Talk With Your Hands

"Wesley."

"Yes?" He looked up at Angel, mind still worrying over the text he'd just read, sorting through the various infinitive phrases and comparing the text to what he hoped he remembered clearly from other books he'd read in years past.

All thought stopped when he saw the look on Angel's face.

"Um, yes?" he asked again, feeling a bit more flustered, absently moving one hand up to settle his glasses more firmly from where they hadn't been dislodged.

Angel continued the slight smirk, his eyes still burning with...something. It was a look Wesley saw more often behind doors.

*Not* the back booth of a local bar. No matter how mostly-deserted.

He sighed, and closed his book, gave the vampire his full attention. Lord, but his lover could pout for weeks when he thought he'd been ignored. "Yes?" he prompted again.

Angel gave a tiny grin of triumph, then leaned forward. "Can I ask you a question?"

Wesley withheld the urge to roll his eyes. "Now that I've set my tome aside, it would hardly seem worth my while to say 'no'. What did you want?" he added, when the unhappy smirk threatened to return.

"I just wondered...why do you like it when I fuck you with my hand, better?"

Wesley stared at him. Wondered if he'd been cursed by a demon this afternoon and hadn't noticed. "Shouldn't there be some sort of warning when introducing a topic such as this? Some sort of prelude, where at least we've been doing it for half an hour, and the matter at hand -- so to speak -- arises -- er, also, so to speak." He wasn't as flustered as he knew Angel hoped he would be. Not his fault that having regular intercourse with a vampire made him less likely to blush at the drop of an innuendo.

It wasn't that Angel had introduced him to so many new forms of expending sexual energy that he'd overcome any inherent shyness at discussing them. Rather, it was that, a couple weeks into their new relationship, he'd discovered that Angel got embarrassed far more readily, and far more charmingly, than he. Vampires didn't blush, so it wasn't always obvious. But being shy himself was less fun than watching Angel stammer and look around for exits.

It was especially fun in front of Cordelia, who had no qualms whatsoever about commenting.

Now, though, they must have been virtually alone, for Angel to ask. That, or he really wanted to know -- or perhaps he was getting Wesley back for letting Gunn see the boxers he'd bought for Angel. Regardless, he'd asked, and now Wesley was faced with answering.

First, though, he said, "Angel, it isn't that I prefer your hand -- I'd rather say I like both your hand, and your cock, equally--"

"No," Angel interrupted, shaking his head. The smirk was still there, but there was seriousness in his eyes. "You don't. I'm not asking because I think you don't like it when use anything else. I'm just asking why you like it this way so much more."

"I-"

"Whenever you're beneath me, and I'm pressing my cock inside, you always make a lot of noise. You moan, and cry out, and sometimes you slam yourself back onto me like you can't wait any more."

Wesley blinked. Tried to remember what the conversation was about.

"And this isn't about anything you do to me. When you're sliding yourself into me, all I want to do is spread myself wider and howl at the moon."

"Um, yes...." Wesley flashed on the last such time they'd done so -- two days ago? One and a half?

"And I know you love it when I go down on you. Slow, or fast."

Here Wesley lost the thread of the conversation entirely. When he was able to blink, he realized Angel had stopped speaking some moments before. "Er, yes?" he managed, weakly.

Angel leaned forward, closer, and his voice dropped. "But when I touch you, whenever I place my finger inside you, right there,"

Wesley concentrated very hard on Angel's voice. Squirmed, anyhow.

"Whenever I go into you like that, you always grow completely still. Like you don't want to miss any of it. And then you scream like your mind is melting. And you always, every time I pull away, try to follow me. So I'll keep touching you just a little while longer."

Angel was staring at him, and Wesley could feel his heart racing. Question. Yes, there had been....

He swallowed. Oh. Yes. He told himself this was not a proper venue for tearing down his trousers and letting Angel demonstrate what he meant, and tried to form a reply.

"Yes. Well, all right. You have me there. I suppose...." His thoughts wended off again, thinking back to times when Angel had done what he'd just described, and as he tried to recapture the sensation in order to make sure his words were correct, he found himself wanting. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Your hands. Yes. Better. Yes, I suppose."

He opened his eyes and saw Angel looking at him, question and something more in his expression.

Wesley spoke quickly to assuage it. "It isn't about not preferring anything else. It's about...how it feels." He glared at Angel's half-smothered laugh. "Not that way. Although I suppose it is." He sighed, and tried again.

"Angel, when we have sex, it's always great fun, no matter what our reason for doing it. Physical release, reaffirmation, revenge for that stupid party hat you made me wear--" He glared again. Angel looked back, innocently. "When we make love, it always feels...wonderful. To know that, for whatever reason, you've chosen to be with me. That someone I love, loves me in return."

This time the pause was longer, exchanging gazes, threatening to turn an academic discussion into nothing at all.

Wesley cleared his throat, continued. "When you say things to me, it's worth even more than what we do in bed. Or shower, or -- never mind, you can list them as well as I can. When you tell me what I mean to you, or just say that you love me -- those words are very precious.

"But you and I both know that words can hold lies. I'm not saying you've lied to me," he said quickly. "I'm not saying you would -- or if you did, that I'd care. I *know* you don't really like that green and gold rug and I don't care. It's staying."

Angel blinked. "You know?"

Wesley nodded. "Yes. But I've heard people say so many things to me that sounded wonderful, and were complete lies." He looked away, and said more quietly, "The only time I've ever been hurt, was with words. The only times that have mattered, really." He looked back up, and all the joking had fallen away from his lover's face.

"Wesley--"

"No, let me finish. It doesn't mean that I value your words any less. But...it is possible to lie with what you say. It is *not* possible to lie with your hands. With your hands, you can tell a person you love them, hate them, are completely indifferent. You can say exactly how much you wish they weren't hurting -- or say exactly how much you'd like to be hurting them." Wesley glanced down at his own hands. "It's all there, unfettered by social constructs and falsehoods. The ultimate form of communication." He looked back up, and Angel nodded.

"So, when I touch you, you...believe that I love you. More, or more easily...?"

Wesley nodded. "But that doesn't address, fully, why I love it so much when you put your fingers *in* me. Um, that is," and thought threatened to go on holiday once more. Fingers. In. Wesley focused on Angel's face. "When you place your hand inside me, you perform one of the most intimate acts possible -- with the instrument of the most honest communication. No matter what you say, do, or want me to believe -- nothing says anything even remotely as loudly. When you touch me...." And finally he shifted in his seat, slightly embarrassed, because he'd never imagined thinking this in words, much less saying them aloud. "When you place your finger or two or your entire hand inside me, all I can hear is that you want to be inside me."

There was a pause. Angel stared at him.

"Don't you understand?" Wesley asked, gently.

But Angel began to nod. "I'm saying...I want to be inside you."

And he reached across the table, and placed his hand over Wesley's heart.

"Yes," Wesley said. He reached up and placed his own over Angel's.

They sat there for a moment, then Angel stood, moving his hand to grip Wesley's. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" Wesley stood, glancing back as his books as Angel led him away. He didn't seriously think anything would happen to them here, but he tried to ask again, anyhow, as Angel led him through a door.

Angel turned, and the words died on his lips. They were in a short hallway: dark, and otherwise deserted. Wesley felt his heart racing again, and licked his lips.

"What are you--"

But Angel placed his hands on Wesley's hips, moved him to stand in front of Angel. Wesley did so, not asking when Angel slipped his hands to the front of his trousers...and undid them. When Angel pushed them down, he asked again.

"What are you doing?" His voice was hushed, and he looked up from Angel's hands to find Angel looking at him. Felt one hand move around to his back, slipping under his shirt and pulling Wesley close. He shivered, moved forward.

The other hand slipped down, and one finger went inside.

"Oh." Wesley pushed his head onto Angel's shoulder, biting the fabric of Angel's shirt to keep from crying out. He waited, pushing his already hardened cock against Angel's hip. And waited. The back hall of a bar was a new venue, but not one he terribly minded.

Angel just stood there. Wesley spread his legs a little, gaining better balance, and leaned forward. His entire weight against Angel, his legs spread and his erection trapped against slick leather jeans, he bit down on another moan.

And still Angel didn't move. Didn't move his finger, didn't move his hand, didn't do anything at all. Wesley was torn between pushing himself backwards onto that finger, and waiting, letting Angel torment him until he did whatever else it was he'd brought him back here to do.

And when Angel continued to stand there, Wesley grabbed him, held onto him tightly, and began thrusting. Pushing his cock against him, rubbing himself as fiercely as he could without pulling away from Angel's hand. He realized Angel was moving, then, keeping his hand splayed on Wesley's buttock, keeping his single finger pressed inside.

Wesley buried his face in the crook of Angel's neck, and screamed.