Disconsolate

       "It's Buffy."
       Angel barely hears the words coming out of his own mouth, barely sees Willow as she rises to her feet, her expression an exercise in devastation.
       His mouth moves again. Her eyes are locked to his, wide and dark and swimming with grief.
       "Buffy," he says, but no sound comes, and his knees suddenly buckle under him and he goes to the floor and then crumples, broken, and the world goes black.

       "Is he all right?" The voice is Willow's, teasing him out of the depths of unconsciousness. He feels strange, his skin hot, his head swimming with an odd, buzzing noise.
       "I'm not certain." Wesley's voice is low and laced with concern. "He's been through a great deal."
       Angel forces his eyes to open. He sees Willow there, sitting next to him on the bed. She bends toward him.
       "Angel?"
       Her hand curls around his arm. He can feel the imprint of her fingers on his skin, like brands against his flesh.
       "Willow," he whispers, but he can manage nothing else. He forces his head to turn until he can see Wes, there on his other side. "Wes?"
       Wes lays a hand on his chest. The touch is soft, intimate. "It's all right, Angel. Stay still. I think you're having a reaction to your return through the portal."
       "Buffy," he says, and the word seems distant, and he wonders if it every really meant anything at all.

       Time passes. He can feel it. It is a weight, a tangible presence in the room.
       His skin hurts.
       The air drifts around him. He can smell Willow sometimes, as if she has come into the room, but he can't see her. His eyes are strangely dead, his hearing muffled.
       He smells Wesley.
       Wes is closer. Angel feels the bed shift as Wes sits next to him. Feels Wesley's fingers curve over his chest.
       "Angel?" Wes says quietly. "You haven't fed in three days. You need blood."
       Three days. How long is three days? Angel isn't sure. Time and scent and sound flood his head, moving, swirling, eddying.
       "Buffy." He can't make any other words. His mouth, his tongue, don't seem to know how. Something blazes in the middle of his chest; pain and fear.
       "Angel, you need to eat." Wesley's fingers are gentle on his face, comb softly through his hair. His lips brush Angel's forehead. "Angel, are you there?"
       He is there, just for a moment, as his vision clears a little and he sees Wesley's concerned eyes looking down into his. "Wes," he manages.
       "Yes, Angel, it's Wesley. You need to eat."
       But the moment passes and Angel is lost again. He feels sick and weak, like he did when Faith poisoned him. He wishes he could just die--
       And suddenly he is there, and he feels her, feels her relief, her elation, her acceptance, as she lifts herself and swan-dives off the tower, as she plummets, as the wind flies into her face, merges with her, and she becomes spirit before her body can reach the ground--
       She is risen and lifted, transformed, and she is beautiful. She is happy.
       And darkness falls on Angel.

       The darkness lasts a long time. He has no sense of how long, but when he finally awakens, he knows it's nighttime.
       He opens his eyes. He is lucid. He can see. The pain, which had run in burning rivulets and sheets just under his skin, is gone.
       Buffy is dead.
       He wonders for a moment if some of what he remembers is a dream, but he knows this is not the case.
       Buffy is dead.
       The pain rises in his chest, thick and hot, a pressure bearing him down, crushing him. Tears rise and he turns to his side and lets them.
       He has never cried like this in his life. It hurts. It's like being beaten, a dull, pounding pain that wedges into him until he thinks his bones will break.
       Hands find him. Wes. Wes draws him in and holds him. "Hush, hush, it's all right." The soft words mean nothing; he clutches Wesley's lean body like a lifeline and weeps out his dead, broken heart.

      "I'm sorry," he says later, sitting next to Wes in the bed. He's embarrassed now. He can still feel the tight, dry tear tracks on his face.
       "It's all right," says Wesley. He doesn't quite look at Angel. He's embarrassed, too, Angel realizes, or at the very least uncomfortable.
       "How long has it been?" Angel's voice feels odd in his throat, as if it belongs to someone else.
       "A week," Wes answers.
       "Is Willow still here?" He knows it is too much to ask.
       "No. She went home for...for the funeral."
       Angel stares for a moment at Wes, numb. "I missed the funeral."
       "Yes, I'm afraid so."
       Angel blinks back more tears. It's easier, this time, to get them under control. "What's wrong with me?"
       "Whatever it was, it seems to have passed."
       Angel just looks at him, waiting for an actual answer, and finally Wes says, "There was a delayed reaction of some sort to the return through the portal. As well as the trauma you endured in Pylea."
       "Trauma?"
       "The sunlight, I believe, as well as the emergence of the demon. Your system was severely unbalanced."
       "I'm dead. How can my system get unbalanced?"
       "I don't know. But that appears to be what happened. You were quite ill."
       Angel can't argue with that. He looks away from Wes, staring at the opposite wall.
       "Did Willow say what happened?"
       Wesley's voice is soft. "She sacrificed herself to save the world. And her sister."
       Angel nods. "She jumped. Off a tower."
       Wes gives him a startled look. "Yes. How did you know that?"
       "I don't know." He pauses, frowning, remembering the dream, which had apparently been more than a dream. Perhaps a memory of Willow, recounting the story to Wesley. Or perhaps something else. "I should have been there for her."
       "You had no way of knowing."
       "When I went...to see her, after her mother died. She didn't tell me. I had no idea it might come to this."
       "You couldn't have known, Angel."
       Angel closes his eyes. She had jumped, fallen. And she had been happy.
       "I loved her," he says.
       Wes takes his hand. "I know."

       He goes downstairs to eat. His legs feel weak, and more than once, on the way down the stairs, he grabs at Wesley for balance and support.
       Gunn sees them coming down the last set of stairs and runs to meet them, slinging one of Angel's arms over his shoulders. Angel tries to refuse the assistance, but he needs it too badly to let pride win out.
       "Man, you look like shit," says Gunn.
       "Thanks," Angel replies.
       "He just needs to eat," says Wes. "He'll be fine."
       They help him into the office, ease him into a chair, then Wes goes to fetch blood. Gunn eyes him as he leaves the room, then turns to look at Angel.
       "You ain't fed in a week. You sure you gonna be okay?"
       Angel nods. He is suddenly, hideously tired. "How's Fred?"
       "Crazy." Gunn waves it off. "But you knew that already. She's been holed up in her room, writin' on the walls and eatin' tacos, since we got home."
       "I should talk to her." He remembers, in an intense flash, her kindness, and the way she had looked at him, even when he had worn the face of the beast.
       Wes returns with blood in a glass. "Later. Right now you need to see to yourself."

       After nearly three pints of blood, Angel feels much better. Strength flows into him as he drinks, and when he's done, he pushes himself up from the chair.
       "I'll be back," he announces.
       But Fred is asleep, upstairs in her room, and she's been holed up there so long the threshold magic no longer recognizes the hotel room as public accommodation. Angel can't go in.
       He goes back downstairs. With that done, he has no choice but to turn his attention to more immediate concerns.
       "I need to go to Sunnydale," he says, and Wes nods.
       "I know."

       He can't even wait until nightfall. Instead he hunches on the floor in the back of the big Plymouth, under a blanket, while Wesley drives. He sleeps, or lies awake listening to the road rush by only inches from his face, on the other side of the vehicle's floor.
       He knows all the ways to get to the cemetery from a sewer drain just inside the Sunnydale city limits. Wes trails along, silent. Once they reach the cemetery, coming up through a mausoleum, it's easy enough to find a shaded spot to stand, where he can see it. It's a plain, gray, granite tombstone. The only thing special about it is that it bears Buffy's name.
       He stares at it, swallows the thick lump in his throat. "I can't believe she's gone."
       "I know." Wes touches Angel's hand, but Angel doesn't respond. He can't, not right now. It hurts too much.
       There is a rustling to one side, and Angel turns to see Willow. Wes had called her before they'd left LA.
       "Hi," she says, and smiles sadly. "It's good you're feeling better, Angel."
       He nods, but can summon no words. She comes a step closer, hesitant, until her shoulder touches his arm. Grateful, he puts his arm around her and pulls her against him.
       "Wes took care of me," he says softly. He hears Wes shift on his feet, right behind him. He's past caring how Willow might interpret what he's said, but he can sense Wesley's discomfort.
       Willow settles against him and sighs. "I'm sorry, Angel. We did everything we could."
       "I know." She is warm and small against him, almost the same size as Buffy. He kisses her hair, as much for his comfort as hers.
       "Will you be all right?" she asks him.
       He considers this question, rolls it around to see how it affects his heart. "Yeah," he finally says. "I'll be all right."

       At Willow's invitation, they go back to the Summers house. There is blood in the refrigerator and Angel accepts the mugful Willow offers. He doesn't bother to ask why it's there--he can smell Spike's previous presence in the house. There must be a story there, but Angel doesn't want to ask. Whatever has gone on with Spike and Buffy, it doesn't matter now.
       Some of the weakness has returned, and the blood helps. He sits at the kitchen table, drinking, trying not to guzzle the contents of the mug. Wes sits next to him, watching with concern.
       "How are you feeling?" he asks.
       Angel nods. "Okay, mostly."
       Wes lays a hand on Angel's. Angel stares at it, grateful for the comfort. But he's numb. He hasn't realized until now exactly how numb. He can feel nothing. No pain, no acceptance, no happiness, no grief. Only a sense of emptiness, that something inside him is missing or broken.
       He lifts the mug, sips, then gulps, swigging down the rest of the blood.
       "Do you want more?" Wes asks.
       "I can get it."
       He starts to get up, but Wes touches his shoulder and stops him. "No. I'll do it."
       Angel puts his face in his hands as Wes refills his mug. "I can't feel anything, Wes."
       Wes sets the mug down on the table, lays a hand on Angel's shoulder. He says nothing. Finally Angel looks up.
       "She was happy. When she died, she was happy."
       "How do you know that?"
       Angel shakes his head. "I just do."

       Willow invites them to spend the night, but Angel turns her down. He doesn't think he could bear to stay here that long, here where the air is steeped with Buffy's smell.
       They stay until nightfall, then drive home. Angel is silent behind the wheel. He's trying not to think. When he lets himself think, his mind turns to Buffy. The sound of her laughter, the shape of her smile, the taste of her skin.
       Halfway home, he pulls into the parking lot of a hotel by the highway and shuts off the car. His hands are shaking.
       "I can't drive anymore."
       "I can drive the rest of the way home," Wes offers.
       Angel shakes his head a little. "I don't want to go home."
       "What do you want to do?"
       "I don't know." He has never felt so utterly dead.
       Wes' forehead creases into a frown. "We could just stay here, if you like."
       Angel squints at the light of the hotel. This hadn't occurred to him. Suddenly it seems like a good idea--to stay somewhere where there are no ghosts.
       "Yeah," he says. Then, almost as an afterthought, "If it's okay with you."
       "It's fine. I've got nothing on at home. I can spare the evening."
       Angel nods, grateful. He gets out of the car and they head for the hotel.
       It's not until they're standing in front of the reception desk that other implications of this decision strike him. He turns to Wes and says quietly, "One room or two?"
       Wes swallows. Angel can see in his expression that he understands exactly what Angel's asking.
       "One," Wes says. "One is fine."
       Again, Angel is grateful. He smiles a little at Wes, but he's not sure how to express his feelings. Certainly not here, with the harsh lights blazing down and the bored receptionist waiting patiently for someone to pay her. So he says nothing. He pays for the room, and they walk down the hallway.
       The bed is king-sized, to Angel's relief. He likes a big bed. He goes into the bathroom and stares at the empty mirror. It reminds him of why he couldn't stay for Buffy, why he hadn't been there for her. He can't change what he is.
       Wes comes in behind him, looks at the mirror, then at Angel. Even Wes, who knows exactly what Angel is, seems taken aback at the sight of only his own reflection.
       "I would have died for her," Angel says suddenly. "Without question, without hesitation."
       Wes nods. He seems unsettled. He looks at the mirror, where only his own face is reflected, and says quietly, "Would you die for me?"
       "Yes," says Angel, and it comes out so quickly, so firmly, that he knows he means it. But he also knows it isn't exactly what Wes is looking for. But what Wes wants, Angel can't give him. Not quite. "Is that enough?" says Angel, and he searches Wesley's eyes in the mirror.
       Wes is silent for a time, then finally he nods. "It has to be."
       "Wes--"
       "Don't." There is no bitterness in Wesley's voice, and his mouth curves a little, almost into a smile. "It's all right, Angel. I understand."
       Angel nods. He wants to say more, feels like he should say more, but he can't. There's too much inside him right now, and at the same time not enough. He feels so broken he doesn't think he has anything left to give Wesley.
       "I'm going to take a shower," he finally mumbles, and Wes nods.
       Alone in the bathroom, Angel strips and runs the water. The water pressure is intense, and he makes the water far too hot. When he gets in, it's like being rammed repeatedly with hot pokers. He lets himself absorb the pain. It makes him feel a little less numb, but not much.
       Standing there with the water pounding on him, he feels like he's being flayed alive. This is how he should feel, he realizes. This is how Buffy's death should hurt him. This pain, this agony, his skin being pounded off his body in sharp, hot pinpricks of misery.
       Why doesn't he feel this way inside? Why is he so fucking empty?
       And then the tears come. Again. It is better alone, he decides, better to wring himself dry here under the pounding water where the sound of his sobbing won't even make it through the door to Wesley. His fists clench and he wants to break something--the ceramic tiles, the wooden wall, his own bones--but instead he sinks to the floor of the tub and curls around himself and weeps into his knees while the water flays him. There's barely enough room for him in the tub--it's cheap and narrow, a hotel tub. A fist of pain slams into his chest and pulls pieces of him out, ripping, tearing.
       Green eyes, smiling, bright and innocent. Shining with love. Her small hands, curled against his face, around his cock. The small bulk of her under him, the heat inside her body. Her laughter and her voice. Her smell, the fall of her hair over his hands. It's broken, fragmentary, pale. And it is all he has left.
       After a long time, he gets up. The water is getting cold. He turns it off. His chest hurts from sobbing, and he doesn't really feel any better.
       Getting out of the shower, he grabs a towel. They're small and ratty and it's going to take at least four of them before he's dry. He scrubs his chest and glances toward the door.
       There's a gym bag lying there, gray and squatty. It's not his, and it wasn't there when he came in. Curious, he gives himself a cursory swipe with a couple of towels and goes to see what's in the bag.
       There's a change of clothes, right down to underwear and socks, and, underneath it all, a tube of KY.
       Angel looks at the door. How can Wesley offer him so much, knowing how little Angel has to give back? It seems almost wrong to need him so much.
       He dries off and pulls on the clean underwear, then goes back out to the bedroom, carrying the gym bag in one hand and his dirty clothes in the other.
       "Thank you," he says.
       Wes nods. He's sitting on the bed, looking at a book. It's one of his research tomes from the hotel. And he has his own gym bag. Angel nods toward it.
       "How did you know?"
       "I didn't," says Wes. "It was just in case." He holds Angel's gaze a moment, then turns back to his book.
       Angel sits on the bed next to him. "I think I used all the hot water. I'm sorry."
       Wes shrugs. "It's okay. I took a shower last night." He looks at Angel sidelong. Angel can't help wondering what he meant by including the KY. That he wants it, or just that he is available? Does it matter?
       "Wes," he says, but when Wes looks up at him, he can summon nothing else.
       Wes watches him for a moment, then closes his book. "You can talk to me, Angel. If you like."
       Talking. It seems like more than he can possibly manage right now. But something has risen inside him, and he knows he has to let it come out.
       "When I was cursed--" He stops for a moment. The words feel strange coming out of his mouth. Wes waits, quiet. "When I was cursed, I didn't really understand what had happened to me. I knew I couldn't kill anymore, not the innocent, at least. I knew it hurt. I didn't understand why Darla wouldn't take me back. All I wanted was her. She was...she had been my whole world for over a century." He pauses, swallows. "She was my Sire. There's really no way I can explain that to you, not so you'll understand what it means."
       Wes just nods. Angel closes his eyes, gathering himself. He's wished he could feel something; now he can and part of him wishes he couldn't. "I went for a long time just drifting. I didn't know how to be--anything. Then I saw her." His voice is thick but there are no tears. He doesn't think he could cry any more now if he wanted to. "Golden and beautiful. Alone. She needed--something. Someone. I was arrogant enough to think she needed me."
       "Angel--"
       But Angel shakes his head. "No, that's not right. That isn't the way it was." He feels like he's babbling now, but he needs to get this out. "I needed her. When I saw her-- When I saw her for the first time, I think that was when I really understood what having a soul meant. Beyond the torment and just aching for everything I'd done, everyone I'd killed. It was like I'd spent the last hundred years staring at the blood on my hands, and that day I finally realized there was a way to wash it off." He takes a slow breath. The air clears him out, steadies him, in spite of the odors of starch and disinfectant. "I'd had a soul nearly a century, but it wasn't until then that I actually chose it."
       He stops, staring down at his hands. They're trembling.
       "There was something about her," Wes ventures. "Something powerful, beyond the usual Slayer. She was...unique."
       Angel closes his eyes again. "She saved me."
       He sits there for a moment, still, lost in the darkness behind his own eyelids. Then, suddenly, he feels Wesley's fingers curl against his neck, gentle. Angel opens his eyes. He is starting to feel something now, and what he feels is dark and deep and endless. If he falls into it, he'll never crawl back out.
       But Wesley's hand is warm against his throat, and he says softly, "Let me help you."
       Angel just looks at him, as he sits there at the edge of the abyss, and wonders if Wes really can pull him out, or if he should just let himself go, let himself fall, and then Wes can put a stake through him and end all of it. He's not sure which would be the better choice. He is, however, completely sure that Wes has a stake in his own gym bag. Because Wes undoubtedly has already figured out what Angel's choices will come down to.
       And Angel isn't sure which way he's going to go. Death suddenly seems like something soft and sweet and lovely, and maybe he can find her there, somehow...
       Then Wes leans in and kisses him. He's hesitant at first, gently fitting his lips against Angel's. His mouth is hot and soft, and he cups his hand around Angel's neck, lifts the other to lay it against Angel's chest. Angel can feel the life inside his fingers, his palm, the moving of his blood.
       Angel's mouth yields to him, and he clasps a hand around Wesley's arm, drawing him in. The darkness fades a little. There is light here. It's not a golden Slayer-light, but it's something he can hold onto.
       Wesley's thumb rubs circles around Angel's nipple, and his body reacts, tightens. He can smell Wesley's arousal now, and this relieves him. It's not just a pity fuck to Wes. Angel doesn't think he could stand that.
       Wes presses harder into him, deepening the kiss, and Angel opens his mouth, lets Wesley in.
       It feels good. He can't deny that. He's come to crave Wesley's mouth, his body, his hands. But he's never comfortable asking. It has to be this--Wes coming to him. He kisses Wes deeply, taking in his mouth, all of it, the heat and textures, the pure, human taste. Devours it.
       Wes breaks off suddenly, gasping. Angel obediently withdraws. Wes gives him a sidelong look, then takes his glasses off and sets them on the bedside table.
       "Wes--?" Angel starts, but Wes comes right back into the fray, pushing Angel back against the bed. He kisses him hard, his hands questing over Angel's bare torso. There is desperation in his grasping caresses. Buffy's death has affected him, too--she was young, vital. And mortal.
       He's chewing into Angel's mouth now, devouring him. Angel clutches him close, pulling at his shirt. He pulls too hard and the buttons tear off, but now Angel has hot, bare torso against his, the hair on Wesley's chest rasping against his skin.
       Wes breaks loose again, suddenly. His breathing is heavy and ragged. He shifts against Angel. He's hard, and his cock prods into Angel's groin.
       "What do you want?" he asks.
       "Fuck me," says Angel. "Hard. Hard as you can. Make it hurt."
       Wes blinks at him. "That's what you want?"
       "Yes."
       Wes seems to gather himself. He bends back down to Angel, kisses his face, his throat, his shoulders, Angel shoves Wesley's shirt the rest of the way off him, starts work on his pants. Unbuckle, unbutton, unzip, and then he has his hand inside Wesley's underwear, and his cock is hot and thick, straining against Angel's hand.
       Wes sucks air in through his teeth as Angel works him. His fingers dig into Angel's shoulders, and suddenly he just shoves at Angel, pushing him over onto his stomach.
       There's a pause. Angel presses his face into the pillow, waiting.
       Finally, Wes slides his hands down Angel's back, his hands dragging against his skin. He cups Angel's buttocks and Angel shifts, giving him better access. Wes positions himself, and for a moment Angel thinks he's going to back out, that he won't be able to do it...
       Wes shoves, hard, and Angel convulses under him, unable to hold back an exclamation of pain. Wes goes deep and hard, and it hurts like hell, and it's exactly what Angel wants. He wants to feel the pain, wants to feel Wesley's cock tearing inside him, burning like a branding iron, because the pain is better for him than any gentleness could ever be, because it reminds him of everything he is, everything that made it impossible to stay in Sunnydale.
       Wes retreats, but Angel arches back into him, bringing him deeper inside. He hasn't hurt like this during sex since Darla--it seems an eternity. She knew how to hurt him, how to arouse him in ways only another vampire would understand. He can smell his own blood, and it's almost enough to make him come right there, but he holds it back, clings to the edge of the building orgasm. He wants to keep it at bay as long as possible.
       Wes begins to thrust, hesitant at first, then more authoritatively as Angel keeps pushing back into him, encouraging him. Finally he settles down onto Angel's back, slides his hands under Angel's arms, grasps his shoulders from beneath, and thrusts in earnest. Hard and fast, brutal, just what Angel wants.
       He's afraid Wes might not be able to keep it up, that he'll back off, but he doesn't. He digs his fingers deeply into Angel's shoulders and pounds him, until Angel shoves his face into the pillow, his vision gone hazy red with an intensity of pain that is the ultimate in vampiric arousal, until he can barely hold onto the edge of the abyss, his body taut, pressure pounding in his pelvis--
       And suddenly Wes spears him hard and deep, and comes, and Angel, teetering on the edge of orgasm, teeters back the other way.
       He waits until Wes is done pulsing inside him, then makes a rapid, almost violent move, hauling Wesley off his back and under him. Wesley's whole body clenches.
       "Angel--"
       "Hush," says Angel. He knows what Wes is thinking, and he uses his hands to ease the fear, gentling him, easing him. He slides his palms over Wesley's warm, lean body, takes in his shapes, his textures. Wes relaxes.
       Finally, Angel reaches for the gym bag he tossed on the bed when he came out of the shower, and extracts the tube of KY. He's not going to hurt Wes--doesn't want to--though he knows the thought crossed Wesley's mind that Angel would reciprocate what he asked from Wes.
       But Angel hurts, even now, and he would never do that to Wesley, because to Wes it would just be pain, searing, hideous, not the red-and-black, glorious agony it is for Angel. Because Wes is not a vampire.
       Angel coats his fingers and works on Wesley for a few minutes, easing him open. He makes it rough because it seems Wesley wants that, but not so rough as to be painful. Fingers still inside, he shifts over Wesley and bites with blunt teeth into the back of his shoulder. Wes moves under him, pressing back to accept penetration, reaching up to grab Angel's hair as Angel bites hard enough to leave a mark, not hard enough to break the skin.
       Wes is as ready as he's going to get, and Angel slides his fingers out and grasps his own cock. More lube, just in case. Wes lies there on his stomach, open, trusting. Angel slides a hand up Wesley's arm, to his hand, laces his fingers through Wesley's, and clasps his hand that way as he guides his cock inside.
       He slides in, careful, bends to kiss the back of Wesley's neck, next to his own teeth marks. Wes moves, opening, accepting, as Angel sinks into him.
       Angel still aches from what Wes did to him. The pain has aroused him to the point where he wants to take Wes hard and fast, but he forces himself to maintain control. It's good this way, too, slow and easy, careful. Wes expels a shuddering breath as Angel moves in deep, slowly sheathing himself. The heat is almost more than he can bear--his skin seems overly sensitized, perhaps from the pounding he took in the shower, perhaps just from grief.
       He takes Wes in a deep, slow glide and God, it feels so good he thinks he might start crying again. He has been ripped to pieces over the past week, and now, finally, he's starting to feel it. He buries his face in Wesley's neck and breathes his smell, draws it in deep. He has left angry, ragged marks on Wesley's skin, and he regrets that now, kisses the marks, slides his tongue over them.
       Wes moves under him, nestling into the movement of Angel's mouth. "Please," he whispers.
       Angel withdraws, thrusts gently, then again, more firmly this time as Wes arches back into him and moans, a dark, sweet sound of arousal.
       Angel's fingers tighten on Wesley's and he slides his face through Wes' hair, smelling scalp, shampoo. Wesley's free hand comes up, at an awkward angle, to cup the back of Angel's neck. Angel lips the back of his ear, licks his earlobe, sinks again into Wesley's body. It feels like home.
       Wes meets him thrust for thrust, slowly, but taking Angel all the way to the root. He is hot and slick, accepting, and finally Angel lets go. The orgasm takes him from his loins to the top of his head, wringing him, wrenching, suffusing him with sensation so intense he can barely contain it, and it shudders out of him until he feels like he's coming all the way to the tips of his fingers.
       It takes a long time moving through him, and Wes clutches at him in their awkward but somehow perfectly aligned embrace, until finally, his eyes wet again, Angel kisses Wesley's neck again, taking the heat and the flavor of Wesley's skin into his mouth, comforting himself with that.
       He lies there for a time, absorbing the feeling, the emotion, that has finally come back to him, until Wes says softly, "Angel?"
       "What?"
       "Some of us need to breathe."
       "Oh." Chagrined, Angel rolls off him. Wes is smiling.
       "God, you're huge."
       "Sorry."
       Wes sobers. Angel has shifted away from him, but Wes closes the distance, cupping Angel's face in his hands. "It's okay." He pauses. "Are you all right?"
       "No," says Angel, because there's no point giving Wesley anything but the truth.

       He awakens abruptly, and thinks he might have been dreaming, but if he was, he can remember none of it. Wes is curled up against his back, warm, his breathing rasping close to a snore. Angel lies still, feeling the quiet, lean bulk behind him, and lets himself think.
       He can remember exactly the way she smelled, tasted, the exact shape of her hands. The textures of her skin, down her back, on her breasts, the insides of her thighs. The taste of her blood and the way she had shivered under him as he drank her.
       She was happy. She threw herself from the tower and she was happy. He knows this. It doesn't help.
       Wesley's bulk behind him is a comfort and an anchor, but he can't use Wes like that. He loves Wes in his own, careful way, but to turn to him again, right now, would be wrong. He's taken far too much from Wes already, and senses he's given very little back.
       There's really only one thing he can do, he realizes. Only one path to take, to keep his emotional state from destroying Angel Investigations, as it almost did once before.
       Wes shifts against him, and his breathing becomes smoother, quieter.
       "Wes?" Angel ventures, in a whisper.
       Wesley's breath hitches, smoothes out again, a little faster now. "Yes?"
       "I'm going to go."
       Wes is silent a moment. "Go where?"
       "I'm not sure yet. Away." He pauses, looks at his own hand, curled there in front of his face, on the sheet. "Just for a while. Until I get things sorted out."
       "You want to be alone." Wesley's voice is dull, toneless.
       "It's not like that, Wes. I just...I need time. I need to work through this."
       Again, Wes is silent, but Angel hears him clench his teeth. Then he relaxes again. "I can help you."
       "No." It comes out too fast and Angel regrets that immediately. "I can't...I can't ask you for that."
       "Why not?" It seems like a logical question. "If you can't ask me that, then what am I to you?"
       Angel doesn't know what to say. He's bad at expressing himself in the best of times--he knows this--but this is too layered, too complicated, and he doesn't even know where to start.
       "Wes--" He has no idea where he might go from there.
       "Forget it," Wes says tersely.
       "Wes, please." He can't break this. He has broken far too many things in his life already and this is too important for him to lose. But he can't tell Wes what he wants to hear, because it isn't true. And he can't stay, because what he needs now is not a shoulder to cry on or a lover to take away his pain, but a place where he can be alone, in silence, with his memories and his loss and the echoes inside his broken soul.
       There's a moment of silence. It stretches too long. Finally Wes says thickly, "I'm sorry."
       Angel closes his eyes, lets that slim knife of pain settle into his heart. "I'm sorry, too."

       He has a hard time meeting Wesley's eyes as they get dressed and repack the gym bags. He keeps hurting Wes without intending to, and he hates himself for that. It's one more sin, one more black mark on his already blackened soul.
       Wes, zipping up his gym bag, looks at him sidelong. "I'll pull the car around in front of the lobby. There's an overhang there. You should be all right."
       Angel nods. He watches Wes out of the corner of his eye, watches his lean body moving as he picks up the duffel bag and snags Angel's keys from the dresser.
       "I'll miss you," he blurts, and Wesley's head jerks up as if Angel's voice has stabbed him.
       Wes looks at Angel for a moment, and Angel just stands there, feeling like he's ripped his own chest open. Finally, Wes smiles.
       "Well. That's something, I suppose." He holds a hand out toward Angel, gesturing for him to follow. "Let's go home."

END.