toward her and arches an eyebrow. “Going already?”
“I’ve got a job, you know. At that pesky law firm you love so much. I’ve got to turn up there tomorrow and actually do some work. I’m not a layabout who spends all day cooped up in my apartment doing … naughty things.”
“Surely you know precisely what I do, Lilah.”
He catches a fleeting, free smile before it’s overtaken by sarcasm. “Maybe.”
“And what things are you going to get up to,” he glances over at the bedside clock and amends his grasp on the day’s progress, “in a few hours.”
She taps an index finger on his nose and rises from the bed. “Right back atcha, Lover.”
He watches amused as she pulls on her stockings and shimmies back into her short skirt.
“You can button your shirt up, all the way,” he directs as she pulls it on over her head. “Wouldn’t want you getting cold.”
“Or you jealous,” she replies, making sure the white shirt is closed to the nape of her neck.
He should say something, like “Hardly,” or “What are you talking about, Lilah?” but instead he looks at her still, admiring the way she elegantly redresses herself, in contrast to the efficient and efficacious way she removed the clothes earlier.
“Goodnight,” he says, as she reaches for her briefcase. She turns to face him and something flits across her face - he might call it indecision if it were anyone but Lilah - and she quirks her lips and turns from the room, sounding out her farewell with her shoes.
He waits a further fifteen minutes before he swings himself from the bed and pulls on jeans and T-shirt. He crosses to the cupboard and flings open the door. Justine jerks from the light and shouts, “Hey!”
“Now, now,” he returns.
“It’s about time, anyway,” she complains, “I’m starving. Forgotten to feed me again, eh Wesley? Sure that isn’t in the Geneva convention anywhere. And the English know about that right? About how to keep prisoners?”
He sniffs and stares at her, and waits for her. “Bet you were pleased I didn’t make a sound when your ladyfriend came round, weren’t you? Who was it? That stringy girl from your crew?”
“Hungry are you?”
“Don’t worry, Wesley. Secrets are always safe with me.”
He slams the door and listens to her protest. He knows that he shouldn’t take satisfaction from them, but the man he’s become - the man who now shags Lilah Morgan on a daily basis - takes a deep breath and revels for a moment.
Finis
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: between Season 3 and 4 of AtS
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Wesley/Lilah, Justine
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ or ME’s toys.
A/N: Many, many thanks to myfeetshowit and yourlibrarian for the very helpful beta.
Written for likeadeuce’s Between the Seasons Ficathon. Yay!
For juliet42 who requested: Wesley, Lilah, Justine; any rating; prompts: Wesley’s apartment and the end of day/night; no Fred, Gunn or AU
Interregnum
“Tell me a secret,” he cajoles, caressing a piece of her hair with his fingers.
“What?” she replies. She rolls onto her back, pulling the sheet across her as she evades his touch, turns away, and fixes her gaze on the ceiling. “So that you can use it against me at some later date? Pillow talk, Wesley, is not really your strongest weapon. Besides, you’re not clean enough.”
Wesley glares at her tilted head, her ear, her high-boned cheek, the corner of her eye. She rolls her tongue around the side of her mouth, putting on a show as best she can.
“But being the strong silent type,” she smiles toward the ceiling, “now that’s what makes you really you.”
He pulls her toward him and smashes his lips onto hers, stilling the words.
**
Justine’s not sure whether it’s day or night - it could even be somewhere in between - but the way that her stomach yearns to be filled and her wrists are beginning to numb from the chafing pain, tells her that time has passed. A hell of a lot of it too.
Wesley has forgotten to feed her again, and it’s not as if she’s living off a five-star menu every night, but she reckons it should be coming toward dinnertime. Sometimes she can distinguish what meal he is having by the way he clashes his utensils together. It’s all a mind game, she supposes, he has what she does not. And vice versa.
Justine could move, she could clang her iron manacles together and make so much noise that he comes rushing into the blackened closet just to shut her up. Only he has a guest again, and sometimes there’s more to be gained by being as still as possible and just trying to observe.
This particular guest calls by on a regular basis. In fact, regular has gotten a whole lot more often these last few days. Justine’s recognised the clip clop of the woman’s stiletto heels as she crosses Wesley’s apartment floor from front door to bedroom just about every night in the last six or seven days.
Justine doesn’t think it could be one of them, one of the Angel Investigation team. (The gangly girl never would wear heels, would she?) Justine thought she caught something flicker in Wesley’s eye the last time he came to her and she taunted him, asking where all his friends had disappeared to, now that Angel was at the bottom of the sea. She’d got the silent treatment after that - and with Wesley “nothing” told her a whole lot more than “something” ever would.
And where, why and who had left Angel in his current predicament would stay a secret.
For as long as she can hold out.
**
Lilah lies as still as possible until she can hear the shift in Wesley’s breathing, deepening and lengthening, telling her that he’s asleep. Or as close as he can be to rest.
She knows he’s got some huge secret, hidden somewhere in his apartment, but as yet she hasn’t discovered it. She should have some crack Wolfram and Hart team at her disposal, scoping out his apartment when she’s not there. Lilah often thinks - between the moments spent devising her cat and mouse routine with Linwood and Gavin - that she just hasn’t found the time to ferret it out yet. She convinces herself that Wesley is no longer a priority, no longer a loose cannon who will upset any and all plans the Senior Partners have going. Besides, there’s a whole summer to waste and Angel has, for the moment, slipped the trap that everyone laid out - friend, foe and family alike.
But when she enters Wesley’s apartment, it’s like there’s a spotlight on her and there’s a role she has to bring to life. She has to seduce him into his bed; at all costs, she has to cut the chit-chat and get laid or else it’ll all be wrong. He’ll discover her secret, the real her.
So she makes a deal with herself to delay her efforts - tomorrow, the day after, sometime in the future - and lies there some more, focusing on the way Wesley’s chest, still sheened in sweat, rises and falls. And even when all about her the apartment is quiet, except for Wesley’s breathing, the tick-tock of his bedside clock and the distant clinking sound of iron on iron.
**
Wesley feels her stir beside him. She’s getting up to go and he wants to reach over, draw her into the box his arms would make around her and whisper into her lustrous hair, “Stay.”
But instead, he turns toward her and arches an eyebrow. “Going already?”
“I’ve got a job, you know. At that pesky law firm you love so much. I’ve got to turn up there tomorrow and actually do some work. I’m not a layabout who spends all day cooped up in my apartment doing … naughty things.”
“Surely you know precisely what I do, Lilah.”
He catches a fleeting, free smile before it’s overtaken by sarcasm. “Maybe.”
“And what things are you going to get up to,” he glances over at the bedside clock and amends his grasp on the day’s progress, “in a few hours.”
She taps an index finger on his nose and rises from the bed. “Right back atcha, Lover.”
He watches amused as she pulls on her stockings and shimmies back into her short skirt.
“You can button your shirt up, all the way,” he directs as she pulls it on over her head. “Wouldn’t want you getting cold.”
“Or you jealous,” she replies, making sure the white shirt is closed to the nape of her neck.
He should say something, like “Hardly,” or “What are you talking about, Lilah?” but instead he looks at her still, admiring the way she elegantly redresses herself, in contrast to the efficient and efficacious way she removed the clothes earlier.
“Goodnight,” he says, as she reaches for her briefcase. She turns to face him and something flits across her face - he might call it indecision if it were anyone but Lilah - and she quirks her lips and turns from the room, sounding out her farewell with her shoes.
He waits a further fifteen minutes before he swings himself from the bed and pulls on jeans and T-shirt. He crosses to the cupboard and flings open the door. Justine jerks from the light and shouts, “Hey!”
“Now, now,” he returns.
“It’s about time, anyway,” she complains, “I’m starving. Forgotten to feed me again, eh Wesley? Sure that isn’t in the Geneva convention anywhere. And the English know about that right? About how to keep prisoners?”
He sniffs and stares at her, and waits for her. “Bet you were pleased I didn’t make a sound when your ladyfriend came round, weren’t you? Who was it? That stringy girl from your crew?”
“Hungry are you?”
“Don’t worry, Wesley. Secrets are always safe with me.”
He slams the door and listens to her protest. He knows that he shouldn’t take satisfaction from them, but the man he’s become - the man who now shags Lilah Morgan on a daily basis - takes a deep breath and revels for a moment.
Finis