Angel gave him a knife. It’s a lovely knife, antique, with a fine, slim blade and jewels on the handle. Sixteenth century, Murshan Dynasty. Lovely and undoubtedly expensive. Wes was instantly enamored of it, and he still is, but he has begun to think.
        Thinking, he’s discovered, is never good. Especially when it has to do with Angel. He spent the summer anticipating Angel’s return, imagining how it would go, how good it would be to see him again. Now he’s back, and nothing has been the way Wes imagined.
        At first he thought it was fine. Angel with gifts, presenting Wes with the knife. But then all the rest had happened--James, Elizabeth--plunging Angel back into his pain over Buffy’s death.
        He was okay, though, he insisted, when Wes had asked him. But Angel isn’t okay, and Wes knows it, and so does Angel.
        There is more, too, something else Wes saw that has a knot of something ugly roiling in his gut, but he’s not quite ready to look at that yet, not quite ready to acknowledge it.
        He’s been sitting downstairs in the office, getting things organized, writing up a report in a log he keeps of their cases. He plans someday to write articles based on these notes and publish them somewhere. His father would approve of that. But he hasn’t done it yet. He will, someday.
        He puts his books away and picks up the knife again, thinking of Angel. The knife is lovely. Angel bought jewelry for Cordelia. He gave it to her and Wes saw a warmth in his eyes that made him angry. It’s this he doesn’t want to deal with, doesn’t want to admit to or acknowledge, even to himself.
        He’s been sitting here for two hours. In his mind he’s made a pretty picture of what will happen when Angel comes downstairs and sees him, and they talk, and Angel tells Wes he missed him. But Angel hasn’t come down.
        Finally, Wes clenches his hand on the pretty little dagger and goes upstairs.
       The door to Angel’s suite is unlocked, so Wes goes in. The front room is empty, but he hears the shower running. He hesitates, picturing Angel in the shower. Suddenly he realizes he still has the knife. His mouth thins. His hand clenches on the short hilt and he steps toward the bathroom door.
        The bathroom is full of steam. The tub is old-fashioned, porcelain, with a shower curtain pulled all the way around it. Wes’ glasses fog up immediately and he takes them off, lays them on the counter next to the sink.
        Angel’s voice rises, hesitant. “Wes?”
        Wes sits on the closed toilet lid. “Sorry to barge in,” he says, but he’s not. Angel pushes aside an edge of the shower curtain and peeks around. There’s a puzzled expression on his face.
        “Do you need something?”
        Wes just looks at him. For a moment he wonders why he keeps flinging himself against the unyielding, immutable brick wall that is Angel’s heart. Every time he does it, it hurts a little more.
        “I was hoping you’d come down,” he says finally. “I thought we could talk.”
        “I was going to. I’m just…tired.” His eyes slide sideways.
       This does not escape Wesley. “I think, perhaps, you were avoiding me.”
        “Why would I do that?”
        “I don’t know. You tell me.”
        Angel sighs in frustration. “Wes, what’s going on?”
        It’s an easy enough question. Wes opens his mouth to answer and realizes he doesn’t know the answer. What is going on? Is he jealous of Cordelia to the extent that he would be willing to make an ass of himself?
        Apparently he is. Otherwise why would he be here?
        Finally, lamely, he says, “I missed you.”
        “I missed you. I missed everybody.”
        Wes can’t help it--there's a stab of anger through his chest. Angel just had to qualify that. Couldn’t leave it alone, give Wes something to cling to, however vague. He swallows the sharp taste of bile, of anger. Then he looks down at the knife in his hand. Slowly, he draws it from its sheath.
        Angel is watching him now; Wes can feel his regard. Wes looks at the knife’s finely-honed, silver blade. He turns it, watches the light glint off the slim, sleek surface. Slowly, deliberately, he lays the knife on the cabinet, next to the sink. He unbuttons his shirt, takes it off.
        He dares a look at Angel. Angel is still watching him, and he has loosened his grip on the edges of the shower curtain. The two halves of the curtain have moved apart, and Wes can see Angel’s strong, wet, naked body through the gap. Wesley’s cock leaps to attention as he sheds his trousers, his shorts. And Angel says nothing. He just watches.
        Naked, and self-conscious now but determined to stay the course, Wes picks the knife back up. He grabs the shower curtain, right next to Angel’s hand, and gets in.
        Angel steps back to make room. Still, he says nothing, but his eyes on the glint of the knife blade are hungry.
        Wes gives him a hard, direct look. “Welcome home,” he says.
        He puts a hand on Angel’s shoulder, turns him around, and runs the edge of the blade across his back, shoulder blade to waist. Blood wells from the shallow cut, but is washed away almost immediately by the shower. Still, Wes bends in and licks the line of the wound, sucks at it. His mouth fills with the metallic tang of Angel’s blood.
        Deep down, he has no idea why he’s doing this, except that he wants to give Angel something he knows nobody else has the balls to give him. And he knows Angel wants this--he can feel the big, wide, familiar body tauten as he licks up the blood from the middle of Angel’s back, up to his shoulder. He reaches around to find Angel’s cock thick and erect. He curls his fingers around the heavy shaft, presses his chest against Angel’s back. With his free hand, he draws another thin line with the knife blade, across the back of Angel’s neck. He attaches his mouth there, sucks hard.
        Angel moans. Wes has never heard Angel moan like that before, and it sends a harsh stab of desire through his body. He sucks harder at the wound on Angel’s neck, the taste of blood thick and primal in his mouth. He scrapes his teeth over Angel’s skin, bites, and Angel gropes blindly for the wall, to keep himself on his feet.
        Wes has him, and he knows it. It gives him a heady feeling of power to know that he has Angel completely under his control. Angel has pushed himself against the wall and is whimpering--whimpering--with need as Wes sucks at his skin. Angel pumps his cock through the curl of Wesley’s fist, hard and fast. Wes digs his teeth in, and suddenly it’s as if Angel has lost all control, his fingers digging into the wall until the plaster shreds under them, his hips pulsing in a hard, violent rhythm.
        “God, Wes…” His voice cracks and Wes slides the slim blade down Angel’s side, watches the blood well and listens to the music of Angel’s broken, needy voice.
        This is power, and Wesley’s getting off on it. But it’s still not quite what he wants.
        He’s not even sure what he wants. But he is sure that he’s angry. Three months, along here, pining if he’s honest with himself, and when Angel gets home, he tosses him a gift and proceeds to ignore him.
        He bites hard at the back of Angel’s neck, hard enough to draw blood. Angel’s cock jumps in his hand and he feels his balls tighten, drawing up behind his fist--
        Wes pulls back abruptly, leaving Angel right on the brink. Angel collapses against the wall, gasping. “Wes--"
        “You want it, come get it.” Wes is surprised at the flinty note in his own voice. He takes a step back. The water is starting to lose its warmth; they’ve overtaxed the hot water heater.
        Angel gathers himself against the wall, drawing his arms in, his heavy breathing easing, finally going still. The wounds Wes inflicted have healed already, except for the bite mark on the back of his neck, which still oozes blood.
        Wes stands waiting, turning the knife in his hands. His heart patters high in his chest and his breathing is shallow, and suddenly he’s not sure if he’s aroused or afraid.
        Then, abruptly, Angel turns around. His eyes are gold, his teeth sharp. He grabs Wes by the shoulders, pushing him backward. They tumble back together, over the edge of the porcelain tub, tearing down the curtain as they go, and landing hard on the carpeted floor. The shower continues to run, the water cooler and cooler.
        Wes absorbs the shock of Angel’s body landing squarely on his. Angel looks down into his face and Wes is suddenly afraid. Up close, the fangs are slim and sharp and wicked, the eyes not just gold, but demon-gold, and Wes can see through them into the edges of Angel’s ever-present darkness.
        He has pushed Angel too far. He knows better, and he did it, anyway. This is more than playing with fire--it's flirting with his own death. It always has been, at its core, but this is real, and looking into Angel’s golden eyes he suddenly regrets what he’s done, because if Angel kills him now, Angel will never forgive himself.
        “Angel--" Wes ventures, but Angel only growls, that dark, rich, animal growl that curls his lips around the ragged ivory of his fangs.
        He grabs Wes and flips him over unceremoniously. Wesley’s face mashes into the carpet. He’ll have rug burns tomorrow, among other things. If he lives that long.
        Angel spreads his hands across Wesley’s back, wiping the water over his shoulder blades. The carpet under them is drenched. He feels Angel’s lips against his shoulder, then the fangs. But Angel doesn’t bite him. He traces the sharp edges of his teeth over Wesley’s skin, then softly licks up the blood.
        Wes flinches at the pain, but it arouses him more than hurting him. And Angel’s tongue on him… His body is suddenly flooded with need, with desire. For this, exactly this.
        Then he feels Angel’s lips against the point of his shoulder, as Angel kisses him, and says softly, “Is it okay?”
        He has regained control of his demon; Wes can tell by the feel of his mouth and the sound of his voice. He wonders how much effort, how much control, it has taken for Angel to draw himself back from that brink.
        “Yes,” Wes manages, and wonders for the first time if he should protest the fact that he’s never allowed anything more than illusory control. Even when Angel’s not on top, he is always dominant. Wes isn’t sure why it’s taken him so long to realize that.
        Angel’s certainly on top, now, pressing Wes into the wet carpet. His hand finds Wesley’s and loosens his grip on the knife. He takes it from Wesley’s hand. A moment later, Wesley feels the tip trace across his shoulder, so delicate, barely parting the skin--and then Angel’s tongue, licking softly.
        The sensation is incredible. Some small corner of his mind wonders if it’s related to the constitution of vampiric saliva, but the rest of him is focused on the fact that it’s definitely related to the twitching hardness of his cock.
        Angel draws another line across his back with the paper-thin blade, sucks, licks up the blood. Wes moans, clenching his fists into the drenched carpet. “God, Angel… God…” He had no idea it would feel like this. He thought he would be sacrificing something, enduring something as a gift to Angel, but this is so fucking good…
        Angel sucks hard at his violated skin and then draws back. Big, gentle hands turn him over, and suddenly Wes is staring right into Angel’s deep, dark eyes.
        Angel ducks his head and kisses him, deep and thorough, his cool tongue awakening every corner of Wesley’s mouth. Wes grabs Angel’s hair, maneuvering his head. At the same time, he shifts under Angel’s weight, opening his thighs. Angel’s hips settle down between his legs, his cock rubbing into Wesley’s. Angel pulses his hips, careful.
        He gives Wes the knife. Wes just stares at it a moment, unsure. Then he takes it.
        He doesn’t have to be told what Angel wants. He knows, and part of him resents the fact that he knows. Because, once again, Angel’s in control. Why does it always have to be on Angel’s terms, Angel’s schedule, everything catering to Angel’s particular fetishes? It makes him angry, because he’s hurt, and he’s jealous, and he knows damn well Angel will never love him.
        He slashes the knife across Angel’s wide chest, anger making him cut too deep. Blood wells in dark, ruby droplets above Angel’s right breast.
        Wes stares at the blood. It’s a beautiful color, rich, translucent garnet, clinging there on Angel’s broken skin. Angel wants him to lick it off, Wes knows, lap it up, drink it down, good puppy. And while before this thrilled him in a dark way he could barely acknowledge, now it just makes him angry.
        Instead, he shoves his thumb into the oozing wound, hard. Angel flinches with the pain, but at the same time his eyes go blank with blind lust. Wes puts his thumb against Angel’s lips and Angel suckles it in, eagerly drinking his own blood.
        Wes should be repulsed. He isn’t. Desire shoots through him in a harsh spear, filling him. He drops the knife and reaches down between them to wrap his hand around Angel’s cock.
        Angel gasps, his head sagging over Wesley’s shoulders. Wes draws his hand along Angel’s thick length, and for that moment, he feels it, the power, the sense that he’s in control. He can stroke Angel, arouse him, make him come, feel that strong surge of power that he is capable of exerting such control, of having this big, beautiful man so literally in the palm of his hand. . .
        But then Angel shifts. Arranges himself over Wes, settles onto Wesley’s cock. And he’s in control again. Wes lets out a sound of frustration, but it’s lost as it changes to need. Angel’s taken him in so fast and so hard Wes isn’t sure how he did it, but he’s enveloped, deep inside, and the tight clenching of Angel’s body on him is so intense he can barely stand it.
        Why does it matter? Why does he care who’s in charge, who’s on top, who’s inside, who’s guiding the rhythm? Isn’t this enough, the consuming lust, the fire building in his loins? Does it matter that he gives everything to Angel, and Angel holds everything back?
        It does. It matters a lot. But not right now.
        Angel is moving on him and Wes grabs him, clenching his hand hard into his shoulders, thrusting into him. As hard as he can, and he hears Angel’s voice rise, wordless, needy. Wes looks into Angel’s face, but Angel’s eyes are closed.
        Wes shoves into him, squeezes Angel’s cock too hard, working him. Angel’s body has become so familiar; Wes knows exactly what to do to get him off, and he wants to just do it, and do it fast, regardless of what Angel wants. Angel’s thrusting through Wesley’s fist, and Wes is thrusting into Angel, and the rhythm isn’t quite coordinated but it works, and suddenly Wes feels his body let go; at the same time Angel shudders and moans and comes all over Wesley’s hand and his belly, thick, cool, white come pouring out of him, and Wes wonders if Angel has so much as touched himself the entire time he’s been gone.
        Whatever the case, he’s at it for a long time, breath gasping out of him, until Wes, who’s already spent, has little to do but hold him while he finishes.
        Finally, he’s done, and he bends into Wes, kisses him, on the mouth, on the throat, on his shoulders. He still hasn’t opened his eyes, and Wes almost wishes he wouldn’t. He doesn’t want to see the shutters Angel keeps stubbornly in place, refusing to let anyone in. But Angel’s body is loose and languid on top of him, and it’s a good feeling, having him there.
        Then Angel opens his eyes. He doesn’t quite meet Wesley’s gaze, and Wes feels his heart speed up as the panic sets in.
        “Wesley--" Angel starts, but Wes says, before his name has even completely passed Angel’s lips, “No.”
        “Wes, it’s not fair--"
        “No,” Wes says again. “Shut the fuck up.” If anybody’s going to end this, it’s going to be him. He pushes himself back along the floor, away from Angel, out from under him. Away, he’s thinking, just away. Why did he even do this? Why does he keep trying?
        He grabs for his clothes. There’s no dignity left. He might as well just face that fact. He’s drenched, the carpet under him is drenched, he’s naked and covered in come.
        Angel’s hand catches him, closes on his hip as he tries to slither away. “Wes, don’t.”
        “Don’t what? Don’t leave? You want me to leave, don’t you?”
        “No, I don’t.” His hand gentles on Wesley’s hip, slides down onto his thigh. “I missed you. God, I can’t tell you how much I missed you.”
        Wes wants to cling to that, hang onto it and hold it against him. But in Angel’s eyes is still that darkness, that place past which he will allow no one to go. Wes wonders if Buffy was allowed to see past it. Undoubtedly she was. And the next one to break that barrier won’t be him. It’ll be Cordelia.
        “Thanks for that,” he says, barely keeping the bitterness out of his voice.
        “Wes. . .” Angel trails off. Wes looks up and meets his eyes. He opens his mouth, closes it again. There is something there, some slight openness, a vulnerability. It’s more than he’s seen in Angel’s eyes in a long time. Since that first time they were together, he realizes, when they had laid so many secrets out on the table.
        “Not now,” Wes says, and this time his words are gentle.
        Angel nods. Perhaps he even understands. It’s hard to tell.
        Wesley gathers his clothes along with the shred of dignity Angel has finally offered him, and leaves Angel alone in the bathroom.

END.