Right Here, Right Now
by Jennifer-Oksana

He has to get her out of his head before she consumes his soul.

("Be good, lover. Don't fuck him. And don't die. Not for me." Cold dry lips pressed against his temple in a valediction forbidding mourning. Had he really let her go?)

She is laughing and wicked and mocking, his eternally lost dark-haired girl; she is his hell-goddess and if he could burn for her, he would. But she would not let him, after all was said and done. He isn't worthy of that, apparently, or perhaps she thinks she's got the thicker skin still that will protect them both.

And now Wesley is loose and lost on Santa Monica Boulevard, reliving the parts of his past nobody now alive remembers. Only the dead know that Wes Pryce, badass demon hunter with weapons emerging from his shirtsleeves was once Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, proper Brit nancy boy with a mouth that was always hanging open and slick lips good for just one thing.

("You have such an open face, Wes. It's not hard to know what you want from me." Cold, hard finger pressed against his mouth, begging Wes to suck on it. He'd been so desperate for it, desperately in love with him...)

The men are all the same. Ken dolls, muscled and lean and handsome to a fault. So many of them want him, want him to smile his bitter, broken-man smile and buy them a drink. He can see it in the almost-coy glances, the hopeful and the overconfident smiles flashed his way, and the general upswing in population density wherever Wes goes.

No doubt, no doubt at all, that he's getting laid tonight. The question is, who? What particular body can get her, him, THEM, out of his aching, clouded mind?

(He'd been surprised, so surprised, at how little her dignity mattered when it came to being with him. How hard it made him to have that power over someone so dangerous, when it hadn't been so long since Wes was perfectly satisfied with the sticky-sweet and sharp of having Angel's hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, directing him on where to go next.)

She has to go away. No more dreams of caresses, kisses, belts wielded with precision timing, handcuffs clinking against the bedpost. No, these are the visions that will lead to despair and madness and there are so many willing bodies for someone like him.

And strange, is it not, that a familiar face crosses into his line of sight, practically carried by the crowd of plastic muscle and pretty distractions. Wesley almost smiles. Because he knows, deep-down knows, that none of the crowd could have burnt her away. How could they? All surface, nothing to sink that succubus into.

Blue, blue eyes meet his, rakish and roguish and all-too-knowing. Lindsey McDonald, still with both hands and wearing a blue shirt worth four of the glamorous children dancing on the balcony, Vodka and Red Bulls sloshing energetically in their hands. The tie is loosened. If Wesley didn't know much, much better, he'd suspect Lindsey was the one coming from Wolfram and Hart after a long, hard day at the office.

"Hey," Lindsey says with slightly unfocused eyes, a come-on in his voice. "I know you?"

"You might," Wesley replies. "Want a drink?"

"Fuck yes," Lindsey says and they walk to one of the four bars in this flesh palace, the very actualization of the metaphor of Egypt in the eyes of Wesley's father, and probably Lindsey's, too. "No, I know you. Weren't you skinnier? Glasses?"

"Wesley," he reintroduces himself. "What do you want?"

"I got it," Lindsey replies, waving Wes off and ordering them two tequilas, and thank God it's not scotch. "Wesley. Angel's boy. Or not so much these days?"

"No, not so much," Wesley says slowly, taking the glass and clinking it hollowly against Lindsey's. He doesn't look different. Perhaps a little thinner, and the hair is shorter, but Lindsey hasn't changed on the outside. "Go somewhere quieter with me."

"Okay, man," Lindsey replies, catching a glimpse of Wesley's expression. "What's up? Angel get charbroiled by some passing UV rays?"

(Angel fucks him carefully, so as not to break any ribs. He knows that Lindsey doesn't get the same consideration. It still hurts and Wesley still comes hard, begging Angel to keep fucking him, never stop, like that, bloody hell, like that. It doesn't even sting when Angel has him take off the glasses beforehand.)

"Not exactly," Wes says as they walk up a set of half-sticky, half-slick stairs to a quieter, darker realm entirely. The air is warmer and they can hear the thud of bass, but nothing of the electronic spangles that turn it into music. "So you're back in LA."

"Tailing somebody," Lindsey says, knocking back his drink. "Work for myself now, out of Vegas. Some broad's brother is banging this -- anyway. You're looking like a potential serial killer nowadays. Fuck happened to you?"

He must burn her away, make her leave the shadows in his head. Maybe by telling someone else, someone who might give the slightest damn. Wes leers at Lindsey, puts his formerly oh-so-pretty mouth close to the still-oh-so-pretty man's ear and tells him a story, the whole while moving his hand up Lindsey's thigh.

Every so often, Wes pauses to nibble on Lindsey's earlobe and suck on his neck where it meets his chin. The muffled groans and the increasing hardness of Lindsey's cock suggest he doesn't entirely mind.

"She's dead?" Lindsey says at last. "Jesus fuck. Goddamn Lilah Morgan. Should have guessed she'd continue to fuck with the world from beyond the grave."

Truer words were almost never spoken.

"It's rather awkward," Wesley says, his hand rubbing against the seam of Lindsey's trou despite being able to note where Lindsey needs it. "Every time I manage to get her out of my head, she makes a special appearance to wreck me all over again."

"Women," Lindsey replies, putting his hand atop Wesley's. "Worse than fucking Angel, man. You know what I mean. Angel's life's work is to fuck the heads of those he fucks."

"Amen to that," Wes agrees, pulling his hand away from Lindsey's trousers and taking the hideous, loosened tie in his hand, sliding it gently across Lindsey's windpipe. After the spook story Wes has just told, Lindsey can't help but be freaked. And want him even more. "I want to fuck you. Really quite soon."

The very smell of him is making the ghosts scatter and wail. Wesley is barely aware of more than Lindsey's arousal, his own erection, and the knowledge that somewhere, Lilah's shade is probably smirking in approval. All the boys fuck each other, and she's fucked all the boys.

He's going to get rid of her. Burn those last traces of her from his head, and the way Mr. McDonald is pulling at the material of his shirt, trying to make Wesley move so that he can get on top of him, so he can push his tongue into Wesley's mouth and rub against him, Wes is pretty sure he can do it.

A woman's voice is moaning over the persistent sampling and looping of the music as Wesley and Lindsey stumble down the stairs. "I'm feeling...so much better..." she catcalls to them, "I'm feeling...I'm screaming...can you hear?"

Not much longer, bitch.

Lindsey's motel room is closer than Wesley's apartment and with the click of the key card, they're plastered to each other, Wesley's mouth devouring the taste of tequila and aftershave and salt from Lindsey's skin.

("Fuck...oh, God, Wesley, I'm gonna--" Angel groans, shooting all over Wesley's stomach.)

The shirts go flying and Lindsey's hand--Wes isn't sure it's the evil one or not--thumbs Wesley's nipple, pinching it experimentally. When Wesley responds with a shuddering gasp, the other hand moves to Wesley's hip, rubbing against it before pulling him in.

("Wes, Wes, please, oh, God, lover," Lilah screams, her spine utterly rigid in the bright flash of orgasm. "god.")

"I want you," Wesley tells Lindsey matter-of-factly. "I want you to scream for me. Get them out of my head."

"Works for me," Lindsey replies, and it occurs to Wes that Lindsey has a few ghosts of his own. They have at least one in common -- thrice-damned, ever-alluring Angel -- but it's never occurred to Wesley that perhaps Lilah. But of course, Lilah. That's two. And if there are other scars, other lovers in common, it's better not to think of it.

Lindsey's mouth finds Wesley's shoulder and bites down. After a split second of terror, Wesley almost goes weak-kneed and responds by fumbling with his belt, holding it in his hands contemplatively before being overwhelmed with another memory that forces him to cast it aside.

("I've been bad," she says simply, offering out her wrists to be bound by his belt. "Make it hurt.")

"I suspect we'd be better served by using the bed," Wesley murmurs into Lindsey's ear, taking a moment to trace its intricate whorls as Lindsey responds by grinding against Wes.

"Yeah, you're right," Lindsey agrees, pushing Wesley against the bed and taking all of twenty seconds to rid himself of his trousers, leaving him boxer-clad and clearly as hard as he was at the club. Wesley grins and runs his tongue over his lower lips, propped up on his elbows. "Fuck, you're a tease."

"You've got a filthy mouth, Mr. McDonald," Wesley replies calmly. "I'd suggest you put it to better use, if you don't mind."

Lindsey doesn't have to be asked twice. He climbs onto the bed, undoing Wesley's jeans with quick fingers, pulling down both jeans and boxers with one smooth move, leaving Wes mother-naked and his cock curving toward his stomach.

It's been so long since someone's mouth was warm around his cock, and Wesley's hips jerk upwards without him meaning to. But Lindsey's hand is on his hip and the other on his balls and Wesley's wordless.

Just...bloody incomparable hell. Someone apparently taught Lindsey there was no shame in letting anyone fuck his mouth the way Wesley's fucking it.

When Wesley comes, jerking and sputtering and moaning curses, it's hard and mindless, still fucking Lindsey's mouth. No laughing girls watching with dead fingernails anywhere to be found.

Lindsey laughs when he pulls away, his tongue flickering outwards. "Any ghosts around?"

"Not at this moment," Wesley says hoarsely, pulling Lindsey up and covering the man's mouth with his own, putting his hand around Lindsey's undoubtedly needy cock and squeezing. The vibration of Lindsey's moan tickles the back of Wesley's throat. Wesley puts his hand beneath the elastic and keeps stroking the other man's cock with no particular finesse.

He should suck him off, return the courtesy shown to him, but for some reason, Wesley could give a damn about that. Jerking Lindsey is somehow satisfying, when added in with the endless touching they're doing. Wesley's mouth against Lindsey's nipple, half-straddling him as he jerks. The noise suggests Lindsey's having a moderately good time of it, and perhaps later...if there is a later...

Lord, but Lindsey smells good. Like funk and alcohol and sweat and human maleness, rocking his hips in time to Wesley's jerking him off, each moan getting more and more guttural until he comes, wet and hot and sticky on Wesley's hand. And this is not a bad thing, particularly not when Lindsey takes Wesley by the wrist and sucks on one finger.

"Ghosts?" Wesley asks, examining the dazed, pleased expression on Lindsey's face. There will most certainly be a later, and if Wesley is any judge of character, they will not have to leave the hotel room to do it, either.

"Fuck 'em," Lindsey replies. "Shower?"

The room is silent except for their breathing and heartbeats. Thank God.

"Yes," Wesley agrees. "That sounds rather good."


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