Transitions - Chapter 1

After his former Handler had gone, Wesley Wyndham-Price sat alone in the driver's seat of his once-pristine van, in the center of the half-empty Holiday Inn carpark, and moaned.

His neck hurt, his ribs hurt, his leg hurt--but those were nothing compared to the deeper pain that seemed to start in the pit of his stomach and angle upward into his heart. He'd let Moira go. He'd let her squeeze his hand, kiss his cheek like a sister, or an aunt, and go.

Lightning had flashed, illuminating Moira's face only for an instant, lighting her eyes to the most amazing colour. He'd almost lost her tonight. The blind horror of that had whetted his courage to the point that he wasn't sure he would ever be frightened again.

Half an hour before, kind little Willow had murmured something about him having proven himself. She'd said, encouragingly, that she thought he was ready to be a Watcher now. The truth was, though, that Wesley hadn't thought anything like a Watcher during that moment in which he'd forced the stake to penetrate the heart of the vampire who'd once been Helena Penglis, Moira's Slayer. He'd thought instead of Moira's green eyes, and the way her lips curled when she smiled, and the way he'd shivered when she'd touched his chest beside a river in the Cotswolds.

Wesley had once believed that he didn't, couldn't, understand Mr. Giles. Rupert, that was. He hadn't been able to fathom the way in which the older Watcher had let his emotions become so very tangled up with his duties. Now Wesley felt that he understood Rupert perfectly.

Despite his own unmannerly, often despicable behavior--Council-ordered--toward his predecessor, Wesley had come to admire the older man with something approaching hero-worship, and to know that he could never, not in a million years, replace him. He'd come to understand, as Rupert did, that despite all one was taught at the Compound--to banish feeling in favour of logic and emotionless, rational thought--it was actually emotion that gave one strength.

He'd been too cowardly to stake vampires for the cause, for the good of the world--but he could Slay a thousand of them for Moira, for Moira's sake, because Moira was in the world.

How could she have been so willing to leave him here alone? Had she been told about Cordelia--Miss Chase--and thought he didn't care?

Wesley gave another moan and let his head fall forward onto the steering wheel. Lightning flashed again, three rapid strikes. His van was the tallest thing in the carpark. Perhaps he'd be struck--or was the rubber in the tyres meant to insulate one? He remembered something of the sort, but found he didn't care. Perhaps Moira would come out in the morning to find his well- crisped corpse frozen within the pitiful remnants of the vehicle.

Lord, take me now. That had been one of Maria Del Ciello's sayings, whenever faced with something of a particularly unpleasant nature, and like most everything else she said, it had annoyed him. Now, Wesley found, he echoed the sentiment.

And Miss Del Ciello, the old thorn in his side, was dead. A vampire. His throat stung where she'd pierced his skin with her fangs, where she'd drunk from him. He wondered why she hadn't drained him entirely? Some vestige of feeling?

Wesley didn't know. He knew nothing. Why wouldn't that blasted lightning do as he asked, and strike him dead?

Rain began to pelt the roof. Sheets of it. Oceans. As Rupert would most likely say, "Bloody marvelous." He wouldn't be able to see to drive home, even if he wanted to. He was stuck here until the bleeding weather let up.

For a moment, Wesley considered having a lie-down in the back and sleeping out the storm--but he'd never not slept in a proper bed, with sheets, and the very thought distressed him. Besides which, the carpeting had been soaked with Rupert's blood, and even though he'd cleaned and cleaned, the idea of lying in that stain made him shudder.

The thought of Rupert troubled him. The older man hadn't seemed very well when Wesley let him out at Buffy's house. After Moira's spells wore off, he'd be less well still. Perhaps, Wesley considered, he ought to check on the two of them. Despite all Buffy's strength and courage, she was still very young, and it might be a bit much for her to handle.

Yes, that would be the thing, once this bloody rain let up. A quick drive-by, only to make sure, and then...

Wesley started violently, uttering a squawk of pain, as a hand drummed with great force against the passenger-side window. Through the rain-blurred glass, he saw a face--someone tall, long dark hair. Most likely Maria, come to finish him off. He held a large silver cross to the glass, then startled again as the door opened, seemingly on its own.

"It shows commendable attention to the rules of safety that you've locked your doors, Wesley," Moira said to him, sliding into the van. She tucked the spare key, that he himself had given her, into a side pocket of her carryall. "But I had to come in. I was quite afraid you'd fallen asleep behind the wheel, and that I'd melt away before I was able to wake you. My God, what a storm!"

"Your...er...Your Ladyship." The excess of his emotion robbed everything from his voice, making it, to Wesley's own ears, sound cold and distant. He found that he was still clutching the cross to his chest, as if for divine protection.

For a moment, Moira's confidence faltered. A vulnerable look came over her face, that he'd rarely seen before. She glanced down at the small case held in one hand. "Perhaps I've..." She began in a soft, uncertain tone. "Perhaps I've miscalculated."

Wesley raised a hand to her sodden hair. She'd put on a Burberry Mackintosh over her clothes, and water streamed from it, adding yet another stain to the upholstery. Moira could stain his upholstery in whatever way she liked...God, had he truly meant that the way it sounded? Quite revolting to even think it. Worthy of Xander.

She'd come back, she'd come back to him!

"Your Ladyship," Wesley tried again. "Was there something you'd forgotten?" Oh, God, God, what had he said? What sort of bloody fool was he? He needed a Cyrano to pen for him all the things he wanted, and needed, to tell her. Was there something she'd forgotten? Good Lord.

Moira gazed at him, an odd light glinting in her eyes. "Actually, yes, Wesley. I have forgotten something."

"In the back, do you think? I could help you search--"

'No, love, not in the back. Up here." With exquisite gentleness, her hand touched the nape of his neck, her thumb moving softly against his hairline. Moira bent toward him, pulling him nearer to her. Despite the night's efforts, she smelled enchanting, and Wesley didn't much care if that was magic, as she'd said, or only her essential self.

He knew Moira would never hurt, or use him. He knew she felt her own sort of pain, and ought not to be alone. Wesley brushed his cheek against her damp one, then kissed her in the hollow beneath one high cheekbone. She'd worn no makeup, and the taste of her was indescribable, sweet and salty and delicious. Her skin smelled like some equally heady spice, one he could not put a name to.

Wesley's lips found hers. Moira's felt slightly cool, a result of the weather. They parted, and his tongue slipped just a little into that warm hollow, then deeper, tasting and exploring her. Without his conscious control, his hands moved inside the lapels of her coat, finding the tiny pearl buttons that held shut her body-hugging silk cardigan.

Moira pulled back a little, her eyes catching his, and for a moment Wesley almost thought he'd displeased her, but then her hand moved to his thigh, stroking him. Her fingertips ran ever-so-lightly over the zip of his trousers, feeling the swelling where he'd already, almost painfully, begun to erect. He bent down, kissing the upper curve of her breast, now revealed, then glanced up at her face again. Moira had worn a brassiere with a front closure, but his hands shook too badly to work the clasp. Her fingers followed his, the garment opened, and he looked down at her once more, her skin so fair in the darkness it was nearly a source of light in itself. The rain beat and beat around them.

"Wesley," Moira said softly. "Please don't take my words amiss, but have you done this before?"

Ashamed, he shook his head. He hadn't. Not with the village girls of Henton, who had teased and laughed at him. Certainly not with the jaded debutantes his mother threw in his direction. Not even at school, or at Oxford, or with the beautiful and confident Miss Chase, after whom, he must confess, he'd quite lusted, though in the end he hadn't even managed to kiss her with any sort of aplomb. Thirty-two years old, and a virgin.

"Let's slip into the back, shall we?" Moira seemed content to take the lead, as she always had-- and he was quite content to follow her direction. She moved between the seats, shedding her Burberry as she went, drawing him with her. Wesley moved awkwardly, but the pain felt far less now, perhaps overwhelmed by his excitement.

They sat on the first of the bench seats, turned toward one another, the noise of the storm and the deluge granting them perfect privacy. Moira lifted his hand, kissing the palm, then placed it upon her breast. Wesley squeezed softly, experimentally, feeling the weight of it, and the wonderful, yielding firmness. Without even needing to be told, he lowered his mouth to the other, running his tongue lightly round the nipple. It tasted different, a smokier flavour, exquisitely pleasant. It delighted him that Moira shivered with pleasure. She reached down and opened his trousers, her fingers resting, just lightly, against him. He pulled her nipple into his mouth, running the surface of his tongue against her puckered skin.

Moira's fingers left him, moving upward, rubbing his chest through his shirt, her thumb circling over one of his own nipples. She raised his head with her other hand, though he didn't want to release her. Moira's eyes met his again, and she said, very quietly, "Wesley, I want to take care of you." Then, with a touch more humour. "You will probably find it rather shocking."

He couldn't speak, and swallowed convulsively as her hands worked his buttons, slid his braces down from his shoulders, divested him of shirt and undervest. Wesley shivered violently, though the inside of the van wasn't cold, or not particularly. She made him rise up a little from the seat as she took down his pants and trousers, then knelt between his knees, her hands running up and down his thighs until he arose to painful hardness.

Moira studied his body, looking nearly detatched, as if she was studying a sculpture or a painting. Her scrutiny unnerved and excited him all at once. He couldn't tell what she would do next.

"I...er...ah..." He said, and other foolish sounds, but Moira only smiled sweetly. She leaned forward, pressing his penis against the bare flesh of her abdomen. She first licked one of his nipples, then bit it lightly, her hands still rubbing at his thighs. Wesley nearly climaxed then and there, but Moira sensed his nearness, and reached over to grasp him firmly, no longer touching anywhere else, as she gave him the chance to recover himself.

She wore a sarong-skirt in a lovely blue-green pattern, and when she rose its folds parted over her thigh, revealing one shapely leg almost in its entirety. Still holding him, standing, stooped over a little so as not to knock her head on the van's ceiling, Moira released the knot that held the sarong about her hips. The light fabric fluttered downward. With a quick, careless gesture, she removed her silk knickers, kicking them away into a corner. She'd such marvelous long legs, the shape of them perfectly defined with muscle.

"I want to touch," he told her hoarsely. "I want to touch you."

Moira rested one knee on the seat beside him, guiding his hand past the crisp curls of her hair, toward her center, which was hot and moist, folded and complicated--not at all what he'd expected. He nearly cried out when his fingertips slipped inside her. There was meant to be a place, he knew, that one touched to cause excitement. One never encountered enough of these things in Ovid, and the rest of his reading, from childhood, had primarily been concerned with demons. Wesley felt hideously naive, and dreadfully foolish.

Entirely by accident, his questing fingers encountered a spot that made Moira gasp--and not as if he'd caused her discomfort. He'd been touching very lightly, half afraid, and when he touched again she thrust against his hand, her heat and her moistness increasing. He began to rub the spot with the same light pressure, his fingers wet with her own...what was the word? He couldn't think of anything that didn't sound rather disturbing. Dampness. Secretions. They sounded horrid, but it wasn't horrid, it was lovely, and exciting. Terribly exciting.

Nectar, he decided, rubbing his other hand over the firm curve of her buttock, down her thigh, Moira breathing in short, hard gasps above him, her head thrown back. All of a sudden her entire body went rigid, and Wesley could feel the inside of her pulse against his fingers. She pressed herself, hard, into the whole of his hand, and he realized he'd done it. He'd brought her to this crescendo.

He bent forward and kissed the bare taut skin of her belly, not far from that dreadful scar where she'd been hurt so badly. None of it repelled him--rather, he was filled with a fierce, protective tenderness. Perhaps never, in her life, had Moira possessed someone to care for her. That had been what lay behind her rash act earlier, and the harsh words she'd spoken to him. Moira didn't need to be coddled or protected, but she needed to be loved. Wesley knew--with what he recognized, in himself, as unusual sensitivity--that she and Rupert had too much between them for that to be an option.

He could love her. He did love her, and he hoped, most fervently, that someday she would love him in return.

Moira went to her knees before him, and for a moment he felt great concern. Was she all right? Had he distressed or hurt her? Then he realized what she meant to do, and his excitement increased tenfold. Oh, God, she wouldn't, would she? Oh, God, she wouldn't...but please. Please.

Again, she parted his thighs and reached down between them, cupping him in her hand, rubbing her thumb lightly over the sensitive skin. She bent, and her tongue flickered over the opening to his penis, taking the wetness that lay there like dew. Her lips closed over the head and her tongue caressed him. Wesley slumped backward in the seat, and Moira's hands slipped beneath his arse, raising him a little, kneading his muscles with her fine, strong fingers. He tightened almost unbearably as she took the rest of him into her, far into the warm, wet passage of her mouth, her tongue moving against him. Only a few strokes, and he came, violently, in a spasm that seemed to last forever. She swallowed, drawing him in even deeper, and his body jerked again, another, briefer jolt, like the aftershock of an earthquake.

Thunder, with appropriate timing, crashed directly above them, shaking the van. Moira let him loose, and raised her face to kiss his stomach, while Wesley raised a trembling hand to stroke her damp hair. She rested against him, arms clasped loosely round his waist. From that position she'd be able to hear, quite clearly, the rapid drumming of his heart.

He hadn't known. He hadn't expected. He only hoped, against hope, that it meant as much to her as it had to him.

"Your Ladyship," he said, quietly. "I--er--I love you."

"Do you, Wesley?" She looked up, her body still so close to his, still scented so headily, with the fragrance of her nectar.

Say it back, he thought, with sudden franticness. Say it back to me, Moira, even if you don't mean it. Let me, at least, hear the words from you.

Wesley wanted to weep, fearing that he never would. Moira wasn't a liar; he'd always been impressed with her truthfulness. Her straightforwardness. Her honesty to herself and to others. Moira never talked round things, or disguised them with polite half-truths--and yet she wasn't tactless, like Cordelia.

Lie to me, this time only. Moira, please.

"This night," she said, thoughtfully, "I was terribly foolish."

Did she mean Helena? Or what had just happened between them? Oh, God.

"I showed you my sickness," she said. "How can you still want me?"

Suddenly, Wesley could see her face clearly, and she looked so very lost, and so vulnerable, all her wounds no longer hidden from his eyes.

"Were it you," he told her, surprised by his own honesty. "Were it you, who had been turned, and called out to me, I can't say that I wouldn't follow. I'd like to say I wouldn't, that I would do what must be done, but I don't know that I could look into your eyes and manage it."

"Wesley," Moira said. "You must never. Never. Don't be like me. Promise."

"I can't," he told her, "Promise, that is. But I should certainly try."

"Ah, Lord," she sighed, then laughed a little. "What a pair we are! Wesley, I do think that I could love you."