DISARRAY

      Connor is so small.  Wes has never held anything so small, and it scares him a little. But Angel has passed him the baby, almost nonchalantly, and this is such a departure for Angel that Wes has little choice but to take the tiny bundle and cradle it awkwardly to him, supporting the wobbling head.

      The soft, baby smell envelops him, and he breathes it in, surprised at how calming it is. Connor regards him with wide, gray eyes.

      "He's really quite lovely," Wes says, and it sounds ridiculous even as he says it, but Connor's mouth curls almost as if he's smiling, and Wes smiles back.

      "He looks like his mother," says Angel.

      Wes glances up at him, sobering, to find Angel frowning, obviously in thought, or perhaps grieving. It disturbs Wes that Angel grieves for Darla. She was evil, soulless, after all. As far as Wes is concerned, she died when Drusilla Turned her again, and what died in the alley was her corpse.  Even though Fred told him what happened in the alley, how she killed herself for the baby to allow Connor to be born, he isn't sure he really believes it.

      Reaching out, Angel brushes a finger over Connor's forehead.

      "The brow is definitely yours," Wes says, and Angel gives a vague smile.  Wes feels comfortable suddenly, oddly domestic.

      But Angel's brow is beetled, and he's obviously ruminating over something. "Wes," he says finally, "if anything happens to me, take care of him."

      The sense of comfort dissipates. Seeing the importance of what Angel has said, Wes nods. "Of course."

      Angel's smile returns, but it's a little sad. "Come upstairs, then.  Let me show you how to settle him down."

#

      A few minutes later, Connor is settled and sleeping, and Angel watches him for a time, still, utterly still, vampire-still, and Wes feels like he should be somewhere else.

      Then Angel turns to him and says, quietly, "Stay."

      Wes is startled. He and Angel haven't been intimate since before Darla arrived, heavily gravid and ready to be thoroughly obsessed over by her wayward Childe. Which Angel, of course, did with the skill only Angel can demonstrate when it comes to obsession.

      "Are you certain?"

      "I've missed you."

      The invitation leaves Wes uncertain. It has been a long time since Angel has asked him into his bed, and Wes can't help thinking now it is only because Darla is gone. Because Angel is, perhaps, bored. It's hard to read Angel on the best of days, and Wes has always been plagued by the knowledge that he is second best. Third best, perhaps, now. He's always known he can't compete with Buffy, and now, it seems, he must take a back seat to Darla, as well.

      But Darla is gone. And Angel's dark eyes have that softness to them, his mouth is curled a bit at the corners, and Wes can't find it within himself to say no.

      He nods, and Angel's smile deepens, still an uncertain thing, and the soft affection in his eyes is tempered by sadness. Wes wonders what he's thinking. In the crib next to the bed, Connor makes a soft sound, a baby sound. Wes looks at him.

      "He's asleep," Angel says. His smile doesn't change. There's love in his eyes, adoration. For Connor. Wes has never seen Angel look at anyone that way. Not even Buffy.

      "He's lovely," says Wes, then wishes he could think of something else to say.

      Angel's wistful smile becomes a grin. He reaches for Wes, cups the back of his neck, pulls him close, and kisses him.

      A soft sound rises from the back of Wesley's throat, a needy, hungry sound. The moment he hears it, Wes wishes he hadn't made it, but there seems to be no controlling his response, the way his body melts deep inside, down to the roots of himself, when Angel touches him.

      It's been a long time, and Wes has tried to forget, tried to focus on other things, other needs. He has pushed aside his affection for Fred, certain she will never be able to return it now, after what he did to her, regardless of what might have triggered his aggression. But Angel--Angel understands and always has. He sometimes thinks Angel knows him better than he knows himself.

      He can't love Angel. Can't let himself. But he does, anyway.

      The touch of Angel's cool mouth sends need coursing through him, need he has pushed aside for weeks, watching Angel focus everything on Darla, on the pregnancy. Which was as it should be; Connor is a miracle and miracles by nature need nurture. If Connor had died before he was born, something perfect and lovely would be missing from the world. Wes does not regret this.

      But he missed Angel. Angel's attention, Angel's touch. Angel's hands moving over him, as they do now, the big palm sliding down Wesley's back, smoothing the material of his shirt against his skin.

      Angel's tongue slides past Wesley's lips, and Wes is past caring why Angel has decided, finally, to touch him again. Doesn't care that he is second- or third- or fourth-best in Angel's affections. Doesn't care that Angel comes to him because he can't trigger perfect happiness. He lets his mouth ease open and tastes the familiar, cool textures of Angel's tongue, and pretends.

      In his mind, he and Angel are together, couply, as Cordelia would say. Connor completes the picture, the three of them a family, a child with two fathers who love him, so different from Wesley's childhood, when he had only the one father and no love to speak of, only ridicule, chastisement, beatings, and hard, unasked-for sodomy in the secret dark.

      It's a ridiculous picture, and he knows it. But as Angel's big, sure fingers unbutton his shirt, and Connor makes soft baby sounds in the crib, he clings to the image, and pretends that Angel feels for him the same things he feels for Angel.

      It's not long before they're in the bed, and naked, and Wes is making soft, bleating noises, Angel's teeth bruising his shoulder, his wide, solid body pinning Wes to the mattress. Wes is impaled, Angel's slick, hard cock deep inside him. He is overtaken by the familiar, deep burn of penetration, arousal coursing hot through his body. Angel's hand strokes his hip, the other clasping Wes' hand as Wes, on his stomach, arches up and back into him, drawing him in deeper, letting his body accept, accommodate, devour him.

      It feels wonderful. Perfect.

      Utterly doomed.

*** 

      The day Wes discovers the prophecy, he is paralyzed. He doesn't know what to do. He checks and rechecks the translations and can come up with no other logical way to parse the sentence, no sensible alternate interpretation.

      The father will kill the son.

      He sits eating Chinese food with Fred and Gunn. Fred is waxing poetic about Connor's general cuteness, and what a good father Angel has turned out to be.  Gunn comments on the "Big Guy's" sudden swerve into mellowness.

      "Don't know what to think about that one," Gunn says with a chuckle.  "Gettin' a little too close to perfect happiness, you ask me."

      Wes mulls this, at the same time trying to ignore the easy affection between Fred and Gunn. He can't talk to them about the prophecy. They chuckle over "perfect happiness"; Wes knows all too well what it could mean.  They've never met Angelus; Wes has come as close as he ever wants to. And he's read the Watcher diaries, horrific as they are, detailing Angelus' atrocities in his heyday. If it were to happen, if Angel were to lose his soul in an attack of fatherly bliss--and it doesn't seem beyond the realm of possibility--Wes knows what Angelus would do to Connor. And he knows what that would do to Angel.

      He wishes Cordelia were here, instead of in Mexico with Groo. Cordelia has actually met Angelus, in the flesh, which puts her a step ahead of Wes, who has only been exposed to a drug-induced facsimile.  That was horrifying enough. He thinks Cordelia might know what to do. More, he thinks Cordelia would have the courage to kill Angel if it proved necessary. Wes isn't sure he could do it. Wes loves Angel too much.

      He doesn't know what to make of any of it, though. Angel is mellow, content, then suddenly manic, frightening. When they discover he's being fed Connor's blood, Wes is relieved, but also deeply disturbed. Frightened. Angel has had a taste. Can he control the urge for more? Especially if his current state of contentment could gradually erode his hold on his soul. Is that even possible? The prospect is terrifying.

      Wes doesn't know what to do. Scrolls, books, the Loa--all have betrayed him. He can't talk to Fred or Gunn. Cordelia is not available. He simply can't imagine broaching the subject with Angel. Especially after that moment, in the earthquake and the fire, and Angel's blood splattered over Connor's blanket...

      Wes stares up into Angel's face, his words like knives, eviscerating him, and sees the end of the world.

      "At least I would've had something to snack on...."