satyricon au go go

Blasphemous Rumours

 

Cordelia was woken from where she'd fallen asleep on her couch by the sound of Wesley and Angel going for it in the kitchen. She rolled over, able to see them both lit quite brightly by the yellowish kitchen light which spilled out into the darkened lounge room. Angel was leaning with both hands pressed up against the cupboard which rattled ominously with each thrust. Angel had his head bowed, and Cordelia could see from the tension that rippled up and down his arms that he was trying very hard to take the penetration without taking any pleasure in it. He wanted to give himself to Wesley, but only his body, not his soul.

Wesley thrust harder and faster, much more violently than he'd ever done before. The power and the aggressiveness fascinated her as she watched them. She heard Wesley's breathing grow ragged, and guessed that he was close. Even closing her eyes, she found herself listening to his cries, and the short moan as he came. She watched him, panting and kissing and touching Angel, unable to look away from them. She watched Angel turn around and gather Wesley up in his arms. She watched them kiss, and she envied Wesley, envied him the way Angel couldn't get enough of the kiss. Then she saw Angel pull away, twisting away, and Wesley letting him, knowing he dare not reach for him and touch him as Angel fought bitterly for control, and Cordelia felt herself well up with sudden tears, pitying them.

In the morning Wesley was gone. He'd caught a taxi to the airport without waking either of them, much to Angel's grief.

For days Angel stalked about Cordelia's apartment like a caged animal denied its coffee fix, lost without his constant companion.

Finally he slumped at Cordelia's table, scowling at the front page of the day's paper without reading it.

Angel snuck a sideways glance at the clock.

"Trying to figure out the time in Tibet? Cordelia realised, and he hunched over, annoyed to be caught out so easily.

"I don't see why Wesley gets the all expenses paid holiday," she continued. "We need a new office, new office furniture..."

Angel looked up at her directly.

"Because Wesley needed a holiday. You saw him. He was a wreck. And anyway, it's not a holiday, it's a sabbatical. Just some peace and quiet for him to recover and study. I mean, he's been tortured, burnt, blown up..."

"And coming down off coke," Cordelia added pointedly.

"He did it because I pushed him to hard," Angel defended Wesley.

"He is rather over eager to please," Cordelia agreed.

Angel gave her a look that was both scolding and amused.

"I don't have a problem with it, usually," he grinned.

"Please," Cordelia begged. It was bad enough living with two flatmates who were screwing each other without having to rehash every sordid detail. They kept her awake enough as it was.

"What does Wesley put as occupation on his visa?" Cordelia suddenly needed to know. "Demonologist? Failed Watcher? What?"

Angel shifted, unhappy with the term 'failed Watcher'.

"I think he still goes by research assistant."

Cordelia detected a note of defensiveness.

"You miss him, huh?"

Angel gave her a 'well, duh' look.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. For Angel, just that one second admission was worth twelve books of poetry from a normal guy.

Angel turned over the newspaper page absently and scanned the print, only half paying attention. And then he stopped.

A small choking noise caught Cordelia's attention and she glanced across at Angel, who had gone completely white, if it was possible for him to be any paler. More than that, it was the expression, the absolute horror and devastation on his face that scared her.

"Angel?" she asked, getting up and backing away from the table a little. "What is it?"

Angel was still staring at the newsprint.

"He's gone. I've lost him. Dear God, I've lost him."

"Lost who?" Cordelia demanded.

He looked up at her at last, eyes wet.

"Wesley's plane," he managed. "It crashed."

Cordelia snatched the paper away from him and skimmed it until she came to the couple of paragraphs buried on page 17.

"How do you know it's Wesley's plane?" she challenged.

"That's the flight number."

Of course Angel would have that memorised.

"Aren't they supposed to notify the next of kin, or something?" Cordelia still searched for a way out.

"I'm not the next of kin. I'm just the boyfriend," he reminded glumly.

"Yeah, but they disowned Wes. That makes him our next of kin. Didn't he fill out some sort of contact card anyway?"

"That's only for the States, and they've only found the wreckage by satellite. They still haven't reached it by foot, if you read the second paragraph. They won't know for sure until they've recovered the wreckage."

"Then he might still be alive," Cordelia tried optimistically.

Angel shook his head sadly. "An old plane going down in the mountains." It was all he had to say.

Cordelia sat down again at the table.

"Oh god," was all she said.

 

+

 

"Yes, I'll hold," Angel offered dully, leaning against the wall, phone at his ear. The dinky little hold tune grated at his already flayed nerves. He felt like crushing the phone in his hands, but that would solve nothing.

Though it would help. It wasn't like he wanted to take any calls right now. Not only was Angel Investigations without an office, they'd now suffered a death in the family.

This running a business, pretending to be human, it was too hard, too painful.

Cordelia watched Angel hunch over further and further as he was kept on hold. This was really eating him up. He was going to fall into despair when the reality finally hit home, and the thought of what that would do to Angel scared her, more than a bit. She didn't want to see him spin out of control, not when she was here alone all by herself.

"It's a bit rude, putting you on hold like that, when you're bereaved and everything." She spoke at last. She snatched the phone off him.

"Hello? Hello? A person? Good! At last! Now you listen, my friend here, his defacto was meant to be on that plane. We need to confirm that he actually boarded the flight." A pause." "Wesley Wyndam-Pryce." Another pause and she spelt it, slowly and forcefully. A longer pause. "Oh. Alright. Thankyou." She put the phone back on the receiver gently and turned to Angel.

He didn't need her to say the words. He could see it in her face. He slumped into the nearest seat, numb. Completely numb.

Angel sat like a stone at the table. Then his eyes rested upon Wesley's vampire mace, lying discarded on the table where he'd left it.

Angel remembered Wesley had been so inordinately pleased with himself.

"It's Holy Water in a demister, see," he squirted. "Vampire mace."

"Heey!" Angel complained, jerking backwards.

"Ooops," said Wesley, looking thoroughly unrepentant.

Angel gave him a withering look.

"You'll get yours," he promised.

"Spank me then."

"In your dreams."

"Oh please. Barf." Cordelia interrupted, heading out of the crossfire of the heated looks.

 

 

Shaking off the memory, Angel reached across, held for a long moment, then, holding out his other hand, pressed the button all the way down.

"Angel! No!" Cordelia knocked it out of his hand.

"God, Angel."

The skin on his hand blistered and boiled. He studied his hand for a moment, then the pain registered and he snatched it back, cradling it against his chest.

"Angel."

"I needed to feel something," was all he said.

"I know." She wrapped her arms around him, somewhat uncomfortably, but what else could she do.

 

 

Angel lay his head against the pillow, still clutching his bandaged hand against his chest. She tucked the blankets around him.

"Try and get some sleep," she advised.

Angel said nothing.

She closed the door quietly behind her.

"Dennis?" she spoke to empty air. "Don't let him open a window or anything, okay?"

 

 

+

 

Cordelia opened the door, looking more than slightly harassed.

"Willow, thank God." She opened the door wider. "And Buffy. And Spike."

Willow shrugged.

"Whatever. I've got a depressed vampire in my bedroom. He's been there for days, not eating, not speaking, not even moving. He's scaring me. I mean, more than the usual, you know, normal Angel bad stuff."

"He's really taking it hard?" Willow frowned in empathy.

"Hardest," Cordelia emphasised. "He and Wesley, total odd couple, I know, but they were good for each other. Really good. Sure, they argued and fought, a lot, but they...Angel really let his guard down with Wes. For a vampire, he's pretty fragile, emotionally. He's completely gone to pieces."

"Do you think I could..." Buffy asked.

Cordelia frowned. "I don't know, you might be the last person he wants to see right now, what with your breaking his heart and all."

"Oh, bloody hell." Spike pushed off his chair and strode into the bedroom.

"Hey, mate." He sat on the edge of the bed quietly. Angel didn't answer.

"It hurts, I know." Spike stroked the dark hair softly in an unconscious familiar gesture. "You give your heart to someone and they go away. But you can't let it beat you. You and me, mate, we're better than that."

 

They heard an enormous crash from the bedroom, and moments later Spike came stalking out, muttering "Fucker."

Willow pushed her seat back and stood up.

"Willow, I don't think that's a good..." Buffy called after her, but Willow had already stepped into the ring.

She found Angel standing by the open window. Fortunately the sun had long since set.

"Angel?"

He turned to her, looking completely distressed, and they just held each other for a long while.

"Willow, I've lost him," He wept softly after a long while.

"I know." She led him to the bed and they sat down together.

Angel plucked at the coverlet uselessly.

"When I realised I could never turn Wesley, what it would do to him," he read her expression of barely disguised horror. "I knew I'd lose him one day. But I never imagined it would be so soon, or that it would feel like this."

"I know. Sometimes, I worry about my friends, you know, when we go off to fight big evil, but I know that's nothing compared to knowing you can never be with the one you love, not ever again."

"I miss him."

"I know."

"I can't face going to his flat, back to, everything. His scent will be there, on everything he's touched. All his things will be there, everywhere I look. Even some of his food, still left in the fridge."

"Do you want me to go there and pack it away for you?"

He considered this. "Thanks, but no. I should do it."

"Your afraid packing away his things will make it real."

"Doesn't it?" he asked quietly.

 

 

Tibet...

A gust of icy wind brought a ragged, filthy, bowed over figure stumbling over the threshold to collapse just inside the entrance of the temple.

The monks gathered around, one bravely rolling the creature over.

It was a man.

Filthy, wrapped in blood covered rags bound in strips to protect his hands, feet and ears, half starved and wild looking, and completely unconscious.

The will to live had taken him so far. Now exhaustion claimed him.

 

+

 

It had been quiet for a long while. Too long. Willow finally emerged, said nothing, though they all looked at her expectantly. She went to the cupboard, found Angel's cup as described, filled it with blood from the fridge and popped it in the microwave.

"He must be feeling better if he's asking for his warm blood," Cordelia observed.

Buffy looked at her.

"What? Wesley got tired of Angel whining about how disgusting cold blood from the fridge was, so he introduced Angel to the joy of microwaves."

Buffy gave a look as though to say it wasn't entirely less disgusting.

The bell dinged and Spike took on the attitude of Pavlov's dog.

"Go ahead," Cordelia waved, somewhat exasperated. "Suddenly I'm running a vampire bar."

Willow cradled the hot blood carefully in her hands.

"How is he?" Cordelia asked quietly, seriously, concerned.

"He's getting over the shock, now, but we've still got six more stages of grief to go through. It's going to be a bumpy ride. I don't think Angel's ever lost someone he really loved before, at least and not have been responsible for it."

"Oh, I think he feels responsible for this, too," Cordelia observed dryly. "Where's a vampire shrink when you need one." She pleaded to empty air.

Willow made a small face that suggested being stuck with only Cordelia for sympathy wasn't quite what Angel needed right now. "I'll sit with him, for a bit." she offered. "I think the quietness bothers him."

"Quietness?" Cordelia had to ask.

"He's used to having Wesley's heartbeat nearby."

Cordelia screwed up her face. "Gross. Whatever." She guessed it was sort of like having the fan on for white noise at night. She waved Willow back in. Anything to get Angel out of his current state of paralysing misery. She glanced around her table. For once, she was actually glad Buffy was there, just in case.

Tibet...

The thin young man whimpered as the damp cloth was stroked along his flesh, cleaning away the blood and grime, revealing pale white skin, terrible scars and wounds. He was already sweating with a fever, the sounds he made were insensible, and he instinctively shied away from the light, even with his eyes closed. He trembled with cold and the young novice rubbed his limbs dry gently but firmly.

Wesley rolled into the touch, murmuring and the novice felt his arousal, whipping his hand away as if burnt.

Wesley whimpered again and the novice drew the blankets around him, sat down beside the low cot and rubbed Wesley's hand between his own, a safer form of contact that seemed to sooth the strange young man.

The novice sat by Wesley all night and all day, trying to make Wesley sipped at the water offered, without much success, trying to keep him covered when Wesley kicked away the blankets.

As night fell again Wesley's fever grew worse, his breath grew weaker and he seemed in great pain. The novice could tell by touch that Wesley's ribs and collarbone were broken. The bruises were spreading red and purple across the near white skin. Wesley seemed to be badly concussed as well. He tried to wake Wesley, he spoke to him softly and loudly, but Wesley was losing the battle to stay in this life. Wesley was dying.

The novice went to fetch his Master. For some reason he did not want to see this man die. Not after surviving so much.

 

Wesley hissed and moaned in his delirium, lost in the land of nightmares. He lay very close to death, burning with fever. The elderly priest raised his oil lamp to aid his failing eyesight, and with rough worn hands, turned Wesley's head gently to the side, holding the lamp close.

The scars on the side of Wesley's neck were red raw, as though infected. The scars in the shape of savage bites, rents in the skin torn by teeth, teeth marks that were a perfect match for Angel's, not that any dentist had that boy on file.

Wesley tried to twist away as they poked at the wounds. Already, in the depth of the fever, his gums itched and his blood screamed. He whimpered and pulled away from the light.

"Bhayankara," the old man nodded to his novice. "The blood demons," he added in explanation to the boy's blank look. "They fight for his soul." He rested his hand lightly over Wesley's rapidly beating heart.

"Can we help him?"

The old man looked sharply at his young novice. So, already he cared for this stranger.

"Water," the old priest dismissed him and the young man scurried away for a shallow brass bowl of water, fresh from the well that morning.

The old man took the bowl and chanted over it for a long while, a mantra the novice had never heard before. Then, just as the repetitive hum of the old man's words were sending the young novice into a zone of peace not dissimilar to sleep, the old priest stopped and threw the water over Wesley's throat.

Wesley thrashed and screamed and it took the two of them and a third to hold him down. The thin body beneath their hands bucked and twisted violently in a fit. Wesley's eyes flashed yellow at them for an instant as he fought, then he fell back limp.

The old man pressed his hand again to Wesley's chest, to satisfy himself there was still a pulse. He smiled, so that the novice could see. Holding the flickering oil lamp again he indicated the wound was not longer quite so red. Almost a healthy, healing pink. Wesley was breathing more normally, in a deep sleep.

"The fever will be less now," the ancient advised. "But they have marked him. They will come for him. He will need protection."

The novice nodded. He would sit with the stranger for the rest of the night, and wonder how he had come to be bitten by demons, and how he come to be wandering, so broken and bloody, through the mountains in the night.

 

LA...

 

"A séance?" Willow frowned down the phone.

Angel picked up the phone and walked over to the far corner of Cordelia's living room, getting strange looks there as well.

"Yes, a séance," he repeated in softer tones, trying not to be overheard. "I need you to perform a séance for me. Can you do it?"

Willow heard the pleading in his voice. Wesley wasn't there to ask, so she guessed she was the only other person Angel could turn to. Well, there was Giles but she knew why Angel hadn't gone there for help.

"Angel, are you sure you want to do this? Messing with the spirit world can be a big deal."

"I know." His voice sounded tight down the phone. "But just for a moment, I thought I felt Wesley with me. I dreamt of him."

"Angel," Willow's voice was as gentle and patient as she could make it. "Are you sure it's not just wishful thinking, you know, seeing what isn't there because you want to?"

"I didn't see, I felt...I know it was Wesley."

"Well, okay," Willow agreed slowly, not just because of the difficulty in trying to be sceptical of supernatural phenomenon when you were talking to a vampire, but because he was starting to sound agitated. "Okay, Angel, we can do that, if you think it would help," she placated.

"Good. I'll get Cordelia to pick you up."

"Okay," Willow said again, not entirely sure of this. It wasn't that she didn't believe. If Wesley was a ghost, then there's nowhere he'd choose to be but by Angel's side. Perhaps Angel was more sensitive to these things, being dead and everything, but the larger part of Willow felt this time he was acting out of grief, and she was concerned. She remembered the last time Angel had been haunted. He'd nearly lost it. She was worried he might be losing it again. The demon was always there, and if Angel wasn't in control, well, she just didn't want to think about it.

 

Tibet...

Wesley opened his eyes a crack and was surprised to see a European face smiling benignly at him.

He started babbling in Tibetan, causing the young man to laugh.

"It's all right," he reassured with a soft Scottish burr. "I speak English. I was charged with your care when we discovered you were white. We didn't know you were until we bathed you. How long had you been wandering out about there?"

Wesley closed his eyes. "Don't know," he rasped.

"May I ask how you came to find yourself here?"

"I was coming here. Plane crash." That was all Wesley managed.

Indeed there had been a plane crash. Ever curious, the monks found it well before the Chinese army and managed to salvage Wesley's backpack, also miraculously whole, more or less, and a few other odd bits scattered about that might be useful.

They said their prayers for the dead and left, returning quietly to their mountain enclave, carved out of the remote stone hundreds of years ago.

Colin patted Wesley's decidedly worse for wear back pack beside the bunk.

"Is there anyone you want us to contact, to let them know you're all right? Getting messages in and out is difficult, but not impossible."

Wesley opened his mouth to speak, but something stopped him and he shook his head.

Not Angel, not yet. He turned his face to the wall, miserable. He felt something tearing away inside. May this was their way of telling him to get out and stay out of Angel's life. His eyes burned with bitter tears.

"Hey," Colin saw the tears. "It's all right. You don't have to make any decisions right now. You're safe here. Just rest and get well." He drew the blanket up over Wesley and left him alone.

Wesley sobbed and gasped in pain as his broken ribs protested. This was the hardest decision he ever had to make, but he had to make it. He huddled under the blanket and wallowed in pain and self pity.

LA...

Willow produced a bottle from behind her back and pressed it to Angel.

Angel took it, somewhat confused, but noted it was a fire drop of trash whisky she'd bought him.

"What's this for?"

"I thought you need those kind of spirits more than the other world kind."

Angel looked bereft.

"You're not going to do the séance?"

"No." Willow shook her head, looking resolved.. "Wherever Wes is now, he's at peace, and I feel we should leave him in peace. So I thought we could have a wake instead. See him off in style. Say goodbye. I know you never got a chance to say goodbye, Angel."

Angel was still cradling the bottle in his hands.

"Just the three of us?" he asked at last.

"Well, we knew Wes the best," Willow reminded.

This was true. Wesley had no other close friends, he realised. Even Giles and Buffy were strangers to him. The only other person who might possibly give a damn was Faith, and Angel had no idea where she was.

Angel cracked open the lid and breathed in the bitter sweet scent. Bottled in Ireland. He could smell the water. It smelt right, like home.

He managed a smile for Willow. As usual, she knew the right thing to do. He'd get drunk and wake up with a hangover tomorrow, but he'd feel better.

He lined up three of Cordelia's shot glasses and poured it out.

"Slainte," he offered, and slammed it down. He poured himself another.

 

Tibet...

"Do you know how you got here," Colin asked again softly, tending Wesley.

His Scots accent twisted the words so that Wesley at first thought he was still speaking a foreign language, until at last his brain began to recognise patterns and finally words.

"I walked," was all Wesley ever said when asked. It was all he really remembered. Walking. Walking in the direction he was driven to walk in. That was all. Nothing more. Just walking. Painful, bloody and bruised walking. Leaving the wreckage behind and walking up into the mountains.

Wesley winced as Colin unwrapped the bandages as gently as he could, though the cotton had dried to the blood in some places, and it hurt as it came away. He was prodded gently, smeared with more salve that smelt very unpleasantly like yak fat, and he was rebound again.

Wesley watched Colin's gentle hands as he worked and Colin grinned.

"You do kind of remind me of Ramses II," he remarked. "All skin and bones and dirty bandages." He ran a finger down Wesley's bony chest, until the skin disappeared under the cotton bandages, then thought better of it. He was being overly familiar, especially now Wesley was conscious.

Wesley had been enjoying the feel of warm and gentle hands upon his skin and he missed the contact. Wesley licked his dry lips.

Colin saw the gesture and reached for a nearby cup of water, holding Wesley up in the crook of his arm so he could drink without dribbling it all over the place.

"What you need is to eat something," Colin fussed.

Wesley shook his head. He had other need though.

"I need to pee."

"Right. 'Fraid it's the old coke bottle method for now. It's too far to drag you to the privy and back. Do you want me to hold it for you? Don't be shy, I used to be a nurse," he reassured.

The bottle slipped under the blanket and he felt Wesley firm slightly as he held him, but neither said a word and the whole embarrassing operation was done in professional silence. Wesley hated the intrusive lack of privacy when he was ill, but what else could he do. Colin the ex-nurse was right, he was in no condition to drag himself to a privy which was probably no more than a windswept hole in the wall in any case.

Colin discretely dealt with the bottle's contents, though he noted with a critical eye that there seemed to be traces of blood in the urine. Not surprising, considering how banged up the poor guy was. If it continued, then he'd get worried.

What was more worrying was the amount of injuries the young man had sustained, new, recent and old. From the look of it he'd been shot, stabbed, flogged, beaten up and mauled. And he'd survived.

Colin half fancied he had a special forces officer on his hands. The reticence to talk or divulge any personal information and the slender wooden spear he'd found taped to Wesley's upper arm only fed into his fancy.

Wesley's face brightened at Colin's return. Colin noticed this. For a moment, he'd seemed so sad, so lost.

Colin sat down beside him and opened his much thumbed copy of Burns.

"I was reading this to you when you were out of it. Would you like me to continue?"

Wesley nodded and settled down, listening to Colin's voice rise and fall softly with the words, not hearing them or bothering to understand, just letting himself be soothed by the voice. Soon he forgot his aches and he slept.

Colin studied Wesley as he slept, stroking his hand softly.

So haunted, even when he slept.

"What have you seen, my man?" Colin asked the sleeping Wesley, knowing he'd probably never get an answer.

+

Cordelia wandered sleepily out to the kitchen, rubbing her pillow tangled hair.

"Hey, Angel."

He made a non committal noise, stretched out on her couch reading a thin bound volume.

"Good read?" she asked, trying to engage him.

He glanced up.

"What are you reading?" she pressed.

"One of Wesley's journals. He kept on with them, even after being thrown of out the Watchers."

"Aren't they supposed to be private - oh." She perched on the coffee table.

"Anything interesting? Does he say nice things about me?"

The corner of Angel's mouth curled up.

"Yes, he does." He turned over a page. "He doesn't like Buffy though. She really wounded his fragile pride."

Cordelia nodded. Angel was still using the present tense, but Cordelia didn't want to correct him.

"Male egos can be so breakable. Want anything?"

Angel shook his head.

"Okay." She popped up and went into the kitchen.

Angel turned another page, his finger trailing across the hand written words, feeling the loops and downward strokes formed by Wesley's hand.

Wesley. He could still smell his scent, lingering on the pages. He could imagine Wesley's slender fingers resting upon the page.

Wesley was writing about Angel again. The fascination had been there from the start. He was conflicted and there was obvious mistrust, not helped by being deliberately sidelined by everybody. They’d trusted a vicious killer like Angel over Wesley. They'd hurt him.

Angel was sorry for the hurt, but Wesley hadn't made himself easy to like. He just sort of slid under your radar, and when he wasn't around, that's when you realised you missed him.

+

"Hey, sleepy head. Rise and shine."

Wesley cracked an eye open. "It isn’t even light yet," he complained.

"No, but it is morning, technically. Time you were out of that bed."

"Just a few minutes more, Mum," he pleaded.

Colin whipped back the sheets like the cruelest Drill Sergeant. "Up, now, lazy bones. You’ll never get better if you stay in bed all day, playing the Victorian invalid."

"But I like lying here being fussed over…" Wesley protested to deaf ears.

"Come on, Wes, you need to get moving." Colin cajoled, more serious now. He was in nurse mode and Wesley reluctantly obeyed.

They lurched together like two young lads staggering out of the pub at closing time.

"Steady there." Colin got a better hold on Wesley, who had nearly tripped over with the sudden change in equilibrium.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Woozy."

"Want to sit down again?"

Wesley shook his head and regretted it.

Colin looked him in the eyes closely. He should be over his concussion. Maybe he'd just stood up too fast.

Colin reached into his cargo pants pocket and produced a rare and precious chocolate bar. He broke off a piece and slipped it between Wesley's lips.

"You need the sugar rush more than I do. This is a rare sacrifice, you realise."

Wesley sucked on the chocolate in sugar and caffeine nirvana.

"You've been holding out on me," he accused mildly.

"Be nice to me, sailor, and you might get some more," Colin teased, and they both chuckled softly.

"Where to?" Colin asked.

"Loo." Wesley insisted, feeling the sudden influence of gravity.

Colin made a face. "Can we at least take the scenic route? If you're up to it?"

"Yeah," Wesley nodded.

And they limped off, with Colin's arm tight around his waist.

+

Wesley began to totter through the warrens of ancient buildings by himself, but it never took Colin long to find him, perched in some high or low spot, always by himself, gazing out to the horizon.

Colin watched him, dressed lightly, sitting on the carved stone steps, just sitting and staring out over the mountains. Even at this distance, Colin could see he was sad. The sadness hung around him like an aura. It coloured his every movement, every expression. He wandered about the temple like a ghost, speaking rarely, and seeking no one's company but his own.

He did not talk about himself, or where he'd come from. They only knew his name from his passport. They knew he'd been born in England, but must have been living in America because his driver's licence and his money were American. These things they'd found on him when he'd first crossed their threshold. Why he'd come to Tibet, where and how he'd come to be attacked by a demon, he wouldn't say.

The monks let their stranger have his peace, and Colin followed their lead. But he ached to know more about this man. He was an enigma, and Colin was fascinated. The stranger in their midst was all Colin thought about, during the day when he went about his duties, and during the night in his dreams. This man, he knew things, and he'd obviously seen things that no man was meant to see. Colin was intrigued.

Wesley didn't move, even when he heard Colin's footsteps on the stone behind him and heard the sound of his warm breath escaping into the cold, thin mountain air. A warm woollen blanket was draped around Wesley's shoulders. The untreated wool smelt strongly of animal oils, sweat and urine, but he didn't complain, welcoming the warmth.

"You'll catch your death of cold," Colin scolded softly, and hearing such a quaintly familiar phrase in such settings made Wesley laugh.

Colin beamed to have made Wesley smile and laugh, and made bold to sit down beside him on the step.

Wesley was still smiling at him, suddenly realising how long he'd been exiled to America and how homesick he was. He must be, if even a Scottish accent could make him all misty.

They sat quietly together, sharing the quiet companionship of two Brits stuck together in the middle of nowhere.

From then on the two were virtually inseparable. They ate their meals together, studied together, performed their chores together, once Wesley was deemed well enough to contribute, and slept together in the same cell, curled together for warmth, but no more than that.

Colin must have been desperately lonely though perhaps without realising it. Though he never pressed Wesley for information, for which Wesley was eternally grateful, Colin babbled endlessly, free to run on in his native tongue. Wesley now knew Colin was younger than him by several years, had dropped out of university, much to everyone's disgust, and come to Tibet to find himself, as the Americans used to say. He'd gone straight from school to nursing and university and never had that year or two to run wild, so he was running wild, as such, now. He was a gentle bookish soul, with gold wire rimmed glasses, a taste in music that leaned towards Belle and Sebastian and the only time he ever came close to losing his temper was when Wesley mocked Scotland's performance in the World Cup.

He was almost a twin soul of Wesley and this caused the other monks a great deal of amusement.

He was extremely good company for Wesley though. They shared a common language, a common background. They could make sly jokes or even half jokes and catch the other's meaning. He shared Wesley's passion for learning and helped Wesley find and translate all manner of texts held within the temple, never once asking about the peculiarly themed subject matter, no matter how much he burned to know.

Colin himself basked in Wesley's company. He felt privileged, somehow, to be allowed into such an intimate acquaintance, even if Wesley did keep himself guarded. Upon Colin he bestowed the honour of companion, and Colin revelled in it. It was true, he was lonely, and he liked Wesley, he respected Wesley, and at every stolen opportunity he watched Wesley, certain he'd never seen a more handsome man.

+

Wesley had Colin's tiny reading desk entirely covered with ancient scrolls.

Colin lifted up the top one, careful not to disturb their order. Not that there was any apparent order.

"A little light reading?" he teased.

Wesley looked up from his notes, startled by Colin's presence.

"I'm sorry, I was reading."

"I know. Interesting subject matter. Demons, demons and let me guess, ah, more demons. The whole pantheon, by the look of it. Hobby of yours? Let me guess, theology student?"

"Something like that."

"Ah. Arts master. Thesis. Anthropology, folklore, religion, mythology, psychology?"

"Something like that."

Colin sat on the end of the bunk Wesley occupied.

"You can read this, straight, without a dictionary?"

"I must have lost my dictionary. It's hard, but I'm getting the hang of it. It's been a while. My Tibetan's a bit more rusty than I thought. However, everyone is happy to help with the translation if I get really stuck on a word."

Colin spread out a discarded scroll that lay upon the bed. It was richly illustrated.

"He looks gruesome," he noted of the garishly painted ugly looking brute depicted.

"Seen worse," Wesley dismissed without thinking.

"Really?" Colin carefully spread open another scroll. "Guess so. Wouldn't want to run into him in a dark alley."

"Not without a very sharp and sacred broadsword, no," Wesley agreed.

Colin grinned.

"Come to think of it, I think he runs a pub in Glasgow."

"Entirely possible," Wesley agreed distractedly, still making his notes.

These scrolls were a godsend. A veritable who's who of demon lore, listing characteristics, haunts, habitats and, best of all, advice on protection rituals.

Wesley was all for protection spells. Killing demons wasn't his strong suit, and it was lousy karma. It had to be an unlucky occupation, the number of times it had landed him in casualty.

"Can I help?" Colin asked, bored.

Wesley considered this, then consented,

"Sure. Just like a score card. Name, attributes and countermeasures."

"Okay. You don't write computer games for a living, do you Wes?"

"No."

"Cool." Colin grinned. "Just checking," he teased, and drew the nearest scroll towards him."

Wesley glanced across at Colin, head down, scratching away at his second notepad.

God, was that what he looked like. Is that what Angel saw? Young wet behind the ears geeky Brit, eager to please, never taking his nose out of a book.

Still, it was good to have help, and misery loved company.

Colin gazed up at Wesley.

"Working holiday, huh?"

"Always," Wesley agreed ruefully. A part of his mind screamed he could drop this right now, run away, be someone else, somewhere else. But something else drove him to keep working. Even if he never saw Angel again, there’d still be other demons to fight, other rituals he needed to know backwards just to save his own sorry skin.

Wesley was looking better, at least, Colin noted. The bruises had faded and there was some colour to his skin now, from being out of doors a lot, in the open air, wandering about at his leisure, a guest of the monastery.

Wesley had wanted to work for his keep but he still walked with a stiffness in his limbs and the old lama had told him there was plenty of time yet. Colin was teaching him Tai Chi and yoga, very slowly and gently, but his collar bone was still knitting. Between Faith, Angel and the plane crash he doubted he'd ever be able to throw a decent game of darts again.

He sucked absently on the end of his pencil as he read over his notes from the last week, hoping they still made some sort of sense.

Colin watched the pencil slide in and out of Wesley's mouth and wondered what Wesley's mouth would taste like and feel like, to kiss, to fuck.

Wesley was giving the undeserving pencil great head as he flicked his tongue around it. Oh yeah, he'd done that before.

+

Wesley leant back, dizzy and light headed. His limbs had never felt so abused. His knees and elbows were scabbed over and his back was threatening to go out on him again at any moment.

He wasn't quite sure what higher purpose scrubbing every floor in the monastery had, other than making him feel ill and tired again. Maybe it was to teach persistence and resilience. He thought he had both of those qualities already.

He sighed. If he was any sort of magician he should be able to wiggle his nose to get him out of this lot. He grinned, and traced a pattern in the water that lay thinly upon the worn stone, humming an incantation under his breath.

"Wesley?"

Colin's voice. He scrubbed out his half finished magic. Okay, lesson learnt. Do it the hard way. No short cuts. No sorcerer's apprentice rubbish. No tricks. Cleanliness is next to godliness. All that stuff.

He knelt back and glared at Colin, cranky.

"Need a hand?" Colin asked innocently.

Oh yeah, Wesley thought darkly, then pushed those thoughts away.

+

Wesley scooped the last of his rice out of his bowl greedily, licking his fingers.

As the very last of the drugs had left his system, his appetite had returned. All his appetites.

When Colin snuggled against his back in sleep Wesley felt Colin's erection nudge him gently.

Wesley rubbed back against it, sending Colin scurrying away to his own bunk, leaving Wesley to sleep alone and cold, bleeding warmth were Colin had lain beside him.

Damn. Idiot, he cursed himself. This wasn't the school dorm, after all. He'd wanted to, so badly, he'd wanted that warm cock inside him.

Miserable, he rolled over to muffle the sounds as he dealt with his own erection, thinking of Angel, fucking him, fucking him so hard he bled. His seed spilt over his fingers like bitter tears.

Treat me badly, he whispered angrily to the night. I get off on it. Treat me like dirt, and I'm fucking yours for eternity.

+

Angel was gazing across the table at the empty chair where Wesley would have, should have been sitting at.

Fuck it. He couldn’t look at the packet of biscuits Cordelia had left on the table without thinking of hi. Without remembering…

Wesley chewed absently on his biscuit like a child with a rusk.

Angel frowned at him, bored.

"You going to actually eat that or just suck it to within an inch of its life?"

In answer the tip of Wesley's tongue licked around the edge of the biscuit in ways that caused Angel actual physical pain just watching him. He shifted uncomfortably this way and that, then he just snatched the biscuit off Wesley and gnawed on it himself.

Angel smacked the box of biscuits off the table. Fuck it. This was worse than Doyle. Never again. Never again.

 

+

Wesley settled himself crosslegged on the floor, then cocked an eye at Colin.

"This won't bring forth large interdimensional spiders or anything, will it?" he enquired.

Colin let loose a shriek of laughter that pierced the stillness of the small monastery.

"No, nothing like that, I hope," Colin managed when he'd sufficiently recovered himself. He grinned at Wesley, very amused.

"Just checking," Wesley declared airily, trying to ignore Colin's giggles, hard though it was. They felt like naughty children, and it was a fun feeling, a silly in-joke shared.

"Just breathe," Colin assured. "Just breathe," he soothed. His voice was soft and cool, like silk, as were his hands as he arranged Wesley’s position gently and Wesley, eyes closed, wished for the return of those hands, but they were gone.

Wishing away those thoughts, he told himself. Wishing away all the bad thoughts.

 

+

"You look tired," Colin accused

Wesley pinched his brow.

"I am. All this reading by lamplight." He scowled at the low flickering wick. "And I lost my glasses and all this close work is driving me nuts and I’m not even sure why I’m bothering to any of this and…"

And then he stopped. Without a word Colin had begun slowly massaging his neck, soothing the muscles up and down. Wesley bent his head forward, and those feather light fingers crept up to his scalp and then across his shoulders, dipping down his back, under his shirt to run along his spine.

Wesley leant back into the touch with a sigh.

"Oh, god, that's good," he managed. And Colin's mouth was suddenly on his, warm and soft. The warmth surprised him and he responded to it instantly, almost rising up to thrust his tongue into Colin's willing mouth, grabbing hold of him, twisting him round until Colin was pressed against the desk and Wesley's erection was pressed against Colin.

Oh god, he could feel Colin's heart beat, his pulse under his skin, hot and alive. They kissed wildly. Wesley pressed him harder, rubbed against him harder, kissed him harder, and came hard, in a choking gasp against Colin's throat.

Colin gazed up at him with unblinking soft brown eyes and an expression that could be best described as adoration.

Wesley kissed him again. Colin's hands on his body seemed to know exactly where to touch.

They landed on the bunk together, Wesley fishing in Colin's trousers.

"Wes!" was all Colin said and nothing more as Wesley stroked him into oblivion.

"Wes," he said again, coming against Wesley.

They slid together, grappling all too eagerly, tipping themselves off the bunk as they tried awkwardly to remove clothing in a confined space.

Wesley leant over Colin, lifted him up, using their mingled seed as a salve and...

Colin stared fixedly at the ceiling, breathing in short strangled gasps, then he looked at Wesley, and only at Wesley as they moved, joined as one sensual creature, taking pleasure in each other.

They gripped each other hard, rocking back and forth until Wesley came deep inside Colin. Colin lay there, smiling stupidly as Wesley pulled him off with fast and well practiced jerks of his fist.

Colin reached up to kiss Wesley, grabbing hold of him and kissing him more earnestly. They sat up, leaning against the bunk, exchanging warm kisses, over and over. Colin's hand ran up and down Wesley's erection, stroking it with a firm sense of possession.

"I love you," he declared in earnest, straddling Wesley, silencing all protest with a forceful kiss, mounting Wesley and riding him hard. Wesley's hands ran up his ribs, then wrapped around, holding him tight, their joined breath coming harder and harder. Colin strained forward, muscles tense for a moment, then relaxed.

"Heaven," he whispered. "Heaven, in your arms."

Wesley kissed him back hungrily, though he knew his own soul was in hell.

Utterly spent, Colin lay in Wesley's arms, so happy and complete. He closed his eyes and slept.

Wesley stayed awake, staring into the darkness. Where Colin floated upon infinite happiness, Wesley lay in torment as a thousand guilts pricked at him.

 

+

Wesley leant on the high temple wall, watching, smiling as a tiny bird snatched grains of rice from his open palm.

He seemed so happy, like a child, happy as he'd never been as a child, Colin suspected.

The bird flew off at last and Wesley closed his hand, still leaning on the wall, humming softly.

Colin hated to disturb him but he guessed Wesley was aware of being watched already.

"They're so tame," Wesley wondered.

"The monks are forbidden to harm them, so they have no fear of man."

"I worry about them," Wesley spoke quietly, watching the birds dart and play in the pale sky. "Everything should have a fear of man."

Colin leant on the wall beside him.

"That's very depressing but you're probably right." He turned from the birds to Wesley. "What have you seen?"

Wesley shook his head sadly. "I can't tell you." He ran his hand along the stone, tracing patterns. "What I've seen is the stuff that sends men mad."

"You're not mad."

Wesley laughed hollowly. "Don't be so sure." His face grew deadly serious. "I've seen and done things no man ever should."

"Is that why you're here?"

Wesley shrugged.

"I don't really know why I'm here. Why I walked away from that plane crash, why I walked here. I guess there's something I've yet to do."

"What?"

"I have no idea. I just have to wait around for my destiny. I'm just filling in time."

"Filling in time?"

Wesley shrugged again. "Studying, training, making ready for whatever they feel like throwing at me next."

"You don't like to look on the bright side, do you."

"I've lost everything I hold dear."

"Have you?" Colin questioned.

"It feels like it."

Colin's arm rested on his shoulder.

"Who broke your heart, I wonder."

"It was a group effort," Wesley admitted. "But it all leads back to one."

Of that one he would not speak, not yet, and Colin knew it.

The bells tinkled and Wesley shrugged off Colin's arm.

"Another duty, another test," he half smiled wearily. "One of these days I'll be found worthy of collecting the day's water. Upon that day I'll know I'm truly ready to begin."

"Man, but you're bitter and twisted," Colin admired.

"Takes practice," Wesley advised. "And having your heart broken by an expert in the field. Preferably Irish." And with that one revelation he would say no more.

 

+

"Angel?"

Angel was sitting on the couch, frowning at a folded letter on formal stationary.

"Bill?" Cordelia asked.

He acknowledged her after several more long moments of continous frowning.

"It's a letter from Wesley's family's solicitors. They inform me that Wesley's remains have not yet been positively identified by dental or DNA records and ask that I could list and describe any personal effects Wesley might have had on him at the time. All very businesslike." He turned the letter around so she could see the three 10 point justified paragraphs.

Cordelia took the letter, perched on the rest, and scanned the three perfunctory paragraphs.

"Cold," she decided. "If they can't find anything, there's hope, right?"

Angel shook his head.

"No. That just means it was bad."

"Oh," was all Cordelia said. Then her face scrunched up for a moment. "God, poor Wesley." Then she composed herself again.

"Give me a list, I'' write back to them for you."

"I should do it."

"No, Angel, let me." She sank down beside him and covered his hand with her own, squeezing it slightly.

They sat in silence together for a long while.

 

 

+

Wesley plucked at a small flower that had managed to poke through the spring thaw. He'd admired its beauty solemnly, but now he was demolishing it slowly. Sitting by himself he plucked each petal in turn and cast it to the wind, with the age old chant: "He loves me, he loves me not..."

What the final cast was, Colin did not hear, as Wesley had grown quieter as the penultimate petal had approached. The way he crumpled the remainder of the flower in his hand and let it drop, uncaring onto the still frosty ground, and the way he hunched over further, gave Colin reason to think the flower's fortune had not been favourable.

Poor Wes, he thought with great feeling. He hated the nameless brute who had so obviously strip mined Wesley's heart and soul and then discarded him with equal callousness. Or perhaps Wesley had walked out. Whatever, he didn't deserve Wesley and Colin feverently wished Wesley would wake up and see what was offered, freely and gladly, right within his grasp. Impossible dreams were just that, impossible, and he didn't think Wesley had anything left to give to that fool's quest, without losing himself completely.

And sadly, Colin knew in his heart Wesley was a classical fool, and he'd die trying for his holy grail, ignoring the perfectly happy and serviceable cups along the way.

Poor Sir Galahad and his crumpled flower. Quests were never easy or happy things. It would destroy Wesley and Colin knew there was nothing he could do to stop Wesley on his path, only delay him a little.

 

 

+

 

Colin gazed up from the scroll he was studying to study Wesley yet again, deep in concentration.

"Do you believe in angels, Wes?" Colin began conversationally.

"Huh?" asked Wesley, not really paying attention until the A word.

Colin smiled affably. "It's just that when you were really out of it you were raving about an angel."

Wesley frowned slightly. "Angel is my...employer," he allowed.

Colin nodded. He didn't say anything, but Wesley's cries had not been those of a mere employee. At least, not as Colin understood the usual staff/management relationship.

"This Angel," Colin pressed gently.

"Don't," Wesley pushed back. He moved away restlessly. He didn't want to think of Angel. Not now. Not here.

Colin saw the flash of pain in Wesley's eyes and didn't push it. He'd always known Wesley was running away from something. Now he knew from who.

Angel. So now Colin had a name to go with the memory of a man who possessed Wesley night and day. Angel, the man who'd hurt Wesley so badly - you could see it in his eyes. Angel, the man who didn't deserve a man like Wesley.

 

+

Wesley was trying to meditate, but it wasn't happening. As usual, Angel disturbed his thoughts. Not in the rock thrown in a pool way, either. No, Angel was like throwing a freaking outboard motor in there.

From a distance at least Wesley could see what he had done. Gone straight for the father figure. Cold, distant and abusive.

In spite of all his Watcher training, he'd followed Angel around and leapt all over him like a lovesick puppy. Even knowing what would happen, must happen, he'd still acted on his obsession with Angel.

Maybe it was karma, that his life sucked so badly. He'd screwed up with Faith and Buffy so badly those girls would be paying for his mistakes for the rest of their lives.

He tried to do the right thing, but somehow he never managed it. He was a bad seed and he was going to hell.

He was vaguely aware of the monks nodding in his direction, like he was a spectator sport.

At least it amused them that this bad seed was trying to redeem himself. Give him an A for effort at least. Even Buddhism applauded the prodigal son, the squeaky wheel, the hopeless case.

Maybe that's what he wanted. Applause for his meagre efforts.

It's not like he was ever going to get any from Angel. Only ever cruel taunts over his lack of ability in just about anything. Daddy Dearest all right. But at least Angel was a demon. His own father had no such excuse.

Wesley stopped that train of thought dead in its tracks.

But honestly, what did he expect from Angel? Chocolate hearts and flowers?

He could see it now on Oprah. My boyfriend is a monster. But Oprah, he really is a monster.

That's why Wesley missed the old freak shows. It was so much easier to believe in monsters when they walked amongst you, when you could see them or even touch them. Even with the most obvious fake, a part of you still wanted to believe.

Now monsters, unnatural and supernatural, were hidden away, altered or disguised. And that was the problem. No one took the proper precautions these days. Not even Wesley, who knew better.

So now the demon hunter was infected by the love of a demon. He was becoming what he feared most.

A soulless monster, just like his father.

Just like his lover.

He felt his breathing go up several notches. Oh yeah, this meditation lark was really soothing, not, he cursed, his inner voice parroted Cordelia at her most displeased.

He didn't want to get in touch with his inner demons. Not unless they had their cock rammed up inside him and...

Wesley's eyes flew open. He was breathing hard. That was it. Either he learnt to control those impulses or he gave this up.

The old priest was grinning at him. Wesley flushed, knowing his face was probably as open as a book. Glad to be of some amusement old man, especially seeing as you don't have any telly up here, he snarled inwardly.

He stared at the walls, covered in brightly painted leering fang toothed demons cavorting on elaborate panels.

Don't think of Angel. Don't think of Angel. As a mantra, it almost worked.

 

+

Wesley rolled over in his sleep and found Colin's warm body beside him. He nuzzled against Colin, sucking upon his throat, then pushed up his shirt and sucked hard on each of his nipples.

Angel rolled over, arching under Wesley's touch.

Wesley moved down, hearing Colin's moans as he kissed him, breathing in his warm, human scent. He pulled the trousers away and licked and sucked around his balls, making Colin twist and bite down on his cry. He slid his tongue along the length of Colin's cock until he reached the tip, swallowing.

Angel groaned, his fists grabbing at the sheets as he rocked back and forth.

Wesley worked that tip, watching Colin rock and roll under his teasing touch, until he sensed Colin was just about to explode, and he withdrew.

Angel cried out in need.

Wesley drew Colin up, and guided him into himself. That's what Wesley wanted and needed, and he watched as Colin leant over him, never leaving Wesley's eyes as he fucked him, only a few shorts strokes before he came.

Angel growled and came all over the mattress.

Wesley let Colin finish him off with his mouth, his hand sliding lazily through the dark hair, shorter than Angel's, softer than Angel's, and without that hair gel Angel was overly fond of.

Wesley thought of Angel's mouth, closed his eyes and came.

Angel groaned as he woke. He could still feel and smell Wesley in his dream, touch his warmth, and he didn't want to wake up. But the dream melted away like an early morning fog and he was lying on Cordelia's spare bed, and, he realised, the sheets were wet.

 

 

+

 

Wesley scratched a rough sketch of the bloodthirsty demons that decorated this niche of the temple.

He frowned at his drawing with a critical eye. As a rudimentary sketch, it barely passed muster. He certainly didn't have Angel's talent. He wondered about that at times, how a demon could be so talented, or whether it was an innate skill, a Liam thing. Either way, Angel certainly had the artistic temperament to go with it.

Wesley at least knew not all that temper was demon driven. Angel had raged into his vampirism, a very angry young man indeed.

And Wesley understood what Angel had been angry about. It was one of the few things they had in common. The old Greek tragedy ‘my father's an arsehole and deserves to die’ thing. That's probably why Angel was so had on him. He saw weaknesses in Wesley that he recognised himself. It must kill Angel, to see himself reflected in a shy English nerd. No wonder he kept lashing out and pushing Wesley away.

Self loathing all round. Lovely. It was never going to work, was it.

Though maybe, if he learnt to stand up for himself, maybe, just maybe, Angel would respect that.

Or maybe not.

Vampires. Who knows what goes on in there.

 

+

Angel rolled onto his stomach, undulating like a snake and moaning as Wesley's tongue flicked in and out of Colin, rimming him with determined strokes, making Colin bury his face in the mattress to muffle his screams.

Wesley's fingers followed his tongue. First one then two, twisting about, fucking him inside and out, making Colin's hips rise up and push back onto his hand, begging for more.

Wesley grinned, rose up and gave him more, driving his cock in as deep as it would go.

Angel clutched the sheet in his fists, groaning, thrusting up to meet the cock that was fucking him so good.

Gripping Colin's hips Wesley pumped harder, grunting as he pumped faster. Colin squealed and Wesley collapsed on him, a heavily breathing, sweaty, sticky mess of limbs.

Angel woke the moment he felt Wesley's seed shoot up inside him, and he rolled onto his back, hand stroking down his chest to feel the cool semen that coated his stomach. His hand slid over his own cock and balls, giving them one last squeeze, feeling himself coat his own fingers. His blood screamed for Wesley, and he raged silently for this joke that was played out upon him every night.

+

 

BACK OF LOVE

Colin rolled a cigarette, licking along its length, sealing it tight. He handed it to Wesley and began rolling his own. Wesley lit up, breathed deep and leant back, blowing a neat little circle of smoke that obscured his face for a moment.

"Been a while, huh, Wes?" Colin grinned across at him.

"Not as long as you might think," Wesley smiled back.

Wesley took another drag and welcomed Colin settling close beside him.

"So, how long had you been in the States?"

"About 18 months or so, though it seems much, much longer." Wesley blew another cloud of smoke about him.

"Doing?" Colin hinted.

"Research."

"Like your research here?"

"Yep."

"Anthropology or theology major, huh? Or just the whole pagan trip?"

Wesley just shrugged. "I’m interested in folklore, traditions, that sort of thing," he allowed a small elaboration.

"You don't really believe, do you?" Colin asked quietly.

Wesley gazed at him, wondering what exactly he meant by that. He felt his bite itch in guilty association.

"What do you think?" he turned it back to Colin.

"I think you found the tiger you were hunting."

Wesley was shocked by the directness, and the truth of it. He put his cigarette to his lips and considered his answer.

"Yes, I did."

Colin leant closer.

"Was it...hideous?"

"You mean so terrible to look upon it would drive you surely mad? No, quite the opposite." He took another drag. "He was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen in my life."

"Man?"

"Creature," Wesley amended.

"That looked like a man."

"And walks like a man talks like a man but isn't a man. That's his curse, you see. Sometimes, he thinks he is a man, but he's always reminded that he's not."

"You sound like you know him."

Wesley laughed. A brittle hysterical laugh.

"Know Angel? Angel doesn't trust me enough to pick up his dry cleaning, let alone to learn the secrets of his soul," Wesley seethed with sudden invective.

"Was Angel the one who gave you this?" Colin brushed the scars on Wesley's throat lightly, but Wesley shied away.

Yes, then. Colin had suspected as much, the way Angel was always such a closed subject with Wesley.

"Did he mean to hurt you?" Colin had to ask.

Wesley looked like a frightened child, caught out doing something he knew he shouldn't.

"Yes, no," he stumbled. "With Angel, it's always both.

"Did you know he was a vampire when you started working for him?"

"Oh yes, I knew, long before that."

"Then how could you?" Colin couldn't believe it.

"Go like a lamb to the slaughter?" Wesley supplied the words. "Because he has the face of an angel, the heart of a demon and the clever tongue of a devil. No one can resist him. Ho one ever has. I think it must have amused him to take one of the Watchers Council as his own."

"Watchers?"

Wesley glared at rolled cigarette in his hand and realised he'd smoked too much and spoken too much. He glared at Colin. Clever bastard. More clever than he'd given him credit for.

Well, Wes, that's another reason they threw you out. It's not like you could keep your mouth shut. Babble away like an idiot under the most gentle interrogation.

Colin let it drop, seeing plainly that he'd touched on another subject not open for discussion.

Wesley took really long pull on his cigarette, watching Colin.

"So now you know. Angel's my vampire lover and he nearly killed me and he meant to do it."

"Is that why you're here? Running away from him?" Colin asked quietly.

The hand that held the cigarette lowered.

"Maybe. I needed to get out of LA. I never really thought about getting away from Angel. Just LA and everything in it." There was a pause. "I guess that includes Angel."

Wesley ran his hand lazily down the mud brick wall. "Hiding out, yes. Trying to banish the nightmares, yes. Learning all I can, all about history, mythology, philosophy, and magic. I need to be a stronger sorcerer than I am."

"Sorcerer?"

Wesley smiled, opened his palm and for a moment a flame danced there.

"You'll never need matches." Colin observed, too fascinated to be disturbed.

"That's if it works. I used to be much better at that stuff as a kid. I had a passion and it helps if you have passion."

"You have passion," Colin assured. "Kiss me."

Wesley leant forward into the kiss, eyes closed, warm tongues sliding together.

"Fuck me," Wesley demanded, and minutes later he was on his hands and knees with Colin behind him. He hissed and pressed back but Colin could never take him with the hard brutality he craved. He delighted in Colin's soft touches and kisses and his sweet sweet love making. But a part of Wesley wanted to be punished. A part of him wanted to be damned. Colin would never curse him. Colin only wanted to lavish love and warm kisses upon him.

Wesley shut his eyes and felt Colin's warm, living cock inside him, felt his pulse joining with own hot and heavy beat. It was enough to send him tumbling over the edge. He lay, with Colin's arms still wrapped around him, and wondered if Buffy, too, ached for the demon when she spread herself open for her milkwarm human lover.

 

+

Wesley's hand was on Colin's cock and his mouth was sucking on Colin's throat and Colin, waking to such attention, was in no doubt as to what Wesley needed.

"Top or bottom?" he managed to find the words to ask.

"Want you in me," Wesley groaned, and that answered it. Wesley was rolled on to his back, lifted up, and with a rubbing of spit, Colin entered him, inch by inch. He pressed down and Wesley groaned again. He took Wesley in his fist and pulled him off as he fucked him, each thrust bringing another low moan from Wesley. Colin sweated as he rode him and they came so close they felt each other shiver.

He let Wesley down gently and slide over him, kissing him with an possessive familiarity. He pressed Wesley down, the kiss growing more possessive.

Wesley cried louder and pushed Colin off his, rolling over to be sick over the side of the bed.

"Wes?" Colin asked as Wesley heaved again. He rested his hand lightly on Wesley shoulder and Wesley cried again.

Christ, his collarbone. Colin had pushed him back onto it and he hadn't said a word. The silly idiot.

Wesley rolled back, his face grey with pain.

"You should have said something," Colin accused bitterly.

"Didn't want to," Wesley murmured, and Colin got the sick feeling that Wesley had wanted the pain.

He wiped down Wesley's face and tucked him in gently.

"Don't ever do that," he admonished, leaving Wesley alone in the bed.

"I wanted to feel it. He did it, you know. He likes to hurt, he doesn't know how not to, he forgets how much he can hurt me, and I let him. Maybe I deserve it, I don't know. Maybe I need it, to know I'm still alive."

"Christ, Wes," was all Colin could say. "You shouldn't, it shouldn't be like that."

"It always is, with me," he answered quietly, turning his face away.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

"Yeah, water and some opium."

Colin administered the dose, just enough to let Wesley sleep, and he stayed with him as he slept. His shoulder was still stiff, swollen and deeply bruised. Colin cursed himself for forgetting, and cursed Wesley for being such a bloody masochist. He rubbed the local salve onto the discoloured flesh, Wesley not stirring in his deep, drugged sleep. He'd work on that shoulder, but not now. Wesley's problems ran deep and he'd have to watch him a lot more closely.

 

 

Colin checked on Wesley a little while later. He was still asleep. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the short dark hair softly.

Poor fucked up little Wes. At least his colour was back, a little, and the swelling on his shoulder was down a bit.

Colin gathered up Wesley's hand and took his pulse. Nice and steady at least, if maybe a bit slow. He held the thin hand in his own, then he noticed the small star shaped scar on Wesley's wrist. He turned Wesley's hand over. There was a matching scar. It went straight through. Curious, he carefully examined the other wrist. It had the very same scar.

He pulled the blanket down with infinite care, noting again the small ritual tattoos that dotted Wesley’s skin and cataloguing each wound, old and new. The broken collar bone, the slash over the ribs, the pock marks that he thought might be bullet holes or stab wounds, one close above Wesley's hip, one through his thigh. He followed down to the shin, an old break there, until he came to the feet and the same star shaped wounds.

Fuck, he realised with a shock. Wes hadn't just been in the wars or tortured. He'd been bloody crucified.

He noticed there were burn marks on the feet as well, smooth white patches of skin. Somebody had crucified him, burnt him and shot him through with an arrow. A form of ritual threefold death. Fuck, what games was Wesley playing, that he ended up as a ritual sacrifice and yet, somehow, had survived.

He moved up again, to the long slash mark down Wesley's arm, the cuts on his skin that had faded to white, the scars on his throat and thigh that looked kike savage bites. A cigarette burn just below his elbow.

This couldn't be all kinky shit. Wes had been in some sort of war. Colin knew that much. At least half of these wounds were combat injuries.

Oh, Wes, he thought as he traced the surgical line across his ribs. Looks like they'd been broken before, and badly. Wes, what had you got yourself messed up in?

+

 

"Angel, I took the sheets to the laundromat today, and is there something you want to tell me?" Cordelia accused.

"Oh." Angel looked downcast.

"Yeah. Oh. What gives? Are you evil again?" she squinted at him.

He hated that. She and Wes were always looking at him like that, always fearing the worst. Wes. Never again would he have to endure Wesley's 'do I need to get my crucifix' scrutiny.

Angel sat down on the couch, unsure of what to say.

"It's...I've been having dreams. About Wesley. Erotic ones."

"Oh," Cordelia thought for a moment.

"I thought you couldn't..."

"Apparently wet dreams don't count. If anything, they make it worse."

"You miss him, Angel. That's natural."

Angel stood up, agitated, making her step back.

"Nothing about this is natural. Wes is gone from my life without a trace. As always. It always ends the same, but not with Wes. I wanted it to be different with We. I wanted something..." He looked at her in anguish. "I miss the sound of his heartbeat, his smell, his touch, so much. And vampires, at least this one, never forget. I feel so hollow inside. I never thought I'd miss him so much, that I'd become so used to having him around. I pushed him away, because I was afraid of being domesticated."

"You? Never." Cordelia reassured.

"I was afraid of caring too much, and now he's gone, and I can't bear it."

Angel stood by the venetian blinds, fiddling with the cords.

Cordelia slapped his hand away.

"Don't!" she snapped. "Don't you dare leave me alone."

He looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

"I miss him too," she reminded.

+

 

"You want to know why I'm here?"

Wesley peered through the curling incense smoke at the old lama who watched him so carefully the scrutiny always made Wesley feel uncomfortable. It was like being summoned by the headmaster and found wanting, only worse.

"I'm curious as to why a Christian who carries pagan symbols on himself would want to try Buddhism, yes. I know you have a deep theological background, that you must have studied at university. Perhaps you are just finding your way."

"Perhaps I'm just expanding my knowledge through first hand research, in the field studies as it were."

"I do not think that is the whole truth. You are in great conflict. Your soul has touched a great darkness. They call it a crisis in faith, do they not?"

"Yes," Wesley admitted quietly. "Yes, they do." Wesley swallowed. "My friend, he's Catholic. He tries to repent but sometimes I doubt his sincerity. Three Hail Mary's and he's got a licence to go out and do it again. Maybe God forgives, but I'm not sure I do." He shifted uncomfortably, trying to voice his deepest held feelings and fears.

"I've spent my whole life trying to repent, turn away, close my eyes and hope it will all go away, suffer and be a good little boy and my reward will be when I die." His hands balled into fists.

"I don't want to die. I don't want to long for death and wait my reward. I need help, now. I'm dealing with things beyond my control and I've got no one to turn to. I'm trying to fight terrible evil but I'm not strong enough, and I've let it touch me. I've stared down that abyss and the monster killer is becoming the thing he needs to kill. When I die I'll be punished for not being strong enough and I'm scared. I'm scared."

The beast was always near. The beast was in him. It only took a little less to strip away the thin veneer of civilisation from Angel. A little less to bring forth the sadism, the cruelty, the violence, the lust for the kill. Angel was a monster, but only because he'd thrown his innocence away and revelled in the kill and the hot blood splashing over his hands and face.

Wesley knew the same evil was inside him. Angel's blood still burned in him like a fever. It terrified him. He had to see it, control it, manage it. That was the key. To school himself. He would be the voice of reason, and he need never sink to the level of animalism Angel had sunk to. Not if he clung to clear thinking and the knowledge of what was right and what was wrong.

Angel might kill him, but he would never submit his will, his self, to the rage of the animal. He would slip, but he would never fall. And he would do this, not for himself, but for Angel. Because Angel would never forgive himself if he made Wesley fall.

"I used to believe, but I'm afraid I just don't have the strength any more. I don't think I can face it any more."

"If you love someone enough, you can forgive them anything, even if they try to kill you."

"Can you forgive him?"

Wesley considered this seriously for a moment, then looked up.

"I want to."

"You seek peace, in here." The old priest placed his hand over Wesley's agitated heart.

"Yes."

"You want to accept your suffering, to use it, to make you stronger."

"Yes."

"You want to be strong enough to show your true face."

"Yes."

"Perhaps I can help. The way will be hard."

"It always is. But I have to move forward. I can't banish what I've seen and done from my heart."

The old man smiled. "You have already begun."

Wesley bowed his head. "I need to be a better man, a stronger man. If I can have strength in myself, I can offer that strength to others. I need to know I can trust myself, so that others will trust me and that I'll be worthy of that trust."

He grew restless again.

"I can't live in denial. I can't shut my eyes and hope that it will all go away. It doesn't. It won't. I need to stand up to it. To myself. To him."

LA was Lord of the Flies lived large and Wesley knew he was forever cast as Piggy. At least he was determined not to go quietly. And with that resolve he knew he'd found his strength. He knew at last his place was at Angel's side. He was the nagging voice of conscience. Angel might hate him half the time, but he needed him all the time.

And Wesley knew he must go back. He had a destiny afterall. He had purpose in this world.

"I know now. I have to keep fighting. Not just for myself. But for others." His smile was reckless. "The next time I go hunting tigers, I'm going to be ready for the bastards. I won't be frightened, and I won't die. If I train, if I believe, I'll be ready."

"It sounds like you're going into battle."

"I am." Wesley answered. "It's a battle. The oldest battle. I get that now. And if I don't get that tiger, it's going to get me. I have to stand up to it. It's the only way. I'm not the sacrificial lamb, not any more."

He met the old priest's eyes directly.

"You know the evil I must face. Teach me how to fight it, without succumbing."

"You must accept yourself."

"I know that, but - I need more. I need tricks. I need to be clever. I know that's the way to get around these demons. Not brute force. Tricks. I need to learn ways to outsmart these bastards. The soft option."

The priest looked at him long and hard. Whether this student was ready or not was not the question. It was a matter of need.

"How much do you know?" the old man asked, and Wesley gave him a brief resume.

 

+

Wesley sweated. What he'd eaten had contained hallucinogens. He was sure about that. He thought he could hear breathing other than his own in the dark. He couldn't tell if it was real or if he was tripping. That was the trouble in his line of work. The lines were so blurred. He'd seen so much it was hard to be sceptical, even in his own mind. Now all he could here was his own breathing, but that's because he was breathing so fast.

This was his test. He’d asked for this, to be pushed and pushed past his limits, because he knew he needed to be. He’d scrubbed and prayed and fasted and now he would be tested.

He felt the warning heat coil in the base of his neck.

An arrow flew out of nowhere, and he managed to knock it aside. Okaaay. He held it up in his hand and it seemed to move and grow, turning into a small wriggling dragon and then into a tree that spread its leaves and tried to root itself in his palm until he dropped it. Okay, definitely tripping now.

 

+

Wesley was wired. He’d been pushed passed his limit and he’d survived. Now, like Faith, he needed a release, and he’d sought out Colin. Ever willing Colin.

He held Colin in the grip of a fierce kiss.

"Ow!" Colin drew back, his lip bleeding. "You bit me."

Wes grinned, lip spotted with a drop of Colin's blood. "Just a nip."

"Well, don't. I'm not into that."

"Okay, I'm sorry." Wesley pulled Colin back to him and licked the blood from his lips. "I won't do it again, I promise."

Wesley pushed him back onto the bed, kissing him strongly. In his mind's eye he was kissing Angel's lips, looking into Angel's eyes, running his hands down Angel's arms, thighs and chest as he fucked him, slowly, Angel staring up at him with those eyes. Angel. He shuddered as he came. Angel. He lay alongside Colin, kissing him softly. Angel.

Angel moaned in his sleep. He tilted his head, as though he could feel Wesley's kisses on his skin. He sighed softly, before he woke and remembered.

+

Wesley sat quietly, chin on his hands, contemplating the luridly painted wooden demons with the large pointed fangs that writhed up the walls and columns, fighting over the blood offering that lay in a brass dish before them.

Wesley could smell the blood. He was overly aware of it. He brooded upon it, this slightly heightened awareness. The priest was right. Angel's blood was inside him. He wished he could tear it out, rid himself of everything that was Angel within him. But he couldn't, and no amount of meditation of study would quell the fires within him. He ached for Angel. He dreamt of Angel. He didn't even have to close his eyes to imagine the feel of Angel's touch on his skin.

He reached up and traced one wooden fang, the one nearest, it's point worn smooth with time and bored novices. The demon's face raged at him in a snarl, and he reminded himself this was the true face, the true heart of his lover. This would be his destiny too, if he was not careful, and a part of him didn't care. He was horrified, terrified, revolted by the nature of the beast he had taken to his bed. And yet he burned for Angel like a fever, even in this temple, where the air was so cold he could see his breath as he breathed in and out.

Angel. He stared up at the bright red eyes that glared down at him. The mouth was twisted up in a triumphant leer. Blood was stronger than will. Was this what it was like for Angel? Every day? Every second?

He slipped his hand between those gaping jaws, half expecting the wooden mouth to snap shut and tear the flesh from his hand. But it just mocked him, and he ran the sensitive skin of his wrist against the teeth, and closed his eyes, feeling the heat boil down in his groin. Angel.

"Wes?" His eyes flew open and he heard a beating heart behind him. He slipped his hand free of the mouth, but kept it resting on the demon's head, almost stroking it, like a pup.

"Colin." He acknowledged, without turning around.

"You're going back," Colin realised. It was also an accusation. "You want to go back to that monster. He'll kill you."

"I know," Wesley answered quietly. "But you see," he turned to face Colin. "I'm damned already. I love him and he's worked his spell on me and I can never have peace away from him."

"You can try. Stay here longer. His influence will fade. You will forget him, in time."

"I don't want to forget him. Don't you see, I don't want to live apart from him."

"He'll kill you."

"Sometimes, I want to die in his arms," Wesley murmured.

"You'll die with him."

Wesley nodded. He was serene, and that's what upset Colin most. Wesley had made his decision, and he had made the one Colin never wanted him to choose.

"You don't have to go back. You're legally dead. You can be anyone you want to be. You can start your life over."

"I can't forget who I am. I can't forget him."

"He's like a drug. He's got you hooked."

"I know."

"He's a killer. A monster."

"I know that too. Sometimes he is Lucifer himself. As cruel as he is beautiful."

"I don't want to lose you, Wesley."

"I was already lost. I'm sorry, Colin. I can't run and I can't hide. I'm not that person any more. Whatever happens, it will be my choice."

"Damn you," Colin hissed.

"Already damned," Wesley reminded. He turned back to his monsters. Even here, they lived and thrived and crowded around him, grinning at him. Fate, it wouldn't free him. She had him in her grasp as firmly as she had Angel. And he didn't want to fight it any more.

He listened to Colin's footsteps trudge away and he wished he could follow them, that he could call Colin back to him. But he couldn't.

He was a liar and a thief and he realised he'd had a very good teacher in these things.

He curled up, resting his chin on his knees like a young boy, still contemplating the vampire themed décor with a detached fascination, wishing he could forget about Angel. He wishes he could stop thinking about Angel. That he could banish his demon lover from his heart and mind. He wishes he could rip the blood that held him to Angel from his veins. Sometimes, if he had a knife, he'd be crazy enough to do it, to slash open his wrists and let the tainted blood wash away. He wished he could undo their unholy bond. Blood brothers. Bound to the vilest creature to walk the earth. What in God's name had he been thinking.

Sex. That's all he'd been thinking about, if you could describe a man in the throes of lust capable of thought. Blood or no he'd been seduced by Angel like the thousands before him and there was no turning back. Get the behind me Satan, and kiss me, touch me just there, you know where. The corner of his mouth curled up at the thought. Oh yes, just there. His body burned as he craved for Angel. There was no peace from this need. There never would be.

Wesley scratched at the scars on his throat. They itched always as a constant reminder of Angel. There would be no forgetting, no escape. Angel's curse now his to bear as well.

 

+

Wesley hefted his battered canvas backpack, testing the weight. There were precious few belongings in it now. A few shirts and things salvaged from the wreckage. The thick coat he wore was a gift from Colin. He snuggled into it, breathing in Colin's scent for the last time. Colin would not come to say goodbye to him. Wes knew that, though he'd feel Colin watching him as he walked out of the mountains. He glanced around at his tiny cell. His books and notes he'd take with him. There was little else to take, or leave as gifts.

Here was the sanctuary he'd craved. Here was escape. He was throwing it all away. A new life. A life where he was no longer a renegade ex-Watcher, the paramour of a vampire, a failure and a disappointment to his family. He could have this. He didn't have to stay.

He told himself he didn't have to go back to LA either. Going back to the UK was too dangerous, somebody would recognise him, but there was the whole rest of the planet.

He swung his backpack onto his shoulder and told himself it wasn't written in stone yet. He hadn't booked a flight to LA. He could go anywhere. Paris, Sydney, Vancouver, Vladivostock, Hong Kong, Berlin, Auckland, New York, St Petersberg. Anywhere. He still had an out, should his courage fail. He still had a chance at another life.

+

 

LOVE WILL TEAR US APART

Wesley put his key in the lock and twisted it, pushing open the door a little. He stopped, for all the lights were on. Angel drifted across his field of vision, carrying a dog eared book, reading, deep in thought.

Wesley paused on the threshold. He'd not expected to find Angel here. He thought he'd have had time to compose himself. Well, best to get it over and done with, he told himself, screwing his courage to its sticking place. He pushed the door open wider. Angel spun around, surprised by the sudden entrance of a human. The book in his hands drooped then fell when his brain finally registered what his eyes could see.

This apparition was alive and breathing. This ghost was his lover, returned to him.

Angel tried to form the words, tried to remain cool and in control. The words wouldn't come.

"Wes?" was all he managed, in a croak, his eyes wet with tears.

"Wes..." He moved forward but Wes stepped back, stopping him in his tracks.

"Wes?"

Wesley shrugged and scratched at his fortnight's beard. It made him look dark and dangerous.

"I thought..." Angel stammered. "They told me you were dead."

He kept staring at Wesley, confused.

"I thought you were dead." The accusation was soft, but direct.

"I'm sorry about that." Wesley didn't sound the slightest bit contrite. In fact, he appeared downright annoyed to be confronted with this line of interrogation.

"You didn't phone."

"There were no telephones."

"You didn't write."

"No Post Offices, either," Wesley replied flatly. "I had to walk out. And before that, I had to heal. I was the only survivor," he reminded.

Angel wasn't moving past his point of contention. "You could have phoned from the airport, any airport."

"I thought it'd be better this way. Face to face."

It probably was, Angel thought, but this was so oddly uncomfortable. It was like talking to a stranger. Perhaps Wes was just really exhausted. But instead of a happy reunion he seemed to resent Angel's presence. He was actually glaring at Angel with undisguised hostility.

Wesley's manner was so cold and detached Angel had to reassure himself by listening to the steady beat of Wesley's heart that nothing was amiss. Perhaps he was just overly tired then. He seemed to carry no outward scars from his experience, but that meant nothing, especially with Wesley. Angel was slowly learning that those still waters ran very deep indeed.

"Look," Wesley broke in on Angel's thoughts irritably, dropping his grubby backpack from his shoulder onto the floor with a dull thump for effect. "I've been on a bloody plane for over three days. Is there any chance I can get a shower?" He was all sarcasm and annoyance.

He did look rough, but Angel was so pleased to have Wesley back he didn't mind the sights or smells. In fact, he privately revelled in them. He thought he could smell different people on Wesley, but perhaps that was to be expected. He would have brushed up against strangers in his travels. Maybe it was just being crammed in the back of several aircraft for long hours, especially after having gone down in one, that had put Wesley so out of sorts.

"Shower?" Wesley reminded testily.

"Oh, yes, sorry. There should be clean towels." Angel let him pass and fussed after him, but Wesley shut the door in his face and Angel had to content himself to listening to the sounds of Wesley unpacking his shaving kit and undressing. The boots being kicked off, then the heavy clink of his belt and the soft rustle of well worn jeans. A t-shirt floated down soon after. Then the soft metallic clink of his glasses being left on the basin, before the sound of the shower door opening closing and at last the sound of water splashing over Wesley's body.

Angel ached to join him, but reigned in that impulse. Not with the mood Wesley was in. Angel would just have to rely on his imagination, and, besides, he would be able to touch that soap scented skin soon enough.

 

 

Under the water Wesley scrubbed and scrubbed until there was only a tiny sliver of soap left in his palm. It wasn't the accumulated sweat and grime of his journey that he was trying to eradicate, it was Colin. He was terrified Angel would be able to smell Colin on him, even with the distance of days and many thousands of miles. So he scrubbed at himself with a forensic fervour that went well beyond obsessive. When at last the soap was gone he stayed there, directly under the shower nozzle, resting his forehead against the tiles, eyes closed, wishing there was a way to drown in the shower.

The water began to cool, and he realised he'd wasted several bathtubs full, somewhat guiltily in this age of water restrictions, and this small guilt somehow took precedence over his larger ones. With effort, not wanting to leave his meditation of the running water down the tiles, he turned the taps off, and stepped out, towelling himself down. He searched for something less scungy in his backpack, pulled the shirt over his head and stepped out, wafting billowing clouds of steam ahead of him.

He blinked, the transition from brightly lit bathroom to dimly lit lounge room threw him for a moment. Then he realised there was light. From hundreds of candles Angel had placed and lit about the room. They flickered with a hundred tiny yellow lights and he caught their waxy perfumed scent and it was all too much, reminding him of what he'd left behind.

He hiccupped a sob back down and found Angel's arms around him instantly.

"It's okay, Wes, you're home now," Angel's voice soothed as he nuzzled along Wesley's throat.

Wesley went as rigid as a board in his arms as he held him, and Angel realised what he was doing and moved up to licking along the rim of Wesley's ear. Stupid, stupid, he cursed himself. He's not through the door ten minutes and you've already latched onto his neck. Please do remind him you're a vampire at every possible moment. It's not like you don't terrify him half the time any way.

Angel's hand moved up and down Wesley's back in gentle, circle strokes, as though soothing a child, and slowly, Wesley relaxed, and then responded to Angel's touch. At last Angel felt brave enough to tease tiny kisses across Wesley's fresh shaven cheek, and then finally his lips.

Wesley panicked again, but Angel was ready this time, and he licked along Wesley's lips until he opened like a flower to let Angel in. Their tongues met and stroked each other, tentatively at first, them with welcome that burned into passion. Wesley surged forward, his hands gripping Angel through his shirt with sudden need, and Angel had no trouble manoeuvring him towards the bed.

 

 

 

Angel lay close to Wesley, enjoying his familiar scent and feel. It felt so right, so natural to have Wesley by his side again. He felt comfortable. There had been an unpleasant distance between them before. A distance that upset him so much Angel had risked his immortal soul by entering Wesley, and staying inside him until Wesley came, withdrawing himself only just in time. And now, curled beside him, he felt Wesley belonged to him again, at last. He ran his hand slowly down Wesley's back, letting his fingers rise and fall slightly over the vertebrae and raised scars from Wesley's flogging, gently up and down over the skin.

Wesley purred and settled deeper into the pillows, on the very cusp of sleep.

"Colin," he murmured.

Angel's hand stopped dead where it was.

 

 

Several days later...

Wesley slumped over the desk, head in his hands.

"Is he ever going to forgive me?"

"Not in this lifetime." Cordelia answered, chasing bits of ice around the bottom of her iced latte. "Possibly not in the next, either."

Wesley groaned.

"What did you expect? You totally broke his heart. I've never seen Angel that cranky before. I don't want to again, ever."

"I didn't mean it to happen. It was the time and the place. Colin was there and I needed someone who wasn't...someone who didn't have all of Angel's baggage. I needed to know what it was like to go to bed with someone and have some expectation of waking up in the morning. I needed a warm body beside me."

"Angel isn't a run of the mill boyfriend, that's true."

"He demands so much from me, and he really scares me, sometimes. And what I feel for him, it scares me too. The intensity, I've never felt it for anyone else and I know I never will. That's why I came back. I was officially dead. I had a chance of a new life, to walk away, from my past, from Angel, from everything. And I couldn't. I couldn't leave him. I need him. I chose him, I chose this life, and this time not because I had no other alternatives. I walked out of those mountains, to be with him. Yes, things went further with Colin than they should have, but, hell, I have to live with the idealised memory of Buffy Summers every single day." Wesley looked at her in anguish.

"Buffy killed him and sent to Hell for eternal torment, and he forgave her." Wesley whined.

"Yeah, but you're forgetting, Angel doesn't like his lovers to be touched by anyone's hand but his own. Face it, Wes, You're second hand goods now."

"So I'm to be discarded without a second thought? For making a mistake? Is Angel the only one here allowed to fuck up big time?" he seethed.

"I could have lain down and died in that crash with everyone else, but I didn't. I crawled through the snow and I lived and he was all I ever thought about. Nothing else mattered. Everything was 'I wish Angel could see this', 'Would Angel like this', 'I wish Angel were here with me right now', 'Can it ever be like this with Angel?' He's all I thought about, dreamt about. Why can't he see that?"

"I do."

Wesley started as if struck.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I love you."

"I know that too."

They looked at each other, wondering if things could ever be the same.

+

Lindsey MacDonald gazed out of the LA skyline from his office window as he dictated his day's business.

"...and cancel the contract. Wyndam-Pryce is still alive according to reliable eye witnesses. We'll take our business elsewhere in future."

He frowned. The snivelling Brit was harder to kill than a cat.

stuff

• slash fic
  
• web
  
• livejournal
  
• censorship ratings
  
• contact
  

© 1995-2005 havisham06