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Spark

by Jennifer-Oksana

     Subject: [glass_onion] Fic: Spark (1/1, AtS/Alias, NC-17)
     Date: Tuesday, October 08, 2002 1:31 AM

     Spark
     by Jennifer-Oksana (jenniferoksana@yahoo.com)
     Fandoms: Alias/Angel
     Website: http://jennyo.imjustsayin.net
     Rating: NC-17
     Pairings: Wesley/Vaughn (Syd/Vaughn, Wes/Lilah, Wes/Angel UST)
     Archive: List archives, standing orders, others by permission.
     Disclaimer: J.J. Abrams & ABC own Alias. Joss Whedon & WB
     own Angel. Delerium and Sarah McLachlan own the song lyrics
     to "Silence" (this is the DJ Tiesto remix, BTW). I own
     nothing.
     Author's Note: this is really just pure irredeemable smut,
     and it responds to the Improv's Tori Amos title challenge
     just for kicks. Make of that what you will.
     Summary: There's a whole world in LA. You can find what you
     want, and what you don't even know you want, even just for a
     night.

It's a well-known fact that when a man is vexed in love, there are times when he needs to sublimate. Maybe sublimate's the wrong word. Repurpose his energy. Redirect his passion. In fact, the entire proposition is faulty, but there's some tang of truth in it. The worst thing you can do is brood on the love you're never going to get in your apartment by your lonesome.

Apparently, brooding in a club blasting electronic remixes of Canadian folk divas is a much better way to handle it. At least in clubs, there are beautiful people to look at.

-I can't help this longing-

Michael Vaughn is trying not to see Sydney in every lithe girl-body passing him by. It's difficult (is there a law that all girls in clubs must look exactly like the girl you're trying to forget about in the romantic way?), and he's thinking that maybe he shouldn't have come. Maybe he's just looking for Taipei, before the water, before the drowning, before the world came undone.

-comfort me-

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is already on his fourth depth charge, scowling at anyone who passes by so they won't bother him. He thinks maybe he's beginning to dislodge the taste of Lilah from his tongue, though nothing will get her out from under his skin. She's like a sexually transmitted disease, or a good solid hex.

-I can't hold it all in-

When they meet, it's exactly like an accident. Vaughn isn't looking where he's going and he bumps into the table. He knocks Wesley's shot of whiskey awry and before he can apologize, he looks into Wesley's weary blue eyes and

Electricity.

-if you won't let me-

There is a man staring at Wesley. And it might be slightly imprudent for Wesley to think it, but he's about as fuckable a thing to ever cross Wesley's path. Probably the single most fuckable thing since Wesley's deeply stupid crush on Angel, come to that.

"Sorry," the man says. Wes suddenly realizes that his shot has been spilt and that he should be more upset about this than he actually is. Something, maybe, about the way the man's neck meets his shoulder. Or perhaps how his shoulder is attached to his arm.

"Quite all right," Wes replies. The man nods and there's nothing in Wesley's head that tells him it's a bad idea to try and pick him up. This is most likely a sign that the alcohol Wes has already had has completely eroded his inhibitions. "I'm Wesley."

"Michael," the attractive man replies, barely audible over the din. "...buy you another."

"Certainly," Wes agrees. What would it hurt? It's just one drink, after all. Besides, he can watch Michael walk to the bar and the back of him is just as attractive as the front.

-Heaven holds a sense of wonder-

He's buying a drink for the guy and there's something extremely electric about it. Like he's not just trying to make up for spilling the drink. More like, Michael Vaughn wants to figure out if he's really seeing another man and thinking, hot damn. Some of that might be very nice.

Because that would be different. Certainly not in the regular order of things.

Vaughn ends up buying them both beers. Because Wesley's clearly had more than his fair share tonight and it's probably not a good idea to be giving him any more hard liquor.

He's wondering if Wesley's having the same kinds of problems that he's having. Woman trouble, because a man who looks like that, he's gotta have a girlfriend, and why is Vaughn thinking of reasons why Wesley couldn't have looked at him with a spark of interest? Is he just trying to rationalize away the part where he, Mike Vaughn, CIA, has never looked at another man with more than passing interest?

Well, except for his roommate in college. And that had more to do with being stoned off his ass for the one and only time in his life than genuine sexual desire.

But this is all too much thinking for someone who is just buying a drink for himself and the guy whose drink he knocked over. Wesley is probably getting annoyed at how long it takes to get a drink. He should go back now. Yes.

-and I wanted to believe-

"Here," Michael shouts, handing Wesley a beer.

"Thanks," he yells back, before Michael sits down and leans closer. "...loud in here."

"No kidding," Michael replies. "So. Here alone?"

"Well," Wes equivocates with a half-smile. "Yes. You too?"

"Yeah," Michael says, tilting his head in a way that makes his neck, previously deemed very attractive, look like something to nibble on. Wesley is thinking that this might end very badly if Michael is a 100% straight guy, because Wes's libido is suggesting that they should at least try to hit on Michael because they could do much, much worse. "Bad week."

"Terrible week," Wesley agrees, taking a sip of his beer. He realizes that he doesn't particularly feel like drinking anymore, even though his mouth has gone slightly dry.

"...hear you," Michael replies. "Wanna...I mean...you don't..."

There is something comic about all of this. Damn music. Wesley shakes his head vehemently, because he isn't getting the gist of anything Michael's saying.

"I can't half hear you!" he says. "Let's go outside."

Michael perks up. Apparently, that was what he wanted, too. That's not a half-bad sign. Even if he is 100% straight, he's not, and that, of course, only makes ruddy sense if you are a drunken Englishman who has a terrible habit of falling for brunettes with dark, intense eyes at inopportune moments.

Wesley, who is a drunken Englishman with a taste for dark-eyed brunets, is enormously cheered.

They walk outside, to the enormous balcony/catwalk thing where people go to smoke cigarettes and other, slightly stronger, substances, walking a little closer than two people who aren't going home with each other should walk.

And then, Michael turns to Wesley.

-that I'd get caught up-

"This is gonna sound sort of stupid," Vaughn says, wondering if he's not getting the wrong vibe here. It sure as hell seems like Wesley is distinctly interested in him, but there's definitely the hurt by woman look in his eye anyway. "But--your bad week. Woman-related?"

Wesley nods, looking slightly defensive. Behind them, a pair of anorexic, glammed-up nineteen-year-olds smoke cigarettes and look utterly like Sydney. For the first time in a long time, Vaughn doesn't really care.

"I suppose you could say that," Wesley says. "You?"

"Yeah," Vaughn says. "Things aren't going to work out between me and her and it's not--"

He pauses. "Forget it," he murmurs. "You know how it is. Broken hearts, sexual tension, misplaced desire. Wishing for the moon."

"Oldest story in the book," Wesley answers, his eyes warm with some emotion that's got Vaughn entranced. Wesley could be reciting the alphabet and it would be hot. "No one ever wants what's best for them. Too simple. Too safe."

"I heard that," Vaughn replies, trying to sound natural. "I had the best girl in the world, before this one. Screwed it up. Now I know I can't have this one, but I want her anyway. Except--"

"Except?" Wesley asks, and Vaughn suddenly is aware of the very real reality of Wesley's lips. He looks at them and realizes they are almost as touchable as Sydney's. More touchable, because if he reaches out and puts a finger on them--as he is apparently doing right now--Wesley won't pull away. Wesley doesn't have to.

"Except I sorta don't. Not right now."

-when the rage in me subsides-

"No?" Wes asks, and it's just too easy. Easy like dark eyes, dark hair, soulful looks and lips becoming another one-night stand, the kind that can be brushed away as just another bleached blond.

Incredibly fuckable. And Michael will definitely get the taste of Lilah right out of his mouth. God, yes.

"No," Michael says, taking his hand from Wesley's mouth. "Do you want to go somewhere--else?"

Wes swallows back whatever he was going to say, and manages to stutter out an audible "God, yes" without sounding too desperate. The little Barbie dolls in the corner with the cigarettes and the badly hidden X don't need to see something they'll place right out of Y Tu Mama Tambien on the balcony porch of an LA hotspot.

Michael--and Wes realizes there has been no exchange of last names, and this is probably a good thing--inclines his head toward the exit. Wesley, like a good little follower, follows the fine-looking man out of the club. Good thing he hadn't taken his car.

He doesn't think about the part where that means he'd been intending to seek out Lilah's stylish loft once he'd numbed his morality enough. In whatever circumstance, Wes had no plans to sleep alone tonight. It's a Saturday night in Los Angeles. No attractive person needs to sleep alone.

Michael's car is a nondescript Ford sedan. For a moment, Wes wonders what sort of normal job Michael has, and why it can't work out for him and the girl. It's not as though Michael is stuck with destiny, prophecy, and bizarreness everywhere, not the way Wesley is.

"Where would be better?" Michael says awkwardly. "My place is close--there won't be anyone there--what about you?"

"Probably better we don't go there," Wesley says decisively. "I never know who's about."

Lilah would love Michael a little too much. God, he was as sweet as candy, a boy scout needing a bit of release. She'd pounce on him without compunction and then draw blood. No way would Wes take Michael home to that.

"Okay, then," Michael says, turning on the car and sitting there, uncertain. "Um. I don't usually do this."

"Quite understandably," Wes replies, noticing that they have similar taste in music. "Good song."

"Yeah," Michael agrees. "Can I--look, just to make sure this won't--can I--"

Wesley doesn't have to be asked twice. He's an opportunist, and he always has been. It's not often that sexy motherfuckers with big, pretty eyes ask you to kiss them, and it's even less often by clearly straight motherfuckers know how to kiss as well as Michael does.

Michael's tongue is tangled with Wesley's, and apparently, he has no trouble with the idea that Wesley wants to suck the fillings from all of Michael's teeth and possibly suck his tonsils out, as well.

"Wow," Michael says as the kiss tapers off. Wesley smiles, the wicked sort of smile that he's picked up from Lilah. It's a great smile, really. The kind of smile that says, hurry up, we need to fuck. Immediately.

Michael seems to get the message, because the car is in reverse so fast that Wesley curses under his breath and pulls his seatbelt on as the car races down Sunset.

-In this white wave-

This is just another weird incident in your deeply weird life, Vaughn has been repeating to himself. God, Wesley is hot. This is weird, but weird is good.

He feels vaguely neurotic about it all, but who doesn't feel a little neurotic about picking up a man in a bar after almost thirty years of heterosexuality without complaint? But then he looks over at that mouth and all the neurotic goes liquid and hits Vaughn right in the groin.

So much silence. There should be questions. Words to say. More than just knowing that he's got a very obvious hard-on and that he wants Wesley to touch it, sooner rather than later.

"Not much with the small talk, are we?" is what Vaughn manages to ask, and he feels like a moron. "Um."

"I was the researcher for a small detective agency," Wesley replies amusedly. Vaughn can't tell if he licked his lips or not. He's going to pretend that he did. "My current girlfriend, and I use the term loosely, is evil, working for the biggest law firm in Los Angeles, and possible Satan incarnate. Also, she's incredibly good in bed. And when you look at me like that, I want to strip naked and have at it in the backseat of your very nice mid-size sedan."

Vaughn considers this wealth of information and shifts uncomfortably. "How do you feel about hockey? Or are you a soccer guy?" he asks.

"Rugby, actually. Long time ago," Wesley supplies. "What about you? What do you do?"

"Government work," Vaughn says. "I work with this woman. This amazing woman. But it's not going to work out. And I saw you tonight, and there was this click in my head."

Wesley looks like he's thinking about this, wheels turning in his head. "Pull over," he finally says.

"What? But--my apartment--"

"Can't wait that long," Wesley says, that funny wicked smile on his face and Vaughn suddenly has images in his heads, of long English fingers wrapping around his cock and yeah. Pulling over is a good idea. There's an alley. There's a good beat coming from the radio. And Wesley has his hand on Vaughn's thigh and fuck, it's all he can do not to just come right now.

"You're right," Vaughn says. Thinking that he wouldn't be able to drive the car back to his place now even if he wanted to, he cuts the engine, but leaves the radio going. "This is going to suck, you know."

"It's a big American car. It could be worse. We could be trying this in a Volkswagen or a Citroen and then I wouldn't be walking upright for weeks--" and Wesley, almost laughing, leans over and pulls Vaughn's mouth hard against his for one of those kisses that feel like a hurricane, and damn, Vaughn is aching for more. Now.

This time, Vaughn's hands pause at the shoulders before going for the shirt buttons. Fuck normality. This is feeling pretty fucking right, this is.

-I am sinking-

Michael tastes, by God, like peanuts, American beer and drugstore aftershave, and the burn of his tongue against Wesley's slightly stubbled jaw is enough to make Wes moan something obscene. There is no doubt this is turning into a Very Good Night.

They were going to have to get to the fucking backseat to do anything worth the doing of, but right now, logistics are the least of Wesley's worries. It's all about how goddamn incredible hot and scratchy Michael's skin is against his, the way that he smells like sex already.

For a straight man, Michael seems fairly good with the kissing, though his hands have no idea where to go. They are clearly looking for the breasts that Wesley doesn't have. Wesley takes one of the roaming hands and puts it on his back, and guides the other one to his thigh. Good enough for now.

Then there is more, deeper kissing while the Michael-hands start to adapt to new territory tentatively. Wesley's hips start to move a little, and damn it all, he could use a subtle unbuttoning right now. Then again, it looks like Michael could use a little more than subtle himself.

"Backseat?" he murmurs into Michael's ear, tickling the earlobe with his tongue. Michael squirms in the embrace, but in a good way, not an uncomfortable way.

"Yeah," he says, stroking Wesley's side with something that's beginning to be finesse. They have to break off the touching to clamber over seats awkwardly, but it's okay. Wesley takes the opportunity to get rid of his shirt and unbutton the first button of his pants. "Oh, yeah--"

There's nothing like the taste of an all-American boy, Wesley decides, guiding Michael's hands over his chest as he finds a particular patch of skin and muscle and sucks hard. They're so--not sweet. Delicious.

"Damn!" Michael hisses, bucking his hips into Wesley's. "Do that again."

Wesley obliges, and moves Michael's hand to where it would be the most appreciated. At first, there's this slight hesitation--straight men!--but with every touch, he gets a little more into it. Soon, he's helping Wesley get free of those cumbersome trousers and Wes.

Well, Wes does what every slut getting a fair-to-good amateur handjob from an enthusiastic beginner does. He starts to moan, to encourage, to wonder if lovely Michael is as clean and celibate as he looks. Too late for that, and there's always a few private remedies that any good magical dealer will be able to assist him in getting.

God, it feels good. Better than anything, the adrenaline rush, wondering if someone's watching, the windows fogging up, the smell, the almost-moaning heavy breathing, and the feel of Michael jerking him off enthusiastically but carefully, looking for cues.

"Like that," Wesley gasps, trying to pull him a little closer. "Fuck. yes."

Michael kisses him unexpectedly, swollen lips pulling Wesley's bottom lip in and sucking just as--

"God!" Wesley yells, realizing that he's quite mussed Michael's backseat, and he should feel really quite bad about that, but honestly, from the come-hither look in those dark eyes, there's nothing he can do now except return the favor.

-in this silence-

Fucking amazing. And he hasn't even done more than the jerking off and the responding to the small tips Wesley keeps silently giving him. Vaughn's head is about to explode, there's never been anything like this, nothing as wrong and incredible and oh.

God.

He's never been jumped before, not like this, with Wes damn near rubbing up against him, sticky-hot and good God damn! The friction against his cock is great. Damn. He's going to short-circuit soon, and this all from some messy fumbling.

Vaughn takes a moment to lick Wesley's neck in lustful gratitude. Wesley smiles wickedly but distractedly, his hands busy with Vaughn's stomach, which is driving Vaughn out of his mind.

Then there are fingers and Vaughn moans a few more obscenities. He couldn't care less if the entire CIA and Sydney were watching. Not really. He can suddenly even see Syd, her mouth in a perfect O, watching her guardian angel arching and twisting under another extremely hot man.

Vaughn suddenly wonders, sweating, if she'd think it was sexy. He doesn't know. There's so much about her that he doesn't--

"Fuck!" Vaughn shouts. "God, don't ever stop--"

His hips are thrusting like he hasn't since he was seventeen and humping Amy-Lynn Jacobs in the backseat of his mom's station wagon. Vaughn's entire spine has melted and if he could replay this night, he wouldn't have waited for the car. He would have fucked Wesley in a bathroom, whatever. Because hands? Not enough.

There is so much skin and Vaughn can't stop touching it. There's too much stimulus. Hands on cocks, lips nestling against shoulders, the smell of Wesley-skin.

He's going to lose it, and lose it hard, but at least Vaughn's in good hands with Wesley. Good, sweaty, talented hands that know how to leave a man feeling properly fucked even without.

Yes.

Jesus fuck, yes.

Vaughn slumps into the car window, panting. "My fucking God."

Wesley smiles, sweet and sick, before temporarily collapsing against him. "You're going to have to clean the upholstery for a month, you know," he points out.

"Worth the entire bill," Vaughn replies.

"Well," Wesley says, resting his head against Vaughn's cheek and giving Mike a good insight into how the car's going to smell when they open a door or crack a window. "That's good."

"Yeah," Vaughn says, thoughts of Sydney wiped from his brain. "It really is."

-I believe-

Wesley kisses him goodbye on the cheek, an almost-sweet farewell. Sweeter than anything he's managed with the almost-girlfriend, Vaughn's pretty sure.

"See you around some time," Vaughn says, pretty sure that's not happening. There's something in the way that Wesley's moving, happy but uncertain, that suggests he's got a long road ahead.

"I'd love to," Wes says. And he means it. Not that it'll happen--the world is not kind in that way to Wesley Wyndam-Pryce--but it would be nice. If it happened again, there could be a bed. And even better things. "Good-bye, then."

"Later," Vaughn says, feeling rather stupid again. He's just let the guy go, in the middle of West Hollywood. He could have asked him if he needed a ride, but from a quick glance at the departing Wesley seems to indicate he might know where he's going anyway.

Wes knows she's sitting there. Probably the stupidest thing he ever did, cast that proximity spell on himself. But he was getting tired of knowing she was watching him from across the street, three floors up, around the corner in a rented limo.

"Enjoy the show?" he asks when he opens the door.

"Didn't get to see it," she replies petulantly. "Permission denied. Apparently you and CIA agent boy going at it isn't important for anything other than prurient desires."

"CIA agents?"

She laughs hysterically at that. "You are the living fucking end, Wes babe," she says. "You could have just fucked a serial killer, you know, and you didn't care because he had deep, soulful eyes and a nice mouth."

"Well, given my current choice of bedmates, is it all that surprising that I'm not discriminating?" he asks, suddenly tired. "Take me home. I'm tired. We can play tomorrow."

She nods, surprisingly sympathetic. Then again, Lilah's extremely liberal about liaisons. She's given him details of a few of hers, some he never wanted to hear about again, but enough that he knows she doesn't care that he dallies elsewhere.

He comes back to her. And it will get them both killed.

But not today. Today he puts his head on her shoulder and yawns, and thinks of Michael and all of the other indiscretions that are more than the sum of their parts.

Damn, he could use a shower.

End


Jennifer

"Candy is dandy, but diamonds just might get you laid." http://www.imjustsayin.net : home of panache, style, and sass


If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Jennifer-Oksana

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