† The Brat Queen †

Disclaimer: The following is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe of the rights of Joss Whedon, the WB, Mutant Enemy or any other copyright holders of Angel.

Strategy
by The Brat Queen

Summary: An unbetaed, s4 AU story that was originally written in posts in my LiveJournal. A few people asked for a single location for the entire thing, so here it is.

[Author's Note as of Jan 2004, thanks to Lucifrix for a beta-update on a few spelling and grammar errors!]

Strategy

This is all, all, ALL WesleysGirl's fault for writing her STUPID (read: far too evocative) slashfic which planted these DUMB ideas in my head and wouldn't go away.

Also possibly some sort of blame/shout-out/homage of some kind should be given to Anna S because I'd probably be lying if I said Noir and Subtleties hadn't added a few influences to the format.

But mostly I blame WG.

*Sigh*.

Okay, so Abandon all hope ye who enter here because Here There Be Hyppogryffs. Also stupid, cliché-ridden dribblefic - so called because calling it a drabble is an insult to drabbles everywhere - wherein TBQ wantonly indulges some of her now no longer hidden fic and character kinks while ignoring sensible plot and characterization all in the name of doing angsty Angel/Wes er, angst. Also there's Connor. And this is WG's fault. You can't say you weren't warned. Oh yeah - spoilers including s4, such as they are.

Strategy
by TBQ

Just so we're clear on where the blame lies, it's most especially WG's fault for writing the following lines:

You think I haven't seen the way that you look at him?

And now I'm going to take you, before he ever has the chance.

It's not like being with a woman. The natural... lubricants... aren't there

You're wrong if you think this will hurt him.

And so TBQ begins her insanity...

It's a world with Jasmine still in it. But it's not like any other world where the heroes manage to find the clues and crack the code and save the day in the span of a few days. No, in this world it's much, much harder.

Fred breaks the spell, yes. Then fires the shot through Angel, then the two of them together collect Cordelia's blood and save Wesley, Gunn and Lorne in turn.

They try to save Connor, as other versions of them try to save Connor. They fail, as all versions of them fail.

They escape.

And this is where it gets worse.

They run to the sewers, yes. They find the gang of children, yes. But in this world, as with many dimensions, there's a key difference.

Angel doesn't let Wesley out of his sight.

So Wesley is never snatched away. He isn't found by the oh so inadvertently helpful demon. Instead Angel tracks the demon down before it attacks and, as Angel is often wont to do, he kills first and asks questions later.

This naturally creates something of a problem. Though none of them are aware of it.

Connor brings the National Guard after them. With the kids still undamaged and no clues to guide them, Angel takes charge and leads them deeper into the sewers. Down past any point that any human could know of, and for the first time in a long time both Angel and Lorne are happy that Jasmine had them eradicate most of the demons in the area - there's less competition now for the living space, such as it is.

They form a bunker. They start planning a war.

Almost without thought Angel and Wesley form the command team. They work in unison, issuing orders and formulating plans like a well-rehearsed duet they've been moving towards all their lives. Lorne and the children collect scraps to turn their hovel into a home. Fred and Gunn are the only ones trusted to scout outside for food.

Angel and Wes bear the burden of trying to fix it.

They fight one night, their voices loud enough to echo through the metal that surrounds them, filtering their way into the cramped rooms of the kids - now with one or two new members - like two parents on the brink of divorce, both of them arguing over the most minor of details - map placement, in fact - when in truth it's the screaming they've both longed to do in order to release their frustration at the parts they've played in it all.

The yelling reaches a fever-pitch, stops, and then there's nothing but silence.

None of the kids guess what happens that night. Fred is puzzled by it. Gunn suspects, and Lorne keeps his comments to himself.

Later, much later, when only Angel and their watches can tell that it's morning, he and Wesley look into each other's eyes.

"I'm not sorry," Wesley says, his voice rough as though his throat had only just been slit.

"I'm not either," Angel replies.

They kiss, and this time the fucking is somewhat more tender.

When they dress, knowing that an appearance is needed to keep up the morale of the troops, they again speak in quiet tones.

Angel: "This can't...."

Wes, eyes as stoic as they've been for over a year now: "Be anything more than this. I know."

They both accept this, knowing that even talking about the alternatives brings more pain than it needs to.

They keep going. Wes moves into Angel's room. There is no announcement about it, it just happens. They act no differently in front of the others, yet there is a feeling in the air that even the children can clue in to. Somehow they all know that there's something going on that is best left unmentioned.

Gunn makes the mistake of trying to talk about it once. During a patrol of their turf he forays a casual comment in Wesley's direction. The temperature drop is so sudden Gunn swears to himself he can see his breath in the air. He doesn't make the mistake again. He and Wes exchange no other words for the rest of the night.

New recruits arrive. Not entirely on purpose. Mostly they are found by the others, stumbling their way into Los Angeles somehow unaffected by Jasmine's thrall. They are kidnapped, brought downstairs, and forced into the fold.

Wesley doesn't trust them. Angel doesn't see much alternative. Well, he admits to Wes one night, they could *kill* them, but....

There's a long moment before either man suggests a counter-argument. Wesley is the one who finally offers "It's a waste of possible resources." and they stick with that.

Jasmine's influence spreads. Angel becomes deadly quiet one night - literally - when he discovers that people from Sunnydale are above. He disappears for hours. When he returns he goes directly to his room and speaks to no one.

Wesley is the only one brave - or stupid - enough to go to him. He locks the door, approaches the vampire silently, and forces him down onto the bed. The sex is rough, desperate, and in the end Angel can't maintain an erection long enough to seal the deal, but it's enough to take the edge off.

By this time almost everyone understands what goes on between the two of them. Nobody, not even their three supposedly closest friends, ever dares say what they all think, but they're grateful and ironically prayerful that the diamond-hard insanity that Angel and Wes are both trapped in seems, for now, to be kept somewhat at bay by whatever it is the two of them are calling a relationship. Though none of them are certain which one of the two is the more foolhardy for offering such a thing to the other.

The war continues.

Their tiny ranks swell. They're all of twenty strong now. As a detective agency this would have been something to be proud of. As a general Wesley finds it a bitter pill. He wastes day after night trying to research, pouring over every piece of paper he can get his hands on, convinced, though he does not admit it, that it's his fault for not solving this puzzle.

Angel stops him after a week. This time it's his turn to haul the other man away from his obsession and take him until some of the barriers fall. When they collapse, exhausted and covered in sweat, Angel speaks words more gentle than have ever been shared between them:

"I can't lose you too."

Wesley closes his eyes, accepts this, and it passes for both a promise and an apology.

Things turn after about three months.

Word gets through to them about Jasmine leaving town. They're not sure why, but Fred takes a small measure of credit for hacking as many TV stations, radiowaves and websites as she can get her hands on during the few hours they dare to let her outside each week to see how much havoc she can create with naught but a few guards and a laptop with a wireless connection. The guess is that the would-be goddess must now extend her influence somewhat more personally.

It isn't good news for the world, as such, but it's somewhat hopeful news for Los Angeles. None of them are certain, but it's possible a break or two can be made in the front lines if the enemy doesn't have Jasmine's undivided protection.

Wesley worries the potential of this like a bit between his teeth. Angel says nothing on the subject.

Wesley understands the vampire's silence when the second rumor comes through:

Connor's in charge.

It's no surprise, this. But now the battle changes shape. Jasmine was content to enjoy the patience of millennia. She didn't lack a desire to make examples of them all, but after a while it was fairly obvious that she was content to let time itself do the damage if need be. Their dead bodies - and Angel's lonely unalive one - would be found eventually.

But Connor lacks this patience.

Attacks occur. Licks of pain hit along what passes for their safe zones. Connor, a teenager to the very end, pushes his father's boundaries, trying to force a response.

They lose some members to Jasmine's influence. They retreat to a new location. Connor keeps trying to ferret them out.

It is Wesley's idea to lay their hands upon prisoners. To drag them off into tunnels that matter to no one in particular and to do whatever it is that needs to be done to find out what's going on. Of course only the truly cured members of the team are allowed to make such attempts, and it is in various groupings of the five of them that they stage these assaults.

Fred and Gunn batter and shout information out of people. Lorne naturally gets it with a song (and it is Fred who clues him in to the trick of starting to hum "shave and a haircut" in order to get the two notes back that he needs to find information). Angel and Wesley don't say anything at all about the methods they use and everyone is happier for it, though Fred in particular can't entirely hide the look of disgust on her face when they return with more intelligence than any of them.

Still they go on, trying to find out Connor's weaknesses, because they have no alternative. So far the only cure that they know of is Cordelia's blood and without her they see no chance of winning.

This persists, until Wesley is given a rare opportunity.

He's with Fred and Gunn that day. It's a foray that brings them topside. They're not trying to find information this time. Instead it's merely a trip for supplies. Food. A little medicine. Fresh water that week comes courtesy of a pipe that Angel has tapped into, and it's a luxury they savor because they know at any minute it could be back to rationed sips.

The location - a high school Gunn's second cousin had once gone to - was supposed to be abandoned.

The armed guards prove this otherwise.

They're pushed and shoved into an auditorium, their hands bound behind their backs. In a moment of clearly planned drama Connor steps forth. Wesley tries not to start at the sight of him - darker, leaner, meaner.

The resemblance to his father has never been more uncanny.

Connor postures and makes speeches. He shows off for his men, hitting Gunn and feinting at Fred.

He comes to Wesley and he stops.

Wesley looks back at him unflinchingly. He's been around vampires long enough now. He knows that slight flaring of the nostrils. The one that says they recognize a scent.

The only question is what Connor will do with the information.

The boy's face turns mocking. "You think I didn't know? You think I didn't see the way you looked at him?"

Wesley torments him by not responding.

"He's not going to love you back, you know," Connor tells him. Then he recklessly reveals his entire hand as he continues. "Did you think he'd *try*? He'll never do it. He'll touch you but he'll never fu - "

"Let's continue this conversation in private," Wesley says, meeting the younger man's eyes.

Connor hauls Wesley through some metal doors into what Wesley can only guess is a dressing room area. Wesley keeps his eye on the boy, analyzing every movement, gesture, action, knowing that what he's been presented with is possibly the greatest translation challenge of his life since the *last* one Connor presented him with.

Wesley dares to rest some weight on his assumption that Connor has his father's skills but not experience. He can recognize Angel's scent well enough to know that he and Angel have been close, not well enough to fully guess that the relationship has been consummated.

"Looks like I beat you," Connor says.

"So you have," Wesley agrees, knowing that right now it's best to seem compliant.

"I'll get him too you know."

Wesley can't resist saying: "That's one theory."

Wesley is struck for this insubordination. His ears ring, and he's reminded that the child in front of him is no mere child. It would be far too easy for Connor to kill him without even realizing he'd made the attempt. The man in him chafes at this inequality, but he forces it down.

Connor is back to posturing. "How much do you think he wants you?"

"That question is best asked of him, I'd imagine," Wesley observes mildly.

Connor is in his face. "Enough to hate it if I got you first?"

Wesley is momentarily stunned. Somehow, deep down, he'd always wagered that a father like Holtz would have beaten any such desires out of Connor's body long before this could ever be an issue.

Yet here they were. And if Wesley's quick translations were anything to trust, the question had been wholly genuine.

It takes only a second for Wesley to know what he has to do.

He relaxes his body by a hair - shaping it in only the mere *suggestion* of submission.

"Probably."

Connor grabs him, his fingertips bruising, and claims him with a kiss that's far too clumsy to evoke true terror.

Wesley gives in to it anyway.

The touch keeps going. Far too quickly - and Wesley blames teenage hormones, here - Connor's erection presses against him. Wesley's clothes are fumbled and torn away, his cock more manhandled than molested, and then he's pressed face-first against the wall as Connor begins courting a nasty friction burn between his legs.

"It needs lubrication," Wesley tells him.

"I know that," Connor says, defensively, but the coltish look in his eyes reveals that, in truth, the boy's not entirely certain what the word in this context even *means*.

Wesley shoves his emotions down further. He submits himself not to Connor but to the plan which has formulated in his mind. He turns around, kneels, and takes the boy into his mouth.

It's over far too fast. Come chokes Wesley's throat before he can pull back and let Connor rape him properly. He swallows, though, knowing that this will only improve his chances later. When he looks up he sees emotions flicker through Connor's eyes that once again show his every vulnerability.

Wesley's not unaware that in this moment - and in the ones that he is now creating for himself - he is probably far too much like Cordelia.

Although he dares to suppose, given Connor's shuttered expression, that Cordelia, at least, had not approached Connor from *here*.

A first for them all then.

Connor finds his bluster again, shoving Wesley's shoulders back against the wall. "I could take you, you know!"

"I'm sure you could."

"I could do it right now!"

Teenage hormones, Wesley once again thinks. "I know."

Connor stands back, confused by this deference.

Wesley takes the initiative. "I want a deal."

"I don't - "

"You can have me," Wesley says. He deliberately - though he gives no outward sign of this calculation - touches his tongue to his lips. "Claim me before Angel does."

Connor eyes him suspiciously, but the fact that he listens is all the leeway Wesley needs.

"I could be yours," Wesley tells him. "Yours alone. Even Cordelia couldn't give you that. She was only there for Jasmine. I could be there for you."

Connor raises a hand to strike but then forgets it. "You're lying."

"Do I look as though I am?"

"Why would you do this?"

It's a question Wesley expected. "You have my friends."

Again Connor listens.

"Let them go," Wesley says, "and I will go with you. Willingly."

A young mouth curls in a sneer. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I keep my promises," Wesley tells him. "Even when they are not to my benefit." And now Wesley takes his greatest chance, plunging the conversation into territory which to him is totally uncharted. "That's why I took you from him in the first place."

The silence is long. Wesley's muscles tense, ready and accepting of the death blow that will come.

None lands, and Connor merely nods. "Fine."

"Untie my hands then."

"Do you think I'm *stupid*?"

"On the contrary," Wesley tells him. "I think you are wise. Which is why you know that if you wish Fred and Gunn to leave here willingly that they will need to see that I am not your captive. Let me stand before them a free man and tell them this is my choice."

"This sounds like a trap."

"If I'm lying you can kill me. Either way Angel will be hurt."

It's the final point that does it. Connor cuts the rope around his wrists. Wesley takes a moment to fix his clothes as best as he's able. When he's done he looks disheveled, but in no way that would suggest anything other than a fight.

They go back out to the others.

"I'm going with him," Wesley tells them. "I'm rejoining their ranks."

Fred jerks in her captivity, shaking her head. "Wesley - "

He ignores her and meets Gunn's eyes. "Tell Angel he is not to look for me. I've made my choice. *I know what I am doing.*"

Gunn shapes his face in contempt, but Wesley knows his true message was heard. "Fuck you then, man. You gonna kill us too?"

"No, we'll let you die like animals," Wesley says, and with that Connor takes him from the room. It's a long walk, but eventually they return to the Hyperion.

Connor puts Wesley into his suite.

It's weeks before he finds out if Connor kept his part of the bargain.

PART TWO

When he arrives at the Hyperion things move too quickly for him to process. Connor marches him past the crowds in the halls and thrusts him into the suite that will become their home so roughly that Wesley reaches out a hand to catch his balance.

He's not allowed this comfort for long.

Connor, in an emotional reflex that reminds Wesley all too well of his public school days, is now biting and cruel. He makes what for him are pointed comments - "Bet *you* liked that. Bet you wished it was him. Bet you wish it was him *right now*." - and, yes, the last two at least are true but it's the first that Wesley knows to focus on.

Boys at this age often hate the questions their bodies ask them.

It isn't the first time Wesley has been the weaker male in this situation, and though it's a humiliation he can't deny at the same time he basks in his experience. He remains silent, letting Connor rant as he needs, then allows himself to be grabbed and shoved into a chair. More rope is found and it is only until Connor is done that Wesley speaks, his voice easygoing and matter of fact. "It's too tight."

"You're a *prisoner*," Connor says, his tone adding a roll of his eyes.

"Yes," Wesley agrees, "but you've tied me up wrong."

"I know how to do knots!"

"I can see that, you're quite skilled," Wesley flatters him - and it is true enough, Connor had apparently earned more than a few merit badges over in Quor-toth. "But is your goal to imprison me or to torture me?"

Connor pauses. It's more thought than he's attempted to give the situation.

"If your intent is to torture me, then well done," Wesley continues, keeping the conversational ball in his corner. "But if your hope is to *imprison* me, well..."

Connor's chin tilts up defiantly. "What?"

"I'd rather like to keep my hands."

There's hesitation, quick suspicion that it's yet another trap. Wesley doesn't look away, however, and his manner is so peaceful that Connor comes forward with the jerky trust of a wild bird being offered a handful of food. The ropes are undone. Wesley doesn't move his hands from the spot they were placed in. Instead he gives a helpful suggestion of how to keep himself bound without restricting necessary bloodflow, Connor complies with it, and Wesley is tied up again once more.

"There we are," Wesley says, trying out a light smile. "Much better."

"Sure," Connor says. Not knowing what else to make of this, he leaves.

It's not the first time Wesley's been forced into solitude, and he's confident it won't be the last. In fact the whole thing settles around him like a familiar blanket and he finds himself thinking *Ah yes, this again.*

His first days pass almost entirely alone. Connor is his only company, and the boy restricts their contact only to the necessities, eye contact not yet something he's capable of handling.

Wesley waits this out. He's been imprisoned by far worse than a vampire's child. He knows how to keep from falling into despair, how to make sure his mind is still active.

He doesn't press things. He allows this strangeness to become commonplace before attempting conversations to bring about changes.

"How shall we handle my hourly walk?" he asks Connor one day, as though this was something Connor himself had been bound to bring up eventually.

"What?" Connor asks.

"My hourly walk," Wesley tells him. "Or, rather, every fifty minutes when I need ten minutes to move my limbs, to keep them from becoming permanently damaged."

Dark brows knit together with a lack of comprehension. "Wha - "

"You know," Wesley says, as though he had every confidence that this is a mere slip of memory brought about by Connor's busy schedule. "As required by the Geneva Convention? It's standard practice for keeping prisoners."

It's bollocks on top of half-truths, but Connor is far too much his father's son to admit he's caught off-guard by it. "Oh yeah," he says. Then, as though remembering, he comes forward to undo Wesley's bonds.

Wesley stands, stretches a bit, then walks a simple and easy pace about the room. He comments with casual positiveness on some of Connor's possessions, then sits back down before he's told.

"There we are then."

"Right," Connor says. He redoes the ropes, and Wesley notes the care the boy takes to make sure they're loose enough for safety's sake. "So... see you in fifty minutes?"

"I'll look forward to it," Wesley tells him.

This then sets the tone. The reality of a prisoner - or pet, Wesley muses, depending upon one's point of view - is more than Connor's black and white world can handle. He knows he wants one, but he has no idea what to do about it. Wesley, then, is more than happy to offer himself as Connor's teacher.

Years ago, when Wesley wasn't much older than Connor's age, he went on an extended holiday that skirted along southern Europe, then dipped down for a few months through some of the more intriguing, but by no means safe, points of interest in Africa.

Before going, Wesley's uncle had pulled him aside and offered one piece of advice:

Be British.

Wesley had protested. He'd studied, he knew the languages, surely if problems arose he could met everyone halfway and show his ability to compromise?

Yes, his uncle had agreed. And thus he'd lose out each and every single time.

You don't want to *compromise* in times of danger, you want to *win*. Speak the language of the natives and you've already admitted that *you* must change to suit *them*. Force them to speak *your* language, on the other hand....

It's arrogance, but it's also true.

Around Connor, Wesley is British.

He becomes proper, formal, rigid in the requirements of what is necessary for their new life. He shapes all of this in deference and gentle reminders, but the end result remains the same - there is a way to do these things, and it is up to Connor to conform to the standards that only Wesley is aware of.

It goes surprisingly well. The bonds aren't removed yet but the hourly exercise becomes commonplace, he no longer has to use mental tricks to stave off the need to use the restroom, and after a week and a half Connor even begins to bring him tea.

It's not *proper* tea, certainly, but still. The boy is trainable.

Wesley allows himself no confidence in this, however. He knows he is merely carving out the tiniest of spots inside of a cage that is all his own. He can encourage, but he's not lord and master here. That role belongs to Connor, and it isn't long before he remembers it.

Homosexual panic gradually fades when Wesley never brings up the incident that started all of this and, Wesley assumes, no one else in the mind controlled world even knows that it happened. The sparks of dangerous fear that crackled off of Connor's body soon fade and it's not long before his hands start to linger long past the moment when the bonds are secure.

Wesley steels himself for the inevitable.

It starts one day while Wesley is still bound. Connor moves to untie him, then looks at him appraisingly. "I could make you do it again, you know."

"Of course," Wesley says. He reminds himself once more that this is all for the greater good of his plan.

It's a comedy of errors before Connor realizes the action is impossible while Wesley is tied as he is - at least, not without a bit of balance and gymnastics on Connor's part. Ropes are undone and Wesley goes to his knees before Connor can ask him.

He's not quite ready to cope with the *request* for this, just yet. He clings to the infinitesimal comfort that, for now, the blow job was his own idea.

Connor lasts longer than the first time, but in this case it means four licks instead of two. Wesley coughs only a little, and uses the remainder of his strength to fight the urge to wipe a stray drop from his cheek.

Connor smiles, satisfied, and Wesley knows they're never going to go back to a time when physical distance was kept between them.

This becomes part of the routine then. One blowjob after dinner becomes two in the afternoon becomes Connor demanding this whenever the evil *brat* damn well pleases, because he's got the power dynamics now, oh yes, and like any male he's thrilled to know he can tell *anyone* to get his rocks off at the snap of his bloody fingers.

Wesley swallows it all, literally, because he knows the longer he can keep the boy interested in fellatio means the longer they have until Connor remembers there are other parts of Wesley he could be fucking.

There are unasked for benefits, however. One day the ropes are undone and when Wesley returns to his chair Connor simply looks at him, then says nothing. The ropes are put away and Wesley finds he can now spend his free time walking about the room, and even reading. The random collection of books suggests that they aren't Connor's favorites so much as a bunch cobbled together because Connor felt that books were somehow necessary. Wesley even tries to discuss some of them with him once and he's met with a blank stare. He doesn't bother trying again.

Another benefit is information, though Wesley cannot tell if it is a purposeful gift or only an error. Either way, one morning Connor makes a snide comment about Fred and Gunn and it's the only way Wesley knows that they are safe - or as safe as they can be - and that Connor did, in fact, let them go.

A half hour later Wesley actually puts a bit of effort into the blowjob, partially out of thanks, partially because he knows you always give a reward when you want to encourage the right sort of behavior.

Wesley makes no attempts at escape beyond testing that, yes, the doors and windows are locked. It's fine by him. As determined as he is to follow through on all of this, he's not certain what the temptation of a way out would to do him. He's happier with his confinement. Content. It removes some of the responsibility.

Connor, for his part, actually grows in the role of caregiver. He brings clothing, and food. There's a certain pride in his voice when he places a new dish in front of Wesley, and it takes Wesley a while to realize it's not the pride of the hunt, such as it is, as it is pride in the *attempt*. Connor's trying to learn, to discover what Wesley likes.

It's a fact Wesley doesn't care to think about too much.

Things become flipped as now Connor is the one who attempts to hand out rewards, though for *what* Wesley doesn't want to become certain. Upon discovering Wesley's favorite tea he manages to produce boxes of it. Wesley's favorite drink results in cases of alcohol that, though he sips politely for show, Wesley silently refuses to ever become drunk on. When all the books have been read through twice new ones appear, their subjects rotating until Connor discovers Wesley's preferences for science fiction and history. Shirts and pants appear in styles not unlike the ones Wesley wore back before all of this started, before....

They don't talk about Jasmine.

Their situation is strange enough that this elephant in the corner is not unusual in and of itself, and it's some time before Wesley even realizes that they've managed to avoid it.

He realizes it the day Connor rewards him by unlocking the door.

It's after breakfast - long enough after that the blowjob is long past and Wesley is curled up on the couch, lost in the writings of Winston Churchill. Connor puts together the dishes as he always does then, with a smile in Wesley's direction, walks out of their suite and leaves the door ajar behind him.

Wesley stares at this, waiting for the trap to snap before he can set his foot in it. When no such thing is forthcoming, he stands.

There are people. Enough that for a moment he even feels agoraphobic, but the moment quickly passes as he is assaulted by new sensations. Sight. Sound. Smell.

*Memory*.

He hadn't thought of it. He hadn't thought of it at *all* for months upon months. But now, surrounded by it, he's unable to escape.

He's unable to forget that before Connor, before this, there was an even greater trauma.

A tight sound passes his lips. He clings to the doorframe. Random people come by, none of whom he recognizes, but all with the same demeanor and expression.

All with the same *love*.

And oh *damned* god he wants it.

His body aches for it and he knows that no drug, no blood lust, no addiction could be so true or so keen. His mind, torn from the spell but not bereft of the memories, floods him. He remembers what it was like. He remembers being out there, with them, filled with such bliss. To be standing *right there* at the podium and leading them all in action and prayer, and then to *lose* it, to have that salvation *torn* from his body like a limb, like his *heart*, to -

"Wesley?" Connor appears, and it's not until then that Wesley realizes that he'd come forward, right up to the railing, and had started leaning out enough that the littlest shift, the tiniest motion would pitch him straight over, towards that podium, towards the hard floor three stories below.

"*Wes*?" Connor says, tugging on his shoulder now.

Wesley turns, races back into the suite, slams open the door to the bathroom and doesn't make it to the toilet before vomiting overtakes him. Bile hits the floor, splashes his shoes, drips from his clothing and he doesn't care. He cracks his knees on the tile and keeps heaving, each gag bringing another level of misery past his lips - Jasmine, loss, Connor, the sex and... yes, quietly, the memory of Angel.

His humanity grips him, and Wesley can't recall ever being so disgusted with himself. He wants it to end. All of it, right then. He wants *peace*.

He gets none, but after a while of nothing but painful hiccups, there is a hand on his back and an offered glass of water.

"Here," Connor tells him. "You probably hurt your throat."

Wesley laughs, or perhaps sobs, and takes the drink.

Horribly gentle fingers touch Wesley's forehead. He's pronounced feverish and Wesley can't even form the strength to deny it.

Connor cleans him up, surprisingly unbothered by the grunt work of dealing with another man's vomit. Wesley allows himself to be stripped, wiped down with a cool washcloth, and then lead back into the bedroom.

For the first time ever, Connor places him in the bed.

"Get some rest," Connor tells him. Wesley is near enough to passing out that he doesn't argue, or linger much over the thought that he's now naked.

"Don't ever go outside without me," Connor adds, and Wesley finds himself in wholehearted agreement with that.

PART THREE

It's however many days later when Wesley wakes up. Connor is there, behind him and the expression that suggests itself is "spooning" but Wesley flat-out refuses to use it.

Upon seeing that Wesley is awake, Connor is all too happy to get up, skitter into the kitchen, return with coffee and toast.

Wesley slaps the dishes onto the floor. They refuse to break, much to his annoyance, but the coffee makes a nice spill.

Connor is taken aback. He assays a suggestion about Wesley not being well enough yet but Wesley nips *that* idea in the bud when he launches himself up, managing to get two good hits in before the demon child grabs him by the wrist and slams him down right next to the puddle on the floor.

Connor's mad. Wesley doesn't care. The plan - the stupid, bloody *plan* - means nothing to him. The whole place is a prison and Wesley's claustrophobia is rearing its ugly head. He wants out, he wants *gone* and since words to express these desires are meaningless he does it instead with actions.

He holds his own in the tussle, but ultimately Connor's not the one left wondering if bones will need to knit.

This is it then. The true test. He got himself *into* this mess, it's his job to get out of it.

He sits still, back against the wall, as Connor rages and breaks things. The temper tantrum is all too familiar, but in their four year history together Angel never ended one of his by forcing himself upon a foolhardy ex-Watcher.

Granted, Angel would have never needed force in that matter.

Connor does, though, and it's a comfort to know that no charade of compliance is needed here since even Angel's son wouldn't be stupid enough to believe it. Wesley instead settles on passivity, tumbling into whatever position Connor puts him into and offering no encouragement, but at the same time no fight.

Wesley is already naked. Connor does the mere courtesy of undoing his pants. Small hands crush themselves on Wesley's shoulders as the far too human sounding child attempts to match his heritage by snarling "You're *mine*. I had you *first*!"

It's all so ludicrous and immature that Wesley almost wants to laugh at it. Only awareness of how quickly those hands could snap his neck keeps him from doing so.

Somewhere between the declarations, the half-remembered need for lube (taken care of by Connor's spit) and the actual penetration Wesley rediscovers his Zen-like peace with it all.

He's been shot, tortured, left for dead. What's *left* really?

He takes it, then. Closing his eyes and thinking only of a vampire - the same vampire that got him through each and every other true crisis of his life, even though Angel's probably unaware of it.

He imagines it's Angel's touch, Angel's hands, Angel's dick.

His imagination isn't that strong, but it's enough to get him through it.

Connor finishes, looks far too self-satisfied, and Wesley knows they've found yet another thing he'll never be able to protect himself from.

The sex doesn't come free, however. Wesley lets Connor have his fun then starts in on him the very next day.

"Where's Jasmine? What is she doing? Where did she take Cordelia?"

They verbally fence with this - much as Connor is able to verbally do anything - but Wesley eventually manages to tease out some of the truth. Jasmine is elsewhere, quite possibly in China. She's extending her influence of mind control. Cordelia, the only subject which manages to get Connor feeling defensive for a change, is in parts unknown.

Wesley doesn't like having to add these facts up to the conclusion that Jasmine probably left not only to gain more followers but to take Cordelia away as well. The smart move would be another continent - for that matter to place her on top of the highest mountain. But Wesley doesn't know how alive Cordelia really is so it's possible she must still be kept somewhere that humans can survive in.

Even so, tracking her has now become more problematic.

Fortunately Jasmine had *two* parents to choose from. With one gone, Wesley focuses all of his attention on the other.

Frog in slowly boiling water that he is, Wesley moves past the violation that Connor's sex life has now become. He puts the reality of it on a shelf in the back of his brain and then leaves it there undusted. He resumes his habit of Being British, and Connor happily resumes *his* habit of treating him in a manner not unlike a pampered pet.

What this says about the boy's desires towards bestiality Wesley doesn't care to think on.

But it's progress, of its own sort, and it's the kind that lends itself towards usefulness. They have conversations over meals now, and Connor stupidly reveals too much about the things that occupy his time outside of their home - how the Hyperion commune works, where all the supplies are located, how the troops train to help deal with "traitors" like Angel and Fred.

In truth it's not *entirely* stupid on Connor's part. Wesley has no communication with the outside - or underground - world. He has the knowledge but can do nothing about it. It's his own personal Hell.

Wesley's own status as a heretic becomes something of a curiosity. Connor never mentions it, and based on the non-reaction of the people in the hall Wesley can only conclude that either they don't know or they don't care. He asks Connor about it and finds out that no, everyone knows his face and his crime, but he's with Connor now and that's all that matters. After all - and here Connor puffs himself up - he *is* Jasmine's father.

Wesley wonders what Jasmine herself thinks about this, but doesn't pursue that avenue of conversation. He doesn't like talking about her much, and can't help but feel that saying her name will invoke her - even if only inside of the mind and body of one of the people in the hotel.

The goddess herself proves to be Wesley's only true weakness. The ache that he feels when he sees the other zealots is far too unbearable. He hides out in their rooms and never once takes advantage of the door that is open to him. He savagely mocks himself for this, but at the same time cannot change the behavior. It's too much. He wants that bliss again as much as it terrifies him.

A crisis over this elicits an unwelcome moment of tenderness from Connor.

In an effort to either spoil Wesley or to show off, Connor gets servants sent in. He doesn't warn Wesley about this. Instead Wesley finds out when a man and two women come in, all of them near floating with identical attitudes of peacefulness. Without a word they move about the room, tidying, cleaning, making themselves useful.

Wesley bellows a command for Connor to get himself up there *right now*.

Connor appears, smiling, starting to ask if Wesley likes the new treat.

Wesley rapidly disabuses him of this notion. His voice is quiet, deadly, the kind which will brook *no* arguments because arguments with Wesley when he is in *this* state of mind end up with little boys being sent directly to *Hell* dimensions, thank you *very* much.

Connor is hurt. A puppy kicked in the chest. "But I thought - "

"I cannot *abide* them, Connor," Wesley says. He stabs his finger towards the door. "I cannot see them, I cannot speak to them and I *will not do this*. Get rid of them."

Confused, Connor shoos them away. He closes the door. Any argument or physical punishment that he might have offered in response to this drains away from his face when he looks back at Wesley.

Wesley, having come far too close to this torment, can no longer stand. He sinks onto the couch. He stares at nothing, his hands tremble.

Connor draws close. His head cocks quizzically. "Is it - is it that bad?"

"You have no idea," Wesley says, incapable of lying about it.

Conner perches himself on the coffee table. "I don't know what it was like," he says, an apology.

"I know."

The silence lingers between them. Connor shifts, clearly feeling that action is warranted. "Do you want it back?"

Wesley winces, then leaves his eyes closed.

"Maybe..." Connor's voice is uncertain, "I could ask? If you.... She's a goddess, there's got to be some way that - "

"*No!*" Wesley's mind recoils from what Connor offers him. The denial is guttural, dragged from the last vestiges of strength his soul has to give him.

"Wesley, if it's what you *want*...."

He forces himself to open his eyes. To sit up. To look at Connor man to man. "Never offer this to me. Never *give* this to me. What you give me is - is slavery. Misery. Hell, only I'll be too stupid to be aware of it."

"But you miss it," Connor says, trying to understand.

"We miss many things in life," Wesley tells him. "That doesn't mean we should have them."

Connor absorbs this. There's vulnerability. Wesley knows that if their situation was what Connor believed it to be, this would be a moment for them to bond, to draw closer together.

He makes that true for Connor, though for his own part it's only another manipulation. Pushing Connor's pawn into the right square, so that later Wesley can take his queen.

"Protect me from this, Connor," he says, pressing his hand to Connor's knee. He makes his voice soft, pleading. "Please. I - I need you to do this for me."

Connor's face lights with a smile. Wesley fakes his way through a kiss.

"I will," Connor promises. "I'll take good care of you."

Wesley allows himself to be fucked once again.

The time comes when Wesley knows he can't act on his own any longer.

"I need help," he tells Connor.

Connor slaps his hands together, nearly bouncing on his feet with extra energy - a natural byproduct, Wesley has found, to the times when the sex has been just rough enough to convince Connor of his true prowess.

Wesley suggested the act himself, and now does what he can to avoid putting weight on the leg that now has a slight limp.

"What can I do?" Connor asks, brimming with helpfulness.

"Not you," Wesley says, then smiles and instantly amends it. "Well, *yes*, you, but not exactly."

Confusion. "What?"

"I need help."

"I - "

"*Someone*," Wesley clarifies. Then, sliding into blatant manipulation, he continues. "You were right. A servant of some sort *is* a good idea."

Connor nods. "I thought so."

"To that end I was wrong," Wesley says. He nudges the conversation along slowly. He hasn't yet discovered how much he can lie to the boy without being discovered. "After all, you *are* terribly busy - "

"I can take care of you!"

"Of course you can," Wesley raises his hands in placating agreement. "I only meant - " and here he hates mixing the truth in amongst all this " - considering how I feel about going outside. About... being with everyone."

Connor regards him with a look that's both territorial and sympathetic. Wesley forces himself to accept it and look grateful.

"When you're here obviously all is well," Wesley says. "But when you're gone - well what if something were to happen? What if I needed you? How could we make contact?"

A vague gesture towards the door. "You could ask - "

"One of *them*," Wesley says, pointedly.

Connor frowns, now aware of the puzzle.

"I need someone I can trust," Wesley says. He now uses his 'I know you would have thought of this first' voice. It's the same one that taught Connor to keep lube in the nightstand. (Wesley thought about pushing his luck for condoms, but dared to trust that a Cordelia who had been infected with Jasmine had been clean of anything else and therefore saved his strength for more pressing arguments, such as the one they were currently having.) "Someone who won't hurt me by being what they are."

"Who?" Connor asks.

Now for the real challenge. Wesley takes a breath. "I need one of my friends."

The request hangs there between them. Their eyes lock.

Wesley tips the scales by shifting his weight, exposing the hand-shaped bruise around his throat.

Connor comes close to giving a nod. "Who?" he asks, and now it's the precursor to their agreement.

Wesley, who spent all of the night before thinking about it in lieu of sleep, gives the name.

Connor accepts.

PART FOUR

It's a bit of chaos in the hallway that alerts Wesley to the arrival of his request. He puts his book away, smoothes his shirt, tries to present a good appearance.

Members of the new world's warrior class - in his mind Wesley calls them goons - stomp in, shove someone forward. Connor's there too, a tinfoil hat general, looking satisfied.

Lorne blinks, utterly confused by this.

"Leave us," Wesley commands, and gets the result he paid for with a skilled tongue and well-placed fingers earlier that day. Connor gestures - causing Wesley to wonder if it's a previously agreed upon signal or one that the boy is trying out to see if he likes it - and the men go.

Connor gives Wesley a possessive look. "I'll be back."

"Naturally," Wesley tells him.

The doors close. Lorne faces him, the very picture of puzzlement. "Okay, I know this is a crazy, mixed-up world we're living in but - "

Wesley shuts him up with a song. It's a few bars of one he's missed hearing on the radio. Lorne stops, stares, reads. His mouth begins to open in a horrified "O"

Wesley advances on him before he can speak. They're nose to nose. Wesley's arms crossed, but his body radiates the strength of his words. "If you say one thing about this to *anyone*, I will destroy your body with my own bare hands. Do I make myself clear?"

Whatever anger or possible accusations of betrayal that Lorne might have given him have vanished. There's understanding, and to Wesley's hatred also a little pity. "Wes..."

"I know what I am doing."

"*Who* you're - "

"Not! One! *Word*!"

It's a stare off. Finally Lorne backs down. There's a moment of awkward shuffling. "So why am I here, if not for my scintillating conversation?"

In his original picture of this, Wesley told him. However in reality deeper needs take control. Softly, quiet enough for only a demon's ears, he asks "Angel...?"

Lorne places a gentle hand on Wesley's arm - sending a wave of bitterness through Wesley as he knows precisely *why* Lorne is being so tender, that Lorne now views him as the very epitome of the term "victim" and is treating him as such - and guides him further back into the room, away from any ears that might be lurking beyond the closed door to the hall.

"Batshit insane," Lorne tells him, his voice low and quiet, but his eyes reflecting still-held worry for their mutual friend. "After you went off with Junior... let's just say we had to move twice and we didn't get back the security deposit."

"Idiot," Wesley mutters, meaning it for the absent vampire. "He can't do that. He's thinking with his *heart*, he - "

"You're not doing the same?"

Wesley looks away. He doesn't like this. He doesn't like Lorne's ability to tear apart the tissue paper of his lies. It was easier when there was only Connor to fool. Belatedly Wesley now understands that this is part and parcel of why the world past those doors terrifies him.

"I have a plan."

"For Angel."

"For *everyone*," Wesley snaps, but they both know that it's ultimately a secondary concern. Wesley closes his eyes, folds his arms tighter around himself. Lorne, understanding the true mercy needed here, lets go and assumes a manner more professional.

"So what's the sitch?"

Wesley manages to shed his emotions in kind. "Thanks to Connor, I have an in. He trusts me. He gives me information. I can use him to give us the upper hand."

"With you so far," Lorne says. "Where do I come in?"

"I need an out."

Wesley lays it out for him. Connor trusts him, so long as he is a prisoner. To be of any use, however, someone needs to make it outside, to find a way to secret their hard-won advantages back to their underground team.

"Me," Lorne says.

"You," Wesley agrees.

"I'm not - "

"I know," Wesley tells him. "That's why I picked you."

"Thanks," the demon says, but the tone is a familiar sardonic, and though he doesn't feel it Wesley still manages a smile.

"You're not a fighter, you're not a mystic," Wesley reminds him. "To them therefore you are a nothing. You can disappear from their radar in ways no one else can."

Lorne shrugs, neither disputing nor believing in this.

Wesley thinks of his own difficulties. "It won't be easy. You'll have to be around them. Talk to them, as I cannot."

Something in Lorne's demeanor tells Wesley this has already proven a challenge. But the demon waves it off, dismissing any problems. "Can't be any worse than trying to talk to my mother during the last family reunion - and at least here the food's better."

Wesley smiles at that. It's small, but more genuine than any he's felt of late.

Another submission that night ensures that Lorne gets a room next door to their suite - and gets it for himself.

Things are uneasy at first. There's no clear definition of Lorne's official job, so he and Wesley take to simply visiting and speaking whenever Connor is away. As the goal was to give Wesley safe companionship during those times, it doesn't occur to either of them the problem that this creates.

It's a week before they realize the error of their ways.

A week is all it takes for Wesley and Lorne to find a familiarity to their speech. To talk of things that only they understand. To take comfort in the completely inane topics that are the only things they dare to speak of, but which to Wesley become the most precious part of his day. He can relax, just a bit. Slip the mask off slightly. Be a tiny bit more like himself.

He selfishly keeps Lorne from going on his true mission - ingratiating himself with the others - in favor of taking his company whenever he can. Lorne, far too understanding of why Wesley might need this, doesn't argue.

Connor comes home each night to see the two of them deep in conversation, both distracted by his interruption, and a slow anger begins to burn.

It is the last night, when Connor comes home to find Wesley not only smiling but *laughing* that things explode.

Lorne is forcibly ejected from the room. Wesley is slammed into the wall. And only then, his eyes going black with pain, does he realize how foolish he was. Connor, not savvy to any of Wesley's manipulations, is demon and beast enough to understand unspoken attractions.

It is not that Wesley and Lorne care for one another - far from it - but it is that they have so much more in *common*. They have gone through hard times together, Jasmine's thrall included, and Connor knows this gives Lorne a connection to Wesley that he could never have.

It's not love, not even lust, but Connor's not sophisticated enough to care. It's not *his* and that's all that matters.

He takes Wesley forcibly, escalating the violence of the action until even Wesley must comply and finally cry out in pain when no other tormentor had managed to pry that out of him. It is harsh and cruel, and when he's done Wesley can only turn to his side on the floor, spit blood, and lie there.

Hours later Connor comes back to take care of him. There's no apologies, merely efficient touch. Wesley is cleaned, bandaged, bundled back into bed.

The next night Wesley recovers enough to speak.

"There's only you."

Connor accepts that.

It's still days, however, before he grudgingly allows permission for Lorne to see him again. It's two weeks before the marks fade enough for Wesley to allow that to happen.

They learn from their mistake. When Lorne reappears, he is the very picture of the host he once was - charming, deferential, never once stepping out of his role of happy servant.

He appoints himself Wesley's valet, and ingratiates himself in Connor's heart by immediately announcing that his first intention is to feed and dress Wesley for the day.

"Gotta get him handsome for you, right big guy?" Lorne asks, and Connor smiles at this.

They're not left alone. They don't earn that right for a while. But Wesley makes sure Connor's needs are not unattended and Lorne makes it clear that he knows who in this game is boss.

One afternoon Connor kisses Wesley in front of Lorne. His touch is crass, the kiss far too intimate for public eyes on the best of occasions, made moreso by Connor's hand palming Wesley's cock until he can get a reaction.

He gets the one he's looking for, then lets go.

"I'll be back in an hour," he tells them.

Lorne stares at the door after it closes.

"I know there's a line," he tells Wes, "but when this is done I get at least a few stabs in, right?"

Wesley doesn't argue.

As Wesley predicted, Lorne proves a master at his job. Though he shares the same ache for the mind control that Wesley did, he manages to hide it better. Connor's good graces give Lorne free passage amongst the blessed/damned and the first task Lorne sets himself is making friends with absolutely everyone in the building. He talks, flirts, compliments, and it's not long before he's called over to a table or greeted with a hearty wave whenever he walks into a room.

In the prison - as he's come to call poor Wes's suite - he plays the role of the humble servant. He maintains an attitude of a constant bow to Connor, even going so far as to occasionally and with all due deference suggest ways the pissant little freak might try to woo his supposed intended. It's not that Lorne wants to inflict the brat on Wes, but the fact of it is the kid's not going anywhere, so he hopes that by encouraging Connor in the *slow* art of seduction that he might be able to provide Wes with something that at least looks like a break.

Based on the bruises that cover Wes's skin when Lorne helps change him in the morning it apparently doesn't work, but even so Lorne has to try.

Getting chummy with the guards is next. Not the ones that hover in the third floor hallway that Lorne suspects Wesley is willfully unaware of, but the *real* guards. The ones that surround the building. The ones that block the way to the sewers.

It takes time but he manages it. They're a manly lot but their blissed-out minds aren't unwelcoming of a new mascot. Lorne chats, plays the buffoon, goes over the top with the fey thing by bringing them coffee and cakes. It gets the job done.

He learns their likes, dislikes.

Their schedules.

Finally he gets their trust. Not the life and death kind. The more important "I don't care" kind. The kind that Lorne tests one day by strolling past them - past the point that anyone is supposed to go - waves and cheerfully tells them he's going off for coffee, do they need anything?

And they let him go.

It takes a month, but he manages it.

Wesley has learned to speak Pylean. Or, rather, he's learned to read it.

Lorne's been giving him lessons, in the form of a Scrabble game that Connor is too bored by to give a second glance to, even when they play it right in front of him.

The games start with Wesley placing down an English word, then Lorne placing down its Pylean equivalent. Lorne is impressed when it only takes two weeks for English to be put aside and Pylean conversations to ensue.

*I got out,* Lorne tells him one day, in tiles.

*Good,* Wesley responds.

*Don't know where anyone is yet, but I'll keep trying.*

*Excellent. Thank you.*

Then, a week later:

*Possible contact. What should I do?*

*Keep going.*

Later still, this time while they're alone:

*I can get a message through.*

Wesley stares at this. It's been so long he's not sure he wants to allow himself to believe the possibility.

More tiles. *What do you want me to say?*

Wesley doesn't respond.

Lorne waits, then gives a significant look in his direction.

Wesley turns away.

There's the sound of tiles slipping across cardboard, then Lorne taps the table to get his attention.

On reflex, Wesley looks.

He manages to see the first five tiles: "T-o-A-n-g - " before he shoves his hand against the board and scatters them.

"No."

Lorne looks at him in exasperation. "You've *got* to be kidding me."

"You know the mission," Wesley hisses, too angry to bother with the safety of spelled out code. "You know what to say."

Lorne stares him down. He gathers the tiles and places them in a pile on Wesley's side.

"Okay, we've done *that*. Now what do you *really* want to say?"

Far too many things suggest themselves. For a moment Wesley allows his hand to linger over tiles that contain an "o" and a "v".

In the end he retreats back into the greater good. Also into what he knows is a Pylean pun.

He collects the necessary tiles and in the other dimension's language he spells out:

*Tell Angel not to think with his ass.*

Lorne smirks, then nods.

Wesley doesn't like to admit it, but the avenue of communication makes him restless. It's a link back to what he once had. He lies awake at night, unable to stop his mind from worrying at the thought. He hasn't asked Lorne for details - plausible deniability in all things, of course - so he has no idea how word is getting back, how long will it take, are they to even expect a reply?

"Isn't this a *great* morning?" Lorne asks one day, walking in with a tray of breakfast dishes.

Connor, content in his usual routine, frowns. "What's so special about it?"

Lorne smiles at Wesley. "No reason."

Wesley smiles in return, but manages to keep the expression to himself.

There's no message back, as such, but over Scrabble Lorne tells him things are going well. They've got their 'out'. Now they need the next step.

*Export.* Wesley tells him. *A way to supply them with Connor's blood.*

Wesley hasn't shared his plans for getting his hands on said item, but Lorne's expression is feral and pleased all the same.

Still more games produce the information that the others are working on it. There's an underground railroad, of sorts, being created and that they *will* find a way.

Things heat up. Positive information flows back faster and faster and one day Lorne produces the best news yet.

*Might have something. Someone who can do the job.*

Wesley is incredulous at this. *Who?*

Lorne shakes his head. It's either something best not mentioned or something he himself is unaware of.

*Needs to see you.*

Wesley frowns. *Why?*

Another shake. Then, after a second's hesitation, *Doesn't trust me, I guess.*

For a moment Wesley isn't certain that *he* does either, but the demon's expression is so unguarded that he allows himself to relax.

*Okay. When?*

*Not sure yet.*

The obstacle, of course, is Connor. After Wesley's fears there's no way for him to go out and about without anyone noticing. Wesley has, unfortunately, made his dislike for the outside world far too evident.

Lorne sets about trying to break this barrier. In full view of Connor the two of them walk out into the hall. Connor immediately gets up, hovers, but all they do is stand by the doorway. Wesley's nerves are too torn for him to even fake conversation. Lorne and Connor both, then, team up to reassure him, talking amongst *themselves* so that Wesley is not called upon to fill the silences.

That night, alone, Connor is oddly encouraging. He wonders if Wesley can go further - into another room, perhaps even downstairs, maybe even more?

Wesley questions this, disliking that he has no key by which to provide a translation for Connor's motivations. He's even more unhappy at this clear weakness in his and Lorne's observations. What's Connor been doing that they have no idea about?

Connor reveals no clue. Instead he runs fingers through Wesley's hair, kisses him, and promises that if Wesley manages this there might be treats - rewards. There's a dramatic pause before Connor adds: "*Books*, maybe."

If anything it makes Wesley more inclined to stay right where he is. This is a noose he's no desire to willingly place his head into.

But beyond it is the promise of an end. Wesley wonders if he could run fast enough to break the rope around his neck. To one day, possibly, be free.

"I'll try," Wesley tells Connor. And the reward that night is sex that Connor probably assumes is romantic and loving.

Wesley manages it. It makes him ill time and again, but with Connor and Lorne's help he eventually makes it downstairs. He sits still for all of a half hour before becoming dizzy and needing to retreat once more, but it's a hard-earned victory after so many weeks.

He tries it again, and again, and soon enough he and Lorne walk about the hotel without comment. Then, eventually, Wesley manages it on his own.

Connor, for his part, couldn't be more pleased. He crows about it, showering Wesley with presents - books, alcohol, jewels, does Wesley want jewels? - and goes about his day looking much too happy for Wesley's comfort.

Lorne works double time on trying to get information - about their newfound contact, about Connor. In the end it is Connor himself who provides the latter, when he returns home one day in an absolute funk.

"Something wrong?" Lorne asks, made inquisitive when Connor sulks his way into the suite, dumping his clothing onto the floor like a boy informed that he's failed another math final.

"You can't *go*," Connor whines, looking at Wes.

"Go?" Wesley asks.

"To Seattle," Connor says. He flops down into a chair, pouty. Lorne makes himself useful by presenting him with a cool drink. It stays untouched on the coaster, but it keeps the demon in the room. "I have to go to Seattle."

Wesley and Lorne manage not to share a look. "Why?"

"There's a *thing*," Connor says, waving a hand to dismiss it. "They need me there in person. To take care of it."

Wesley now has a real concern about this. "Is there any danger? To you?"

Connor mistakes this for devotion. "I can handle it."

Wes's tone is a hair sharper, more authoritative. "Even so, I worry."

Connor smiles. "I'll be back. I just have to do it. You know. As the father."

"Of course," Wesley says.

Lorne lets Wes have a moment to let the cognitive wheels turn. "Need me to pack a bag? How many nights are we planning here?"

"A week," Connor shrugs. "More." He sits up again, making a sort of intimacy with his posture as he looks at Wesley. "I wanted you to come with me."

Wes is far too well-rehearsed with this kind of supplication. Lorne still has to repress a shudder as he watches Wes's hand move over, and skirt along the inside of the brat's thigh. "You mean I'll have to be without you?"

"I wanted you to come *with*," Connor says, pouting again.

"It's completely unfair that I can't."

Connor gears himself up for another whine. "She *said* - "

"Connor," Wesley silences him, dropping down to his knees. "I think if we now lack for time to spend together, that there are other things that you and I could be doing, don't you agree?"

Connor sits back, immediately placated. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Wesley agrees, his hand moving higher. He flashes a commanding look in Lorne's direction. "I'm sure you have better places to be."

Lorne abandons the pretense of drinks-making. Downstairs he knows Jim is on duty, and Jim sure loves it when someone stops by with a sandwich and a pack of cigarettes. "Come to think of it, you're right."

In the time before Connor leaves they don't dare do anything wrong. Lorne completes chores before Connor can ask and Wesley has never been more willing and pliant in bed.

It's enough to make Wesley worry that they might be doing *too* much, but Connor only has eyes for Wesley's actions and he cheerfully mistakes those for signs that Wesley will miss him.

The day draws near. Over Scrabble Lorne tells him that a meeting time has been arranged, but not for two days after Connor has gone. Wesley broods over this, on the one hand hating the wait, on the other he can't disagree with Lorne's theory that it's best to make sure Connor is *truly* gone before taking a chance like this.

Connor leaves, taking some of the troops with him. Wesley sees him off at the hotel's front door. In front of everyone Connor gives him a lingering kiss, his slight hand tangling in the back of Wesley's hair.

"See you soon," the boy promises.

"Not soon enough," Wesley lies.

The two days are unbearable. Wesley would prefer to spend them alone and pacing, but he knows he must keep up the show of wandering around the hotel, lest the guards that Connor has placed outside of his door become suspicious at any change in Wesley's activity.

Lorne remains frustratingly silent with relevant information until the night before the rendezvous.

Bent over their game Lorne spells it out for him. A meeting. Late the next night. Deep in the sewers. There's a secret passage Wesley will use to get past the guards and out of the hotel.

Wesley quirks his eyebrows at this.

Lorne gives a significant glance in the direction of his and Connor's linen closet, then outlines a map with tiles.

Inside the closet. Behind the last shelf. A loose board. Pushed out of the way it reveals a ladder. Down the ladder, through an unused maid's quarters, past a hopefully unlocked sewer entrance and then a series of lefts and rights through tunnels to the meeting place in question.

Wesley memorizes this, knowing it can't be committed to paper.

*What if the guards check on me?*

Lorne shrugs, accepting his own danger in this. *My job to distract them.*

Wesley ponders this. Thinks on how much could be lost if anything goes wrong.

Knows there really isn't much choice.

"All right."

The next day takes far too long to pass. As the sun slowly starts to dip down, Lorne makes his appearance.

"Bathtime!" he announces, for the benefit of the guards. "Got to make sure a certain someone is always at his best. You never know when Jasmine's daddy might be coming home."

These guards aren't as friendly with Lorne as the ones downstairs are, but they've been told to let Wesley have his amusements and his valet.

With the suite door closed, Lorne pushes him into the shower anyway.

"Keep up appearances," the demon tells him. "And make sure to scrub behind your ears. Word on the street is you might have to watch out for some pretty good trackers."

Wesley wonders if this means other demons, or if the problem is as commonplace as dogs. Either way he does as he's told, seeing no reason to ignore the advice and having nothing else to do.

Lorne fusses over him, granting him privacy in the shower, yes, but pouncing as soon as a dry towel is wrapped around Wesley's waist. He produces new clothes, a skintight long sleeved shirt and comfortable jeans, both in midnight black, and insists that Wesley wear them. Showered, shaved and dressed, they still have hours to spare. They finally spend it in an *actual* game of Scrabble, which of course Wesley wins.

With an hour to go they turn music on. Classical, but enough to mask any conversation they might be having.

Finally the time comes. Lorne hovers, picking at lint that only he can see and acting as nervous as if he knew for certain that Connor was on to them, then finally lets him go.

Wesley closes the closet door behind him, opens the secret passage, and, following the map in his head, makes his way to the location. An abandoned office, perhaps once used by the water company or rail system.

Wesley waits there, impatient. His fingertip sketches random patterns in the dust that covers the desk.

He manages to create three circles before he's grabbed by a large pair of hands and shoved against the wall.

"What the *fuck* do you think you're doing?" Angel demands.

PART FIVE

Anger makes him shove the vampire away.

"Me?" Wesley asks. He makes quick, sharp gestures, taking in the whole of the world and their place in it. "What about *you*, you *absolute* ass!"

Angel's demeanor is still. He's at home in these shadows, splashes of white the only indication of the location of his face and hands. "I had to see you."

"You'll be *killed*."

"I had to see you."

"You - "

But then there's no talking, because the vampire is faster than he is and Angel's mouth on his own reminds him that, yes, there actually are things in this life more pleasurable than anything of Jasmine's creation.

"Angel," he whispers, his body melting into the vampire's strong one. Angel's arms are around him and it's more security than Wesley has ever known.

"I lost you." It's basic speech. Angel always hoards his words carefully. Wesley knows to treasure each one that he's given.

"You never could," Wesley promises him. There's another kiss, this one wetter than the first. "Angel - " because it's such a pleasure to say that name, to speak it and see its owner right in front of him " - you didn't. I'm right here."

There's touching then. Exploratory fingers on both sides as mouths continue to connect, linger.

"You're hurt," Wesley says. His thumb traces a dark red line that cuts across the vampire's cheek.

"It's nothing."

Wesley's turn to play the game of echoes. "You're hurt."

A shrug. "Jasmine's boys don't fight with pillows."

Wesley leans in, flicks a tongue across the would-be scar. "Don't let it happen again."

Brown eyes are clinical now, a doctor's gaze in the dim light. "You need to eat more."

"I'll be sure to work on that."

Fingertips move down the lean muscles of Wesley's chest. One hits a bruise, and Wesley hates himself for not being able to hide the flinch.

"What - "

"It's nothing."

The vampire's not buying it. "Wes...."

"No worse than you," Wesley hastily assures him. He touches Angel's cheek again. Wonders if the mark will be permanent. In the back of his mind Wesley thinks, sees his every interaction with Lorne in a whole new light. "I should have known it was you."

"Told Lorne not to say anything."

"You knew I'd talk you out of it."

Hands are resting on Wesley's hips now. "Safer, too."

"But mostly the former."

A perfect mouth curls in a familiar half-smile. "Mostly that."

"Secret passage," Wesley muses, shaking his head. "Who else *but* you?"

"Made it myself."

Wesley's now curious.

The eyes grow darker. "When Connor was born."

Wesley rests a hand against Angel's chest. Presses in with silent comfort.

Angel doesn't want to linger on this part of memory lane. "Figured couldn't hurt to have an extra way out, back then."

"You were right," Wesley tells him. Meets his eyes. Reminds him of how one person, at least, benefited from this.

"Connor's room now, huh?"

"Yes."

"Any problems sneaking in there?"

Wesley's heart skips a beat. He covers it with a cough. Silently whispers a thanks to Lorne. "No. No problems at all."

"Good," cool lips press against Wesley's forehead. A watch is checked. "Okay, time to go."

Wesley's gripped by greed. "You only just got here."

Angel smirks. "You're coming with."

The world freezes. Wesley's certain that in some other dimension he doesn't say this. "No."

"Wes - "

"No."

"I don't recall saying it was up for a vote," Angel tells him. He stands up straighter, reminds Wesley of his height.

"Angel, don't be stupid."

"Wesley, stop stealing my lines."

"To what end?" Wesley demands. "If I go with you - "

"Then you'll be with *me*."

"And I want that more than anything!" Wesley shouts, too angry to bother lowering his volume. "But that doesn't matter now!"

"Wesley - "

"How powerful has she grown? How many has she killed? What method have *you* found to put a stop to this?"

"I'll find one."

"Connor's blood will do it."

"Believe me," Angel's voice is death itself, "I'll get it."

Wesley touches him again, doesn't dispute that. "I can get it first."

For a moment, the vampire listens. "How?"

"He trusts me."

Now there is disbelief. "Why?"

Wesley falters. He never once thought of having to come up with this lie. He grabs on to the first thing instinct gives him. "I told him I hate you."

"He bought that?"

The details click far too easily into place. "Yes. Once I told him about all the times you tried to kill me."

Angel is quiet. Wesley starts to speak again but a jerk of the vampire's head stops him. The moment stretches out between them, each man reflecting on the truth of their relationship - a mutual agreement that neither one of them is sorry for what they've done.

"I love you."

Wesley finds he can't breathe.

Brown eyes meet his. "Just so that's clear."

Wesley rests against him, rendered speechless.

"I'm not agreeing to this."

"But you're going to let me do it anyway."

A pause. "Yeah."

Wesley closes his eyes. In his mind he tells Angel everything, most especially how much he doesn't want to go, and why. But he knows none of these words can ever be spoken. Not out loud. Not if they're to try to save anyone other than themselves.

Wesley indulges in the luxury of hating the world and everyone in it. To be honest it's not the first time.

Angel's demeanor changes. Perhaps he picks up on Wesley's stress. Whatever it is, it makes his hands move. He draws Wes closer. His mouth finds Wesley's jaw. "There's a little time."

Wesley trembles. "How much?"

"Enough."

"Are you - "

No one can ever accuse Angel of lacking his moments of macho posturing. "I'll *make* it be enough."

Their mouths connect with vacuum-like suction. Demonically strong hands caress him, cup his ass, massage him with the unmistakable message of possession.

Wesley's brain starts to melt. "Want you. Angel, please - "

Then there's a hand on his hip, and it's trying to turn him around, and Wesley's stomach drops down to the last level of Hell as he remembers.

Bruises.

The light is faint but to a vampire it's high noon. The marks range from a handful of weeks to two days old now and if there is one creature on all the earth that has the ability to look upon them and know *exactly* how they were created, it is the man Wesley loves with all his soul.

They can't be together. Not like this.

"No," Wesley murmurs, stopping the action before Angel can follow through. Not the touch, though. Not even for his own life could Wesley move away from this touch. Instead he stumbles, stutters, doesn't have to pretend that their situation is making it difficult for him to think.

Angel is patient. As a lover he's never been cruel. He waits, and finally Wesley thinks of a suggestion.

"Fuck my mouth."

The vampire groans. Kisses him in a way that's feral and hungry. Wesley responds, then drops down to his knees. Angel needs no encouragement for his legs to part. His pants are easily undone. His erection is warm and familiar.

Lips wrapped around him, Wesley experiences the sense realization that the father is much *larger* than the son. He's pleased about this, and that's the last he thinks of Connor.

In some other place Wesley would take his time. Here he can't. He bobs his head, works his tongue, sucks at Angel greedily, craving the taste of this, the *right* man, more than anything he can give name to.

Angel perches on the edge of the desk. The smell of dust lingers in the air. There are soft whimpers and groans, not all of which are Wesley's. Hips jerk forward. A voice like buttery leather provides only encouragements. Finally a hand tightens on Wesley's neck, muscles tense, and fluid cascades down his throat.

Wesley stays there a long time. He wants to absorb the taste of this into his very *marrow*.

There's a tug. Angel draws him up. A hand reaches down, cups his dick and Wesley's world flickers white-black-white as he suddenly and ecstatically remembers there can be *pleasure* in this. He's gone. Brainless. By total and sheer luck Angel does not pursue the idea of proper fucking. Instead he continues with just his hand, stroking Wesley first through frustrating denim, then with nothing between aching cock and Angel's strong and callused fingers.

Hitches of breath. Pleading in Angel's name. They lean together, forehead to forehead, Wesley's eyes fluttered closed and the universe reduced - no, far too pleasurable - *expanded* to nothing but the feel of that touch. Back and forth, up and down, a brand of fire on already burning flesh. It's more than he could imagine, it's better than the first time - with Angel, with *anyone* - it doesn't matter. It's God's own touch and if Angel is the Prince of Heaven then so be it. It's life. It's perfection. It's everything.

"Please..."

It goes on longer than it should. After the fact, Wesley is almost certain that it was longer than they were allowed. But at one moment he blinks, catches Angel's eyes, sees a look of reverence and wonderment there that must surely match his own, and he doesn't care.

"I love you."

Now it's Angel who can't speak, though that's hardly unusual.

"Just so we're clear."

Stronger tugs. A wicked thumb across the tip. Heat and friction and - "God!" - orgasm, shuddering, legs turning to jelly and a body only supported by a vampire's strength.

More kissing. "Wes. God, Wes...."

A feeling like being drunk. "I - " a hand touches sticky places on a leather jacket and a dark shirt " - made a mess."

A soft laugh, warm like bathwater. "I don't care. Believe me I don't care."

Another kiss. A thousand. A mortal body made up entirely of sparks.

Time passes. They're beyond the point of pre-planned safety now, but neither one of them cares.

Angel nuzzles him. Offers a suggestion. "After - "

"Hmm?"

"We go away. When it's done. Just you and me."

Wesley's slurring his words. "Sounds lovely."

"Somewhere far."

"All right."

"Like Aruba."

A quizzical eyebrow.

"Never tried that."

"Aruba?"

"Sit on the beach. Have a drink."

"At night."

"Right. Wear a suit."

"Be a bit warm."

"A *bathing* suit."

"You don't have any."

"I'll buy." A pause. "I'd look good in a suit."

Wesley ponders this. Imagines the vampire half-naked and wet. His mind's eye lingers on a hint of dark curls above a low-hanging waistband. "You would."

"And you..."

"Yes?"

"You'd look good out of one."

Wesley laughs. The vampire is proud at his successful attempt at humor. Wesley wonders when this happened. When a relationship started out of madness and desperation became this familiarity and tenderness.

Then he realizes that his relationship with Angel has always been this way. They've simply combined the best elements out of the past four years. Stopped wasting their time with hatred and pretending.

"Do we ever come back?"

Angel's turn to ponder. "Not sure yet."

Wesley slides a hand around a broad chest. "We'll buy a home. Everyone can visit."

Cool lips trace kisses in his hair. "I like that."

"Live together forever."

"I like that too."

Wesley pauses. Sits up. Looks at him. "Consider that my pledge."

Eyebrows twitch. There's a half-second before there's comprehension. When he speaks, the vampire is respectful and serious. "Mine too."

Wesley kisses his cheek, again tonguing that awful damage. "You are my greatest love, Angel. You always have been."

Angel cups his chin. "You're my partner, Wes."

There's a sound. Angel identifies it as a rat. It's still more than either of them want from the world outside.

"We should go."

"I still don't want this."

"I don't either."

They redress. Help one another. Take longer at it than they need to.

"I need your help," Angel says, sequituring over from nothing. "There's translations. The best we have is Fred but..."

Wesley thinks about it. Measures one danger in comparison with another. Decides. "Give them to Lorne. I'll see what I can do."

A curt nod. "I'll go first. Make sure it's clear."

Wesley wants to say something but can't imagine what.

At the door Angel hesitates. "Can we - he's gone for days, we could - "

"It's too dangerous," but even Wesley's voice isn't sure.

"We could try."

"I'll have a hard enough time hiding your scent as it is."

"He would notice?"

Wesley shuts his eyes, remembering all the places that Connor can claim as he damn well pleases. Doesn't exactly lie to the boy's father as he says, "Angel, it's you."

Angel sighs. "I'll think of something."

"Safety first."

"I'll - "

"Don't you *dare* get yourself killed."

Two hands reach out in the gloom. Squeeze together. "We'll figure it out."

"I've every confidence."

One last kiss, then Angel's gone. Wesley waits five minutes then returns on his own path.

When he gets back to the Hyperion, Lorne is there. The demon looks at him expectantly.

Wesley finds he can't give the lecture he had planned. Instead he smiles, doesn't take his clothes off when he slips into bed.

Lorne, camped out in the living room, slides the bedroom doors closed for privacy.

Wesley's skin tingles. When he closes his eyes he can feel the vampire's lips against his own.

For the first time in many months now, his body is awake. Horny.

Wesley slips a hand underneath the sheets and undoes his trousers.

In his mind Angel is beside him. He cups and caresses Wesley's balls as they talk, kiss, laugh.

In his last orgasm before he goes to sleep, he's happily curled against Angel's bare chest, listening to the waves lap at the shore in Aruba.

PART SIX

Wesley sleeps. Better than he has in over half a year - perhaps even longer than that. His dreams are epic, too rich to for him to remember a single detail beyond that of a handsome Irish vampire.

His body thrums. He wants more. Unconsciously rocks his hips into the sheets. There can't be enough. There can't ever be -

"Okay, rise and shine. C'mon, Wes. Pitter patter let's get at 'er."

Wesley groans, burying his face into the pillow. "No, please."

Lorne is persistent. "You've slept late enough as it is."

"I don't want to get up."

"I don't want to die without first being attended to by an entirely nude yet well oiled football team, but we've all got our disappointments."

Wesley turns, regards him with a baleful eye. He's about to protest more when he sees what Lorne is carrying.

The demon holds up a plastic-wrapped pack of sheets. "300 thread count. If the little shit - " Lorne switches to Pylean while using his favorite nickname for Connor, then sticks to that language for privacy. Wesley follows along, having learned the language by sound now, as well as its written word. " - doesn't like them he can kiss my heart."

Knowing what the sheets are for, Wesley shakes his head. "No."

"Yes."

Wesley fists a handful of the cloth underneath the blankets, clinging to the warmth that he knows contains Angel's scent. "He won't be home for days. It can wait a little longer."

Lorne scowls, then solves the problem by flicking the blankets up and off. Wesley has to scramble to cover himself and the stains from last night's masturbation.

"Lorne - "

Back to Pylean. "Wes, *I* can tell you and you-know-who had sex. Imagine what this place reeks of to Connor's nostrils."

Wesley sighs. Hates having to admit it. "Fine."

"Shower too," Lorne orders, pointing the way to the bathroom. "Use the extra fruity stuff. And if you so much as touch those clothes after taking them off, I'm coming in there and scrubbing you down *myself*."

"As you wish," Wesley can't help muttering. He stalks off to the bathroom, resists the urge to slam the door behind him.

He strips down. Leaves the clothes in a pile on the floor. Empties his bladder while the hot water runs.

He gets in. Adjusts the temperature. Lets water sluice down his body.

He closes his eyes, leans in towards the spray.

*Flash*

Sense memory. Angel. Kissing him. Touching him. Running his hand over Wesley's cock.

Wesley groans, turning to rest his back against the slick tiles. Keeps his eyes closed. Runs a hand down his chest. Imagines it's Angel's touch. Drops his hand lower and begins to stroke, replaying the night before in his head like his own private porn.

He fast forwards, rewinds, uses slow-motion on his favorite parts - of which Angel reaching to kiss *him* first and that final touch of Angel's thumb turn out to be the highest of the top ten - licks his lips, savors the faint taste that remains. Reminds himself of the pleasure of sucking Angel's cock and discovers that it only makes him that much harder. Thinks to himself of how much he wants to do it again, of what it will be like when they're finally together, when they're lying side by side on that beach and all he has to do is gently tug on a saltwater wet suit and drag his tongue all the way -

He gasps, his cock jerking stripes of come across the shower curtain. Wesley reels from the endorphins, then smiles, remembering how Angel didn't care in the slightest about such messes. Thinks of Angel going back to his own bed, reeking of Wesley's scent, and finds it actually teases a few more shudders out of himself.

He savors this for a while, then washes himself properly.

"Tell me about what happened," he asks Lorne as he gets dressed. Lorne stuffs sheets and clothes into a bag, declaring them for the incinerator. Windows are open, drenching the room in fresh air. They talk in Pylean because in this world it isn't a certainty that someone *isn't* hovering outside a third floor window for the sole purpose of eavesdropping, though of course as soon as the windows were opened they both checked.

"When?" Lorne asks.

Wesley fixes his jeans, pulls on a T-shirt. Finds that inside of him is a longing for more memories with Angel's name on them. It replaces and even nullifies a previously held pain. The one which kept him from asking what happened - "When Connor took me."

Lorne nods, ties the garbage bag tight then double bags it. "Fred and Gunn didn't get back until late. It was all we could do to make Angel - " and here Lorne uses their agreed-upon Pylean nickname for the vampire, a word which roughly translates to "our favorite idiot" - " sit still and not go after. Find out what was keeping you."

Wesley sits down, sips coffee. "Keeping the three of us."

Lorne winks. "Yeah. He was real concerned about the *three*."

Wesley finds himself blushing. Hides it behind his mug. "Go on."

Lorne sits across from him. Pours a glass of orange juice. "We got the story about what went on at the school - " here Wesley shakes his head, because he doesn't know their version of it " - little shit ambushing you, dragging you off."

"Did they know what happened?"

Lorne, who knows the entirety of Wesley and Connor's sexual history thanks to a single song, shakes his head. "No clue. Fred figured mind control. That Connor had somehow put the born again whammy on you."

Wesley shivers, not caring to linger on this. "Gunn?"

"Said you were trying to bring everything down from the inside."

Wesley nods. "Good. I'd hoped he would understand."

There's a smirk. "Said he *knew*. I never said he *understood*. As I recall the phrase 'jackass' was used more than once."

Wesley shrugs, long past the point of fretting about the dissolution of that particular trust and friendship. "Angel?"

Lorne butters toast. "Like I told you. Batshit insane." "What did he think?"

"Don't think *he* even knew," Lorne says, using a cloth napkin to dab crumbs from his chin. "Went back and forth on being pissed at Connor for taking you and pissed at you for going."

"Did he ever - " Wesley hesitates, isn't sure he wants to provide his own buzzkill by knowing " - think I betrayed him?"

An immediate shake of the head. "No."

"Good."

"That was my job."

Wesley stares.

Lorne looks back at him. Isn't really apologetic. Wesley doesn't expect him to be. There's a silent understanding of this before the momentary coldness is dropped, hasty decisions and physical attacks from years prior dismissed with a *snick* of a knife as it cuts through butter and hits the plastic dish beneath. The conversation resumes as it was. "I'm over it now." Wesley knows Lorne means the doubts. "Thank you."

"Hard to judge from where I'm sitting," Lorne tells him.

Wesley pulls back. This skirts too close to topics that can't be acknowledged, spoken about. Still, he knows he must say: "Thank you. For not telling him."

Lorne pats his hand. Pushes the basket of toast forward, an obvious request for him to eat. Wesley dutifully complies, remembering Angel's comments.

The demon smiles at him, attempts to assume a lighthearted tone. "Hey, just think of me as your friendly neighborhood hairdresser. From your lips to my ears to even Sinatra himself couldn't crawl out of his grave and get me to start blabbing."

Wesley finds he can't quite joke about it. He busies himself with toast-buttering. "Still. Thank you."

"What'd he say?"

"Nothing. He didn't - nothing."

"What did *you* say?"

Wesley knows this is so Lorne can continue the lie. "That Connor trusts me. Because I hate Angel."

Lorne nods, files this away.

A stray thought compels Wesley to ask: "How did you do it? All this time, and he never smelled Angel on you."

"Lots of messengers," Lorne says. "Didn't often speak with the big lug myself." Another attempt at a joking smile. "Plus it's a help when I don't actually have sex with him."

Wesley chuckles. Absentmindedly licks his lips. Remembers the vampire doing that for him.

"Wesley..."

Wesley looks up, wonders why Lorne's tone has become so quiet and serious. Finds he's made uncomfortable by the demon's frank and tender gaze.

"I won't say a word," Lorne promises. "I know it's not my secret to tell. And... not that I blame you for anything. But..."

Wesley draws a protective cage around his heart. "But...?"

"Why not?" Lorne leans forward, his manner earnest. "*Tell* him. One word from you about what's going on here and that little shit's going to wish he never *once* crossed his daddy." "We need Connor's blood."

"Somehow I think Angel would find a way to get it," Lorne shakes his head, incredulous. "Wes, after all Connor's done to you, why are you protecting him?"

Wesley laughs. It's not humorous. It's bitter. He's surprised the anagogic demon doesn't get it. "If Angel were to find out about this, he would kill Connor in an instant."

"Which is pretty much *my* point."

"I can't allow that to happen."

"You don't think Connor *deserves* - "

"What Connor *deserves* is of no concern to me," Wesley says, his voice crisp. "For him I don't care."

"Then...?"

"Connor is Angel's child. His only tangible miracle, however evil the boy's become."

"So?"

"To have to kill him would be too much," Wesley tells him. He puts his toast down, no longer hungry. "Angel would be destroyed by it. I can't allow that to happen. I protect the father, Lorne. Not the son."

Lorne mulls this over. He clearly doesn't agree with the idea, but he drops it and doesn't mention it again.

After breakfast Wesley's good mood is restored. He remembers yet another part of the night before.

"There's translations," Wesley says. "Angel asked me to help with them."

"Need a hand?"

"Yes, I don't have them."

"Want me to get them now?"

Wesley thinks about it. "Is it possible? I don't know how much there is. With Connor gone, it's probably best to get started quickly."

Lorne nods, picks up the bag of dirty evidence. "I'll get right on it."

Xeroxed pages litter the diningroom table later that night. Wesley recognizes Angel's handwriting, and the wisdom of bringing something that will smell more of chemicals than Angel's own scent.

He idly wonders where they found the Xerox machine.

He sets about translating. It doesn't take long for his mind to thrill at it. He's in his element. Some of the symbols are known to him. Others, complete mysteries. He finds himself smiling, even absently humming a cheerful tune as he deciphers, translates, scribbles.

He finally has to cut the humming out when Lorne begs him to have a little mercy. Not that he doesn't *appreciate* the images of Angel naked, of course, but mixed in with all of the prophecies it's starting to give him a strange fetish.

Wesley grins, works silently.

The texts are good choices. Things about the Beast - Wesley recognizes yet another attempt to recreate the lost page from Rhinehart's Companion - things about goddesses, Powers, mind control, mystical births -

A request to see Wesley naked.

Wesley pauses. Blinks. Rereads.

No, there it is. Hidden amongst the text. A tiny snippet, written in Kungai. There's no direct translation for Wesley's name in this demon tongue, but still "Would the handsome former Observer now reading this do the honor of granting this humble worker unclothed touch" is a bit out of the norm, even for Rhinehart.

Wesley smirks. Four years later and Angel's still no better at Kungai. It took Wesley all of a month to become fluent after his arrival in Los Angeles. He wonders if he has the heart to tell Angel that it's actually much easier to write the single character for "beloved servant" than the three required for "humble worker".

He decides he doesn't care.

He gathers the notes he's created so far. Figures out the Kungai translation for "You have no idea how much I'm dying to suck your cock" then *retranslates* it into Kungai that even Angel can understand. Everything else has been translated into Pylean. As of that moment in time there are only three beings on earth who can speak *that* language, and Lorne assures him Fred is still alive and working at Angel's side. Wesley figures she can handle the prophecy translations, and will presumably read the note telling her to hand the smaller piece of paper over to Angel.

Wesley gives this to Lorne. "Can you get this to him tonight?"

Lorne, who knows better than to admit how glad he is to see Wesley happy again, promises to do his best.

More translations. More Kungai notes hidden amongst recreated text:

"Miss you so much it hurts."

"Can't stop thinking of your hand around me."

"Need you by my side." "Want to be with you. Now. Always."

"Love you."

"Desperately love you."

"Want to taste you."

"Wholehearted agreement there. Want to taste you too."

"Can't stand being without you."

"Dream every night of having you beside me."

"Dream night and day of my hands on your flesh."

"Pleasure myself constantly with the thought of you."

"Amusement. Me too."

"Miss you, Angel."

"Need to be *inside* you, Wes."

Wesley stares at the latest communication. Rereads it: "Need to be *inside* you, Wes."

Shifts in his chair. Yet again finds a session of translation ending with his pants feeling too tight.

"I can't stand this," he whispers.

Lorne isn't there. Without the demon to remind him, his willpower cracks:

"Connor's not due home until Saturday. Please, beloved, I *need* to see you."

For the first time ever, Wesley also signs it: "Yours."

Oblivious to the content, Lorne delivers the message. Hours later he returns with a response:

"Tomorrow night. You. Me. Same place. NEED you." And then, slightly shakier in a manner that suggests it was purposefully copied from Wesley's own, "Yours."

Wesley starts to get ready.

PART SEVEN

"Are you out of your *freaking* mind?!"

"Lorne!" Wesley snaps. Reminds him of the guards just outside closed doors.

"Sorry," Lorne says, eyes rolling hard enough to give himself a headache. He switches to a heavily sarcastic Pylean, a tone which sounds more guttural than the norm. "Did you get hit on your *head*?"

"I need to see him," Wesley repeats, using Pylean in kind with a tone that doesn't allow for questions.

"Wesley, you *can't*," Lorne reminds him. He comes forward, lowers his voice even though no one could possibly understand them. "Look, I was all for this illicit Romeo and... Romeo thing you had during the night but that's *it*. No more. Done."

"I have to go."

"Why?"

"I - " Wesley breaks eye contact for a moment. "I have to."

Anger melts. Lorne can't say he doesn't feel sorry for him. "It's not safe."

"It *can* be," Wes insists. "We can do it as we did before - "

"Yeah, three days ago, when we had time to plan."

"*You* had time to plan."

"You're welcome."

There's an actual acknowledgment to that. Wes keeps going, arguing his case. "It's the same plan. I don't need to do anything differently from before. All I have to do is meet him, then come back and - "

"And what? We set the place on fire so we can hide the scent?"

"I don't see why - " "It's been *three days* and I *still* don't think we've used enough Febreeze," Lorne tells him. "He's a vampire's kid. *Your* vampire's kid - "

Colder voice now. "I haven't forgotten."

Lorne winces, keeps going. "He'll know."

"We can cover it up."

"He'll *know*."

"He *can't*!" Wesley says, desperation dropping him back into English again. He catches himself, returns to Pylean. "It - I can have new clothes again. Destroy them before he gets here. I - there's the pool. I could go swimming, surely the chlorine...."

Wes continues. Lorne tunes him out. He knows this can't be done. Days ago, maybe. Not now. Not with so little time. But Wes keeps going, blind to the consequences.

No. Not blind. Just needing something else more than he needs to see them.

Lorne can sympathize with it. Heck, sympathy's an arrogance. But still, it's all he's got. He remembers the Hell Pylea was like. Remembers being so miserable he hopped the first portal he could find because *anything* would be better.

Kind of understands it, then, for Wes.

Wes who's been at it for months now with a slow torture that, past grudges aside, Lorne doesn't think the kid deserves and sure as Hell shouldn't have had to agree to.

Lorne's come to understand now that that's what Wes is. Pays the price - no pun intended - with himself because - well it's not that Wes doesn't think that he's important so much as he thinks a lot of other things are *better*.

Other things. Like the good fight. Like a champion named Angel.

Lorne thinks about this. Thinks about how Wes signed on for this gig. Looked Connor - little shit - straight in the eye and *asked* to be fucked over, nice and literal. Then went off the other day and came *back* so Connor could do it again.

Not because Wes likes it - no, the near-constant shaking of Wes's hands which both he and Lorne have elected to never mention make it clear that happiness for Wes isn't a place which has Connor in it - but because that's what Wes does. He does what he has to. It's his way of being a good guy.

And now all he wants is a break.

Lorne has an epiphany, just then. Wes has paused in his speech-making. Taken a breath. And just as Lorne is thinking of all Wes has given up, Wes shifts his weight a bit and part of his neck gets exposed, showing off a bruise that Connor left there six days ago.

And these two things, together, make Lorne have a realization:

Angel and Wesley didn't really have sex.

In the past, yeah. The walls in their underground forts were never as thick as all *that*. But not the other day. Not three nights ago. Not when he sent Wes out on what he *thought* was going to be a little Com-shuk craziness because there is no freaking way that Angel saw those marks on Wesley's body and sent the boy packing back *here*.

Connor may be a possessive little fuck but Connor's daddy has got him *beat*.

And Lorne realizes: this is it.

Wes can get out.

Because if Wes goes out tomorrow and he and Angel do what Wes's aura is making it pulsatingly clear what Wesley *wants* to do with Angel, Angel's going to see. And Angel's going to get pissed.

And Angel's going to keep Wes with him.

And Lorne will be by himself, which in the back of his head scares him shitless because he's no champion and on the big fighty scale he wouldn't even list himself as being on par with *Fred*, let alone a Wesley, but he decides that doesn't matter.

Because sometimes, maybe, being one of the good guys doesn't mean you fight. It means you shut your mouth, get a little sneaky, and let one of the *important* good guys have a couple of benefits in life.

"Okay," Lorne says, out loud. "You got me."

Wes frowns. Isn't sure of what he's hearing.

"What can I say?" Lorne asks. He puts his hand on his chest as though covering a heart. "I'm a softie. A sucker for true love and all that torch song jazz. I'll get you some clothes. I'll help you out."

Wes smiles. The light that has only been in Wes's eyes for the past three days gets even brighter. "Thank you."

Lorne shrugs, tries not to show how petrified he is. "Don't mention it."

The next day, much like the first time they tried this, passes slowly.

They kill time again. Checkers (even split of two games each), Scrabble (Wesley), Kevin Bacon Game (Lorne - though with a not-bad showing by Wes when it comes to anything British and/or Western), quiet reading.

Wesley paces. Keyed up with nervous energy. Feels butterflies in his stomach and can't even remember the last time he had the sensation. He's grown too used to other kinds of fear - ones for his life, ones for the lives of those he cares for.

He knows he should have that kind of fear now but he can't. Instead his hands sweat because he'll soon see Angel again.

Lorne procures new clothes for him. They have to be new, Wesley understands now, not only to be scentless but because then Connor won't notice them missing once they've been destroyed. It's a good use of planning and Wesley commends Lorne for thinking of it.

Wesley thinks a *lot* about Angel.

There's been no other communication since the note that set up the arrangement. Nothing other than Wesley's response of "Yes." After that they cut everything off to be on the safe side. Even the translations are gone. Sent off with Wesley's best efforts, because he doesn't dare chance Connor finding the pages once he comes home.

Time passes. Eventually Lorne gives a critical look at the clock. "Better get ready."

Wesley nods. Picks up the shopping bag. "Will you - ?"

Lorne smiles reassuringly. "I'll be the one to wake you up, don't worry."

Wesley thanks him. Lorne leaves. He's spent the past couple of nights in his own room. Both he and Wesley fear a repeat of him sleeping on the couch will be more noticeable than not. They decide to stick with the current routine.

Wesley goes into the bathroom. Takes a shower. Leaves his waterproof watch on so he doesn't stay too long. He soaps down, though, not sure if staying in Connor's quarters is scent enough for a vampire to question. He wants to be safe, not sorry.

He wants Angel to only think of him.

He gets out of the shower. Studies himself. Contrary to what Lorne believes, he hasn't forgotten about the marks. But they're older now and Wesley deludes himself into thinking that they're faded. At least faded enough that Angel might not notice them. Or, if he does, to be unable to discern their provenance.

He dries off. Imagines it's Angel's hands on the other side of the towel. Secretly thrills to the thought of Angel possibly leaving marks of his own.

He gets dressed. Lorne blessed him with extraordinary good taste this time around. The pants are black, soft but durable linen. The shirt is a deep maroon. Buttoned. Made of silk.

"Angel's going to plotz," Lorne had promised him, and Wesley hopes that it's true.

He lets the fantasy of Angel linger. It soothes and stimulates his nerves as he shaves, does his hair, puts the final touches on dressing.

It leaves him feeling almost as horny as when he went to bed the other night.

Perhaps more.

He closes his eyes. Smiles to himself. Thinks of the vampire appreciating this.

He opens his eyes again. Checks his watch. Knows he's got just a few minutes more until he can leave.

Turns around.

Tries not to jump when he finds Connor staring at him.

The boy is leaning against the doorframe. Relaxed. Catlike. "Hey."

"Hey," Wesley breathes, mostly parroting. His brain is frozen. He had no plan which anticipated this scenario. He finds himself struggling to process the new influx of information.

"I came home early," Connor smiles. He's proud of himself.

"Yes, I can see."

"Thought I would surprise you."

"You certainly did."

"You looked surprised," Connor agrees. He leans in, notes the steam in the air. "Taking a shower?"

Wesley makes a lame and vague gesture. "Just finished."

Connor gives him a rakish look. "Too bad."

Wesley blinks. This, for Connor, is different.

Connor comes in more. They're a few feet apart now. "I was watching you. Could you tell?"

Wesley curses mortal senses and a fogged bathroom mirror. "No."

Connor's pleased. "Maybe I'll do it again sometime."

Wesley has no response to this.

Blue eyes look up and down Wesley's form. "This is new."

He means the outfit. A single synapse of Wesley's brain fires and thinks: I ever doubted he could be gay? But the rest of his brain is busy with the question those three simple words pose. The ready suspicion behind them. The possible crime that could have been committed by an act Connor's unaware of.

Wesley takes a stab at it. Assumes any problem revolves around him having left the hotel without Connor there with him. "Yes," he says, smiling as though he expected this conversation. "Lorne bought it for me. Er - as a gift. For you. He thought you might like it."

Connor studies the outfit appraisingly now. Moves a hand to feel the shirt. "I do."

Wesley backs away. The outfit was Angel's. He doesn't want Connor touching it. "I don't." "No?"

"Red's not my color."

Connor cocks his head. Thinks. "I disagree."

"Even still. I'm going to throw it away."

Distance is closed between them. There's touching now. Connor's hand runs slowly down Wesley's chest. The catlike look is back. "Then let me rip it off you."

Wesley freezes. Who in *Hell* has been teaching the boy to talk like that?

Connor mistakes the stillness for compliance. He moves his hand lower, cups Wesley's hip. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," Wesley manages, trying hard to think over the urgent screaming in his head which sounds like *AngelAngelAngelAngel*.

Even less distance now. "I got you presents."

"That's very kind."

"Wanna see?"

Wesley's hopes finally recover from the shock. Crash and burn. He abandons the thought of seeing Angel tonight. "Certainly."

Connor leans in for a kiss. Wesley manages to return it and then has a quick inspiration:

"Lorne."

Flash of something on Connor's face. It's not exactly good humor. "No, *Connor*."

"Of course," Wesley says. Caresses the boy's cheek. Pretends the not-joke was funny. "I only meant - we were going to play Scrabble tonight. I should go tell him the game's off." He tries for an intimate look in Connor's direction. "Make sure he doesn't interrupt us at an inopportune time."

Connor looks at him. Weighs this. Leaves the bathroom. Wesley follows and watches impotently as Connor locks and bolts their outer door.

"There," Connor says, and Wesley wonders if the boy is actually daring him to challenge this. "Now he can't come in."

Wesley has to pretend to be glad. Tries to hide his fear of Angel alone in the sewers with no one to warn him. "Oh good. Very clever."

"I can be sometimes," Connor tells him. He comes back. A hand reaches out and touches a pile of boxes and bags on the dining table, but he doesn't linger there. "It's just you and me."

"As it should be," Wesley lies. He turns away. Starts to unbutton the shirt. Tries to get it off before -

Connor's hand, possessed of that unnerving preternatural speed, stops him.

"Said I was going to do that," Connor reminds him.

In his mind Wesley hears cage doors slamming shut. Remembers how ultimately powerless he is to end this. "Of course."

Connor moves his hand up. Undoes buttons slowly. "I took tomorrow off."

"Did you?"

"Day after too."

"Wonderful news."

"We can spend the whole weekend together," Connor says. He's on the last button. His fingertips brush a spot just above Wesley's waist. "I don't have to leave you."

Wesley mimics a smile. "Quite a change from last week."

Connor's hand moves up. He's touching bare skin now. "We can do whatever we want."

"Excellent."

Keen eyes meet his. "What *do* you want, Wes?"

Wesley swallows. Looks away. Refrains from saying "Your father."

"Wes?"

Looks back. Dutifully says what he thinks Connor wants to hear: "Whatever makes you happy."

Connor takes this in. Decides he likes it. "Okay."

There's a kiss. Firm. Not demanding. Two hands are on Wesley's chest now, parting the shirt, moving back, massaging the flesh. There's movement, then a wall behind him. He's trapped between that and Connor's embrace. The kiss deepens. Connor probes his mouth with a velvet-soft tongue. A hip, lean but still supernaturally strong, nudges between his legs. There's a gentle rock. A tiny bit of friction. A cock hardening as -

Wesley gasps, shoves Connor away. Says a word he hasn't said once since all of this began:

"No."

Connor frowns, bewildered. "But you like it."

Wesley backs away. Feels true horror. Feels *sick* as he understands what's happening.

His body, which has been quivering like a live wire since his encounter with Angel, is now whoring itself for any man's touch.

Any man. Even Connor.

"No," he says again. Shakes his head. He can't do this. He won't.

"But you like it," Connor says again. He comes forward, cups that damned erection. "See?"

Wesley takes Connor's wrist, pulls him away. "No."

But Connor's stronger than he is, and the action is meaningless. "I want you."

"Want someone your own age," Wesley snaps, tiring of the ridiculousness of this.

Connor's face pinches together with hurt. "I want *you*!"

The charade's too much to even try to attempt. "You don't even know who I am!"

"I do so!" Connor is loud, petulant. "You're Wes!"

"You know my *bloody* name," Wesley snarls, finally jerking away from him. His voice becomes dry, an exact replica of his own father's tone. "How *proud* you must be."

Connor grabs him. Rams him up against the dresser. "Why are you doing this? Why are you *saying* these things?"

"Because they're true!" Adrenaline pushes him past the point of fear, anger, the knowledge that giving up now has utterly destroyed not only himself but all he's worked for. "You know nothing. You want nothing. You have *no* idea - "

"I have *every* idea!" Connor's keyed up now. He fists his hand, then backs up and hits it into the wall. Wesley flinches, but stands still. "You're mine!"

"I'm no such thing!"

"I *own* you!"

"I'm not your fucking pet! I'm not your toy!"

Connor's mouth opens and closes. For a moment he's speechless. "You - I - " He grabs Wesley by the arms, the very picture of fear and worry. "I - I didn't - "

"Stop it, Connor."

"I never - "

"I said *stop* it, Connor."

"I *love* you!"

Oh God. "No. No you don't."

Connor's mouth curls in derision now. "Why? Because I'm too young?"

Wesley laughs at him. Deliberately makes it sound mocking. Doesn't have to try too hard to succeed. "That and a thousand reasons besides. Now let me go."

"You don't mean this."

"There's few things I mean more."

"You're lying."

"You only just noticed?"

Anger, then a shake of a head. "It's not true."

"*None* of this is true."

"I am," Connor says. Looks at him with all sincerity. "This is."

It's so pathetic Wesley almost feels sorry for him. "No. Connor - "

"You're just scared."

"That's not - "

"It's okay," Connor tells him. Pulls him closer. "I am too."

There's another kiss. Insistent. Warm. Wesley struggles, tries to pull away, cannot *comprehend* how wrong it all is. Connor's stronger, more determined, much more skilled at holding on to his prey. All fights end with them in even more of a tangle.

"No," Wesley says, to Connor, to himself. He clings to the idea of Angel. This was *Angel's* night. *Angel's* arousal to play with.

But Wesley's body is only human and it doesn't give a damn for Wesley's soul.

They're on the bed. Wesley struggles again - this time trying to make it harder, piss Connor off, get him to *hurt* him as he's always done before. Make the sex rough, meaningless, something that Wesley can cope with as he's done for the past few months. It brought about orgasms, yes, but all of them clinical, basic stimulus/response, nothing that -

Connor's undoing Wesley's pants now. Tonguing his ear. Giving his body the thing it's been craving for days.

- he enjoyed.

He's sick. Disgusted. Wants to die even as his hips are moving, seeking out touch out of their own accord. He wants it to end. Tries once more to escape. Is held down by a demon who for some God unknown reason refuses to hurt him. It's a nightmare, straight out of a Watcher diary.

No, worse. A nightmare that's literally of his own creation.

Clothes are gotten rid of. Connor, ever helpful, is dealing with lubrication. Hell gets deeper, hateful, as Wesley feels those fingers inside of him.

It's no different, he tries to insist. It's the same as every time before. He's done this countless times before. It doesn't matter...

But it does. Because Connor can tell that he likes it and, just like the books, just like the tea, just like the food, tries different things again and again until he gets a reaction, finds out what Wesley wants.

Every attempt - every caress that gets him harder - is something stolen from Angel's hands. A thing Wesley dreamt of the vampire doing, now perverted by Connor's touch. Wesley clenches his teeth, squeezes his eyes closed, wants God to strike him *down* because it's not possible to live like this, to live *after* this, to somehow try to forget -

Connor's in him now. Rock hard. Hitting the - Wesley forces himself to use the sexless, medical terms - prostate and - it's no use. All the frustrated hormones are acting against him. It feels *good*, excellent, just what he needed and - God - he can't stop, it's too close now and - perhaps if he could just make it end *faster* but - no, Connor's hand doesn't comply, his hips won't accommodate him. He's learned how to tease somehow and he's doing it now, drawing it out, waiting until -

A word. A much worse one to admit to than the one he gave before. Spoken, unbidden:

"Please."

The orgasm, when it comes, makes Wesley want to vomit.

Sobriety, when it comes, makes him want to die.

PART EIGHT

Lorne's not deaf. He hears noises. Jumps out of bed, throws a robe on, jogs over to his door.

Sees Connor heading into Wesley's room.

Thinks: *Oh shit*.

Panics. Thinks about doing something - dropping a book, hitting a high note, making some *noise*, but then thinks what the Hell is that going to do? There was no signal for this. Wes isn't going to know what it means.

Shit, is Wes even there?

Checks the time. Thinks maybe Wes is. Wes wasn't supposed to leave until twenty after so maybe -

Shit, maybe not.

Pauses. Prays to whatever Powers might still be giving a crap that Wes got impatient, got *out*, left to go see Angel before he was supposed to because then at least there's still a chance and...

And Connor's not yelling. Stomping out of the room. Demanding to know where Wes went off to.

"Damn," Lorne whispers.

Doesn't linger on it. Moves to the next thing. Grabs some clothes. Makes himself presentable. Thinks if he's lucky Danny didn't call in sick tonight and therefore Lorne can nip downstairs, get past Dan, try to figure out how to find the meeting place in the sewers from totally the wrong direction. Maybe go to any one of the checkpoints they've been using to ferry messages back and forth. *Somehow* let Angel know to abort, pull out, the mission is *ovah*.

Stops when he sees a big lug standing outside his door.

"Um, hi," Lorne says. Smiles. Tries to lay the charm on. "Say, would you mind scootching just an eensy bit to the left? I've got a hankering for something sweet and I'm sure there's a couple of guys named Ben and Jerry who are calling my name from down in the kitchen."

Big Lug stands there. Doesn't move.

Lorne tries again. "Just a *little* bit to the left." Motions, tries to be encouraging. "Not much, why it's a half-step if anything. Come on, I bet you can."

"You stay here," Big Lug tells him.

Me, Tarzan, you Jane, Lorne thinks. Out loud he says "Oh, I know. *Definitely* my place is here. Which is why I'm going to come *right back* once I'm done. Won't even miss me, promise."

"Connor said you stay here," Big Lug informs him.

"Yeah, but - "

"*Here*." And then the door closes and Lorne's left standing in the dark.

Angel waits.

He's in the office. His and Wes's office. *Their* place, because now they have a place. From months of nothing to - you wanna meet? Sure. Come to our place.

Thinks to himself: maybe this could be a regular thing.

Thinks: heh, you can still see the marks on the desk from when Wes was sucking me off.

Thinks: wait, did I remember to clean these pants?

Self-consciously checks himself for dust. Wishes that wartime wasn't putting him in a situation where he can't exactly play fashion victim. There's other stuff that needs to be worried about. Piddly things like, in order of importance to Angel, weapons and food. But it's Wes and it's a meeting and Wes was looking *good* the other night (soft voice, waaaaaay in the back of his head, whispers "No, he didn't. He was too thin.") so Angel wants to try. Wants to make an effort.

He's got a blanket. Swiped from his own bed. Debates where he should put it then settles on the floor because there's more room to spread it. Fusses with bumps, wrinkles. Makes it perfect.

Wants Wes to be there. Wants him naked. Wants to fuck him on it. Wants to feel Wes wrapped around him, nice and tight. Hear Wes saying stuff like he did the other night. Stuff about love, and want, and them and *Christ* what was he thinking with that Aruba thing? Hello, my name's Angel and I'm a big, undead *dork*.

That had been *so* not slick. Not sophisticated. Not suave, as Angel liked to think of himself as being. But the cool thing was - it hadn't mattered. Wes hadn't laughed. Didn't make fun of him. Instead said he liked it. Wanted to move there. With Angel, which made it even better.

Angel liked that about Wes.

He knew what the others thought. Didn't give a *shit* about it but he knew. They figured Wes for Angel's stable pony. And maybe that was true. Okay - it was. But there was a reason for it.

Because Wes was Wes. Somebody who *got* him, not-suave and all. Somebody who didn't laugh at him when he noticed and said stupid stuff because, you know, it's not like Angel *was* stupid. You didn't get to be *his* age by being dumb. And yeah, sometimes he didn't get stuff but not *all* the time. Sometimes he just saw things a different way. Didn't mean it was wrong.

Like that time three years ago. When he and Wes had been in a mall and passed by a candy store and Angel had said, really enthused, "Hey cool! They've got the ones that come on paper!" which meant those candy dots that came on a strip and, well, *Angel* thought they were neat because, well, they just *were*. They didn't have stuff like that when *he* was a kid and, you know, it was *useful*. You could fold it up, put it in your pocket, not worry about losing any pieces or melting them.

And Wes had just smiled and said yeah, they were pretty cool. Though he personally had a preference for those wax bottles with the sugar water in them.

And he and Wes had bought some of both, and Wes had eaten all of it because in all actuality candy made Angel's teeth itch but still. It'd been nice. Nice not being laughed at.

Then time had passed and that Wes had gone away.

Not that Angel hated him for that. No, the hate thing had been pretty much wrapped up in the Connor thing and let's just leave *that* where it was. But *after* - man, *after*. *That* had been a killer. That *new* Wes. That scruffy and don't give me shit Wes. The Wes who *wouldn't* talk to him. Who *wouldn't* meet his eyes and smile like the old Wes would. Who wouldn't answer a question like fruit basket because, you know, that shit's not *intuitive*. They'd dealt with demons before, some *like* fruit baskets. Hell, *Angel* wouldn't have said no to a fruit basket. He wouldn't have *eaten* it but he'd have understood and appreciated the *effort*, he would have -

How had he even gotten on this?

Oh yeah, Wes.

Angel sat down on the desk. Looked at the blanket in front of him. Decided to fuck the ups and downs of memory lane and stay focused on the present.

Wes. *His* Wes. Wes who didn't shut him out anymore. Who didn't laugh at him. Who'd *noticed* the little notes he'd written and wrote some back which were, let's face it, fairly dirty and whoo boy had *that* been a happy bonus to discover in the boyfriend department.

And that last one. With the symbol. The one Angel didn't exactly know the translation to but knew it somehow meant possession and maybe that meant Wes belonged to him or that he belonged to Wes and he wasn't sure but neither did he care because both were true and Angel was happy to agree with it.

His Wes. Who'd been there just a few nights ago, clinging to him, warm mouth wrapped around him, whimpering and moaning in such a hot and sexy way. Getting off on Angel's *hand* like it was the best thing on earth. Like anything more would have blown his *mind* with how good it felt and then -

("He flinched, *retard*," the soulless voice in the far back of his head whispers. "He *flinched*. Not just when you touched his chest but when you grabbed his *hip*. You *know* that flinch. You've *made* that flinch. Remember Spike? Remember Dru? Remember that 8 year old outside of Milan? Remember the *hundreds* of people you've made flinch like that? You know what it means. You know *exactly* what it means. You *stupid*, moronic -")

(But Angel's not listening. Because the thousands of layers of protection he's placed between him and this pervert won't even acknowledge the suggestion. *Can't* acknowledge the suggestion. Because the whole thing's unthink