satyricon au go go

Angel hung limply from the chains that bound him, suspending him from the wall. He was first aware of the creak of the metal, then the straining of his muscles. He swung slightly as he twitched, trying to relieve the pressure, but knowing that there would be no relief forthcoming. His head hung down, eyes closed, not wanting to see what he felt, and knew to be true.

"Wake up, Angel," a soft female voice whispered in his ear.

"I know you can hear me." A soft hand stroked his face.

"Now, no playing possum on us here. You can't pretend forever." The hand stroked down his naked chest.

"But that's rather the point, isn't it. Pretending what you're not."

Than hand gripped his hair and jerked his head back, forcing him to stare into the face of horror.

"Welcome home, Angel," Jenny Calender smiled.

Wesley threw the book across the room in frustration.

"I'm an idiot!"

Cordelia looked up.

"Do you want an answer to that?"

He gave her a sour look.

"It's Hell month."

"Is that like a fraternity thing?"

"No. Chung Yuan. According to the Chinese calendar the gates of Hell are open, now, for two weeks. Demons and ghosts can cross into this world and drag you back into theirs if you don't take the proper precautions." He glanced at the calendar on the wall. "I'd completely lost track of what week it was, what with one thing and another. I should have known. I should have taken precautions."

"You've had a lot to deal with, Wes. It's not your fault," she reassured. "Is that what happened to Angel? He got dragged back to hell?"

"Either that or he's dead."

"So that'd make hoping Angel's in hell suffering untold torments looking on the bright side?"

"Yes," Wesley answered tersely.

Wesley was petuantly flicking through a book so sharply that each page made a snapping noise.

Cordelia glanced at the irritation, and waited for one of the yellowed pages to break under the treatment.

"You're jealous, aren't you," she realised at last.

"Jealous about what?" he snipped in pinched tones.

"That I had the vision about Angel, and you didn't."

Wesley didn't say anything, ignoring her.

"You are, aren't you."

Wesley sighed noisily and ceased frowning at his studies for a moment.

"I thought...Angel and I had a connection, before..."

"Well, not now."

Wesley glared at her furiously for a few seconds, then returned to his book, glaring at it.

"My god, but you're possessive. I had no idea."

"You know nothing about me," he retorted icily.

This was true. The gay thing, no real surprise there, but she realised without Angel, she and Wesley had little in common and apparently even less to say to each other, especially right now.

"What are you going to do about Angel?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to find out."

"You're just going to sit there, reading."

"Yes. If I don't observe all the proper rituals I'll fuck the whole thing up and Angel will be down there forever. I can't just go in, guns blazing."

"Why not?"

He gave her a look.

"Do you really expect me to call Buffy and let her save Angel while I go back to my room and listen to Sarah McLachlan records?"

"Boy, you really don't like sharing Angel with Buffy, do you."

"Would you?" he shot back. "She might hate the fact that the next girl was a guy, but I have to live with the fact that I'll never be able to compete with the idealised memory of some blonde school girl."

"You're going to let Angel suffer eternal torments just because you're jealous?"

"No. I'm going to save Angel and I'm going to go to hell and back to do it. But it will require tricks and magic, not brute strength. This is a job for a disgraced Watcher, not a Slayer. I can walk where she can't. I can let the darkness touch me. She can't."

"But can you save him?"

"I'll die trying," he promised.

Wesley scratched at his three day's growth of beard as he hunched over his book. He'd barely moved from the spot at the furthest table in the furthest corner of the public library except to go to the toilet, go for coffee or go home when the library shut.

For three days Wesley had sat alone at this table, working his way through this meagre library, scribbling near illegible notes every so often, mostly just sitting there hunched over, propping his head up on his hands. In these last few days he'd degenerated from neat grad student to scary homeless guy.

The library staff were used to him though. He'd been coming in for months, always sitting in the corner with his pencil and pad and piles of books on obscure mythology. They nodded and winked to each other and joked that the extensions on that thesis must have finally run out.

So they regarded him with sympathy, fetched and carried books for him when he needed it, let him have access to the photocopier that actually worked in the back room and let him stay until the last possible minute each night.

He didn't stop, he didn't sleep, he didn't shower or shave and he didn't eat. He was studying when Cordelia went to bed and he was still there at her table when she woke and she was aware of him only swilling endless cups of increasingly bitter coffee, and snarfing handfuls of pills he swore were only no-doze but she had her doubts. He was red-eyed and cranky and her only interaction with him was occasionally refill his cup with coffee and try and make sure he had enough light to read.

Finally, on the third day he closed his notebook and scratched at his beard. He checked his notes, and rechecked the wildly scribbled list he'd made. He tore it in half and handed the bottom half to Cordelia.

"I need this," was all he said.

Wesley argued crankily in Cantonese over the dubious quality of the products the proprietor of the Chinese apothecary was trying to push on him. He wasn't just any Gwai Lo and he wasn't going to settle for substitutions. He leant on the counter, somewhat dark and menancing. As the old man bustled out the back and his son kept a wary eye on Wesley from the doorway to the back of the shop.

Wesley's eyes ran along the shelves and shelves of jars of dried and shredded and powdered things of infinite colours and smalls that not even he could wholly identify as he waited. As always his eyes finally rested lustfully on the large jar in which rested the plumpest and most perfectly formed mandrake root Wesley had ever seen. He'd coveted that root since he'd first ever seen it, prominently displayed for passing new age traffic, but it was well out of his tax bracket. Nevertheless, Wesley still paid it frequent visits and day dreamed about it, as much like any young man with a fancy for a brand new toy well beyond his price range.

The old man finally re-emerged, some what flustered, and muttering in sharp Cantonese, carefully unfolded the tissue paper on the glass counter. Wesley crumbled a piece experimentally between his fingers and sniffed. The old man and his son held their breath for a moment until Wesley nodded and began extracting the large denomination notes from his wallet. Always cash when dealing in Chinatown, always the haggle, and in this case, nothing but the best.

This was his one chance to save Angel. He'd never performed a spell this big or dangerous before. He was nervous and determined, as much as an athlete before a big race. Only if Wesley fucked up, he'd die, or worse. He stuffed his carefully wrapped packages in his pocket, bid the man and his son good day and left the exotically scented shop, the door buzzing in his wake.

Wesley didn't react to Cordelia's return, nor did give more than a flicker as she threw his shopping down in front of him on the table, stirring and fluttering his carefully cut squares of coloured paper he'd laid in precise order on the table. Right at this moment he was deeply involved in finishing the sewing of a small poppet he'd made from cloth, wool, dried herbs and grain. The doll was mostly finished and now he was just attaching with careful stitches part of one of Angel's shirts, his favourite. If he did manage to save Angel, he knew he was going to have to explain the destruction of the shirt for the greater good, and he could just see Angel's reaction, even now. He pushed the thought away and acknowledged Cordelia as she stood in front of him, her hands on her hips.

"Angel is being tortured in Hell and you're busy playing Martha Stewart!" she accused. "I ran all over town with your stupid list and now I get back and find you playing with dolls. Get a grip, Wesley. Angel needs our help."

Wesley, with precise movements, broke the thread with his teeth then regarded her somewhat coldly.

"I am helping Angel. This is called preparation. I need all this for the spells to free him. Only several people are known to have ever been freed from Hades. Angel is one of them. I don't know how he got out the first time, but I'm the one who has to free him this time and this is the only way I know how."

Having chastened her into momentary silence he left the doll in his lap and spread out her purchases on the table, inspecting each one for suitability. Fortunately, she'd gotten everything on the list, exactly as asked. If there was thing Cordelia could do really well, it was shop.

It was Wesley's own skill that was in question. For theory, there was none better, but where practical experience was concerned, he was pretty much limited to the basic lab work required for his training as a Watcher. He'd managed a few chants and a bit of alchemy for Angel, but nothing as big time as gaining access to Hades

Cordelia sniffed at the air, thick with the sweet small of baked goods.

"And you're cooking? Wesley, have you gone completely insane? What do you think you're doing? You're no Jamie Oliver."

"They're offerings," Wesley answered quietly.

"Offerings to who?"

"The spirits. I need to bribe them for information."

"So you're going to let them eat cake?"

"It's traditional. I've got money too." He indicated a fat wad of Hell notes.

"So this is for, like a supernatural..."

"Snout, yes." The corner of Wesley's mouth curled up as he resorted to Bill-speak. "Exactly. If they like my cooking they might tell me where Angel is."

"Can't you just pick up a box of doughnuts?"

Wesley bit back his first reply and managed to master himself.

"Yes, you can buy these in any Chinese bakery, but I didn't want to risk any substitute ingredients. I want everything to be perfect."

The oven dinged.

"They're ready." Cordelia waved him anxiously in the direction of her kitchen. It horrified her to think that Angel's life depended on Wesley's domestic skills.

He pulled on his oven mits, opened the open door and fished out the tray, presenting then them proudly to Cordelia. "See?"

She breathed deep their sweet scent and smiled, reaching for them.

Wesley twisted the tray out of her reach sharply, scowling.

"Don't you dare. They're all for saving Angel."

"Not even one, not even as a test? I mean, how do you know they're any good?"

"They look okay?" he suggested hopefully. He put the tray down to cool, guarding them.

"You can sample my cooking skills later," he promised, to an unconvinced Cordelia. "For now, you can find me something to put them in," he instructed, sending Cordelia to scrabble under the sink for loose tupperware.

Wesley ducked under the police tape that cris-crossed the entrance to burnt out ruins of Angel’s place. He pulled a can of spray paint from his bag, shook it rapidly, cursing the loud echoing rattle of the ball inside and sprayed the lines of a protective spell over the door of Angel Investigations, the former premises thereof at least.

Wesley extracted a small skeleton key from his pocket and knelt to attend to the fine work of picking the security firm’s padlock that barred his way.

A light flashed in his eyes, ruining his night vision. He stood, squinting into the torchlight.

"Breaking and entering now?" Kate demanded of him.

Wesley blinked in the torch’s glare.

"I seem to have misplaced my keys."

"This is a crime scene."

"It was also my home. It's not vandalism or looting when it's your own home."

She frowned at him, perplexed. "Your home? I thought Angel lived here." Then the penny actually dropped.

"You?"

Wesley didn't smile, but he managed an air of smugness nevertheless.

"You and Angel?" she repeated.

"Yes, Angel and I. I always get that reaction. He has a thing for innocence. I guess that counted you out."

She flashed the torch in his eyes in rebuke.

Wesley twisted away from the light instinctively, and she caught a flash of silver.

She trained the torch on the pendant that dangled from Wesley's throat. It wasn't the crucifix Angel had given him. This was a small swastika.

"It's for protection," he tried to explain. "It's an ancient Indo-European symbol to ward off evil..."

"Uh huh."

Kate flashed her light over the door and saw the large wet swastika Wesley just spray painted there. Her eyes narrowed at him.

"National Front?" she accused.

"No, oh no," Wesley flustered. "It's a protection spell."

She flashed the torch back in his face.

"You can't possibly arrest me for vandalising my former domicile. Think of it as home improvements. A spot of repainting." Wesley countered.

Kate glared at the swastika again, bold as brass on the door. She was really learning to hate this guy.

"And you dared to call me a racist. You English are all the same." And with that she stalked off.

Wesley pushed the door open heavily, it had swollen and warped with the heat, and stepped into the darkness.

The smell of smoke and ashes assaulted him, almost to the point of retching. Worse, as he walked down the steps, remembering, was it only a couple of weeks ago that he'd nearly died on this very spot?

He made himself move on, into the centre of the ruined remains of the home he'd once shared with Angel, albeit it briefly.

This was the place he'd chosen for his summoning. The place closest to Angel's heart in LA, his seat of power, and, equally important, relatively quiet and deserted.

Wesley knew he shouldn't have baited Detective Lockley, and he certainly knew he shouldn't have outed Angel to her, but it had been a necessary thing. And it had felt so good, just for a moment.

Jealousy was a wicked thing.

Wesley steadied himself and set his bag down and took a breath. This was big, this was important, and aside from his intense emotional connection to Angel, he wasn't sure he was the man for the job. He breathed again. Self doubt would get both of them killed. Dealing with hell was always a poker game. You had to know when to play, when to stay, and how to bluff.

Wesley breathed deeply again. A few revues at university did not make him an actor. A few months at Angel's side did not make him his lover. His training with the Watchers did not make him a sorcerer. And a Y chromosome did not make him a man.

And standing here did not make him brave. He kicked open his bag and rummaged within, first extracting a piece of chalk to draw the elaborate circle and signs on the blackened floor. He'd need this for protection, should things get nasty before they began.

Wesley, wild eyed and unshaven, took a hefty swig from the wine bottle before splashing the remainder into the cup he'd set on the ground, the rest around the outside of the circle where the cakes and money lay piled on neat little plates like a warped tea party. Following the wine came the blood, sheep's blood from the local kosher butcher. Angel had a standing order there. He drew further outlines and patterns in chalk, more a rough sketch than a work of art, but it would do for his purposes. He'd have probably been neater if he thought he had the slightest chance of surviving. His satchel swung heavily down, clinking, and he pushed it back, annoyed. It was full of the tricks he'd need in the underworld. Damn, he should have had more of the wine. He'd teetered on the edge of a drug, coffee and alcohol fuelled abyss for several days now. It was dangerous, but he needed the artificial alertness and courage, and he was pretty damn sure his moment of clarity wasn't about to be borne of sobriety. No, for this kind of magic you had to be mad, bad and utterly wasted. That was its attraction, as a lifestyle choice. The Council tried to control and regulate the Bacchanalian aspects, but this was way, way outside their jurisdiction.

Still wired and trembling, Wesley slumped down in the centre of the circle, folding his thin limbs together, and in a thin voice that grew more forceful with each world, he invited the hungry ghosts to come and feed, and tell him where his Angel was.

They came, mists and phantoms seeping around and through the charred remains of Angel's home. They hissed and spat at him, demanding their bribe. Wesley stood, holding out the cup of blood to them.

"Where." he demanded.

They hissed and swirled about the perimeter of his circle.

"Tell me."

"Angel..." Wesley started to say something, but the words were lost when Angel grabbed him.

Angel thrust him up hard against the charred wall, holding him tight and kissing him hard. Wesley could feel Angel's erection digging into his hip. It drove him wild but he dare not touch it.

Angel had no such taboo, pulling Wesley's pants open violently and making Wesley cry against his throat as he was pumped with unnatural strength and speed.

"God, yes," he wept against Angel's shoulder.

"You want it?" Angel asked, his face buried in Wesley's throat, licking and worrying him.

"Yes," Wesley cried on the brink.

He felt the teeth sink in. Angel gripped him tighter, tore at him and drank greedily.

The teeth dug in hard.

"Angel, stop," Wesley tried to push against him. "Angel, please, stop," he begged, his pushes against the iron hard muscle that held him growing weaker and weaker until he sank in Angel's arms.

Wesley came in a throbbing wave as Angel drained him in gulps.

Angel carried him to the ground, still drinking greedily. Wesley's eyelids fluttered closed, his hands against Angel fell away. His heart beat began to falter erratically.

Some part of Angel felt this above the roar of the blood, some part brought him back to himself in a rush, with Wesley dying in his arms.

"No!" he cried. "God, no."

Wesley was wrenched out of Angel's arms and pinned down on a guerney. Angel found himself physically prevented from getting close to Wesley by a large orderly built more like a doorman than a hospital worker.

"We'll look after him now," Angel was told coldly. Angel flushed angrily, still warm with Wesley's blood. The pressure in the orderly's restraining arm increased, and Angel backed down, not wanting to make any more of a scene than he already had.

"He's in shock." It was announced. Wesley disappeared under a scrum of people.

Angel stood and watched helplessly as Wesley was wheeled into the emergency room.

"Wesley, back with us," reproved the intern to her unconscious patient, checking both his pulse and pupils. "What is it this time?"

"Massive blood loss from what looks like an animal bite" the paramedics informed him as they decamped. He gently turned Wesley's head to the side and saw the torn wound in his throat. Animal was right.

"O-positive and saline, now, people. And bag him. I really don't like his vitals."

Wesley was hooked up to the rapid infuser. The saline drip went in as well. He really didn't like his colour.

"Come on Wes," he rubbed the hand that wasn't skewered with canulas, wondering again at the puncture wounds in his wrists, wondering still at the fainter scars slashed there, from long ago. "Come on Wes, stay and fight. " he chivvied him.

"Angel?" Wesley was coming round, his voice thin and frightened, not yet fully awake. "Angel?"

"He's not here." a disapproving male voice informed him.

Wesley squinted into an over bright fluorescent light set above his bed.

"Is it daylight?" He asked, frowning, confused.

"No. It's night. You slept through the whole day. You lost a lot of blood. We thought we might lose you this time. "

The intern impersonally checked for signs of life in Wesley as much as a housewife would check the ripeness of a piece of fruit.

"Your 'friend' hasn't been here since he dropped you off and vanished," his voice was cold and disapproving. "He does that a lot, doesn't he."

"Not his fault," Wesley whispered. He looked around. Angel wasn't there, waiting in the shadows. He couldn't feel Angel nearby at all.

"He hasn't been here, not at all?" Wesley asked again.

"No."

Wesley started to cry. He couldn't help himself and he couldn't stop. The tears just came up and overpowered him.

"Don't get in a state now..." the intern started.

"Yeah, you say that after you've upset him. What did you say to him?"

The intern turned. "Visiting hours are..."

"I don't care. I'm family." Cordelia swept passed the intern and sat down on the edge of Wesley's bed. "Go," she dismissed the intern with an imperious wave of her hand.

Cordelia turned back to Wesley, fishing for a tissue and dabbing at his cheeks.

"You really look awful, you know," she confided.

"Thanks," Wesley sniffled, but there was an affection between them which he clung to, and took comfort from.

"Angel?" Wesley had to ask.

"Has got the guilts, big time. He's off sulking somewhere. He's really freaked, over what he did. He's feeling really really bad about nearly killing you. He'd be here otherwise. He's really really, sorry, Wes. You just have to see his face..."

"I can't. He won't come here."

"Give him time," Cordelia promised, touching his hand. "He's really shaken. He knows he nearly killed you. He feels like he can't trust himself around you right now. He thinks you might be a bit cranky with him."

"No," Wesley admitted. "It's my fault. I should have known better. He was wild, completely wild when I found him. I should have known, I should have realised, I should have never have let myself get that close to him, in that state. He wasn't human, the demon had control. I kissed Angelus, and I didn't know it." he berated himself. "If he had killed me, it would have been my own stupid fault."

"But he didn't. He made himself stop in time. Angel does have control of the demon inside him, it just slips out sometimes, when he's upset and stuff."

They exchanged a look. They'd both seen the demon in Angel look through his eyes on more occasions than either were entirely comfortable with.

"How were you supposed to know, Wes? It wasn't as if he'd suddenly gone heavy on the eyeliner, had he? Buffy made the same mistake, if that helps," she offered.

"Not really," Wesley pouted, tired.

"Tell him," he was becoming resigned to a difficult reconciliation. "Tell him I love him, I trust him, and I need him here, with me."

"I will," Cordelia promised, though what good it would do she did not know.

SOONER OR LATER

Wesley walked down the burnt steps slowly, one at a time. He was tired and quite literally drained. He'd checked himself out of hospital too early. He knew it, and he didn't care.

A shadow flicked and moved at the bottom of the stairs, but Wesley wasn't afraid. He was used to that particular demon. Funny, how his heart had already leapt down the steps to Angel, while the more cautious part of his mind was screaming at him to be careful, to run, that it could be Angelus, not his lover, lurking down there by himself in the dark.

But when Wesley reached the bottom of the stairs he was reasonably sure it was Angel pacing anxiously in the ruins of their home.

"Knew I'd find you here," he spoke as Angel ignored him, walking past him as though he were a ghost.

Angel turned at last, dark eyes glittering.

"Of course you did, Wes. The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime."

"Oh. Like that, is it? I just meant I tried to think of your favourite haunts, then realised, I didn't know any. You keep me away from your demon pals."

"For your own good," Angel spoke quietly.

"Oh, I thought you might be..."

"Ashamed of you?"

"Yes," Wesley answered quietly. He trailed a hand over the bookshelf, playing with the brittle black flakes that had once been near priceless references. "You never came to visit me at the hospital."

"No." Angel couldn't look at him.

"I missed you. I needed you."

"Don't." Angel snarled, making Wesley shrink back involuntarily.

"Don't what? Don't care? Don't do this, Angel. Please. I'm sorry I fucked up and sent you to hell. I'm sorry I fucked up when I got you out. Don't turn me away, please."

"I can't..." Angel managed to master the words. "I can't be responsible for you all the time. I can't protect you. I'm dangerous to be around, Wes. I won't watch you die."

Wesley drew himself up.

"How can you say that? I've trained all my life to fight the darkness. It's my choice, damn you."

"No," Angel reminded coldly. "It's not."

"No, don't you dare walk away from me, not like this." Wesley stood his ground.

"Angel -" He reached for Angel as the vampire brushed past him, and Angel, without thinking, lashed out and knocked Wesley away from him.

Wesley slammed into the opposite wall, bringing a shower of dust upon himself as he slid to the ground. He lay still, and for a moment there was only the sound of his heartbeat. Then a rustling as he moved, a suppressed groan and Angel watched as Wesley, slowly, carefully stood up again.

He stared at Angel, but it was no longer a look begging forgiveness and love, but one of bitter resolve.

Neither spoke a word as Wesley walked past him stiffly without a backwards glance.

Angel let him go, then sank on the bottom steps, his head in his hands. He crouched over, as if the movement could make the pain go away. He'd known a thousand torments, a thousand regrets and untold physical pain, but nothing had ever struck him as hard as this moment.

SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO

Hours passed, and Angel never moved from his spot. The horror of what he’d done, that he’d done, that he continued to destroy the ones he loved…

"You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you my man? Because that would make my grand noble sacrifice rather a waste of time, don’t you think?" an annoyed Irish accented voice harangued him.

Angel glanced up sharply, shocked, unable to believe his eyes, unwilling to.

"Yeah, it’s me," Doyle shrugged. "The Gates of Hell are still open, which means ghosts like me can wander back and forth without the need for papers, especially if we’ve got unfinished business."

"Business?"

"Yeah. You. Us. Our work. Fighting the good fight. Yeah, that. Destiny. That sort of deal. Do you think it was just chance that you hooked up with Wes? Do you think it wasn’t set up to be that way?"

Angel frowned, realising. "The Powers That Be. Another door opens…I thought they just meant Cordelia’s visions."

"Nice to know you think I’m irreplaceable, but I’m not. Neither is Wesley, but I was hoping you’d take better care of him this time round." Doyle paced slightly in front of Angel, running a hand through his hair. "For a while there I thought you’d overreacted, keeping Wes on a tight leash, out of danger, away from the action, being so over protective you risked really fucking up by not involving him. But then," he turned back to Angel," You start taking him for granted, putting him in danger, attacking him. He’s supposed to serve by your side, but you keep pushing him away. You really hurt him this time, man."

"Where is he?" Angel asked, downcast.

"Where do you expect?" Doyle realised he'd have to provide all the pieces of the puzzle.

"He's waiting in the local casualty department. You broke his collar bone, man."

Angel was mortified.

"Like I said," Doyle reminded. "Fragile. You've got to take care of him."

"I will," Angel promised.

"You'd better hurry. That intern is starting to get ideas."

Angel looked blank.

"You don't know your own strength, Angel. And how many times have you had to dump Wes in Casualty battered and bleeding because he got on the wrong side of a cranky demon? He's not like you. He's not a slayer. He's just a skinny English guy. Human. Mortal. They're fragile, mortals. Humans break easily, and some people notice. Not all of them, but there's always one, like the social worker there trying to force brochures on domestic violence on Wesley as we speak."

Angel looked stricken.

"Well, what else is she going to think? Have you ever seen Wes without a bruise or cut of late, not to mention broken bones. It's enough to make anyone suspicious. You're lucky she hasn't called the ..."

"What?"

"Cops. She called the cops."

Angel hunched over miserable, knowing it would be Kate who would be questioning Wesley.

"Oh, come on," complained Doyle. "While you're sitting there like a lump of marble your man there is being quizzed by police. Oh, don't worry, he's not going to give you up. Are you going to give him up? Cause while you're thinking on it just remember who literally went to hell and back for you. Time to make the big decisions, Angel. Do you stay or do you go. Do you let Wes teach you what it is to be human, or do you run and keep on running?"

He leant close.

"What are you going to do, Angel?"

Angel looked at him in complete anguish.

"I don't..." he faltered. "I don't..." tears ran down his cheeks. "I don't..."

"I do." Doyle smiled. "Courage. Doing what's right," he reminded gently. "You taught me that."

He leant forward and brushed Angel's lips with a ghostly kiss.

"You'll do the right thing," The fading apparition promised.

"I can't," Angel pleaded to empty air. Doyle was gone.

Angel was still sitting on his burnt and peeling steps twelve hours later when quiet footsteps joined him.

Wesley sat down beside him without a word. His left arm was in a sling, he was unshaven, uncombed, still in yesterday's clothes and he smelt strongly of beer. There were dark circles under his eyes.

Angel saw none of this, only that his lover had returned. He turned Wesley's face gently towards him, leant close and kissed him.

Wes drew back from the kiss and looked Angel directly in the eye.

"Right, here's how this works. Firstly, I'm not your personal slurpee any more. It's just too much temptation. Secondly, I want you to treat me with more respect. I know what I’m doing and I have my red badges of courage. And thirdly, don’t you ever, ever hit me like that again."

"I'm glad you came back," Angel spoke quietly. He'd already consented to Wesley's terms, several hours ago, just sitting here, while Wesley had been composing them over several pints of bitter.

"Wes," Angel started uncomfortably, noticing at last how wired Wesley looked.

Wesley bowed his head. "You know, don't you."

"How could I not, when I tasted you..." he trailed off, not wanting to confront that unfortunate memory.

"What could I have said, Angel? You don't trust me to back you up as it is. You think I'm a joke. I was trained to train the Slayer you know. My whole life was devoted to that cause. I know I get clumsy around you but that's just because I'm nervous."

"Because I'm a vampire."

"No, because I'm desperately in love with you, you fucking moron."

"You could have said something, Wes."

Wesley shifted on the step.

"Remember the story of the Spartan lad who let the fox eat his insides out rather than lose face?"

"Yeah. Oh." Angel realised. Wesley and his strict English public school upbringing, where speaking up was a far more heinous crime than sodomy.

Wesley just wasn't American. He was never going to publicly announce his discomfiture. Angel was going to have to watch for it, to realise long silences and a slight tightening of the mouth meant that Wesley was not amused. Angel was going to have to make more of an effort to pay attention to the little things.

Cordelia and Buffy had spoiled him, spelling everything out for him. Wesley was an entirely more subtle prospect all together.

Angel stroked Wesley's good hand softly.

"Wes," he started. "You are going to have to tell me these things sometime. I'm a vampire and it's been a while since I've attended to anyone's needs but my own. I've been a con man all my life and I tend to notice only what I need to, to get the job done."

Wesley nodded, but he still rather gnaw his own foot off than tell Angel there was anything amiss. Angel was intimidating at the best of times, and Wesley would rather die than endure the sort of pitying looks he was getting now. He was weak, and Angel knew it. He wondered why Angel put up with him before remembering the vampire was always attracted to the weak. It was in his nature. He couldn't help himself.

Well, Angel had himself a prize catch here.

Wesley looked up and found himself uncomfortably the focus of the vampire’s entire attention.

"I promise never to hit or bite you any more Wes. But you've got to promise me you'll give up the drugs. God, Wes, I never meant for you develop a speed habit just to stay up all night studying."

"I've done it before," Wesley sulked.

"Not on my account. Not any more."

"What? Did you think it was just my burning love for you and a willingness to please that got me through all those all night research sessions. Try and live in the real world once in a while, Angel," Wesley snapped, then regretted it just a bit when he saw his barbs had struck home. "Sometimes I have to do whatever it takes, end of the world is nigh, that sort of thing."

"I'll take my chances...but not with you. No more, please."

"Don't go all Puritan on me, Angel. Don't you dare give me the 'just say no' lecture, you of all people. I mean, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black, just a bit?" He bridled. "You know very well the best magic, like the best poetry or music, is best done completely arsefaced."

"Okay, special occasions then," he relented. "Just..."

Wesley shrugged. Whatever.

"I'll cut back," he promised. But that was all he was promising.

"Are you happy, Wes?" Angel asked, startling Wesley.

"What? Right here? Right now?"

Angel was looking at him expectantly. Wesley felt ill. Whatever he said now could make or break their friendship.

"I’ve had better days," he admitted honestly. "But I knew what I was doing when I fell in love with you, Angel. I walked into this with my eyes wide open. I knew what you were and what you did, and I know who you are and what you’re capable of doing. I wanted to be a part of that. I wanted to be a part of you."

He matched Angel’s intense look with his own.

"I love you, Angel, and I can't walk away. You're free to go if you need to, though." He gestured towards the door vaguely. "I know that you can never call a wild thing truly yours unless he chooses to stay, of his own free will. So go, Angel, if you have to, with my love and my blessing, and know that you will always have a place with me, if you should need one."

Angel brooded on this, then straightened, coming to a decision.

Wesley did his best to appear unconcerned. This must be Angel's decision. "Maybe you should go away for a bit, decide what you want to do," he suggested.

"No," Angel spoke at last. "I don't need to go anywhere. My home is here."

"Do you want me to go?" Wesley asked, unsure.

"No."

Angel pressed him back against the stairwell, sucking his tongue, his hand slipping under Wesley's belt to fondle what he found in Wesley's underwear. Wesley groaned.

Wesley had no sales resistance. He was putty in the vampire's hands. A few soft words, a few soft caresses, and he was Angel's, body and soul. He always would be.

"Yes, touch me, touch me, I love you so much, Angel, I love you, I need you, I want you..." Only the small still functioning part of his brain was aware Angel was nuzzling his throat and he stopped, his one good hand squeezing Angel's shoulder, pushing him back slightly.

"No. No neck," he warned softly.

"Sorry." Angel returned to kissing his mouth hungrily. Wesley made muffled mewling noises and came in his hand.

Wesley pressed his brow to Angel's, then rubbed the tip of his nose against Angel's, then finally brushed his lips to Angel's. He looked into those deep brown, almost black, eyes.

"You're a mad, bad Irish bastard, but I love you. I can't give you up. I want to be with you. Forever."

Angel brushed Wesley's cheek with his thumb. "I didn't want you to go." Angel admitted. "I need you too." He drew Wesley closer to him, carefully, tenderly, and they sat together, Wesley in his arms, with Angel bestowing affectionate kisses upon him.

"Angel," Wesley murmured as the vampire's lips finally left his, but his hands continued their general ministrations.

"Mmmm?"

"Can we get a room?