They run into each other in a seedy, little bar on the outskirts of Cleveland. He's supposed to be on a fact finding mission for Angel and she's supposed to be tracking down a few more members of the slayer mafia Willow unleashed during Sunnydale's Armageddon. She sits and listens as he mumbles into a tumbler of scotch about Wolfram and Heart, Fred, and a good versus evil apocalyptic battle to the death.
"Like that's a first," she scoffs picking up her own drink and downing it in one quick tilt of her head.
She can tell that to him death would be preferable to the existence he's currently living. He's a far cry from the strict, British watcher that had first shown up in Sunnydale all those years ago. He's scarred both on the surface and on the soul and she suspects that she had a hand or two in his demise.
"This gloom and doom suits you, Wes, but I gotta say you're kind of bringing me down here. If I wanted to be bored to death I'd have stayed at the hotel with the rugrats."
"I don't recall issuing you an invitation to join me."
"Free country, yo. I can go where I want and do what I want. You don't have to like it. I don't have to care."
"But you do…care, right?" He asks still not bothering to turn away from his drink long enough to grace her with a glance.
She shrugs. "It is what it is, Wes. We have a history, you and me. You can't escape the past believe me I've tried."
"And yet here you are. No bars. No guards."
"Apparently saving the world comes with some perks. Giles pulled some strings or bribed a judge. Don't really know, don't really care."
"And now?"
"I'm jonesing for some one on one action, if you catch my drift."
She's not sure whether or not she's serious but it gets his attention. She's surprised to see fire flash through his eyes, lust, need, something else, she can't quite pinpoint but it gets her own juices flowing. Blood boils through her veins and she's leaning into him. Their lips touch and there's definitely sparks.
Before either of them realize what's happening their clawing at each other, pushing and pulling their way out the back door to an empty alley. Brink scratches at exposed skin, teeth graze and bite at flesh. It's rough and depraved, the way that everything between them has always been.
When it's over they're both winded and satiated but there's still a crackle of electricity in the air that rushes between them. She doesn't want it to be over and she can tell neither does he.
"So, Wes," she begins, her breath hitching as she straightens her clothes, "what's your favorite form of torture?"
He's studying her out of the corner of his eye, a slight fear etched across his furrowed brow. She smiles letting him know she's only half teasing and the muscles in his neck flinch before relaxing mildly.
"If you have the restraints I'd be more than happy to show you."
