Angel / Protocol / Part Thirty-Four

PART THIRTY-FOUR

Angel stared at the mass of paperwork in front of him.

It was a *lot* of paperwork.

"This is revenge, right?" Angel asked.

Gunn had the sort of innocent/deadpan look that could win a lot of hands of poker. Had, in fact, and undoubtedly would again. "You said you wanted to catch up."

Angel gestured to the towers of files and reports that had changed the geography of the living room. "You couldn't ease me into it?"

"You're a grown vamp," Gunn said.

"I'm feeling really immature," Angel replied.

"Yeah, no kidding," Gunn dumped another stack of paper down onto the floor. It teetered, then decided not to fall. "Think that's the last of it."

Angel rubbed the back of his neck. "I actually have to read all of this?"

"Try that one first," Gunn pointed to a pile on the coffee table. "It's got pictures."

"Out of curiosity, what would it take for me to get people around here to at least *pretend* to show me some respect?" Angel asked.

"Bribes," Gunn replied.

"I *was* tortured, you know," Angel reminded him.

"Yeah, I know," Gunn said. "Try not to do that again. It doesn't actually help, plus then we have to go rescue you."

Angel sat forward. He took in the sheer volume of reports that had amassed during his time away, and his current time in recovery. Somewhere in all of that was an explanation of how things had gone, and what needed to be done to keep the fortress going.

"I couldn't get somebody to maybe summarize it for me?" Angel asked.

"I think this one you need to read by yourself," Gunn said.

Angel spread his arms to take in the whole of the room, and all the paperwork contained inside of it. "And by 'one' you mean…?"

Gunn reached into a pile and pulled out a folder. He tossed it over to Angel. "Start with that."

Angel turned it over in his hands. It was a few inches thick, and bound with a green ribbon. "What's this?"

"Interesting reading," Gunn replied. "Take that one in first. And *alone*."

Angel looked up. "Alone. Meaning?"

"Meaning what it usually means," Gunn said. "Just you."

Angel glanced back in the direction of the bedroom. Wes was in there, with the door closed. They'd made that arrangement because Gunn had said the conversation was about private things, but now it looked as though "private" meant "About Wes."

"What'd he do wrong?" Angel asked, knowing Gunn would know who he was talking about.

"Read," Gunn told him.

Angel gave him a warning look. "Gunn - "

"*Read*," Gunn repeated. "I'll be back later. We can talk then."

Angel wasn't sure he liked that for an answer, but he undid the ribbon and began skimming through the paperwork anyway.

***

About an hour later, Gunn came back.

Angel didn't even know where to begin.

No, wait, he did:

"He *killed* people?"

"Mostly demons," Gunn said. "But yeah, some people."

"Killed them," Angel repeated. "Dead. *Dead* dead."

"Xs in their eyes and souls flying up to Heaven," Gunn confirmed. "Except with that bunch it was probably a trip down instead of up."

"Hell's not always down," Angel said, absently. In the meanwhile, he tried to wrap his mind around the concept of Wes and death. "*Killed* people."

"Man knows how to use a weapon," Gunn said.

"I thought that was a *hobby*," Angel said.

"Useful hobby," Gunn said. "Seeing as it saved his ass and all."

"These people - demons - these *dead* guys were trying to hurt him?" Angel asked.

Gunn pointed to the report. "I wrote down - "

"Let's humor me and say I need to hear some of this out loud," Angel told him.

"Some of them, yeah," Gunn said. "Him, me, Connor, anybody on our side. We had a *fight* here, Angel. The man took charge."

Angel flipped over to the section about Wes's ideas about rationing, and maintaining order. Gunn had even included a copy of a flyer that had been drawn up inviting everyone - humans, vamps, demons, and all - to a holiday gathering. Angel didn't recognize the holiday, but words like "Peace" and "Welcome" stood out to him.

"People actually went to this?" Angel asked.

"Not everybody, but yeah," Gunn said.

"Why?" Angel asked.

Gunn shrugged. "Something to do? Something to get their minds off of what was happening? Free entertainment and plenty of alcohol? I don't know. But they went."

The folder felt heavy in Angel's hands. Like a living thing. No, like a *life*. Wes's life. Who he was, when Angel wasn't around to fetter him without even meaning to.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Angel asked.

"Thought he would," Gunn said. "Then realized he didn't."

"He doesn't," Angel said. "He can't. He never does. I *ask* him and…"

Gunn looked at him curiously. "What?"

Angel hopped one conversational track. "If I told you the punchline to something was 'I can't believe somebody died trying to get into that place', what would you think the joke was?"

"Most people die trying to get out?" Gunn guessed.

Angel closed the folder. "That's what I thought."

"You okay?" Gunn asked.

"No idea," Angel admitted. "But I need to talk to Wes."

"Need help?" Gunn asked.

Angel shook his head. "I think this is a him and me thing. But thanks."

***

Wesley sat on the bed. His eyes were riveted on the closed bedroom door. It was a thick door. Sturdy wood. Connor's jokes aside, it wasn't possible for anyone to eavesdrop through it unless one had supernatural hearing.

Or unless one knelt beside it and pressed their ear to the keyhole, but Wesley refused to do that. Spouses were unofficially encouraged to do such things, but personally he had no taste for it. It always struck him as craven, and cowardly. If one cannot get through life except by cheating, then one cannot get through it at all.

Granted, this did nothing to assuage his fear about what was going on on the other side.

A wet nose swiped across his hand.

Wesley looked down at Hieronymus. "Back again?"

The kitten looked up at him. It meowed. It wasn't a proper meow, in that for some reason the right letters weren't in place. Instead Hieronymus made a sound like "Ee-AH". If Hieronymus himself had any idea that this wasn't correct feline grammar, he gave no indication of it.

"Ee-AH," Hieronymus said. He sat down on his hind legs, his head tilted conversationally. "Ee-ee-*ah*."

Wesley listened to the syllables. They sounded questioning, but not urgent. The context was the kitten's return after exploring the vast space that, to someone of Hieronymus's size, must surely be The Unexplored Country of Bed (with side trips into The Underworld of Cave Blanket). Based on that, Wesley tried to guess what they were talking about. "Yes, I do find it to be very comfortable here. Did you? You seemed to enjoy being warm under the covers."

"Ee-ah," Hieronymus replied. He climbed up onto Wesley's leg, wobbling a little as his claws dug in for purchase. Once there, he stood up on his back paws, his front ones reaching up to grasp on to Wesley's shirt.

Wesley aborted the attempt before the silk cloth had to suffer any puncture holes. "Now now. That's not allowed. If my clothes are damaged I'll get into trouble."

"Ee-ah," Hieronymus said.

Wesley scooped him up into the palm of his hand. "Yes, I - "

"*Ee!*" Hieronymus interrupted, apparently unable to contain his happiness at being allowed to magically become taller than he had been before. Or perhaps to a kitten being picked up in a hand was like taking a flying carpet ride. Either way, he seemed to enjoy it.

Wesley cradled him. "I'm glad it meets with your approval. But that doesn't give you permission to tear things. We must have respect for property at all times, do you understand that?"

"Ah," Hieronymus replied. He butted his head against Wesley's chest.

Wesley stroked a fingertip around the kitten's ears. "Thank you. I like your company as well. But that doesn't allow us to break the rules."

"Eeee-ah," Hieronymus said. He nearly tripped over his own front paws as he leaned into Wesley's touch.

Wesley looked back towards the door. "They've been out there for a long time. What do you think I've done wrong?"

Hieronymus began to lick Wesley's thumb. A rattling purr escaped his open mouth.

"Yes, I'm sure *you* don't think I've done anything wrong," Wesley said, "but you're not a husband. If I'm understanding our relationship right, you're content with me so long as I feed you and pet you. Husbands might also like that, but they have a great deal of other needs as well."

"E-e-e-e-e-e," Hieronymus said, the sound stuttering out through the purr that had apparently taken on a life of its own.

"No, he hasn't been cruel to me," Wesley agreed. "Not yet. But surely even you can understand that circumstances can change."

Hieronymus looked up at him. "Ah!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up bad memories," Wesley rubbed a finger around the kitten's shoulderblades. "It's just that clearly something is wrong. He's never felt a need to lock me up like this be - "

Wesley swallowed. He shut his eyes, and willed himself to think of something, *anything*, other than the closed bedroom door. Anything other than the realization that he had *yet again* been trapped inside of a room because of something he had done, and he didn't know why or what but it was his fault, obviously, and it didn't matter if he didn't understand the punishment because he *deserved* it, deserved to be locked away and forgotten and left to *die* in -

A sharp pain on his thumb brought him back to reality.

"Ow!" Wesley said.

"Ee!" Hieronymus replied, looking up at him indignantly from where he had bitten, but not drawn blood. Tiny red marks decorated Wesley's skin. "Ee!"

Wesley took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I can't control that."

Hieronymus crawled out of Wesley's hand and onto his chest. Wesley leaned back so the kitten would not have to use his claws to stay in place. "Ee-ah."

Wesley ran his fingertips through the soft fur. He dropped his voice low, so only the kitten could hear him. "There's nothing to be done about it. I can't tell him that I'm claustrophobic. It's expressly forbidden."

Hieronymus shifted his weight from left to right. Not quite kneading Wesley's chest, but not staying still either. "Re-ee-ah."

"No, I *can't*," Wesley said. "You don't understand. It doesn't matter how kind he is. The rules are *very* clear about such things. I can't even give him a *hint* of what the problem is."

"Eeah?" Hieronymus asked.

Wesley shook his head. "No, you may *not*. I can only tell *you* because I think you fall under the same umbrella as a personal servant. But that means you must *act* like one. You may *not* go to him and tell him what is going on."

"Ee!"

"No, you *can't*."

"*Ee!*"

"This is completely non-negotiable," Wesley told him. "Either you may have my confidence or you can betray my trust. It can't be both."

Hieronymus butted him in the chest again. "Ee-AH."

"Take it up with the Council then," Wesley said. "It's out of my hands."

Hieronymus scratched his ear with a thump-thump-thump of a back paw, then, upon giving it reflection, washed his face. This done, he settled down against Wesley's chest, small body vibrating with joy.

Wesley smiled. "Thank you."

"Ee-aah."

"I like your company too."

The bedroom door opened.

Wesley leapt to his feet. Hieronymus fell back onto the bed with a squeak of indignation.

"My Lord, I'm sorry."

Angel paused, his hand still on the doorknob. "You know, I actually had a bet going with myself on how long it would take before you said that."

Wesley faltered. He had years of practice with moments like this, years of knowing what to do as soon as the door opened. None of them gave even a hint of advice about how to handle the situation if the man on the other side was calm, and even relaxed in demeanor. "My Lord?"

"I lost, for what it's worth," Angel said. "I figured you'd at least let me get a word out."

"I'm sorry, my Lord."

"Like that, for instance," Angel said. He limped over to the bed, too stubborn to use a cane as he should. "Sit."

Wesley sat. He kept his hands in his lap to help fight the urge to run to Angel's side and help him. Angel was *hurt*. He shouldn't *do* this to himself. But this was yet another opinion that didn't matter in the end, because it belonged to Wesley and Wesley wasn't allowed to hope that anyone might care.

Except Hieronymus, who crawled back into his lap now that Wesley had stopped being foolish and had provided the kitten with the throne he so obviously deserved. "Ee."

Angel sat back against the mound of pillows that had been piled against his side of the headboard. "He's chatty."

"I can put him in another room if he bothers you, my Lord," Wesley said.

"Just making an observation," Angel said.

Wesley felt his shoulders tighten. Such things *weren't* just observations. Not where he had come from. *Nothing* was 'just' an anything there. Everything was a barb, a correction, a pointed lesson geared for the specific purpose of humiliating him and reminding him of how inadequate he was.

Except Angel's eyes, as always, held absolutely no sign of cruelty.

Wesley had no idea what to do about that.

"Whatcha been doing?" Angel asked.

"Talking with Hieronymus," Wesley replied. He ran his fingers over the kitten's fur, stroking the small path from top of the head to base of the tail over and over again.

Angel raised his eyebrows. "He have anything interesting to say?"

"I'm not sure, my Lord," Wesley said. "We're still struggling with the language barrier."

"Think he's going to speak English?"

"I hope to one day understand Cat," Wesley replied.

"Probably not that much different from learning demon languages, I guess," Angel said.

Wesley's stomach was tight enough that he felt he could vomit. He tasted the coppery tang of nerves. *Hit me*, he thought as he watched Hieronymus curl up into a ball and fall asleep. *Hit me, punish me, do whatever you need to do. Just, please, end the wait.*

Angel seemed to understand that the time for small talk was over. "Wes, how'd things go while I was away?"

Wesley knew how to recognize a question that had a trap hidden inside of it. "I aspired to serve you to the best of my ability, my Lord."

"Uh-huh," Angel said. "So what'd you do?"

"I followed your orders, my Lord," Wesley said.

"Which was?"

"Hopefully doing as you wished of me, my Lord."

Angel studied him for a long time. "Okay, let's try it this way. *Tell* me what question I have to ask so I can get some details out of you."

"That would depend upon the details you are interested in, my Lord," Wesley said.

Angel sat forward. "Which question's the one that gets you to tell me the part where you killed people?"

Wesley's mind worked overtime to guess the sins he was about to be accused of. Arrogance. Overstepping his place. Thinking too much of himself. Going outside the boundaries. "I'm sorry, my Lord. I - "

"Which one gets you to *talk* to me, Wes?" Angel demanded. "Jesus *Christ*. I'm sitting here trying to find out what went on and you haven't given me a straight answer yet."

Disobedience. Failure to live up to his potential. Stupidity. Thick-wittedness. Shameful lack of even the ability to understand the most *basic* of questions. "I'm sorry, my Lord."

"What are you apologizing for?" Angel asked.

"Whatever I've done wrong, my Lord," Wesley said, then corrected himself. "*Everything* I've done wrong, my Lord."

"Wes, look at me."

Wesley looked up. It seemed impossible that anyone's eyes could regard him so kindly.

"If you think I'm mad at you, you're wrong," Angel said. "I'm *confused*. I asked you to tell me what happened while I was gone and you told me *none* of it. Why?"

Hieronymus woke with an absent-minded "Aa-ah!" He twisted into a circle and fell back to sleep. Wesley felt the kitten's pulse under his fingertips as he spoke. "It's not my place, my Lord."

Angel watched him carefully. "Why isn't it your place to give me information when I ask it?"

"You ordered me to take care of your household, my Lord," Wesley said. "I followed your order to the best of my ability. No other detail matters."

"No other detail," Angel said. "Like you taking charge, like you helping people, like you organizing this place, like you *saving* this place."

"You ordered me to take care of your household, my Lord," Wesley repeated.

Angel stared at him for a long time. Wesley resisted the urge to tell him to lie back, and to stop straining the still-healing muscles.

"There's a lot you don't tell me, isn't there," Angel finally said, his tone making it a statement even though the words formed a question.

Spouses were *supposed* to reply with "Nothing, my Lord." because that maintained the illusion that spouses had no wants, or needs, or problems.

But Angel looked at him in ways that made Wesley feel strangely.

"I *can't*," he finally admitted. If he were a student again such a lapse would have resulted in dire consequences.

"Do you want to?" Angel asked.

Wesley nodded. He cupped his hand around Hieronymus's warm body, rubbing the only set of ears he was allowed to confess to. "Sometimes."

"I wish you would," Angel said.

"I wish I could," Wesley replied.

"Wes…" Angel seemed to be choosing his words carefully "I can be patient. I don't mind. We can take as long as you need for you to get comfortable with the idea of talking to me."

Wesley shook his head. "My Lord, you don't *have* to - "

Angel held up a hand for silence. "That's what we're going to do. But in the meanwhile, if I ask you something very specific, can you answer it for me? Truth, and no tap-dancing?"

"I can try," Wesley said.

Angel nodded, as though the answer was acceptable to him. Then, without any other preamble, asked, "Was seven years old the first time you wanted to die?"

Wesley's head jerked up. Hieronymus made a muffled sound of protest. Wesley's heart was thundering. How had he - *when* had he - how on *earth* -

But Angel really did have the kindest brown eyes.

"No," Wesley whispered, feeling hot and cold all at once as he said it. "It wasn't."

Angel nodded again. He gave no sign of judgment, disappointment, or condemnation - which caused Wesley to realize he'd been expecting a reaction of at least one of those three. Instead Angel merely seemed interested, as though they were having a perfectly normal conversation.

Which, considering that Wesley had *never* had a perfectly normal conversation, perhaps they were.

"Do you want to now?" Angel asked.

"No," Wesley said at once. "No, Angel, I don't. I haven't since I met you."

And there was a world of too much confession in that. A slip of the tongue that had used name instead of title, still more which even Wesley could recognize answered volumes beyond what Angel had asked.

And yet it had felt right to say, and had caused Angel to smile at him.

"Good," Angel replied, and kissed him in a way that felt like a reward, and felt like encouragement, and perhaps it was neither but it made Wesley's heart flutter just the same.