Empty Vessel
Blood leaving his body, steady flow and Wesley thought there would be pain.
He always imagined, all those times he pictured this, that there would be intense pain so blinding that he wouldn't be able to think. The kind that would make him black out.
But there isn't.
He imagined there would be other things too.
All those times he wished for this, wanted it, wanted him. Dreamed about it and he realises that all the wanting and the longing and the yearning was nothing but waste.
Wasted time. Wasted emotion.
He imagined that he'd feel some sort of connection, something potently sexual. He's not stupid, he'd researched the effect that feeding has over people. Well, the people who lived to tell about it anyway. The `thrall' of the bite as they all called it. Giles had shared with him exactly what effect Dracula's bite had over Buffy and he knows instinctively that that was nothing compared to what she felt when she allowed Angel to feed from her.
Now he's allowing Angel to feed from him. Something he's fantasised about for years. The sort of thing that he used to wake from dreams about: hard and sweating and repulsed, disgusted at himself for even entertaining the wish.
Now it's really happening. He would've thought that the feelings he'd be experiencing at a time like this would be making him light-headed. That the unspoken thoughts shouting at him, in his head, would be making him deaf.
But they're not.
Wesley doesn't feel pain or fear or excitement or lust or shame or arousal or guilt.
He feels nothing.