Chapter Text
The drive back to LA is more relaxed than the tension-filled nightmare of the journey to Sunnydale. Wesley feels well fucked without a sore ass to sit on, and Angel is less anxious and determined to bond. The conversation is desultory. Wesley doesn’t mention Buffy, Angel doesn’t talk about Darla, and they get by. When Angel puts his hand on Wesley’s crotch, all he manages is a sleepy chuckle.
"Hey, Wes, I know a good motel if we leave the freeway at the next turn-off. We could spend the night and tomorrow together, and drive the rest of the way home tomorrow night."
"Really?" says Wesley, lazily, placing his hand on top of Angel’s and moving it slowly up and down. "Whatever would we do, locked up in a motel for the day, with you unable to venture outside?"
"I bet we could think of something."
"Sex doesn’t solve anything, Angel," he says, but there’s no heat in it. All the warmth is concentrated between his legs.
"I want you, Wesley." Angel’s voice is low and a little hoarse. It makes Wesley’s cock jump against their twined fingers. He can hear the need in Angel but he’s not sure what it’s really for.
"There isn’t a price to pay for coming back, Angel. Trust can’t be bought like that. I may never forget you locking the door on that room full of human beings and listening to them die."
Angel frees himself from Wesley’s imprisoning hand and roams higher. When he finds a nipple and plucks it right through the cotton of Wesley’s shirt, it causes a little cry like a wounded animal. Wesley has a vague hope that Angel is watching the road but it’s a small and distant thing, compared to the fire in his chest. Angel twists his nipple and the cotton tears. It’s shockingly loud like Wesley’s moan in the close confines of the car.
"Why don’t you take that turn-off?" Wesley gasps.
"I came to see you in the hospital but Cordelia wouldn’t let me in."
It’s hard to concentrate on what Angel’s saying, with his fingers plucking Wesley’s nipples and making him sing like a violin.
"I ... I know. She told me. Oh God. Do that again. Please."
Angel twists, his nails biting deep, while Wesley squeezes and rubs his aching cock. Too much more of this and he’s going to – oh, fuck – and Wesley comes in his pants like a horny teenager.
The smell of sweat and semen is like an aphrodisiac. He’s just come and he’s still hard, aching for it. What is Angel doing to him?
"We’re there, Wes."
Slowly, bit by bit, Wesley catalogues his surroundings. The car isn’t moving any more, though Angel’s hands are now both in a very correct position on the wheel. There’s a flashing neon sign outside the window, welcoming them to the Holiday Motel, 24 hours a day. A dingy looking vending machine slouches next to a block of generic motel units, and there are a few late blooming flowers in a strip of garden under each set of windows. The curtains look reassuringly sturdy light-blockers from the outside. And there’s a wet, uncomfortable feeling in his pants as his excitement cools.
Wesley gives Angel a bland smile. "You’re the one with the credit card, so you can get us a room. I’ll grab the bags and meet you out front."
Angel makes a show of inhaling deeply and sniffing the air before he gets out, with a very self-satisfied grin. Wesley ignores him and pops the trunk to get their bags. He really shouldn’t be surprised to see blond hair and a pair of pale blue eyes staring up at him. There’s even a deceptively engaging smile.
"Thanks, pet. Thought you’d never stop and let me out. My, my." Spike sniffs as audibly as Angel. "Someone’s been a naughty boy, then."
Before Wesley can slam the trunk shut, the vampire has hopped out and is handing him the overnight bags. "There you go, Watcher. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this chip in my head, remember? Harmless, that’s me."
"What are you doing here?"
"Well, I thought it might be wise to get out of Sunnydale for a bit. Give the Slayer some time to cool down. And here was this ride, ready and waiting for me. ‘Sides, it’s a long walk back to town from that forest, I can tell you. So, I thought to myself, I’ll catch a ride with my dear old sire. He won’t mind. Won’t be the first time he’s given me a ride."
Spike is leering at Wesley like he’s in a cheap porn movie.
"Stop saying ‘ride’," snaps Wesley.
It’s been a long night and it’s going to get longer. He can feel his prospect of being fucked all night by a guilt-driven Angel fading like autumn mist. Spike is not kind to dreams, even the ordinary ones.
"If you start running now, Angel might not find you and stake you."
Spike pouts very effectively. "Gotta have someone to feed me and protect me from the big bad humans. It might as well be the only other vampire sick enough to live on bagged blood. Just ’til the Slayer calms down, then I’ll be out of your hair."
Wesley sits on the curb and waits for Angel. While he’s waiting, he retrieves Angel’s phone from his trousers pocket and dials the number for home.
"Angel Investigations, we help the hopeless. How can I help you?"
"Hello, Cordelia."
"Wesley!"
He holds the phone away from his ear while she shrieks at him.
"Why haven’t you called earlier? Are you all right? Angel left some dumb message about how you were all fine but, how can you trust *him*, right? Wesley? Are you there?"
"I’m here. How’s your headache, Cordelia?"
"Much better. I took a couple of – oh, I see what you mean. It’s better because you took care of the vision. Well, that’s good. Who did you save? Buffy? And is Angel off getting all groiny with her? He’d better not be, or I’m gonna cut off his – his bits – with my nail scissors. Slowly. Which reminds me, did Gunn tell you about my hair? I cannot *believe* what those morons did to me. All because I had a damn vision and threw myself on the floor while they were dyeing my hair. You’d think they’d be used to that kind of thing in LA. Anyway, they..."
"Actually, I think we saved Spike. The Powers seem to have developed a sense of humour. Either that, or Spike is important to them in some way I can’t begin to fathom."
Wesley watches the vampire from the corner of his eye. He’s sitting on the hood of Angel’s car, kicking his heels and wiping smudges of dirt off his jeans. It looks like he’s wearing a clean shirt, maybe the one that Xander brought with him for tracking purposes.
"You saved Spike? As in Vampire Spike, Angel’s whatever, an evil murdering vampire with great hair? That Spike?"
"Is there another?"
"How should I know? Focus here, Wesley. Okay, so you saved the evil vampire and everything’s all right. Where are you now?"
"We’ve just stopped at a motel for the night. It’s called the Holiday Motel, about halfway between LA and Sunnydale. Angel’s just getting us a room. I hope he gets one with an extra bed."
"Why do you need an extra bed?"
Damn. He’s tired and thinking aloud. He needs to pay more attention to what he’s saying. "Because we have Spike with us."
"Spike’s there? You have a recently evil vampire, a currently evil vampire, a blood bond like the one with the D-word that we don’t mention, and now they’re gonna share a bed? Are you *crazy*?"
"Cordelia..."
"Gunn," she screeches, clearly not bothering to muffle the mouthpiece. "Get your axe. We’re taking a little road trip."
"Cordelia, everything’s fine. Put Charles on, please."
"You’re staying at the Bates Motel with Obsesso and another blond vampire from his evil family. You do the math. Everything is not fine. Gunn! Wesley wants to talk to you. Quick, before he gets murdered."
"Hello. English? Talk to me. What’s going on?"
It’s a relief to hear Gunn’s voice and Wesley feels pathetically grateful for it.
"It’s all sorted out, the vision’s resolved, and we’re on our way back to LA. We decided to stop for the night at a motel and we’ll be back tomorrow night. We’ve got Spike with us, which is what Cordelia’s insane ramblings referred to. He has a chip in his brain that prevents him from harming humans. Angel, as we have cause to know, can take care of himself. So there is absolutely no need for alarm." Unless Gunn would be alarmed at the thought of Wesley not getting fucked by Angel tonight. Probably not.
"Okay. Gotcha. I’ll tie up Cordy and we’ll see you tomorrow night. Take care."
"You too. Bye."
Angel is standing right in front of Wesley when he looks up. He has a hold of Spike by the ear. That’s got to hurt.
"Let’s go," says Angel, his face blank. He seems fatalistic about the unwelcome appearance of Spike, as he is about most things.
Wesley shrugs and follows the vampires to their motel room. At least he’ll be able to peel out of these damp, uncomfortable pants and have a shower. Anything else is Angel’s loss.
***
The rooms are much nicer than Wesley expected. If you don’t mind shit-brown, then the paintwork can’t possibly offend anyone. There’s a huge bed against the far wall, and a narrow single bed off in a pokey little side room. That will be prefect for Spike. It’s all done out in beige with a faded green carpet but Wesley finds it restful. It could be any motel room, anywhere in the States. What’s unusual about this one is its occupants.
Spike is rooting through the cooler, selecting and rejecting bags of blood on a system comprehensible only to himself. Angel’s more interested in his wardrobe, laying out clean silk shirts and pants on the bed and stroking them longingly. Then again, Spike has been buried and dreaming for a while now, so he’s got to be ravenous.
"They’re all the same, Spike," says Angel, selecting one of the shirts and holding it up to the light.
"So are those," replies Spike, nodding at the shirt that Angel’s just dropped on the bed.
Angel ignores him and wanders into the small room, checking the window and tapping on the walls. Spike watches with a wary eye as he sidles into the kitchenette and pops a bag in the microwave. Angel continues to check the walls and even starts stomping the floor with his boots like he’s dancing an insane jig. There’s a ping and the smell of hot blood fills the room as Spike pierces the bag and gulps it down, not bothering with a cup.
"Angel, what..."
"Seems secure enough," mutters Angel. "Walls are solid, floor is solid, and that window doesn’t even open."
Spike is walking backwards casually towards the bathroom but he doesn’t quite make it. Angel sprints the short distance and then they’re grappling, rolling around on the floor like a sex show in the sort of club that Wesley never goes. They’re so fluid they could be oiled or wrestling in jello, slipping over and around each other and neither can quite pin the other before the undulating floor show starts up all over again.
Wesley presses himself back against the wall and tries to keep out of the way. He’s tired and his pants are clammy but he’s fucking hard again and watching them is like a waking wet dream.
Angel has produced a coil of rope, presumably from his bag, and he’s hampered by his efforts to tangle Spike in it. Spike almost gets away and makes it as far as the door when Angel trips him and somehow gets Spike’s wrists in one hand and ties them behind his back. After that, the fight is much more uneven but Spike keeps going and they’re grunting and humping like it’s sex. Angel is on top of Spike, trying to tie his ankles, while Spike writhes under him and screams bloody murder.
"Wesley," says Angel, not even panting, "would you do something about that mouth, please?"
Wesley’s allowed to play? Not thinking, he crouches in front of Spike like an automaton and unzips his pants. He’s a slave to his cock, and it wants out, out, out. He’s just about to shove it in when his brain makes a valiant attempt to resume control. What if Spike bites him? Even with the chip, the vampire might not be able to help himself.
"What are you doing?" Angel demands, voice quivering for the first time. It sounds like shock.
"Shutting him up," says Wesley, feeling a bit ridiculous suddenly with his cock hanging out and the other two fully clothed.
"I meant, with a gag. There’s one in my bag."
"Oh." Wesley feels all kinds of stupid and small.
"Speak for yourself, wanker," snarls Spike over his shoulder at Angel. "I was looking forward to sucking on that."
Wesley scrambles to his feet and backs away, trying to tuck his cock out of sight. He hasn’t felt so embarrassed since – well, ever. He turns his back on the fight and searches through Angel’s bag, hoping his cheeks aren’t as red as his still swollen cock. He finds a thin strip of cloth, which must be the gag, and brings it over to Angel. He can’t meet the vampire’s eyes.
"Wesley..."
He’s almost made it to the bathroom when Angel gives a triumphant shout, and dumps a tied and gagged Spike in the tiny room and slams the door on him.
"All done," says Angel, rubbing his palms together with satisfaction. "Now, how about a shower?"
"Oh, I was just going to..."
"I meant, together."
"Oh." Wesley’s not sure if he can now. But his cock is hard and aching back inside his pants. It’s still doing his thinking for him. "All right."
Angel gives him the sweetest smile and starts peeling out of his dirty, sweaty clothes. They leave their things lying where they fall and giggle like schoolboys as they run their hands all over each other. Angel has already filled the bathroom with what seems like a dozen bottles of gels and soaps and shampoos, and there’s a huge chrome shower installation that frankly doesn’t look like it should fit in such a small space. Angel turns the shower on and jets of steaming hot water explode at them out of faucets above their heads. Water drips off Angel like he’s a melting ice sculpture, soft and satiny on the outside but a core of steel underneath. Wesley strokes acres of smooth skin, feels the muscles in Angel’s arms and chest, and runs his tongue lightly over a damp collarbone. It feels so good, he has to do it again.
The water drums on his back like a masseur as he repays Angel for his sore nipples. He tongues Angel’s nipples until they stand out straight, and then closes his teeth on them. Angel growls lightly, a rumble Wesley can feel on his slick forehead as he butts Angel’s throat and bites his nipples. Angel growls again. Louder.
The water massages his head now as he licks his way down Angel’s chest and stomach, dropping to his knees on the hard, chrome floor.
Ouch.
Ignoring the twinge of pain, he plants wet, sucking kisses on the sensitive skin of Angel’s thighs. Water drips off the end of Angel’s erect cock, which is wreathed in steam and still smells of sex, no matter how fresh and clean they’re getting. Wesley tongues his big, heavy balls and tries to swallow them, tugging them in his mouth until Angel’s growl becomes a series of staccato grunts. His wet cock is all that Wesley can see and he trails his soft nose along its length. The head is hot and flaring, wet from the shower and a constant dribble of Angel’s own fluids. Wesley engulfs if with his mouth, tonguing it clean and swallowing whatever Angel has to give him. He sucks hard, rewarded with the touch of gentle fingers on his head.
The water’s hot and Wesley feels like he’s being boiled alive as he sucks half the length of Angel’s cock down his throat. It’s very thick and he gags on it, letting it slip free, before plunging head-first again, trying to take more and more of it. His knees slide a little on the slippery chrome and he impacts with Angel’s legs, as strong and resistant as tree trunks. The new position lets him hump his own straining cock against the fine, slick hairs of Angel’s calves. He’s out of the direct line of the spray, but Angel’s so wet that Wesley’s cock slides easily against Angel’s skin like he’s inside him.
Excited by the thought and feel of it, and staring up avidly at Angel’s hard gut and broad chest, Wesley tries to swallow the entire length of Angel’s cock. His tongue flickers and torments the soft skin while the walls of his mouth and throat make love to it. Angel is forcing himself deeper, tugging on Wesley’s hair. It must feel like he’s burying himself in an undulating furnace. Wesley chokes and loves it, impaling himself, gorging himself on Angel’s body. He thrusts against those slippery legs and butts his head in triumph at Angel’s gut. The big cock is all the way down his throat now and his air is cut off.
Wesley has trained himself underwater. Holding his breath for minutes at a time. He used to imagine that Angel’s cock would kill him and that all he wanted was to die. He thinks it might be sick but he can’t help himself. One more second. And another. Just one more.
Finally, he has to breathe, surrendering to his white-hot lungs. Angel’s cock slips out of his throat and Wesley takes a breath, before plunging home again.
"Wesley!"
It’s a broken cry above him and it inspires him to new efforts. His mouth is glued around the base of Angel’s dick and he writhes for Angel’s pleasure. His own cock pulses and shoots its load on Angel’s leg. Wesley gulps, swallows, screams around the flesh impaling him as Angel swells alarmingly and starts to come. It’s like bursts of firewater, hot and fatal. Wesley takes it all, fussing and licking, coaxing every last drop out of Angel’s dick and feeling drunk on it.
He’s laughing, he can’t say why, when Angel pulls him to his feet and starts to kiss him.
Their hands are busy and Angel’s kind of holding him upright, washing him, turning him this way and that in the streams of hot water. Wesley relaxes into it and lets himself feel.
"I’m going to wash your hair," murmurs Angel, touching his face.
Wesley feels like someone who’s cared for, safe and loved, as Angel strokes his hair and massages his scalp very gently. He can still taste Angel’s come in his mouth and the back of his throat as the vampire starts to shampoo his hair. Little rivulets of water sting his tightly closed eyes.
The shampoo is delicious, an overpowering sweet scent of...
"Angel?" he asks, suddenly feeling cold in the warm water.
"Shhh," murmurs Angel. "Let me do this for you."
Wesley pulls away and claws the water out of his eyes. "What is that?"
He can see again and Angel looks puzzled, holding out his shampoo as if it might bite.
"It’s my new shampoo. Apples and Honey. Don’t you like it? I could find something else."
"When did you get it?" demands Wesley, stepping out of the water and away from Angel.
This earns him an even more confused stare. "What? I guess I bought it when – um – I don’t really remember. What’s the matter, Wesley? Wasn’t I good? I thought it was good. Great, actually."
"Don’t you recognise it?" Wesley backs away from the shower, groping for a towel. He’s getting water everywhere but it doesn’t really matter. Not here.
"Wesley. What’s wrong?"
"It’s the same smells, Angel. Honeysuckle and autumn fruit, and everything else from that bloody dream. Don’t you see? We’re still in it. We’re still dreaming. None of this is real."
Angel gives Wesley his best humouring-the-soft-Watcher look. "Just because I got a new shampoo? C’mon, Wes. We won. We woke up, remember? You gave the Stone to Buffy."
"I first noticed the smells walking in the forest, even before we found Spike. They’ve been nagging at me ever since. I wonder if we were dreaming then, too, long before we knew it?"
Angel’s expression is pure disbelief so Wesley leaves him to rinse his brain with the rest of his dick, and goes in search of clean pants. His jaw should be sore, after nearly dislocating it to swallow Angel’s huge cock. So why isn’t it? Why can’t he feel the bruises where he banged his knees on the shower floor?
Spike is sitting on the bed, on Wesley’s clean pants actually, manifestly untied and ungagged. He applauds quietly, smirking all the while. "Good one, luv. I was starting to think that they taught Watchers jack shit in that fancy school of theirs."
There’s a faint hint of spice in the white-blond hair, as Wesley shoves Spike aside to get his pants.
"I’m glad we can entertain you. What I’m not sure of is whose dream this is. Is it yours or mine? Which of us has the Stone?"
"I’m free, aren’t I?"
"Possibly. But so far you’ve spent the time either tied up or in the trunk of a car, whereas *I* have ridden in comfort and had mind-blowing sex."
"He’s good, isn’t he?"
Wesley wants to hit Spike’s smirking face so bad that he can feel skin under his knuckles. "That’s not the point."
"Maybe I like to watch. And it was even hotter, sitting out here listening. Picturing it in my head. It gets a bit boring, just *doing* it after the first hundred years or so."
Wesley has no answer for that so he’s grateful when Angel emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, his fat cock swinging casually between his legs and drawing every eye in the room.
"Why did you let him go?" Angel asks Wesley, pissed in an offhand way, as he tugs his pants on but loops his belt around a strong, capable hand. "Now, I’ll have to give him a good, hard whipping."
Spike concedes the point. "This is definitely your dream, Watcher. No way I was wanting that."
Wesley’s not sure if Angel’s joking or not. He’s about to hunt up a stake when there’s a hammering on the door, loud and urgent, practically giving him a heart attack.
"Open up or Gunn will break it down!" shouts a familiar voice.
"Oh, great," says Spike. "Now we’ve got Huey and Dewey as well."
"I am *not* Louie," snaps Wesley. "Why can’t you be ignorant of popular culture, like Angel?"
"I’m not joking," shouts Cordelia. "Open the door. Gunn’s getting really mad."
Angel covers the distance in a heartbeat and lets them in. There is little evidence of Gunn’s supposed fury. He looks nothing but resigned.
"Sorry," he mouths at Wesley.
"Aha," says Cordelia. "There are no shirts. We have topless men, all wet and – why is your hair sticking up? Did you – Wesley? You have dried shampoo in your hair. You didn’t rinse!"
Wesley has never heard her more outraged in all the years he’s known her.
"Cordelia..."
"Wesley has gone mad. I knew it. Do something."
This was to Gunn.
"Ah. I guess I could rinse his hair?" Gunn nods decisively, throwing Wesley a look that’s pregnant with some unknown message, and sets off for the bathroom.
Angel steps in front of Gunn, blocking his passage, hands apparently relaxed at his side, the belt hanging a few inches below one fist. "Wesley’s mine," he says, flatly. "No one else touches his hair."
Spike crows with laughter. "Definitely your dream, Watcher."
"Is that right, man?" says Gunn, eyeballing Angel. "I think Wesley’s friends, the ones who stood by him when certain other people didn’t give a damn, are the ones who have the right to touch his hair."
This is crazy. Gunn doesn’t even want to touch him on a sane day.
There’s a crack as Angel snaps the belt taut between his fists. "Wesley and I have settled our differences, Gunn, and *nobody* touches him but me."
Spike’s laughing so hard that he falls off the bed. No one else seems to notice. Cordelia is screaming at Gunn to do something and Angel is caught up in his alpha male strut.
Wesley needs this to be over, so he roots through Angel’s coat pockets until he finds the car keys. The answers, whatever they might be, are not to be found in this motel room. And there’s a small part of him that’s worried that, if he lets this go on too much longer, he’s going to end up feeling the kiss of that thick leather belt. An even smaller part of him is scared that he’ll like it.
"Right, then," he says. "I’m off."
Spike follows him out the door, shrugging into his duster and whistling some German tune from before the war. Wesley can’t help smiling when he recognises it.
"What was it like?" he asks, as he unlocks the car. "Munich in the 1930s? I can’t imagine living through that and still seeming young today."
"I didn’t like the Nazis much."
"I thought they’d be just your cup of tea," says Wesley, climbing in behind the wheel.
"Nah. It’s much harder when borders are closed and everyone has to carry papers, and the whole world’s locked down or blowing itself to bits. Sure, you can do some scavenging if you’re in the right place at the right time, but give me peacetime and democracy any day. Fat, complacent societies, freedom to move, and a state-protected right to be anonymous. You can’t beat it."
"That’s an – interesting perspective. I hadn’t thought about it like that."
"That’s what I like about you, Watcher. You can actually see things from another point of view. Of course, it’s a bit of a bitch for *you*, to be always seeing the other side of things."
"Nobody’s liking anyone," says Angel, stealing the keys through the window before Wesley can start the car. "Get out."
"Angel, I’m going back to that forest. I have to find a way to end this before it’s too late."
"I know," agrees Angel. "I was talking to Spike. You’re not leaving until he’s out and I’m in the car with you."
Cordelia appears at Angel’s side, her mouth open wide with horror. "Wesley! You can’t go anywhere with your hair like that. People know me in Sunnydale. They know that I know you. They may even know that I *work* with you. Get out of that car this instant."
"I called shotgun," says Spike. "Angel can sit in the back."
"I am *not* sitting in the back."
"Wesley is *not* going looking like that."
Wesley lays his offensive head on the steering wheel and tries not to hyperventilate. The line between friendship and nightmare seems to be a thin one.
"Just close your eyes," whispers Spike.
Wesley takes his advice. He can still see the red and pinks of sunset behind his closed eyes, and smell the honeysuckle and blackberry juice. His fingers are warm around the Stone.
"How do I wake up?" he asks.
Angel’s voice is soft in his ear, like a kiss. "What were you thinking of, when you fell asleep? You held the Stone in your hand, your eyes got heavy, you started to drowse, and you were *thinking* about something."
He’s heard those words before. This seems familiar.
"What was it, Wesley? What’s the trigger for this dream?"
Angel said these things to Will, it feels like a hundred years ago.
"I remember the sunset. We were sitting beside Spike and the Stone was getting warm. I was thinking about my friends, about Gunn and Cordelia, how lucky I am to have them. How blessed I am to have them. And I was thinking about sex with you, how good it felt to have your arms around me. There was a strange kind of peace. Yes. For the first time in months, I felt a sense of peace."
"We’re here with you now, Wesley. Cordy and Gunn are here. I’m here. It’s not the way it was for Spike, dreaming about something he can never recover. You can *have* those things if you wake up. You don’t have to be lost and dreaming to get them. Wake up, Wesley."
It’s not true. Angel is lying to him. The waking world is full of betrayal and loneliness, imperfect friends and faithless lovers. It’s a world with Darla in it, where Angel balances on a knife-edge between light and dark, and where he’s not having sex with Angel. Not if he wants to be sure of surviving to see each new day.
The Stone pulses like orgasm, warming him from the inside. He can have a world where Death is just another season, and there’s always fruit on the vine and sweetness in his lungs. Angel will always love him, faithful and tireless, wanting him the same tomorrow as he does today. They can be together where it doesn’t hurt, and the only risk is the occasional tricks of a neutered vampire. Wesley can love Angel.
"Wesley, please, listen to me. What do you think will happen if you don’t come back? Who will be there to ground Cordelia, to bitch and laugh with her, to be her friend, to help her fight the despair and pain of the visions? Who’s gonna watch Gunn’s back and stop him from killing himself with his recklessness? Where are they gonna end up without you? And what about me? How long do I last without a Watcher to help me think things through, who can be my adviser and my friend? What happens to us without you, Wesley?"
He can tell himself that they’ll be better off without him. But, given the alternative, he hates Angel for knowing it isn’t true.
They need him. And he has always answered to the need of others, all his life.
Wesley opens his eyes.
He’s holding the Dreamstone in his hand and the hot night air of Sunnydale drives away the last lingering scents of an English autumn. The forest clearing is pitch black but he can just make out Angel, lying on the ground next to Spike. Wesley is standing over both of them and the Stone is ice cold between numb fingers.
"I wonder how long it’ll take."
"Oh, do be quiet, Xander. I thought I emphasized the importance of absolute silence."
"Giles," he says. It comes out as a croak, as if he hasn’t used his voice for a long time.
"Wesley?"
Several flashlight beams blind him a second later and he’s still blinking when they turn the glare on the bodies at his feet.
The others hurry over from wherever they’ve been camping out, and he feels an arm around his shoulders, hugging some warmth into him. That’s Willow. It’s a hot California night but he’s shivering with cold. He leans into her embrace.
"What happened?" he asks.
"You tell us," says Giles. "You were all motionless for a long time and then suddenly Angel stood up and went to lie down beside Spike. Then you stood up and you took the Stone from him. You’ve been standing there, ever since, not moving. We tried to wake you but had no better luck than we did with Spike so we decided to wait."
The sky is growing light. It’ll be sunrise soon and they have to get Angel and Spike under cover.
Angel is sitting up, stretching, looking at Wesley with an unreadable expression. He doesn’t take his eyes off him, even when Buffy goes over to help him up.
Spike isn’t moving, half-buried in the forest floor, and Xander has his light trained on the vampire. Spike’s face is white and bloodless and the skin looks like it’s stretched too tight. It’s more skull than living human in appearance.
"He’s starving," says Angel. "He’s gone too long without blood. Much longer and he would have crumbled to dust."
"Why did he do it?" asks Willow, still warming Wesley with her body heat.
"I don’t know," replies Angel.
Xander whips out a small knife but Angel stops him before he can cut himself, closing his fingers gently over the hilt and pushing it away.
"Let me," says Angel, abstracting the knife from Xander without any appearance of force. "My blood will do him more good than yours. We have bags in the car as soon as we can get him there."
Angel crouches over Spike and opens a vein, directing a slow, steady trickle of blood between Spike’s dry, chapped lips. They watch it drip into the vampire’s mouth, and Wesley gives a sigh of relief when Spike starts to swallow.
He turns away from the gruesome scene and approaches Buffy, who looks equal parts stunned and horrified at what is going on between Angel and Spike.
"I believe you were looking for this," he says, handing her the Dreamstone.
Wesley thinks that he’s safe from it now but he’d prefer the distance from here to LA between him and temptation. It’s so powerful. It offers everything, and all it asks in return is – everything.
In the end, it’s not a price he’s willing to pay.
"Be careful with it. It’s very dangerous."
"I’ll see that she comes to no harm from it," promises Giles. It’s what Watchers do. They protect their charges and they make promises they can’t keep. "The Dream Stealers, on the other hand, are quite beyond my abilities to deal with."
"That’s what Slayers are for," says Buffy, cheerfully. "The sun will be up in a couple of hours. We’d better head home and get Angel indoors."
She tosses the Stone in the air and catches it like it’s a baseball.
Wesley follows it with his eye until she throws it to Willow and they start throwing it back and forth and laughing. Wesley stops her then, by tapping her politely on the shoulder. Buffy pockets the Stone and turns to look at him.
"Yeah?"
"Give me a black eye."
"What?"
"Please. Give me a black eye."
"You want me to hit you?"
"Yes. It’s the only way I can be sure I’m awake. I *need* this. Please. Just consider it delayed payback from my time as your Watcher, if you want."
Buffy shrugs. "Okay."
She hits him so hard that he’s knocked flat on his back and can’t move without stabs of blinding pain. Blood drips on his face a second later and Angel is standing over him.
"What the fuck was that?" demands Angel.
He turns on Buffy and smacks her a few yards into the forest and then all Wesley can hear is distant taunts and grunts as they fight it out. Wesley misses most of it, as he crawls over to donate the blood from his split lip to Spike. It’s the least he can do, since he interrupted the vampire mouth-to-mouth. Besides, he’s wanted to try kissing Spike ever since he saw Will licking apple juice off his chin with his clever tongue.
"What the fuck is with you?" says Angel as he hauls Wesley off Spike, stands him up, and then starts patting him down like he’s looking for injuries or contraband.
"Nothing’s with me," replies Wesley, his voice distorted a little by his thick lip. "Nothing at all. If it’s safe to move Spike, I suggest that we start making our way out of here."
Angel touches his swollen cheek once and then nods.
Wesley grimaces and falls in behind Angel as he throws Spike over his shoulder and carries him out of the clearing. His face hurts all the way back to the car.
***
Wesley’s face is still hurting when they pull up at the Holiday Motel. He uses the company credit card to pay for the room. The woman behind the counter is a friendly soul and gives him some ice and sympathy for free.
"You been in an accident, hon?"
"Yes," he replies stiffly, savouring the pain. "A slight disagreement with a wall."
She hands over the room key with a sceptical smile. "Really?"
"Actually," Wesley deadpans, "it was my boyfriend’s ex."
Her smile kind of congeals and slides off her face. "Oh. Have a nice stay."
"Thanks, I’m sure we will."
Wesley is not conscious of any irony as he holds the icepack on his aching cheek and returns to the car to collect his baggage.
Angel does the dash to their room in a heavy overcoat with a blanket wrapped around his head, gloved hand in Wesley’s, clearly trusting that he won’t be walked into a wall or made to fall flat on his face. It’s tempting but Angel’s trust is not something that Wesley wants to live without.
The room is nothing like the one in his dream. Wesley’s grateful for that, and for the constant throb that reminds him that it’s real this time. He agrees to accept some painkillers from Angel’s rather extensive stash, finally starting to believe in the pain and that it’s not going to disappear just because the moment has passed. Angel pours half a drugstore onto the big double bed and roots through it, muttering and rejecting various pills, before finally settling on a couple of innocuous looking white tablets.
"These should help."
Wesley sinks into a big, overstuffed chair and nods when Angel hands him the pills and a glass of water. He wonders if Angel would let him sleep there. It hurts to swallow and he welcomes that too.
"I’m gonna call Cordelia and let her know we’re okay."
"I’ll just be sleeping," says Wesley. Although he’s spent half the night in a dream of sorts, his body does not feel at all rested. It feels like it’s been contorted, pummelled and used for the sex it didn’t really get. Come to think of it, Wesley feels like this most nights after one of Cordelia’s visions.
Angel’s voice is a quiet, steady murmur in the background and Wesley’s eyelids droop. Maybe it’s safe to rest for just a while. He’s not sure how long he dozes, before strong hands lift him out of the chair and start to strip him.
"Angel," he half-protests, but there’s no force to it, and he lets himself be stripped with quiet efficiency and walked into the bathroom. Angel holds him up in the shower, and that’s when he realises that Angel is naked too. His head rests on Angel’s chest as if it belongs there. The hot water stings his cheek and it helps him wake up a bit. He realises suddenly that the big cock resting on his thigh is not his own. It’s starting to take an interest in proceedings and he reaches down to give it a sharp squeeze.
"Angel. This is not a dream. I am still very angry with you and I am not going to have sex in the shower."
Angel’s laugh is low and damnably sexy. "Whose hand is on whose dick?"
"Oh."
Wesley stops what was meant to be a punishing squeeze and has turned into a caress. Stupid hand.
He leans on Angel and lets the vampire splash water on him in a way that would pass for washing from a careless chambermaid on a bad day. Angel is feeling him up and Wesley doesn’t really mind, because he’s about to keel over and not even Angel will fuck him when he’s unconscious. He trusts Angel that much.
"Did you get hold of Cordelia?"
"Yes," says Angel, shutting off the water and steering him over to sit on the bathroom stool. Wesley’s mesmerised by drops of water trickling down the slabs of muscle on Angel’s chest, on their way to the promised land. He doesn’t dare look down as Angel roughly towels him dry. When he feels a soft kiss on the top of his head, he wants to cry.
"Is she all right?" Wesley’s voice is hoarse but maybe Angel chalks it up to his injury.
"Yeah. Gunn’s gang got into a fight with some vampires but he’s fine and no one was badly hurt. Cordy’s headache is gone. I guess we did whatever the Powers wanted done."
Wesley tries to think about that and not about Angel kneeling in front of him, or the rough velvet feel of Angel’s hands towelling his legs and thighs.
"I need you to spread your legs a little."
It’s unbelievably sexy and Wesley wants to scream.
"I’ll do the rest," he says, tugging the towel out of Angel’s hands. The vampire surrenders it without a fight and grabs another from the nearby towel rail.
When Angel bends over and starts to dry his own legs, Wesley’s up and out into the bedroom before he’s made a conscious decision. All he knows is that he cannot see Angel’s ass and stay sane.
"Wes?" Angel calls from the bathroom door. "Are you all right?"
"I’m fine," he replies.
Angel has laid some sleepwear out on the bed for him. It’s one of Wesley’s old t-shirts from his rogue demon hunter days. At least it was always too long for him and will cover his ass. Otherwise, it’s a pretty thin protection from Angel. Where’s an acre of buttoned-up flannel when you need it?
Wesley drops the towel and pulls the shirt on over his head, before climbing into the bed. Sharing it won’t be a problem, since he’s sure he’ll go straight to sleep. He’s exhausted and his brain thinks he’s already been fucked tonight, no matter what his body has to say about it.
"Do you want another painkiller?" asks Angel as he climbs over Wesley to take the other side of the bed. He’s naked and his big cock and balls dangle in Wesley’s face for a moment, framed by huge legs and a waft of soap and ball sweat. For a second, Wesley can see and smell nothing else, and he’s instantly hard. Damn Angel. He couldn’t just walk around the other side of the bed like any normal, considerate employee? The vampire must be laughing himself silly at poor hard-up Wesley, so desperate that he’ll fall for a trick like that and let himself be fucked by the first betraying two-faced bastard ex-friend that comes along.
"No thanks," he says. "I think two was enough."
"I’ve left some more with a glass of water on the bedside table, if it gets bad during the night."
"Thank-you."
"Do you wanna – talk?"
Wesley sighs. Here it comes. Maybe he should just masturbate and let Angel be the one to feel excruciating embarrassment for a change. "I think we’ve said everything there is to say, don’t you?"
Angel gropes under the covers and takes his hand, twining their fingers together and squeezing gently. "I’m really bad at this. But I’m sorry and I want to make it up to you."
Wesley switches the bedside lamp on so that he can see the blank wall of Angel’s face. "It’s like I said to you before. The shark doesn’t apologise for being a shark. That’s what it is. It may even be a great shark, and do great things, important things. But it’s still a shark. It only has to apologise when it pretends to be a dolphin."
"I don’t get that," says Angel. His eyes are very sincere for a serial killer’s. "You’re saying that I can never change, never atone for the things I’ve done. If that’s true, I may as well give up, dump the Powers, and go work for Wolfram and Hart."
"But that’s the point, Angel. You don’t do these things for a reward in the form of settling a cosmic scorecard. You do them because they are the right things to do. Any other reason at all will see you end up with Wolfram and Hart eventually. It’s only a matter of time."
Angel draws his thumb across Wesley’s palm, making his hairs stand on end. Wesley is wide awake now and cursing silently. Maybe if he rolls over on his side, Angel won’t notice his erection.
"I lost sight of what was right for a while, Wesley. I admit that. But what I did for Darla, it’s what I do for all those who need my help. I tried to save her."
"It was more than that, Angel."
"Yeah, I know. I was willing to die to save her Wesley. I offered my life so that she could keep her soul and have a second chance at life. And you know what? The universe spat in my face and had itself a good old laugh, because dying of syphilis at the mercy of Wolfram and Hart – that *was* her second chance."
"Angel, sometimes the only thing we can do for those we love is let them die. You know I have a no-resuscitation order in my living will. If, God forbid, I’m ever turned, I expect you to stake me."
"I tried to give her that gift too and failed."
There’s a wealth of bitterness in Angel’s voice and Wesley doesn’t have an answer for him. He can’t even deal with his own. He wonders how much of their dream experience was identical. Does Angel remember making love to him under an autumn sky with the scent of honeysuckle in the air? Or did Angel experience something else altogether? Have they ever really been on the same page, in all the time they’ve known each other? Wesley remembers the hard, desperate couplings in the aftermath of battle. The rough caresses. The ever-growing dominance of Angel in his life until one day he was standing stunned and devastated on the sidewalk, dismissed from Angel’s office and bed without a backward glance.
"You sent us away. You left us with the visions and your mission, and went off on your own to do – things, questionable things. I don’t have the right to judge you Angel. But I do have the right to decide who I want in my life and on what terms."
"What I did for Darla, I’d do it for you."
"I know, Angel. That’s why we’re even having this conversation."
"Oh. I just thought I should say it. Out loud."
It’s awkward and Wesley fumbles a bit when he reaches for Angel’s cock.
"I love you, Angel," he whispers into the hard wall of Angel’s chest, pressing soft kisses until the cut on his mouth opens and he’s tasting his own blood. "I love you but you’ve always known that. Then and now. It doesn’t solve anything."
"And this does?" asks Angel, grasping Wesley’s dick in his turn and stroking it slowly. He runs his thumb over the sensitive head and makes Wesley bite down on the taut skin of his belly.
"What does this solve?" Angel repeats, masturbating Wesley roughly.
"Maybe it can just be what it is. Two souls connecting for a time and giving each other pleasure." Wesley knows it’s a rationalisation but his cock doesn’t care. It jumps eagerly in Angel’s hand and spits liquid defiance at the world.
Angel leans over to kiss him, touching his lips to the side of Wesley’s mouth and raining kisses on his uninjured cheek. He’s careful not to hurt Wesley, which has to be the greatest irony of all.
They stroke each other’s cocks, seeming to match their pace to the beating of Wesley’s heart. As it gets steadily faster, so do their hands, tugging in short hard jerks until Angel takes control and slows them down again. He sucks a nipple into his mouth and teases it with his teeth, slowly stroking Wesley’s cock in time to the flickers of his tongue. Wesley tries not to make a sound but he can’t help groaning. His free hand explores Angel’s thighs and balls, tickling him where he knows the vampire is most sensitive.
"I love you," he keeps saying, as Angel sucks his nipples and licks his chest.
Angel doesn’t say it back but he never has. Angel’s love, if that’s what it is, is shown in actions. A hand up and a blowjob after a hard fight. Scrambled eggs and a seat at Angel’s breakfast table. Conversation late at night and a sympathetic ear after a letter from home. Strange and unpredictable acts of kindness at every turn. And always, a sense of friendship, that Wesley finally belongs somewhere. Maybe they can have some of that again.
"You’re thinking too much," whispers Angel in his ear. "Just feel it."
Angel is jerking him off in time to the thrumming of blood in Wesley’s veins. The vampire licks his skin and it must be like an alcoholic in a bar, touching a full bottle of whiskey, hoping he’ll always walk away from it in the end. Wesley matches Angel’s pace and they race to the finish line, trying to best each other, knowing they’ll both be winners. Wesley comes first, spurting over Angel’s hand with a jerk of his hips and a long, exhausted groan. Angel follows soon after, and Wesley licks it off his fingers with what must be a very crooked smile.
They lie in each other’s arms afterwards and listen to rain drumming on the roof. The weather has broken at last and the air is cooler.
Wesley falls asleep in the middle of some long story about Angelus and a pack of werewolves.
***
It’s the delicious smells that finally wake Wesley. He doesn’t want to get up at first, the bed is so comfortable and he’s cocooned in warm blankets. That can’t possibly be bacon frying in any case, unless he’s back in the dream again. It’s too good to be true.
"Wake up, Wes."
Angel’s hand is on his hair. It’s worth pretending to sleep for a touch like that. "I know you’re awake. C’mon. Breakfast’s ready."
Wesley shrugs Angel off and sits up, blinking in the semi-dark. The curtains are drawn and he can’t tell what time of day it is. The throbbing in his face has subsided to a dull ache and there’s the possibility of bacon. It’s a good day already by Wesley’s standards.
Angel hands him a couple of painkillers and a glass of orange juice.
"If you fluff my pillows, I’m going back to that forest," warns Wesley.
Angel grins and walks away, back into the kitchenette and whatever’s making those wonderful smells. He’s wearing pants and a shirt, for which Wesley’s grateful. The pants hug Angel’s ass like a second skin but he can just about cope with that.
"Do I have time for a shower?" he asks, closing his eyes, trying not to worry his split lip with his tongue. Eating’s going to be a bitch.
"Not unless you want rubber eggs."
Wesley hauls himself out of bed and uses the bathroom before stumbling over to the small dining table and collapsing on a chair. His shirt has ridden up and Angel can probably see his package but he doesn’t care. Angel’s not going to start anything with bacon and eggs on the table.
It’s always amazed him, how much Angel loves to do the cheerful vampire routine and cook him breakfast. He’s shovelling bacon and eggs on to a plate right now, almost whistling, piling it high enough for three Watchers. Wesley just nods gratefully and forks eggs into his mouth, trying to chew on one side and ignore the occasional stabs of pain. The orange juice stings but it’s fresh and chilled and tastes divine.
"So," he says politely, between mouthfuls, "I’m taking it that you didn’t risk incinerating yourself to acquire all of this."
"Nah," says Angel, watching him eat avidly like its Reality TV. "A girl came to clean the room and I paid her to get it. Her rates were very reasonable, actually."
"That’s good."
Wesley eats in silence after that, wincing each time he opens his mouth. He won’t be doing any cocksucking for a while.
Eating breakfast together feels almost normal, apart from the occasional anxious look that Angel throws his way. Is there not enough salt? Should I have put more dill with the mushrooms? Is he only pretending to enjoy it? Wesley can almost read them, the thoughts are written so clearly on Angel’s usually blank face.
There’s a cup of blood in Angel’s hand and he takes the odd sip, but his attention is wholly on Wesley. It’s – disconcerting. Wesley can’t wait to get back to LA and share the focus of this eager atonement with Gunn and Cordelia.
He puts down his fork at last, with the plate half-empty. "That was good, Angel. Thanks."
Piece by piece, Angel is reassembling their old lives like a nostalgic jigsaw of yesteryear. Some of the pieces don’t quite fit any more.
Sitting at the table, watching Angel and remembering the dream, Wesley wants to be fucked. He’d like Angel to take him right now, bend him over the table and bang him into next week. He wants to read obscure texts with Angel and relive their late-night camaraderie, after the fighting’s done and the others have gone home, and they feel the need to puzzle out what it means. What it’s all about. And then he wants to be fucked again.
"How soon until we can get on the road?" he asks, showing none of it (he hopes) on his face.
"There’s another hour or so until sunset. You slept all day. I guess you needed it."
"Yes. Well, I think I might have that shower now. Would you mind getting me another painkiller?"
When Angel turns his back, Wesley sprints to the bathroom. Angel can probably smell it but there’s no need for him to *see* Wesley’s erection.
Wesley jerks off in the shower, like when he was a boy, and washes it away down the drain. Afterwards, he dresses in casual clothes and packs his bag, ignoring Angel’s hopeful look and his obvious hints that they could spend the remainder of their time in bed.
Sex with Angel does nothing but lull him like a fly in a web. He’s determined not to do it again. That determination lasts all the way to the outskirts of LA, where Angel pulls over in an alley and fucks him in the backseat. He has his legs on Angel’s shoulders and they do it face to face, like with a woman. He barely remembers Virginia, and he wonders if Angel is pretending he’s Buffy. It hardly matters, when he has Angel’s cock in his ass, and his head is banging painfully on the doorhandle.
Their clothes are neat and they smell of fresh cologne when they arrive back at the office. Cordelia shrieks and throws herself into Wesley’s arms, sparing a cool look for Angel. Gunn admires Wesley’s swollen face and pats him down for other injuries.
"So, Wes, how’d you get this?"
Angel snickers. "He was punched by a girl."
Gunn ignores Angel and looks only at Wesley. "So, Wes, how’d you get this?"
Angel sighs and wanders off, followed soon by the smell of freshly brewing coffee.
"Are you okay?" Gunn whispers when Angel has left the room.
"Yes I’m fine." The words are stiff but he can always blame his sore face. He dares not sit down, and hopes they won’t notice. Gunn gives him a brief hug and Wesley kind of melts against him.
"I was punched by a girl," he whispers in Gunn’s ear.
Gunn is still laughing when Angel returns with a coffee pot and four cups.
"Who takes sugar?" he asks with great determination.
"None for me," says Gunn, coldly, but he has finally acknowledged Angel’s presence.
"Do you like my hair?" asks Cordelia, preening behind her desk and pretending to sort files.
Wesley was not, under any circumstances, going to mention the hair. Now he has no choice. "It’s – um – yes, it’s – well, I – um..."
"Oh, you last bought clothes in the 1970s. What do *you* know?"
That’s manifestly untrue but Wesley decides to let it go. He takes his coffee from Angel and goes to lean with his back to the wall, suddenly worried that everyone can see a damp patch where Angel’s come is leaking out of his ass.
He feels carefully behind him when he thinks no one’s looking. It seems all right but how can he be sure? Isn’t an apocalypse always accompanied by signs?
"So, what’s going on?" asks Angel.
"Nothing," says Cordelia. "It’s been all quiet on the vision front since you sorted out Buffy’s thing. No visions, no clients, zilch. Nada."
Wesley wonders how Spike is doing, being fed blood from a bag in Xander’s basement. He doesn’t really know either of them well enough to call and find out.
"Oh," says Angel. "I guess I’ll go back to the hotel then. Catch some shut-eye. Or maybe I’ll do some *reading*." This is accompanied by a meaningful look at Wesley, as subtle as a mace.
The others don’t notice. They’re too busy asking each other if Angel has just said ‘shut-eye’.
They were reading the bible together when Angel first started dreaming about Darla. They both love the bible though for very different reasons. They’ve spent hours debating the nature of vengeance and moral choices, mostly with Wesley talking and Angel appearing to listen. And that’s the most seductive temptation of them all; to guide Angel’s choices, to start thinking that he can make some of them for him or instead of him.
The vampire clasps his shoulder on the way out. "Thanks for your help in Sunnydale, Wesley."
It’s the sort of thing Wesley used to dream about. The star-athlete with his coach, the son with a loving father, the smiling approval of all the authority figures who ever lived. It’s one of the things he used to want from Angel.
Gunn and Cordelia bicker over who’s going to get the takeaways for a late dinner. Cordelia predicts that a paying customer will walk through the door at any minute, needing her to sort them out. Gunn replies that it’s his muscle they’ll be wanting, not her expertise in typing an account.
Wesley smiles at them, knowing that he’ll be going to Angel’s hotel later for fucking and companionship and a hundred other things.
Wesley Wyndham-Pryce is fucked. It’s only a matter of time.