Chapter Fourteen

"Well, go after him then." Spike stared at Angel's motionless back, which was blocking the corridor. The sound of the door clicking quietly shut from Wesley's departure was still somehow reverberating in the air.

"He doesn't want me to." Angel's shoulders were slumped.

"Of course he bloody does, you stupid ponce. You just need to make him see that." Spike moved forward, touched Angel on the back. "Go after him, before it's too late."

He heard Willow moving out into the hall behind him, but she didn't say anything.

"You don't get it," Angel said, defeated, turning to face Spike. "I promised him that if he wanted to go, I'd let him. I'm not going to... I mean, I can't... that was the whole point. It's his choice now."

"That's not the kind of promise you keep, Angel; not if you care for someone. You go after them, and you stick by 'em through thick and thin. Give him space, sure. But don't just let him go. Fuck, for all you know he may be heading out to top himself."

Angel shook his head. "He wouldn't do that." Still, there was something in Angel's eyes, a small flicker of doubt maybe.

Spike couldn't believe Angel was still standing there. Only, of course, he could. Sodding typical of the prat. "This is Buffy all over again, innit? Just turn your back and walk away, and sod those who love you more'n life."

"He can't." Angel's voice was perfectly flat.

"He can't what?"

Angel blinked and looked at Spike. "You know. Love me. Not now, not knowing what I did to him, what I made him into."

"Bollocks." He wasn't quite sure why, but Spike was feeling increasingly angry. He got right into Angel's space and glared at him. "'Course he bloody loves you. What the hell other reason would a vamp have for accepting a soul other than love? Take my word for it, eh?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Angel said stubbornly, backing up and turning away from Spike.

"Oh yeah?" Spike followed, moving in front of Angel again. "And who'd know better than me then? You? Don't make me laugh. You're about as perceptive as the average hunk of granite. Not like Angelus; he always knew what was what. Why's that, you think? Personally, I've always thought there's only room inside you for brain or soul; can't have both."

Angel backed away again. "I'm not going to hit you," he said, "if that's what you're trying to get me to do. Me and Wes, we talked all of this into the ground. It's done. It's his decision now, not mine."

"Oh for fu--" Spike scrubbed his hands over his face in exasperation. "You know what? I was wrong. You don't love the poor bastard at all. You made a mistake, you've done your best to put it right, and that's that. Bathroom's that way; you can go wash your hands. No love lost."

"Um..." Spike wasn't sure afterwards whether it was Willow's hesitant voice, or his own sudden awareness of a certain scent that hit him first. Either way, both vampires turned and looked not at Willow, but at where her alarmed gaze was directed.

Buffy.

Angel, at least, stopped fidgeting and straightened up. "Buffy. I..." He ran out of words, but Buffy seemed to have found her own voice.

"Okay, did I walk through some kind of portal into an alternate dimension or something? Because I keep having to listen to all these conversations I *so* don't want to know about." Buffy didn't look angry so much as irritated, but there was confusion emblazoned on her face.

She was staring at Angel. Not Spike.

"Bugger this." Suddenly having had enough of the whole thing, Spike raised his hand up in a dismissive gesture. "I'm not letting that poor beggar wander about on his own out there to be tormented by the First." Resisting the urge to thump Angel in the balls again, Spike pushed past the git and out of the front door. Unlike Wesley, he did not shut it gently.

He stormed down the road, picking directions at random, having no real idea where Wesley had gone. It was a dark night -- cloud cover and no moon. But he kept getting little hints of Parfum de Poof, which he guessed had to mean the vamped Watcher, as Angel, as far as Spike knew, hadn't had a chance to get this deep into Sunnydale yet.

He wasn't letting himself think about anything much. Especially not Buffy. Thinking about Buffy would... drive him back, gibbering, into that bloody school basement. Angel was almost as bad, especially after the things the First had used his grandsire to say to Spike, while the Bringers had got heavy with the torture.

Too much like old times, that.

So if Spike thought about anything, it was about Wesley, who may have been a stuck up Council prat, but he was family now. Not only that, Wes loved someone enough to get a soul, and that made them brothers in a way not connected to blood. One way or another, Spike was going to get Wes back with Angel... and Angel away from the Slayer.

In the end, Spike nearly jogged past Wesley without seeing him, only realising at the last moment that the huddled figure in the children's playground, sitting in the dirt by the roundabout, was actually his prey. He made his way over slowly. He didn't have any reason to think the poor sod might bolt, but no point in making things harder on either of them than they had to be.

He kept his voice soft. "Hey. Wondered where you'd gone off to."

"Bugger off." The bloke didn't even look up from his huddle.

Spike moved another couple of steps closer, then leant against the metal frame of the swing set, thinking that parking himself somewhere would make him seem less threatening. "I remember what it's like, y'know."

That got a raised head. "That's an idiotic thing to say."

"You think?" Spike said it mildly enough, just wanting to get Wesley talking.

It worked, although the ragged tone of voice and hopeless expression were almost enough to make Spike wish it hadn't. "All my friends are dead," Wesley said. "All of them. Some of them, I killed, or helped kill. I have been made a... a thing I was brought up to consider an abomination, and Ang--" He swallowed and stopped talking.

Spike wanted to get closer still -- the need to comfort Wesley was stronger than he'd have guessed it would be. He strolled around in a half-circle that ended up with him over on the other side of the roundabout, and sat down. "My sorry excuse for a grandsire," he said carefully, "loves you. Even if he doesn't know how to say it. He's all torn up back there, thinking you want nothing more to do with him."

"No." Wesley shook his head once. "He needs me. *Needed* me. He loves Buffy. I'm... I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Spike snorted. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, mate. Way I see things, none of this is your doing."

Wesley was still staring at him though, like Spike was the one deserving pity. "They're removing his happiness clause, I'm afraid."

That little revelation floored Spike for a few seconds at least, but he managed to recover pretty quickly. "You think he's gonna want Buffy back, is that it?" Not that that wasn't the first thing that had sprung into his own mind.

"Of course he is. And she... she wants him back. God..." Wesley stared out straight ahead, into the dark.

The two of them -- Buffy and Angel -- *had* been looking at each other all starry-eyed off and on, but Spike couldn't let himself believe that they'd think they could just go back like nothing had happened. "Don't know for sure that she wants him back," he said gruffly. He used the toe of one boot to push against the ground, giving the roundabout a gentle shove that carried him around toward Wesley.

Wes glanced up at him. "I'm sorry," he said again, his voice very soft. He dragged his hands over his face. "I think I rather badly need to get drunk."

"I think you need to stop apologising for stuff that's not your fault," Spike said, reaching out and patting Wesley's shoulder lightly. "But yeah, couple of stiff drinks might not be a bad idea either."

Wesley pulled himself to his feet, using the roundabout as leverage. "I'll buy, if you..." He looked uncomfortable. "I'm not sure I trust myself drunk in a public place. Would you be prepared to...?"

"Stop you from jumping some poor innocent and drainin' him dry?" Spike asked. "Yeah, sure. Don't worry about it." He gave a little one-shouldered shrug. "'S gonna be okay, you know. Angel might not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but he knows quality when he sees it. If anyone can make this transition without going completely bonkers, it's probably you."

Wesley looked uneasily at him, but then gave Spike a grimacing half-smile and turned to walk to the road. As Spike followed, Wes said almost conversationally, "You know, I care about a great many things quite deeply now that my soul is back -- things I've done and things I should have done. But the one thing I seem unable to summon up even a twinge of guilt for is the fact that I drained a woman dry three nights ago."

Spike considered this as he stretched his legs to keep even with Wesley, who was considerably taller than he was. "Deserved it, did she?"

When Wesley turned to look at him now, his eyes seemed impossibly dark. "She drugged us all so that we turned on each other. Only Angel survived, and myself, I suppose, if you can call this survival. Six souls gone forever, including people who had done great good." He glared out into the night. "She more than deserved her death." Spoken like a true Watcher, Spike thought. Not that he disagreed.

"Can't see why you should feel guilty then," Spike told him. "Sounds to me like you did the world a favour."

"She tasted quite wonderful," he said challengingly.

"Bet she did, mate." Spike chuckled, finding nothing to dispute or judge.

Wes held his gaze again for a second or so, then nodded, apparently ending the discussion. "I never did really learn my way around Sunnydale," he confessed. "So lead on. And Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not sure why you came after me, but... thanks."

The Bronze was actually quiet for once -- the bloke spinning the CDs must have been under orders to keep things mellow. Spike made his way back from the bar to the small table Wesley had claimed and set their drinks down. "Sounds like they're trying to keep the kiddies calm," he said.

"The poster outside said it was a 'chill out' evening." Wesley replied dully, staring at his glass of cheap whisky.

Spike sat down, his posture as casual as he could make it, and glanced around the room. "Seems to be working." Wesley didn't reply. Suppressing a sigh, Spike slouched further in his chair and studied him thoughtfully. "So, this the new you then? You're just gonna mope around, brooding and..." He chuckled. "You and Angel, you're made for each other."

Wesley glanced dourly at him. "In a way, I have been made for Angel. To his requirements."

"You blame him for what happened?"

Wesley frowned as if considering a tricky problem, and he took a while to answer. "I blame him for siring me; who else could possibly hold that responsibility?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "So you think it'd be better if he'd just let you go, is that it? Just watched you die along with everyone else."

Wesley's gaze dropped. He took a drink. "I think siring me was necessary to his short term survival."

"Hey. Way to flatter a guy." Spike swallowed half of his own drink and set the glass down on the table with a click. "Guess that's why you're in love with him, huh? Because he's so selfish?"

"Oh," Wes replied, almost casually, "I don't think for one moment that it was a conscious decision." Spike noticed there was no denial of the 'in love'; he hadn't expected it really. Wes seemed a pragmatic bloke. Sod all point in denying the obvious.

"What -- him turning you? Kinda hard to do something like that by mistake." Spike kept waiting to see something else on Wesley's face -- something that would show what kind of man he'd been before; something that would explain his current behaviour.

He was out of luck. Wesley's expression remained more or less stoic. "You are misunderstanding me, Spike. While Angel obviously made a hurried decision to feed me his blood as I was dying, I do not think he was consciously considering his own survival at the time. However, that is none the less why he did it." That slight frown crossed his features again. "And if he still needed me in order to survive, I would undoubtedly stay. But that danger has passed now."

"Christ, you're a wanker," Spike said before he could think. "You think he doesn't need you? If you'd stuck around long enough to see the look on his face, you'd have thought otherwise."

The frown deepened, although the tone remained calm, almost uncaring. "Angel processes emotions slowly. You must know that, surely. He has been feeling deeply responsible for me for days, and it will indeed be hard for him to let go. Nonetheless, he has Buffy now. He no longer needs me even if he himself hasn't yet realised that fact."

Spike growled in frustration and finished off the rest of his drink. "You seriously think that perfect happiness crap's the only thing standing between Angel and Buffy and a house with a white picket fence?"

"Spike, I know you feel you know Angel well, but, meaning no insult, I would suggest that it's Angelus and not Angel that you understand. I have worked very closely with Angel for three years. I believe in his mission and have pretty much dedicated myself to providing whatever support he requires. I've made it my business to understand him." It didn't escape Spike's notice that Wesley hadn't answered his question.

"Then you know his thing with Buffy's history." He said it as blandly as he could.

"Thing?" Wesley's tone was becoming peevish, which was a definite improvement on flat.

"Yeah, you know -- thing. Relationship."

"They are fated lovers." Wes said it as if stating last year's premier league results. "Spike, if this is a painful subject for you, there is absolutely no reason we need to discuss it."

"That your way of saying *you* don't want to discuss it?" Spike glanced in the direction of the bar, thinking he should have started them out with a few more drinks than he had.

Wesley stood. "I'll get us another round. Several rounds in fact." He headed for the bar.

Least the bloke being gone gave Spike a couple of minutes to think, not that he particularly wanted to. Interesting, trying to convince Wesley that the whole Angel-Buffy thing was ancient history, what with Spike not at all convinced of it himself.

He hadn't lied to Wesley though -- he did think that Angel realised that things with Buffy had been doomed from the start. Whether or not Buffy realised it... well, that was a different story. Chances were she was still harbouring schoolgirlish hopes that, clause wiped clean from the slate, she and Angel could go back to their destined lovers act.

Not that she'd let herself think about anything of the sort at this moment. Currently, she was all Slayer, all general of the bleeding army, and girlish hopes and dreams were right off the a la carte. Far as nooky went, no one was gonna get any 'til this apocalypse was dealt with one way or another.

After that, if they were still all about, maybe Buffy would have to choose between souled vamps, but not if Spike had his way. Angel'd walked out on her when she'd needed him. Spike would see her through thick and thin. Angel'd got himself a pretty public school boy far more suited to be the pillock's lover than Buffy'd ever be.

See, the thing with heroes, they tended towards the selfish. Or self-centred, at least. They had to, if they wanted to do a good job. The mission had to come first, and in a very real sense, they *were* the mission. And heroes needed people like Spike -- like Wes -- to tend to them. Self-sacrificing, perceptive people, who would dedicate their lives to supporting the hero and not expect all that much in return. The, um, Wayland Smithers to their Mr Burns. Heh.

But two heroes together? -- an impossible dream. They'd eat each other alive... undead... what the fuck ever. Point was, it was in all four of their interests for Angel to be with Wes and Buffy to be with Spike.

That sorted, Spike felt better, and he grinned up at Wes as the bloke put a tray of drinks down on the table, clearly ready to settle in for a night's heavy drinking. The grin met with a stern frown, and Spike rolled his eyes. "Aw, c'mon mate. 'S not that bad. Being immortal and super-strong and stuff -- it's alright, y'know? 'Part from anything else, means you can give the ponce the kind of attention he *really* needs. 'Cause soul or no soul, vamps've got needs." He snorted quietly. "As I guess you now realise."

"He's got hands," Wes answered quietly. So quietly, Spike didn't even realise what'd been said for a few seconds, then he spluttered.

"We've all got *hands,*" he said, grabbing one of the new drinks and taking a large swallow. "Doesn't mean we want to spend the rest of eternity alone."

"He's not alone," Wesley pointed out.

"He bloody well is if you leave." Spike was starting to feel like he was beating his head against a brick wall, for he wasn't getting through to Wesley. "You're trying to punish him, is that it?"

Ah. That finally hit a nerve. Wesley slammed his drink back down on the table hard enough to cause whisky to splash out. He glared at Spike. "Even," he said in pinched tones, "if it were true that Angel still rather stupidly requires me to tend to his 'needs' -- which it isn't, as Slayers have rather similar needs according to my training -- what exactly would I be punishing him *for*, Spike?"

The list of possibilities was long. "For not being able to let you go in the first place?" Spike suggested, raising an eyebrow. "Or maybe for not being able to convince you that he does love you, you stupid tosser."

Wesley stared at him, his fixed expression now showing definite and multiple cracks. The trick to seeing all the stuff about Wes, Spike thought, the stuff Wes wanted no one to see, was to concentrate on the bloke's dark blue eyes. The face was a lie, a façade. You couldn't believe anything that face said. The eyes, however, were the proverbial windows, and Spike could see right on in.

Eventually, almost as if sensing that, Wes dropped his gaze, and he swallowed a double whisky in one gulp. "How could he possibly love me?" he said bitterly. "What I am... Angel hates himself, Spike. I see it in him every time a demon he is fighting reminds him somehow of himself, of what he is. And now that's what I am too."

"Uh-huh. And you're telling me you can't understand how someone could possibly forgive something in someone else that he can't forgive in himself." Spike watched Wesley, waiting for him to look up again. "You don't have any personal experience in being harder on yourself than on anyone else?"

That got a sharp look. "What has he told you about me?"

Spike could feel a growing awareness that they were being watched, the little hairs on the back of his neck prickling to attention, but he tried to stay casual about it. Wouldn't do to give too much away. "Didn't need to tell me -- it's written all over you. You're just like him."

Wes looked as if he'd like that to be true, but... "I'm really not."

"Yeah, you are. Trust me, I'd know." He slouched a little bit more in his chair, trying to project 'casual' to whoever it was watching. "You want to know what I think?"

Wesley actually gave him a small smile. "I'll humour you."

"I think if you leave now, you're gonna regret it."

And a small laugh to go with the small smile. "Regret doesn't even begin to cover it. Without Angel, I..." He sighed, shaking his head slightly, and his expression hardened. "I've been alone before. Most of my life in fact. It doesn't matter." Another drink was raised to his mouth.

Spike reached out, snatched the glass from Wesley's hand, and drank it himself. "So that's your brilliant plan? Both of you alone and miserable? 'S enough to make me think you're not so bright as you're painted after all."

"Buffy," was Wesley's only reply to that. Ignoring the glass taken from him, he lifted another.

***

Angel, from where he stood on the balcony straining even his vamp hearing to listen in, couldn't help from starting at the mention of Buffy. A shock ran through him like he'd stuck his finger into an electrical socket. Wes seriously thought that Angel could go back to Buffy, just like that?

He'd never deny -- well, maybe to Wes, and possibly to Buffy, depending on the circumstances -- that there was a part of him that still yearned after Buffy, that was drawn to her. It was like the two of them were somehow joined by an invisible bond that would stretch out through the years, but never completely disappear. But it wasn't like he could go back to her, pretend like nothing had happened. It wasn't that simple.

When he'd left Sunnydale, he'd said goodbye to Buffy, in his heart. Saying it the second time, through her soft begging and tears in LA just before time had turned back and erased the day that never was, had been all that much harder, and Angel had told himself then that he wouldn't need to say goodbye to her again. It was better for both of them that way.

Not that the idea of being hers again didn't appeal at a pretty deep level, but he had responsibilities. They both did.

How he felt about Wes, that was... actually, pretty simple. Sure, there were complications along the way, but despite everything, he wanted Wes. Angel just wasn't sure if there was a way to convince Wesley of that. Or a way to convince Wes to want him back.

After Willow had finished with Angel, it'd been easy enough to follow Spike's trail, what with the undertone of Wes' scent beneath it. He'd been surprised to end up at the Bronze -- somehow he figured Spike'd be more likely to frequent Willy's, even with the soul, but then, maybe it made sense that Wes would prefer someplace even slightly familiar.

The place, actually, where they'd first met.

Angel shifted his weight slightly against the post he was leaning on and watched as Wesley finished off another drink.

"You're half right," Spike was saying. "If Angel and Buffy got back together, they wouldn't be alone."

Angel watched Wesley rub his mouth thoughtfully, his expression dark. He didn't reply to Spike, whose motivations for being here Angel now thought he understood, after that mention of Buffy.

"Look, you know what? Just forget it." Spike crossed his arms in front of his chest, probably unaware doing that made him look like he was sulking. "You want to run out on Angel, you go right ahead."

Wesley turned to face Spike, and Angel could hardly make out his reply. It was something about Wes not being needed, not being something else too. He didn't catch what.

Spike shook his head. "You're a wanker, you know that?" His voice was a little bit louder, and it seemed deliberate enough that Angel wondered if Spike knew he was there.

Wes seemed to react to the volume of Spike's voice by reducing his own still further, and Angel couldn't make out a word of it. Frowning, he began to side-step slowly towards the stairs, while waiting for Spike's reply.

When it did come, it was a little less loud, making Angel even more sure that Spike was aware of him being there. "This doesn't have anything to do with how I feel," Spike said. "This is about you and Angel." A pause, then Spike leaned in closer to Wes. "You're in love with him."

There was another pause while both of the vamps Angel was watching sat motionless, staring at each other, and then Wesley dropped his head into his hands. Frozen in place, Angel waited. Watched, as Spike patted Wes awkwardly on the back. Confused about what was going on, Angel felt another of those finger-in-socket shocks as Wes raised his head and seemed to look straight at him, his face appearing agonised.

But the expression was soon mastered. Wesley turned a more or less calm face to Spike. "Yes, I am. But you are wrong about Angel. He has needed me, has even liked me in the past, but he does not love me."

Hearing Wes say it -- all of it -- like that... it sent something through Angel, something like hope. He found himself at the bottom of the stairs and walking toward their table before he'd even realized he'd started to move again. "That's not true," he said.

Wes twitched; he'd obviously had no idea Angel was nearby. He stared at up his sire. Spike, on the other hand, smirked insufferably.

"No, it's not true, is it. You gonna beat that fact into this stupid git? Can I watch?"

"Shut up, Spike," Angel said, and snorted as he heard his words simultaneously coming from Wesley's mouth. Wes, whose gaze had never left Angel, went on to say, "What isn't true?" It sounded like a plea for mercy.

Under the intense scrutiny, Angel swallowed, but he forced himself to keep looking at Wes. "Um, you know. What you said." Had to force the words out. "That I... don't love you."

"Yep!" Spike crowed immediately, slapping the table. "Knew it. What a pair of dickheads you both are. Now go off and get all snuggly somewhere so I don't have to worry about either of you."

Wes, taking no notice of Spike, stood. "Angel..."

Angel stayed where he was. Waited to see what Wes would do. "I promised," he said, trying to explain why he wasn't moving closer when God knew he wanted to. "That I wouldn't..."

Wesley didn't seem to understand. He stopped, and his hand which had started to rise towards Angel, fell back to his side.

"Oh for the love of..." Spike was suddenly up and pushing between them, getting straight into Angel's space. "Listen, you big lump of stupid! Tell him how you feel, make him believe it, then take him somewhere, forcibly if necessary, and sodding well show him!"

Barely able to spare Spike a glance, Angel stepped sideways so that his view of Wes was clear again. "Wes, please. Come outside so we can talk? Please."

Spike turned to Wes, but didn't say anything annoying this time; instead he grabbed Wes' wrist and yanked him forward, virtually throwing him into Angel's arms.

"Spike!" Wesley complained, straightening himself up with Angel's help, but he didn't move away. "We don't need any more 'help', thank you."

"You sure?" Spike asked. "'Cause if I head off now only to hear later you've run off again, that lunkhead here's let you run, 'm not gonna be happy."

Angel opened his mouth to say something about how he could care less about Spike's happiness, but Wes got in first, putting a hand on Spike's arm. "I'm sure. And I do appreciate everything you've done. But now we need to do the rest, whatever that is, by ourselves."

Spike looked between them both, then pursed his lips, nodding. "Right then. I'll be off."

Not sure whether he felt more or less secure with Wes standing right up against him, Angel nodded back at Spike, wanting to say something but not having any idea what. Finally, he just said, "Thanks. And... well. Thanks."

Spike nodded again, and drawing his duster close as he passed Angel, left the pair alone.

Wes was still staring at Angel, his expression unreadable. "We probably should talk."

Blinking, Angel backed off a little bit, holding his hands out at his sides to show that he wasn't gonna try to force anything. "That's all I want to do -- just talk."

Gesturing to the table where he had sat with Spike, Wes asked, "Here?"

"Sure," he agreed immediately. "Here's good. Here's... this is good."

They sat down. There were still a couple of untouched shots left on the tray, and Wes passed one to Angel. "This feels very awkward," he acknowledged.

Angel nodded, turning the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid inside glow as the light hit it. Incredibly self-conscious, he glanced up at Wes, who looked... calm. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing. "You okay? I mean... with everything?"

The small smile Wes gave him was almost fond. "No, Angel, I'm not okay. With anything very much."

He looked back down at his hands. "Yeah. I mean, no, I guess not."

"But what you just -- almost -- said," Wes continued, "has helped."

Angel discovered that he didn't want to drink the whiskey in his glass and set it down on the table so carefully that it didn't make any noise at all. "I meant it," he said. "That thing I -- almost -- said."

"I feel the same way," Wes told him. "I have done for a long time, I think. But I am somewhat confused at this moment, not only with the return of guilt and a sense of responsibility, but also with the awareness of what you did... to me."

"I know." Something hurt in Angel's chest, but it couldn't be his heart. Could it? "I'm... I know I should tell you I'm sorry. For turning you. And... I am. But..."

"No." Wesley's tone was gentle, but had a firmness to it. Angel was very aware of the fact that they were sitting so close and yet not touching. "Actually, and contrary to my own expectations, I don't seem to be particularly angry with you for siring me. I think it was... necessary."

"Then... what...?"

Impossibly, Wes' voice became softer still. "Angel, you beat me. You... raped me. You forced me into a subservient position and removed my ability to make my own decisions. I do understand that the rules of vampire life are quite different from those of human society, and also that allowing me to make my own decisions could potentially have been quite disastrous. But... I really think your methods leave a lot to be desired."

The tightness in Angel's chest increased. He hadn't wanted to think about it -- just to get it done, what he had to do, and move on. He wouldn't think about how part of him had liked it, revelled in it, wouldn't... he felt sick.

Angel shoved his chair back with one hand and stood up. "I'm sorry. God, I'm... sorry..." He had to get out.

After a moment's hesitation, Wesley stood. His expression, posture and tone took Angel straight back to the days when Wes had managed Angel Investigations. "Sit back down, Angel. We've done things your way since this whole episode started. You will now do me the great favour of letting me be in the driving seat for a while."

He stared at Wes, then did as ordered and sat back down. "Sorry," he murmured again. Wesley was right -- he owed him this much. Probably more.

Wesley also returned to his seat, then waited long enough to get Angel fidgeting before saying, "That can't ever happen again. Any of it."

"I know. It won't." Angel looked at Wes pleadingly, hoping that his sincerity was obvious.

"There can be no more sire and fledgling games. No more violence-enforced lessons in obedience."

"No, I know. You're right." Angel thought he might have agreed to anything in that moment. Another thought occurred to him. "This... it doesn't have to be about me being in charge. When you were the boss, back before..." He couldn't say Connor's name. "I was okay with that."

Wes looked to be seriously considering that, but he cautiously said, "I think I'd rather we were equals. Friends. If that's still possible."

"Is it? I mean, I want it to be. If..." Angel hesitated, looked down at his hands again. "I'll do whatever you need me to do, to make this right. Anything."

"We can only try and see what happens." Wes was still very calm, almost casual. It was as if he were discussing a case in the office. "It's funny. I was so convinced that I would be furious with you for turning me. I can only assume that working with you so closely had changed my Watcher-trained attitudes to the idea of vampirism more than I'd considered. Of course, I may change my mind the next time I fancy a day at the beach."

He smiled wryly at Angel, maybe acknowledging the fact that Angel'd never known Wes to care about the beach one way or the other.

"So..." Angel slid his hand down to rest on his thigh, where Wes wouldn't be able to see that it was clenched into a fist. "You're not... leaving?"

Wesley took a deep breath; one of those residual human gestures that vamps never seemed to lose. "I don't seem to want to. I am concerned however... about several things."

That didn't do much to reassure Angel. He wanted... well, he wasn't sure what he wanted, other than Wes. "What things?"

Wesley's gaze met his solemnly. "Buffy, the dynamic between you and I, what exactly we will do with ourselves now that..." Showing the first sign of strong emotion since Angel had joined him at the table, Wes stared fixedly down at his hands for a few moments. "Now the others are gone."

But Angel wasn't going to think about them. Couldn't. Even still, the list felt oppressive. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth," Wes suggested, as if it were obvious.

"I... I'm not good at this," Angel said, which was *definitely* obvious. But hey, liquid courage, right? He picked up the shot glass in front of him, drank down the whiskey in one, then glanced at Wes, doing his best to meet his eyes. "I'm always going to love Buffy. Nothing's gonna change that. But..."

Wesley looked away again. "I know," he said flatly.

"But I'm not going to be with her again." Angel sighed. "It's complicated. Too complicated. For her. And that's not gonna change either. It's not... you don't have to worry that some day I'm gonna..." He reached his hand across the table and left it there, palm up, in front of Wes. "I love you. That's the third thing that's not gonna change."

Wes didn't look up and didn't say anything, but after sitting still for a few moments, he moved suddenly, and Angel found Wesley's hand on top of his, squeezing.

And there was that little surge of what might have been hope again. "Don't leave me," Angel said, so quietly that no one but Wes would have been able to hear him.

A small tremor ran through Wesley; Angel felt it as if it were running through his own body. "I won't," he promised, equally as quietly. "Not while you need me."

"I'll always need you."

Wes looked up at last. "Angel, can we..." He smiled weakly. "Get out of here?" He gripped Angel's hand more tightly for a few seconds then let go. Finishing his drink, he stood.

"Sure," Angel agreed, getting up too. "Um... when you say 'here,' you mean the Bronze, right?"

Wesley nodded. "We can't, in all good conscience, leave Sunnydale. They need all the help they can get."

"Maybe more than we can give them." They started walking toward the entrance together.

"But we'll give them what we have, won't we?" Wes glanced at him as they walked through the door into the slight chill of the evening air. "Or are you questioning your vocation as, um, 'champion'?"

Angel shrugged and stuck his hands into his pockets. "Oh, don't get me wrong -- I'm all about helping. The whole champion thing, that's... it's not about what you are. It's about what you do. You know?"

Wesley nodded, but Angel got the impression he didn't totally agree. They were outside now, and Wes stopped walking suddenly, studying Angel with an expression that kind of made him feel like he was a very interesting science experiment. Wesley placed his hand on Angel's shoulder, gently but firmly pushing Angel back into the wall of the Bronze.

Surprised, Angel let him, not putting up any resistance.

"Are you truly going to be able to accept this?" Wesley asked.

He blinked. "Um... what?"

Wesley's smile was predatory now, forcibly reminding Angel that his friend might be resouled, but would always now harbour a demon as well. "This," Wes said, slipping a firm hand behind Angel's neck and moving in to kiss him hard, his tongue thrusting into Angel's mouth.

Angel groaned, returning the kiss eagerly, but managing not to grab onto Wes' ass the way he wanted to, letting Wes control what happened. When Wesley finally drew back, looking pretty pleased with himself, Angel couldn't find any words and just nodded. Oh yeah. He could accept this.

"Well then," Wesley smiled, running his hand down Angel's chest and either ignoring or oblivious to the way the kids milling about the backstreet were staring at them both. "I think our greatest problem may well just be how to find time to be alone together whilst staying in a moderately sized house brimful of teenage girls."

Leaning forward to nuzzle Wes' throat, Angel murmured, "Nothing says we have to be alone *inside* the house." He slid an arm around Wesley's waist, tentatively, in case Wes objected, and pulled back enough to watch Wesley's expression.

Wesley's eyes glinted gold as he shoved Angel forcefully against the wall and kissed him harder than he could remember ever being kissed before.

And it felt just right.

***

It seemed odd, holding a memorial service under the stars, for all that Wesley realised a daytime service was out of the question.

But of course, it was fitting too. Hadn't they all been almost nocturnal, fitting their waking hours around Angel? Even Cordelia, a creature of the sun if ever there was one, had grown paler in recent years.

Wesley didn't move from Angel's side where they stood facing the line of plaques. His friend was silent, deep in the grief that they hadn't had time before now to truly let themselves feel. So much loss -- so many friends gone forever. Including Spike, to whom Wesley had grown surprisingly close during the last days of Sunnydale. Doomed by a tacky amulet that had arrived in a padded envelope, too mundane to be truly mysterious, Spike had died a hero. There was a plaque for him too, which would have made Spike laugh loudly, Wesley was sure.

The many plates of engraved metal against the bricks gave the impression of a fortified wall blocking their path. There was no way forward down this particular road anymore.

There was no longer a chance that Wesley's friendship with Gunn could be repaired. His small, irrational hope for Lilah's redemption had had to be put aside. There would be no chance now to apologise to Lorne, no opportunity to encourage that fledgling understanding between himself and Fred that had begun when she had come to him for help in achieving revenge. What was done could no longer be undone. There was just Angel left.

But for Wesley, that was enough.

He mourned his other friends deeply, but in a way, he had already given up on most of them before their deaths. Rightly or wrongly, their rejection of him after his abduction of Connor had led to a prolonged and bitter period of bereavement on his part. So, in that way, he'd shed his tears and said his goodbyes already.

Or perhaps he was just fooling himself. Perhaps his joy at being Angel's equal and partner in both love and potential business was simply disguising a grief that would find other ways to manifest itself. He'd better watch himself carefully, he supposed. But for now, trying to concentrate on his grief proved difficult; the emotions were almost too slippery to grasp. Either way, his friends were gone, and it made more sense to cater to the needs of those remaining.

Angel cleared his throat beside Wesley, rubbing his far hand across his face in what looked like an attempt at a casual gesture. The knuckles of his other hand brushed against Wesley's, a fleeting gesture that might have been offering comfort. Or, perhaps, seeking it.

Wes glanced about quickly; there was no one near. He wasn't sure it would have mattered to him if there had been. He placed his hand on Angel's back and rubbed. "Take as long as you like," he said very softly. "And remember, we can come back. As often as you need to."

Angel didn't say anything, but he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Wesley returned to silence, but he left his hand on Angel's back, hoping his lover understood that there was more comfort available when he needed it.

He was ready to leave, but not impatient to do so. He felt he could wait for Angel for as long as proved necessary. In fact, he felt a strange serenity standing there, and he pondered on that.

Being dead was bizarrely relaxing, he'd found. The return of his soul had returned much of his guilt and all of his sense of responsibility, and the hungry demon also remained inside him. Which didn't, he had to admit, sound like the recipe for a zen-like calm. And yet, he was so much more at ease than he'd ever been before in his life. Part of it, obviously, was his relationship with Angel, but there was something about immortality, even though he could be dusted at any time, that seemed to bring a... release of pressure?

It was almost as if, now that he no longer needed to breathe, he finally could.

The muscles of Angel's back were tense under Wesley's hand, and finally he turned away -- away from the plaques they'd both been looking at, and away from Wesley. But then he stopped, giving the impression that having begun to leave, he didn't know where to go.

"Home?" Wesley murmured, moving once again to Angel's side. "Or perhaps a walk? We could see what's about." His free hand automatically moved to his jacket pocket to check that he was indeed armed.

"I don't..." Shaking his head slightly, Angel turned toward Wes, looking at the ground instead of meeting his eyes.

Clearly Angel wasn't capable of decisions currently. Wesley took his arm and began to guide him out of the cemetery towards the car. Home, he decided, was best for Angel at the moment.

'Home' was no longer the Hyperion, of course, and certainly not Wesley's old apartment. They had found themselves a nice basement flat on the edges of Koreatown. The landlady, Mrs Kim, lived above and knew what they were. The rent was cheap for the size of the place, but on-site protection for Mrs Kim's herbal medicine and magic business was part of the deal.

There were plans for a new and separate office as well, but they hadn't quite got that far yet.

The days leading up to the Fall of the Hellmouth -- Wesley's mind had indeed begun to capitalise the phrase -- had been so hectic and crowded. There hadn't been room for personal grudges, and both outdated opinions of Wesley -- and indeed, shock at his relationship with Angel -- had soon disappeared under the rushed resolution of necessity. And while at the time there had been much to terrify and depress, in hindsight Wesley was glad to have been a part of it.

His was the pride of the veteran.

Now, setting up business with Angel, he felt like he'd earned the privilege of partnering a champion. In both senses of the word, actually.

"I'll drive," he said, as they reached the SUV. He opened the passenger door for Angel and stood, holding it wide.

The expression on Angel's face was difficult to read, but his tone of voice was easier. "I'm fine," he said, clearly referring to the fact that Wesley was coddling him, and just as clearly lying.

Wes smiled gently. "Perhaps you could be fine inside the car?"

"You've really gotten pushy, you know that?" Angel asked as he got in, but Wesley could tell that it was just an attempt at lightheartedness. "Oh no, wait. You were always pushy." He offered Wesley a forced smile.

Wesley reached out and pushed a -- perhaps non-existent -- strand of hair out of Angel's eyes. Angel had allowed his hair to grow somewhat, adopting a swept back style. Stroking his hand lightly down the broad face of his lover, Wesley offered a sympathetic smile, before drawing back and shutting the door.

After installing himself behind the wheel, Wes started the engine. They set off through evening LA towards Koreatown.

They were quiet for a minute or two, then Angel rubbed a hand over his face and said, "Well. That's done."

It wasn't; Wesley knew that, but now was certainly not the time to argue. He reached out and squeezed Angel's leg. "We can come back whenever you want to."

Immediately, he felt Angel's hand on his own, squeezing back and not letting go. When he glanced over at Angel, the other vampire was staring out the window. "Do you think...?" Angel started, then trailed off without finishing.

Guessing what Angel probably meant, Wesley offered, "Cordy, Fred, Gunn -- they were heroes in their own right, and Connor... well, he was still an innocent in many ways. They must be happy and in heaven, or at least, a heaven-like place. Lorne too; I'm sure he's somewhere good." He did not mention Lilah, whom he was glumly certain was elsewhere, but who, he fervently hoped, had had the sense to arrange a special deal for herself. He didn't mention Spike either.

"Did you love her?" It was uncanny the way they nearly seemed to read each other's thoughts sometimes.

"Lilah." He paused and considered his words. "I think I feared I might at one time. I was certainly... attached."

Angel's fingers tightened on his own. "I'm sorry."

"I love you," Wes answered quietly.

He felt Angel's hand twitch, but Angel didn't say anything; rarely did in response to that particular sentiment actually. Wesley swallowed down the moment's angst. One day, when he said that, Angel would believe him.

The journey didn't take too long, and soon they were driving into the small lot beside Mrs Kim's building. Wesley turned to Angel before they left the car. "Would you like some time on your own?"

"What?" Angel seemed startled by the question. "No. I want to... I mean, unless you...?"

"I want to be with you, Angel." Wesley got out of the car and waited for his partner to join him before locking the doors.

The door down to their apartment was a utilitarian metal one, much dented but still strong, dating from when the basement had been used as a chill storage area for a restaurant. After making sure Angel was still in the more alert state he'd settled into over the journey, Wesley opened the door, and they went down the stairs.

They'd only had the place for two weeks, but it was already starting to feel like home. To Wesley, anyway. He hung up his jacket and encouraged Angel out of his. "Can I warm you up some blood?"

Angel shook his head tersely, one quick motion. "Not now. Maybe later." He actually looked slightly paler than usual, making Wesley wonder if he felt ill. "I think I'm just gonna..." He gestured toward the bedroom with a glance that said 'you could join me, if you want to', and then disappeared into the dark room without turning on a light.

Wesley watched the bedroom doorway for a few moments, then followed.

He stepped into the room, pale light from the single bulb by the front door turning to near black as he crossed the threshold. But his eyes adjusted almost immediately, revealing the broad expanse of Angel's naked back as the other vampire pulled his shirt up over his head on the other side of the room. Angel looked over his shoulder at Wesley, then asked diffidently, "Come to bed?"

"Of course," Wesley agreed, starting to unbutton his shirt. It was obvious Angel didn't want to sleep, not so early in the night.

Angel finished undressing with an amount of self-consciousness that was unusual. Then he slipped between the sheets, lying on his side facing Wesley and watching him as he removed his own clothes.

With mild but growing concern, Wesley stripped quickly and slipped in beside Angel, facing him. The withdrawn mood Angel was in made the correct approach here a bit of a puzzle, although of course there was no point in asking Angel what he wanted; half the time he didn't even know and the rest he couldn't or wouldn't say.

Wesley didn't mind; he liked the mental -- and frequently physical -- exercise of finding out. Experimentally, he kissed Angel softly to see what response he would get.

Angel leant into the kiss, one hand sliding up Wesley's thigh to rest on his hip, then pull him closer. When their lips parted, he rolled over onto his back, cradling Wesley to his chest and nuzzling into his hair, holding him carefully, as if he were something to be protected. "Thanks," Angel said roughly. "For tonight."

"Anytime, my love." Wesley moved to lie over Angel properly, putting most of his weight on his knees and elbows, but still letting their bodies touch. He moved up to kiss Angel again.

"Mmm," Angel murmured. Then his arms tightened around Wesley almost painfully, and the kissing became more urgent, nearly desperate.

Happy to respond to the more intense mood, and feeling like he now understood what it was Angel wanted, Wesley threaded his fingers through Angel's hair. He forced their mouths even harder together, so that lips were torn on the hard edge of teeth and their blood mingled.

The sound Angel made at the taste of blood in his mouth was something close to a whimper instead of his more usual growl, but he didn't back off at all. If anything, he just held Wesley more tightly, kissed him with even more force, the evidence of his arousal obvious against Wesley's hipbone.

Unable to move much, Wesley did his best to grind their hips together as he continued the kiss. Angel was both needy and passive tonight, which meant it was up to Wesley to initiate things. But that was a little difficult when being held so tightly. Breaking the kiss reluctantly, Wes moved up, encouraging Angel to relax his arms.

But Angel didn't relax -- rather the opposite in fact, digging his fingers deep into the muscles of Wesley's biceps with bruising force. At the same time, he threw his head back, baring his throat to Wesley in a gesture that screamed surrender, belying the grip he had on Wesley's arms. He was a study in conflict, dominant and submissive in one.

As, Wesley supposed, was he. While never dominant in the way that seemed instinctive for Angel, Wesley's control need was strong, and since the return of his soul, he'd been struggling somewhat to find a balance between warring needs inside of him.

Control over the situation was important, but not vital. Control over himself was, he considered, essential. But the wildness of his vampiric nature urged him to give up that and all other forms of control; to act without concern or thought for consequence. To act without thought, full stop.

During sex, this conflict tended to become emphasised; it was unavoidable. And in truth, he didn't believe the situation was all that different for Angel.

Staring at Angel's throat, Wesley suddenly didn't want to move after all. He bent low, pressing soft lips to the side of Angel's neck, the touches so gentle he barely felt himself make them. He knew that Angel would feel them acutely all the same.

His proof came in the form of Angel's soft groan and the way the body beneath his arched upward into his own. "Do it," Angel said, voice ragged with need. "Please. Wes, please."

Wesley shivered, wanting so badly to oblige, and yet... "Let go of my arms, Angel." There was only the briefest of hesitations, then Angel released him, the gesture speaking of trust more clearly than any words could have. After a brief kiss as reward -- on the lips, as he didn't trust himself to remain too close to Angel's neck currently -- Wesley sat up astride Angel and reached to the bedside cabinet for the lube.

"Fuck," Angel muttered, as he rubbed his cock against the underside of Wesley's thigh, eyes closed, head still thrown back. "Christ. Need you. Wes..."

"Hush," Wesley soothed. After coating his hands with lube, he cradled Angel's cock, squeezing and rubbing over the head with his thumbs. "I'm here."

Angel shuddered and gasped. "Please..."

Moving up the bed slightly, Wes arranged himself above Angel's cock. No more lubrication was necessary. Tears healed quickly and felt... disturbingly good. Catching Angel's gaze, he then sat himself carefully down, groaning as he felt himself stretch around the thick shaft.

One of Angel's hands gripped onto Wesley's hip, his body arching again, the line of his throat tantalising. "God," he choked out. "Wes. Please..."

"Fuck me," Wesley bargained, smiling in a way he thought might be a little evil. "And I'll bite you."

Angel's body curled and then arched again in a stuttered, uncoordinated thrust up that forced matching groans from them both. "Yes," Angel hissed, managing a second thrust just the tiniest bit smoother than the first, going deeper this time.

"Ah!" The sensations seemed to push up inside of Wes, and he cracked into game face with Angel's next thrust, almost like the fangs and ridges were shoved forcibly out from inside him. Bending forward, he kissed Angel, letting his sharpened teeth tear into his lover's lips.

Angel had both hands on Wes' hips now as he fucked him harder, a growl escaping against Wesley's mouth as they both tasted the blood. "Do it now," Angel said warningly, his tone making it clear that if Wesley didn't he might lose his chance, the power struggle that was second nature forcing Angel to take control. Angel leaned his head back again, tongue swiping out over his torn lower lip and smearing more blood there.

Growling himself, not at all willing to give up what he'd been promised, Wes put a hand to Angel's forehead, holding him down. He knew somewhere in his logical mind that he couldn't ever hold Angel down if Angel didn't want to be held. But logic had absolutely nothing to do with this.

With the lion-like snarl of what he now was, he opened his mouth wide and descended on Angel's neck, sinking his fangs in deep.

Angel bucked violently underneath him, but Wesley's attention was on the flavour of the rich tangy blood that threatened to overwhelm his senses. He only dimly heard Angel's pained cry, only dimly felt the final slam of hips as Angel came, body wracking with spasms, the sound that had forced its way out of him ending in something close to a sob.

Wesley kept sucking, worrying at Angel's flesh to keep the sluggish flow going.

Angel groaned, flexing his fingers and reminding Wesley that he was being held. He'd have finger-shaped bruises for a few hours at least, he imagined, not that he cared in the slightest. "Enough," Angel said gently.

Wesley snarled again, moving his other hand around the back of Angel's neck to hold him more firmly in place and drinking deep. He was in control and knew exactly how much he could take.

There was the sudden sensation of the world spinning as Angel rolled them over, then Wesley found himself trapped beneath the other vampire's larger frame, his fangs torn free from Angel's throat and one of Angel's forearms across his collarbone, pinning him. "Enough," Angel repeated, with more patience than Wesley would have anticipated.

The impulse was to fight, and it was very strong. How dare Angel deprive him this way? But Wesley very deliberately defied his instincts, his fangs bared in a grimace as he fought only for control over himself. He forced his face to change to human and then licked his lips. While it hadn't been enough for Wesley, if it felt like enough to Angel, Wesley should respect that, especially today.

Almost immediately, Angel leant down and kissed him, tongue flickering into Wesley's blood-slick mouth. Wesley let himself be kissed, still struggling too much with his urge to bite to really kiss back. He was becoming aware again of his other needs too; his cock was throbbing between their bodies.

Angel seemed to be aware of it as well, because he shifted his weight and reached down to take it in a loose fist, giving Wesley something to thrust into. "You wanna get off, Wes?"

Moaning slightly, Wesley struggled with more force to keep the demon inside him under control. What he wanted, what he *really* wanted, he wouldn't -- couldn't -- let himself have. Since the return of his soul, he rarely admitted to himself, let alone to Angel, quite how much he craved at times like these for Angel to play his dominant sire again.

It seemed obvious that encouraging the games they'd grown so fond of during his brief soulless stint would be highly unwise, having inevitable consequences stretching into their daily lives. More and more, he felt, the equality he had insisted upon would be eroded until, without either of them intending it, he would become a rightless creature, subordinate and subservient -- a slave.

For this reason and others, he hadn't given in to his craving, despite the need feeling so strong at times it made him quietly furious.

So he wouldn't ask for what he craved, either with words or with a deliberate act of aggression designed to bring the desired angry response from his sire. From *Angel*, he corrected himself. Instead, he pushed up into Angel's fist and said simply, "Please."

Angel shifted his weight again, pinning Wesley down with one hand on his shoulder, while the other stroked and twisted Wesley's cock. He leant in for another kiss, his still-bleeding lower lip painting across Wes' mouth.

This was dangerous. The twin stimulations of Angel's hand and his blood were heady and threatened to quickly overwhelm him. Groaning, Wesley moved restlessly below Angel, thrusting upwards and unable to resist sucking on his lover's lip.

Instead of pulling away, Angel let him do it, at the same time holding Wesley more firmly down against the mattress. When Wesley gasped as the hand around his cock gave a particularly forceful stroke, Angel took advantage of the moment to murmur, "S'okay. I've got you." A pause, then, "Not letting go."

When he said things like that, Wesley felt sure that somehow Angel understood exactly the conflicts inside of him. And really, Angel had to be the person most likely to be able to. But nonetheless, it touched Wesley deeply, and grateful, loving emotions surged. He could let himself go, give up the struggle for a few seconds at least, and Angel would stop him going too far.

It was so tempting.

Growling, Wesley grabbed Angel's head, trying to force it down while he lifted his own so that the kiss could resume.

"No," Angel said calmly, resisting the kiss and pinning Wesley's thigh to the bed with one knee. "Not like that."

Anger surged through him at Angel asserting control so blatantly, followed by an equal surge of desire for an even stronger show of dominance. Shaking his head violently, Wesley was more annoyed with himself than anything else. "Just do it," he said tightly. "Please. Don't draw it out."

To Wesley's surprise, and perhaps initial disappointment, Angel released him and slid down his body, wet mouth engulfing the head of his cock and sucking forcefully. The disappointment that he'd rather not have acknowledged at all vanished under the onslaught of sensation from Angel's mouth.

"God!" Wesley almost yelled, thrusting up instinctively. "Oh dear God..."

Angel gave a slight growl and took him in deeper, the vibration just adding to the experience, hands grabbing onto Wesley's arse and pulling him closer, leaving no illusion of who was in control of this situation.

And that was indeed a good thing, as Wesley was losing the ability to stop his body doing anything it wanted to do. He writhed under Angel's attentions, his hands clutching within his lover's hair, and tried to thrust, but Angel's fierce grip wouldn't let him. Snarling, he shifted back into game face, tipping his head back as his balls tightened, an unstoppable surge starting within him.

In a flash, as if Angel knew exactly what was happening, mouth was replaced with hand and a grip that squeezed and stroked, and then Angel's fangs were sinking into Wesley's sensitive inner thigh, just beside his balls.

Wonderful, terrible pain that made him cry out filled Wesley, then he was coming, so very hard. His whole body seemed wracked with uncontrollable spasms and thought-destroying pleasure. Angel's hand gentled, but his mouth continued to work at the wound he'd made, prolonging the orgasm and leaving Wesley limp and utterly sated by the time it was over.

Angel moved back up the bed and lay beside Wesley, who was still trembling slightly with aftershock. They lay on their backs and stared at the ceiling in silence, until it filtered through Wesley's orgasm-fogged brain that this meant there was something bothering Angel, who was normally at least vaguely affectionate after sex. Rolling to his side, he asked gently, "What's wrong?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Angel said, turning his head slightly to meet Wesley's eyes.

Confused, Wesley asked, "You think there's something wrong with *me*?" He ignored the slight cramp of fear inside him, which said that Angel was angry with him, that he'd transgressed somehow, as it was a residue from the sire-fledgling games, or from his childhood, and either way, had no place here.

"Isn't there?" Angel sighed, and seeming to sense Wesley's discomfort, rolled also onto his side so that they were facing each other. "It's like you're... fighting yourself. And don't get me wrong, I know what that's like. It just... doesn't seem healthy. You know?"

"Well, of course I'm fighting myself." Wasn't that obvious? Too bloody obvious to be mentioned? "What else would I do?"

Angel reached out and ran a fingertip across Wesley's chest. "Let go? Just... I don't mean all the time. But sometimes." He hesitated, his eyes down. "You could... trust me?"

Wesley looked at Angel unhappily. "Does it... disappoint you when I don't let go?"

"No," Angel said quickly.

Wesley's spirits plunged further as he could tell Angel was lying. "Love, I... I can't let it win."

Angel frowned, but wrapped an arm around Wesley's waist, pulling him into an embrace that was no doubt meant to be comforting. "What are you talking about?"

"This demon spirit that lives inside me now," Wesley tried to explain. "If I give in to it once, if I let it have its way with me, then how do I know I'll ever be able to control it again?"

"Because you're you," Angel answered immediately. "And because... fuck, Wes, it's not that simple. You can't think of it like that... it's part of you now. It's not some separate thing that you're keeping in a box, it's... you. Part of you. That you can use when you need to."

Ignoring the fact that, yet again, Angel's opinions about demons, souls and personalities seemed contradictory, Wesley said, "I don't want *it* to use *me*. Not after..."

Angel's voice was gentle. "After what?"

"After what I did to Lilah and Con--" He stopped, not wanting to say the name at this point. "What I did under the influence of Natural Born Killer. After what I nearly did to Fred under the influence of Billy Blim." And other things, almost more shameful, from his childhood -- weak, snivelling things done in pointless efforts to avoid his father's anger.

"You don't..." Angel didn't seem to know what to say. Finally, he suggested again, "You could trust me?"

Wesley heard, or imagined he heard, pain in Angel's voice, and he winced. Knowing it was impossible, knowing that he never could trust to *that* level, he nonetheless said, "I'll try." He was just going to have to learn increased levels of control so that he could fake surrender sufficiently to please Angel.

Angel kissed him, torn lip only giving off the faintest taint of blood now it had started to heal. "I just want you to be happy," he said softly.

Reaching out, Wesley held Angel's face, gently but firmly encouraging him to meet Wesley's gaze. "I have never been happier, my love. I *promise* you that."

Angel's dark eyes were like an open book to Wesley, his lover's small smile like a gift. Every smile from Angel felt like a reward; they were relatively rare and even the small ones, when they were genuine, had a strong effect on him.

Angel kissed him again before saying, "Love you. Not gonna stop."

Wesley beamed, feeling much better. "I'll don't anticipate stopping either. And with a bit of luck, if we can avoid axe and stake, sun and fire, we've got forever." He chuckled at his own words.

"Forever," Angel echoed, seeming to like the sound of it, and the small smile spread into a broad grin.

***

Early the next morning, an insistent knocking on their front door woke them up, the sharp metallic sound filling the apartment. It would have made them nervous if they hadn't already been used to Mrs Kim's heavy hands.

Angel pulled on his pants and made his way from the bedroom and up the stairs. Fortunately, there was an overhang above their door, which meant that even at this time of day, he could open it and avoid sunlight by keeping back in the shadows.

He unlocked, opened, and looked around. There was no sign of Mrs Kim, but a small package that had been left against the door now fell inside. Angel picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It was a padded envelope containing something small but bulky.

It was addressed personally to him.

THE END