Disclosure


            It's really not working out, using Cordelia's apartment as home base. They've only been working this way a month, and Wesley is already more than willing to try something new. And he's not even living there.
            It's worse for Angel, he knows. Angel has nowhere else to go.
            But tonight when Wes shows up, Cordelia is nowhere to be found. He has keys to the apartment--Cordelia wasn't happy about this arrangement, but it had to be done--and when he lets himself in he is met by silence.
            He slips carefully into the apartment. He's not rebuffed by Phantom Dennis, so he assumes all is well. Either that, or Phantom Dennis wants him in because something is wrong...
            He's a little wary moving into the kitchen, afraid something actually might be wrong. Then he sees the note on the refrigerator.
            "ANGEL--
            "I will be gone six days. If there is no fresh milk in the fridge when I get home, I will personally hurt you. DO NOT TOUCH my laundry. I'll take care of it when I get back.
            "Feel free to use the bed. I'll be back Tuesday--wash the sheets on Monday night. I don't want my bed smelling like vampire.
            "Love, Cordy."
            So Cordelia has taken off to parts unknown. Wes can't blame her--it can't be easy sharing living quarters with Angel. He wonders where Angel sleeps. Where in this apartment is there no sunlight?
            In the living room, there's a pile of Angel's things next to the couch. Sketchbooks mostly, some old, bound books. Angel's always reading, Wesley's noticed, and everything he reads looks like it's at least a hundred years old. Wesley thinks it's possible Angel might enjoy some more recently written literature, if he gave it a chance.
            He's here to talk to Angel, in point of fact, which is why he's arrived right at sunset. But Angel's absent, as well, apparently. Hesitant, Wesley peeks into the bedroom. He's there, of course, sprawled on Cordelia's bed, utterly still.
            Wes looks at him for a moment, then carefully closes the door. It's disquieting to watch Angel sleep. He just looks so--dead. He would feel dead, too, his skin at room temperature, his pulses silent. Wes tries not to think about it too much.
            In any case, Angel should be waking up soon, so Wes goes back to the living room and takes a seat. Curiosity overtakes him and he looks through Angel's reading material. Pride and Prejudice. Sense and Sensibility. Interesting. Angel's never struck him as the Jane Austen type.
            He pushes the Austen books aside and picks up one of the sketchbooks. Angel had had a good number of them in the old apartment--Wes remembers seeing them lined up in neat rows on three or four shelves of one of Angel's bookcases. Some of them had looked incredibly old.
            One of these, the dozen that are left, looks incredibly old. Unable to resist, Wes picks it up and opens it.
            The pages are yellow and brittle, and Wes turns them carefully. He's seen Angel's sketches before, but this drawing style seems different, the lines darker, harsher in a way. Perhaps it's just the writing material--these were drawn long before the invention of the lead pencil, after all--but Wes can't help but think that what he sees here is the reflection of the man who drew them. This is, after all, Angelus' work.
            He recognizes the faces from other sketches, pictures he's seen in Watcher diaries. Darla, astoundingly beautiful, pale hair and pale eyes. Wes blinks a little, turning the pages. She is here in Revolutionary dress, then in no dress at all, then spread open, every intimate detail inscribed with care, if not love. Page after page of pornographic pictures, Darla, then Darla and Drusilla, then just Drusilla. Wes can't help wondering why Angel would keep these. He can't help wondering why he doesn't just close the book and put it away, as he's finding this more and more disturbing.
            But he pages through to the end of the book, and finds another figure in the last pages. A man. Wes isn't certain who he is at first. He is slim and lean, with pale eyes and dark hair that curls untidily down to his shoulders. Cheekbones like knives, a mouth at first soft, later thin and sardonic. A look on his face that dares and mocks. He, too, is naked, in more than half the twelve pages his likeness occupies.
            Finally, in the last sketch, his dark hair is slicked back, and it clicks. Spike. William the Bloody, before he put on the affectation of platinum hair and leather. Drawn in detail that speaks of intimate knowledge of his body.
            "Hey, Wes."
            Wes jumps out of his skin, slams the book shut. Of course he hasn't heard Angel come out of the bedroom, much less come up behind him. He turns in the chair, more than startled, realizing he's been caught out, doing things he shouldn't. Angel looks down, sees what Wes is looking at, and Wes freezes for a moment before slowly laying the sketchbook aside, trying not to draw attention to himself, but it's too late.
            Angel is still for a moment, then his gaze floats back up to Wesley's face. "You here to see me?" he asks, his tone perfectly normal, matter-of-fact.
            "I--yes, I am, actually. Angel--"
            But Angel turns toward the kitchen. "Okay if I make coffee?"
            "Yes, of course. Angel--"
            "Not a problem, Wes. Not like I had them under lock and key." He's spooning coffee grounds into the coffee maker. He always makes it too strong for Wesley's liking, perhaps because he can't taste it, otherwise. "What did you want to talk to me about?"
            "Just a few translations I've done over the past week. I thought they merited some attention."
            "Apocalypses, or just run-of-the-mill horrors rising?"
            "Mostly run-of-the-mill horrors."
            Angel nods. The coffee is brewing now, so he comes to sit across from Wesley in the living room, takes the proffered folder and glances through it. "Put these on the schedule. We'll look into them as they come up."
            "You're certain? They all look legitimate to you?"
            "Can't take the chance they aren't." The coffee maker has stopped percolating; he gets up to fetch a cup.
            Now that he's in the other room, Wesley feels a bit less intimidated. "Angel, could I ask you a question?"
            "Yeah," Angel grunts, almost as if he's not really listening.
            "The pictures--" And Wes' courage falters with that, as he involuntarily looks into the kitchen, meets Angel's eyes. Angel sips his coffee and looks back. His expression is neutral. Wes fumbles on. "I've read a great deal about you--about Angelus, and the Order of Aurelius in general, but I've found the Watcher diaries go into very little detail about the dynamics of vampiric family groupings." There. Make it sound like pure intellectual curiosity.
            "Yeah," says Angel, "I fucked him. More than once. That what you wanted to know?"
            Wes just gapes at him as he comes back into the living room, sits back down in his chair, drinks his coffee. "I--"
            "Vampiric family group dynamics are just like everything else about vampires, Wes. Dysfunctional. Based on power, not love or affection. The Sire dominates those he or she Turns, in every way possible. Not kindly, not carefully." He puts his coffee cup down on the table and picks up the folder again, pages through the sheets, covered in Wesley's careful print. It's the only outward sign he's uncomfortable with the conversation. "It's brutal, ugly, and bloody. It's what I was. I can't change it."
            "I'm sorry." Wes can't even look at Angel now. "I had no right--"
            "Of course you have a right." Angel's voice is hard now, and Wes looks up, surprised. "You're with me every day, in close quarters. You have every right to know exactly what I would be if something went wrong."
            Wes just nods, understanding. A moment passes between them and this makes Wes uncomfortable, too. "Well," he says finally. "I suppose I should go home."
            "Stick around," says Angel. "It's really quiet in here without Cordy."
            Wes can't help smiling a little. "I'd think that's the way you'd like it."
            Angel shrugs. "Usually. But this place--it just doesn't seem right without somebody prattling on endlessly."
            "I don't prattle."
            "I know, but it's better than nothing."
            So Wes doesn't go home. He stays, thinking to keep Angel company, but Angel picks up Pride and Prejudice and starts to read, and doesn't seem inclined to engage in any sort of conversation. So Wes raids Cordelia's refrigerator, instead. There are containers of blood there, pushed toward the back, alongside lunchmeat, cheese, milk, and half a cheesecake.
            "Can I get you anything?" Wes asks.
            "I'm good."
            Wes makes a sandwich and finds himself thinking about the dynamics of vampire family groupings. He's read some accounts that support Angel's description, but he's never really thought about it in terms of Angel's own family grouping. Now it makes him uncomfortable. He's not sure why. After all, he's read about Angelus' heinous acts, about mass murders and rampages, victims found flayed alive, children slaughtered--why should it be so shocking that he buggered Spike?
            But he does know. Because it would have been rape, more than once, and this makes Wes shudder, because he remembers.
            Angel's pretty wrapped up in Jane Austen by now. He chuckles a little--if it could be called that, because it sounds more like a grunt--and turns the page.
            "Would you consider yourself bisexual, then?" Wes says suddenly, then hopes to God he didn't say that out loud. But he did.
            Angel looks up from his book and regards Wesley for a moment, expressionless.  He looks like he might be processing the question, or even just registering it.
            Finally he shrugs. "I don't know. Not really." He seems unoffended. "I prefer women." Then something crumples oddly in his face. Wesley holds his breath. "Sometimes you just want a warm body."
            It's more than he intended to say. Wes can tell because his eyes flick up, just that split second, almost apologetic, before he focuses again on his book. But he's not really focusing at all. His eyes are a long way away.
            "That wasn't what it was, though," Wes says then, and he's not sure why he's still talking, except that there's a heavy lump in his chest that's been there damn near thirty years, and it feels like pieces might be flaking off of it. "With Spike. That's not what it was."
            Angel is looking at him with a slight frown, as if he knows Wesley's working toward something. Which is interesting, because Wesley himself isn't sure what it is. "No," Angel says gently, as if he understands this is important. "No, it wasn't. It was about power, and dominance, and about doing to someone else what Darla did to me."
            "Darla--" Wesley breaks off. He knows very little about Darla, except that she Sired Angel. In spite of what Angel has just told him, it has never occurred to him that Angelus might not have been the leader of his clan.
            Angel says nothing, but he looks away. His finger still holds his place in Pride and Prejudice, but he makes no move to continue reading.
            Wesley casts his mind back to the pictures in Angel's sketchpad. Darla--small and blonde. Pretty. But there had been something about her that reminded Wesley of an ancient, wicked blade. Something in her eyes.
            Wesley can't leave it alone. He's not sure why. But something inside him wants to open up, and something else tells him it's okay. Angel's watching him and everything about him is quiet. Not just his body--Wesley's used to that--but his eyes. There's sympathy there, and a simple kind of waiting.
            "What--" His courage falters, but not for long. "What did she do to you?"
            Angel gives a rueful smile. "She taught me everything I knew."
            Everything he knew. Everything he knew about cruelty, about pain. And Wes can see it on Angel's face, just for a moment. Again, Wes is forced to reevaluate everything he knows about Angel--or Angelus, really. He supposes it's true--behind every successful man is a woman who drives him to the heights of excellence.
            Angel looks down at his book. After a moment, he picks up a cloth bookmark from the table, lays it carefully between the pages. There's no more pretense--he's not reading any more for a while. He's going to listen to Wesley. Wesley's not sure whether to be gratified or frightened by this.
            But Angel asks a question, and this surprises Wesley. "Is this about your father?"
            Then Wesley wonders why he's so surprised that Angel has put the pieces together. Wesley himself said too much when they were trying to exorcise that little boy, Ryan, who, as it turned out, wasn't so much in need of an exorcism as an ensouling. And the Ethros demon itself had spoken in his father's voice. All that time locked under the stairs...
            "Yes," he says, because something tells him there's no point lying, no point trying to hide anything.
            Angel just nods soberly. And Wes realizes with a lurch of pure gratitude that he's not going to have to spell it out, not going to have to say the words, My father raped me. Because Angel understands brutality and abuse, and not just from perpetrating it.
            "It's not always like that," Angel says.
            Another realization hits Wesley. "So you've--since the curse--" It occurs to Wesley that he's having a great deal of difficulty forming sentences.
            This doesn't seem to faze Angel. "Yeah. I had sex from time to time before I met Buffy."
            "Without triggering the curse?"
            "Obviously." Wesley should be offended by this, but something about Angel's tone softens the word. And what he says next, his voice strained and almost broken, softens it even more. "Buffy was special."
            Wesley wonders if he should say something, but nothing comes to mind.
            Angel's not done, though. "And now...it's easier with men. Easier to remember it's not her." He laughs a little, that sardonic, self-deprecating laugh that Wesley's become so familiar with. "Not that there's a great deal of opportunity."
            Wesley feels another layer peeling off the lump in his chest. But this one lets memories escape--humiliation and pain. It was so long ago--why does it still make him feel so small and useless? So dirty?
            "I don't understand..." Wes starts, but he's not sure where he's going, not sure what he needs to say. Angel sits in silence, patient, waiting. Finally Wes fumbles on. "I don't understand how it could be anything other than...painful. It's...there's..." The layers are peeling off but he can't get to what's under them.
            "You were raped," says Angel, gently. He can form the words Wesley can't. "That's not sex, it's violence. And I would know."
            Wesley swallows. He doesn't like to think about the demon Angel has been, but Angel has never tried to hide his past. He speaks of it with regret, but also with the sure knowledge that it's in the past, and he can rue it, brood over it, but never change it.
            Wesley's thoughts are disjointed, emotions coming at him from every direction so that he can't assimilate it all. There are things he wants to know, questions he wants to ask, but he doesn't know what they are until he actually speaks.
            "What's it like...when it's not...?"
            "It's just sex, Wesley. It's like with a woman. You can be harsh, and hurt her, or you can be careful, and make it good. You just have to be a little more careful." Angel's so matter-of-fact, Wesley thinks. Like it's not a big deal. Maybe it isn't. It's just sex.
            Sex has been so problematic for Angel, though, that Wesley's a little surprised by the matter-of-factness. But Wesley's beginning to understand that, as well. It's just sex, and it's no big deal--or it wasn't until it was sex with Buffy. Now he's haunted by that shadow, an experience so profound that Angel fears even its memory might take him to that place where his own transcendence will cost him his soul.
            And Wesley is haunted by another shadow, the dark shadow of his father.
            He's told people about the beatings. He saw a therapist a few months, as part of Watcher preparation, but he's never told anyone about the rapes. Until now.
            "He used to come in at night when I was asleep," he says, his voice thready. It's just coming out of him now and he's not sure why. Maybe because, for the first time, he knows the person he's talking to has deeper, darker secrets.
            Angel folds his hands under his chin and just waits. Wes has seen him like this before, often sitting alone in the office, just wrapped in that silence. He's often wondered what Angel thinks about when he's silent like that. But it's a gentle, undemanding silence, waiting for Wesley to fill it, but only if he wants to.
            "He would tell me it was my fault, that I wasn't--" Wes stops. He can't say any more.  He's shaking.
            "You okay, Wesley?" Angel's voice is gentle.
            "My father used to bugger me in the dark," Wesley says, wondering where the words are coming from, how he's even making them, "and tell me it was my fault, that I was small and filthy and inferior."
            He stops. He's embarrassed now, his face burning. He gets up and walks out, out of the room, out of the apartment, into the night where he knows Angel could follow, but won't.
#
            He makes his way to a bar, one nearby that pretends to be English, with dartboards and beer that's too thin to be anything but American, and he drinks. He doesn't drink a lot. It becomes all too apparent all too quickly that he's never going to numb the memories this way.
            He wonders if there's any way. He aches all over now with the memories. He'd pushed them back where he'd thought they would never touch him again, but he understands now he was wrong.
            There's got to be a way to burn this memory out of him. Something quick and thorough. And as he's drinking, he thinks he might know a way, but he's not sure he can do it.
            After a while, he goes home, but he can't sleep. Just before dawn he gets up again and goes back to Cordelia's apartment, then turns around and goes back home. Eats breakfast. And just before lunchtime, goes back again. This time he opens the door and goes in.
It's nearly noon, and Angel is asleep again in Cordy's bed. Wesley's seen the note on the fridge, that Cordy doesn't want her sheets smelling like vampire, but when he walks into the bedroom he thinks the smell isn't that bad. It fact, it isn't bad at all. Odd, but not repulsive.
            He breathes it for a moment, dimly wondering if it could arouse him. And of course as soon as he thinks that he feels the pressure begin, feels the blood flowing, tingling.
            He steps farther into the room. Angel's on his back, and Wes can tell he's naked under the blankets. He wonders briefly why Angel bothers with blankets, since vampires don't really generate any body heat.
            But he knows he's thinking that so he won't have to think about the rest of it--what he's about to do.
            He sits on the bed. Angel rolls lazily to his right side, turning his back to Wesley. The movement startles Wes a little, probably because Angel had been so still before he'd moved. But he's still asleep.
            Wesley sits there, looks at him. It occurs to him that he's never trusted anyone the way he trusts Angel. He's never been more real with anyone else. It's the only reason he would even consider this.
            Hesitant, he reaches out, lets his fingers brush Angel's shoulder. His skin is firm and cool. Not cold, but cool. He knows this, of course--he's had physical contact with Angel before--but this is different.
            Has he wanted this? He thinks perhaps he has, maybe even since Sunnydale, when Angel saved his life the first time, when he saw the way he was with Buffy, the gentleness, the love so deep he doubted either of them could articulate it properly.
            He flattens his hand against the wing of Angel's shoulder blade, feeling the flat, wide bone. The other side of Angel's back is decorated with black lines, which he's seen before. He's seen drawings of the tattoo in Watchers' diaries, recorded in spidery lines as a key to identify the monstrous Angelus. And this is, of course, the monstrous Angelus himself, lying softly asleep in Cordelia's bed.
            Angel stirs under Wesley's touch. Wes starts to draw away, but stops himself and instead lets his fingers trail around the curve of Angel's shoulder as Angel rolls over.
            "Wes?" His eyes are bleary; he's not quite awake.
            Wes says nothing. He doesn't really know what to say. Angel blinks at him dully as Wesley watches his own hand move across Angel's chest, until he touches a flat, pink nipple.
            "Wes?" Angel says again, but his tone is different now. Surprised. Confused.
            "I want you to show me," Wes says. "I want you to show me how it can be good."
            Clarity begins to seep into Angel's eyes. Wes' finger sits there still, just against the nub of Angel's nipple.
            "Can you do that?" Wes says.
            Angel clears his throat. He's frowning now. "Are you sure?"
            Wes has come prepared for this question. Now he lifts his other hand, shows Angel what it holds. Angel watches as Wes lays the tube of KY on the bed. "I'm sure. I want this to go away. The pain. Change it into something else."
            Angel's eyes seem to look deep into him, evaluating, judging, reading things Wesley doesn't even know are there. Then, slowly, he nods.
            Wesley doesn't know if he's relieved or afraid when Angel's hand lifts to cover his, there where it rests on Angel's chest. Angel's fingers trace his, and suddenly Wesley realizes something.
            Angel's not going to fuck him. Angel's going to make love to him.
            This scares Wesley more than his initial thought of how this would go, but he's not going to back down now. Something in him needs this, needs to purge the memories of brutality with gentleness.
            So he doesn't move when Angel leans toward him. Somehow he hadn't pictured there being kissing involved. But Angel's in charge now, and Wes lets that happen, because he senses it'll be easier that way.
            Angel's mouth is wide and firm, and he kisses like a woman. Deep and slow, tasting everything, shifting his mouth to find all the deepest, sweetest angles. He brings his hand up to cup the back of Wesley's neck, holding Wes' head just there.
            Wes is passive at first, not sure what to do. But he's kissed people before, hasn't he? He knows what to do--he's only flummoxed because it's a man's mouth against his. After a moment he lets himself respond, lets his tongue seek after Angel's.
            He feels Angel's fingers unbuttoning his shirt now, sliding it off him. Those big hands on his shoulders, pulling him in, fingers combing into the hair on his chest. Wes is surprised to find himself hard already--he would have thought the strangeness of this would slow his arousal. Or the fear, the underlying shame he's trying to purge from himself.  But he's rock-hard by the time Angel unfastens his pants.
            Wes flinches at this, as Angel divests him of his trousers. It's strange now, because they're both naked in Cordy's wide bed. Wes closes his eyes. He's not quite ready to face the reality of the situation yet.
            Angel shifts, easing down on the bed and bringing Wesley with him. His mouth moves down Wesley's throat, devouring him. Down his chest, his stomach, then Angel draws his face along the length of Wes' erection.
            Wesley draws a quick breath. And another realization--Angel has not only done this before, he's done it a lot. Enough to be comfortable with it, to not be intimidated or embarrassed. His caresses are anything but hesitant--they are sure and certain, and he knows how to play Wesley's body almost as well as Wesley does, himself.
            For a moment Wes thinks Angel's going to go down on him, but he doesn't. Instead he lifts himself over Wes and kisses him again while his big hand cups Wesley's scrotum, maneuvers his testicles. He's looking right into Wesley's face, which is odd for Wes, hard for him to assimilate. Maybe he can pretend it's Cordelia, he thinks. Cordelia's eyes are brown, too. But Cordy's eyes are a light brown, verging sometimes on hazel, and Angel's are deep, dark, black-brown. Wesley finds himself falling into them a little.
            Angel's rubbing himself against Wes now, the thick length of his erection sliding velvety against Wesley's own. Wes fights the urge to suppress his arousal, but it's impossible. Angel knows what he's doing and there's no denying the need filling Wes' groin, his belly.
            Angel rises over him, reaching for the lube Wes brought with him. Wes tenses, watching him. Not yet, not already, he thinks, but Angel squeezes some of the KY into his hand, then reaches down, between Wesley's thighs.
            Wes has to force himself to let himself be touched. The memories rise, dark and hateful, making his body clench.
            But Angel's long body is firm here against him, and he kisses Wesley's face, murmurs, "Easy, easy. It's okay. You know I won't hurt you."
            Well, yes, that's the point, isn't it? Wes lets himself melt into the bed. He's about as aroused as he's ever been in his life, which makes it easier. Angel's slick fingers circle him, waiting for the strong muscles to relax. He leans down, presses his face against Wesley's chest, inhales the smell. He's obviously in no hurry.
            Wesley makes his breathing slow down. The long, cool expanse of Angel's body has him pressed into the bed, and it's difficult for him to be this submissive, but arousing at the same time. He's spent a great deal of time with Angel, but up until now he hasn't really realized how big he is. Wide and solid, with big hands. Wes tries not to think too much about it, tries not to think too much about anything. If he's going to take this ride, he needs to relax, let it play out.
            He finally lets the tension go, and Angel's finger slides inside him, long and slim. The sensation is invasive but not unpleasant. It has never occurred to Wes that this could be done face-to-face, and somehow it's easier that way. It doesn't remind him as much of his violation.
            Angel's fingers work him. He's got two inside now, thrusting gently as Wes' body accommodates the invasion. And God, it actually feels good. Wes is surprised by this. He could, possibly, come just from this, but there's also Angel's chest sliding against Wes' cock, Angel's own erection sliding against his thigh.
            A third finger now, and Angel's working for depth as well as width. His fingers are long, but not as long as his cock. He watches Wes' face, and somehow Wes knows he'll withdraw at the first sign of pain. But Wes' body has taken over now and it's seeking this, pushing back into Angel's hand as Angel penetrates him, pressing those long fingers in as far as they can go.
            Angel's thrusting his cock against Wes' leg, and Wes feels the moisture there. He's ready, and, Wesley realizes, so is he. He actually wants this.
            "Now," he says quietly. "Now would be good."
            So Angel shifts, slowly drawing out his fingers--a slick, slow sensation that is satisfying in itself. Now Wes half-expects Angel to turn him over, but he doesn't. It's going to be face-to-face, and Wesley decides he's okay with that.
            Angel guides himself carefully in, slowly. Angel's big--he's big everywhere--and Wes isn't quite ready for this, physically. Angel goes slowly, an inch or so at a time, waiting for Wesley's body to open up, to accept the careful penetration.
            "Easy," he says again. "It's okay."
            And it is okay. This isn't brutal invasion. It is, as Angel asserted, just sex.
            Angel moves slowly in and out, a little farther each time. The sensation is deep, burning, but good. In, out, soft pulsation, until finally, somewhat to Wes' surprise, Angel is in as far as he can go and still Wes is pressing into him, asking for more. It's good. It's better than he ever imagined it could be, so different from what had been forced on him as a boy. This is pure sexual sensation, deep and raw.
            Angel shifts on him again, lacing his fingers through Wesley's, pressing Wes' hands into the bed. This is almost too intimate, but then how much more intimate can they get, face-to-face, with Angel's cock imbedded in him to the hilt?
            "You good?" Angel says, and Wesley nods. He lifts his legs--like a woman, he thinks--pressing thighs to Angel's hips, taking him in, accepting this.
            Angel pulses into him now, gentle still but speeding up, thrusting, slick and hard and deep. He lets go of one of Wesley's hands--Wesley misses the tender gesture, now it's gone--and reaches between them, his strong hand folding around Wes' erection. He draws his hand down the length, pulls in time to his own thrusting, which is speeding up, harder and deeper, and Welsey can't believe the intensity, and his body's begging to bring Angel in even deeper, even harder. And suddenly Wes is arching his back, waves of orgasm pulsing through him as he comes into Angel's hand. And Angel, his fingers clenching Wesley's cock almost too hard, pushes in deep, as deep as he can go, and Wesley can feel the pulsations as Angel comes up high and hard inside him.
            Angel gasps, a low, satisfied sound, then looks into Wesley's face. They're bound in that moment, eye-to-eye in that bubble of orgasm.
            Wesley surprises himself yet again, then, as he lifts his head, seeks Angel's mouth, finds it. He curls his hand behind Angel's neck and draws him in, kisses him long and slow.
            Angel doesn't seem surprised, and makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. It's as tender, as satisfying, as anything Wes has ever experienced. Wes wants to say something, but it seems like there's nothing to say. Nothing that can adequately express what he feels. And suddenly he's a little afraid of what might happen next.
            But Angel shifts to the side and holds him. God, who would have imagined Angel was a cuddler? But he is, apparently, and he nestles into Wesley, head against his chest. He's listening to his heartbeat, Wes realizes, and somehow this touches him. Hesitant, but finally giving in to uncertain instinct, he runs his fingers through Angel's soft, dark hair.
#
            He sleeps for a time, there in Angel's arms, even though it's afternoon. But Angel has gone quiet, as well, and there's a certain peace here in his embrace. Wesley has let go of something, he realizes--released some of the pain, the hurt, that has festered inside him all this time.
            He sleeps for a time, and when he wakes up he somehow knows Angel's awake, too, but he's still there in the bed, spooned against Wesley's back, his arms loose and heavy around him.
            Wes lies silent for a moment, wondering if there's anything he can say that won't sound idiotic.
            Then Angel speaks, his voice soft, rough around the edges.
            "She used to tie me to the bed. She had knives, a set, with slim, sharp blades. She would cut me and lick up the blood, little soft tongue like a cat."
            Wes tenses a little, then makes himself relax. Angel speaks into his shoulder, and Wes wonders if he's ever told anyone this, if he's just kept it inside him for a century or more.
            "Sometimes she would just take off strips of skin, long and thin. They would grow back by dawn, but it hurt. God, it hurt. She had a talent for it, for torture, and she showed me what it felt like, the long, slow bleed, the cuts that make you weak but aren't deep enough to kill you." His finger traces the curve of Wesley's shoulder lazily. "She taught me all of that. And broom handles, and bottle brushes--" He stops just as Wesley realizes what he means by this. His hand lowers from Wes' shoulder and there is a moment of tender awkwardness. Wesley is glad he can't see Angel's face. He doesn't know what to say.
            It's okay, though, because Angel isn't done. "What she did to me--she wanted to break me but I never broke. I got off on it."
            This silence strains, needing something to fill it. "Angel, that wasn't you." The name sounds strange on Wesley's tongue.
            Angel's sardonic laugh makes Wes wince. "That's what I tell myself. Sometimes I even believe it. But I remember it all. Part of me can feel the humiliation, the pain, but sometimes I think it's not real, that I just feel that way because I know I should, not because it's what I really feel."
            It occurs to Wes that he's never heard Angel talk this long in one stretch. He thinks about that because it's easier than hearing what Angel's saying.
            "It's like the guilt." Angel almost sounds now like he's talking to himself. "Do I really feel guilty for all the things I've done, or do I just know that I'm supposed to?"
            He rolls away from Wes then, suddenly. "God. I disgust myself. What the fuck am I, Wes?"
            Wes turns to look at him. He's flat on his back in Cordy's bed, staring at the ceiling. "You're human," Wes says, and Angel turns his head, frowning, as if considering whether to point out the absurdity of that statement. But Wes isn't done. "Sometimes, I think, more human than any of the rest of us."
            "Bullshit," says Angel, but gently. He reaches toward Wes, takes his hand. "It's me, Wes. All of it. Man, demon, soul--all the pieces are still there. I'm a dead man--the demon keeps me alive. Without it, I'm dead. With it--I'm Angelus. Plain and simple. The soul just keeps me hanging onto some semblance of humanity by my fingernails. And that's on a good day."
            "You've done this over a century." Wes isn't certain if he speaks in amazement or assertion. "You should have it down by now."
            "No. Not really. Every day I fight it, every day I hang on as tight as I can. And every day I wonder what would happen if someday I can't hang on anymore."
            Wesley isn't sure how to take this. It scares him to know Angel sees himself as this unstable. But Angel's still holding his hand and suddenly Wes understands. This is a gift. Angel has told him things he's never told anyone else. Trusted him with that.
            "But you understand what keeps you from letting go," Wes says, and Angel nods.
            "You. And Cordelia. Buffy still, even. The human connections." He turns a little, his fingers tightening on Wesley's. "You need to understand. I would never do anything to hurt any of you. If I thought I was that close to the line--I'd get you out of danger. Somehow."
            Wes nods. Angel, he senses, has received as much healing here as he has. It's strange, Wes thinks. This should be awkward, the strained morning-after moment made stranger because this is Angel. But Wes finds himself curiously comfortable here.
            Still, he wonders what will happen next. Wonders what he should say. "I should go home," is what finally comes out, and he wonders why. He doesn't really want to leave. He looks into Angel's face, judging the other man's expression.
            Angel seems past awkwardness. He smiles a little. "You don't have to."
            Wes blinks at him. He understands what Angel's saying, and he's not sure why he feels suddenly exposed and strange. They've done the deed once already--why would a second time seem strange?
            But then he understands why. The first time he had asked for a reason. A purpose. If he says yes to Angel now, it'll be because he wants to be here, wants Angel to make love to him. Just for fun.
            Wes is surprised at how much the thought arouses him. He looks at Angel a moment, gathering courage. Then he tugs on Angel's hand a little. "All right. I'll stay."
            Angel's smile is gratifyingly soft, more affectionate than lustful. Wes isn't sure if this makes the whole situation more or less odd. But when Angel pulls him in, he forgets to worry about the oddness of anything.
            He's rougher this time, passion and arousal not under such tight control. Wesley responds to it as strongly as if he were with a woman. Angel's sheer size dominates him--he's actually a little shorter than Wes but he's wider, heavier--but somehow, in the midst of seeking mouths, grasping hands, Wes finds himself lying on Angel's back.
            He understands this is what Angel wants, that Angel has maneuvered him this way on purpose. But suddenly he's not sure he can do it. Suddenly this seems like a more intimate act than he can possibly perform. Why it seems more intimate than penetrating a woman--even penetrating a woman the same way--he's not sure, but somehow it is.
            This is what Angel wants, though, and remembering what it felt like to have Angel inside him--hard, straining, powerful--Wes gathers whatever it is he's lost his hold on--courage, perhaps--and proceeds.
            He tries to follow Angel's example--slow and careful, generous with the lube, but Angel's ready for him and after the initial entrance he pushes back into Wes, not letting Wesley ease his way in. He's done this before, too, Wes thinks, he knows how to relax the tight muscles, how to let another man in.
            Angel pushes back hard, drawing Wes all the way in in a matter of a few thrusts. Wes finds himself braced against Angel's shoulders, gasping at the intense pressure, the tight muscles pulling at him as he thrusts--trying to go slowly but Angel won't let him--Wesley's on top but this is still under Angel's control, somehow. Angel's body is taut under his, the wide shoulders shifting as he pulses back against Wes. Wes' hand covers part of the black pattern on Angel's shoulder. He realizes he's bracing himself there, maintaining that distance, and suddenly the distance doesn't seem so important anymore. He lets himself sink, fall, settle, onto Angel's wide back, his chest pressed firm against that wide expanse of pale, cool skin. Angel's muscles work under him, strong, coiled, softened, taut again.
            Hesitant, Wesley shifts, touches Angel's flank. Angel responds, lifting his hips, changing his position just enough to give Wesley access. Again, Wesley hesitates, not certain he can do this, but he does. He slips his hand under Angel's body, curls his fingers against the thick, hard jut of his erection. Angel's cock is steely hard, and he thrusts through Wesley's fist, moaning deep in his throat. Growling.
            Then, suddenly, in the same harsh, solid thrust, Wes comes, deep inside Angel, and Angel comes, spilling over Wesley's fingers and the blankets in Cordelia's bed that is going to smell like a good deal more than vampire by the time they roll out of it.
            Angel is taut for a long, suspended moment, and Wesley can feel the pulsations of his orgasm clenching on his own cock as he, too, empties everything he has.
            "God," he says, breathing it with the last of his climax. "God, Angel."
            And to his surprise, Angel sinks against the bed and laughs.
            "What?" Wesley asks, suddenly uncertain.
            Angel turns his head on the pillow, showing Wesley his profile--rough-hewn and uneven, softened by the upturned corner of his wide mouth. We're really gonna have to wash the sheets now."

END.

To Discretion