"She was in your room? In your bed?"
            Cordelia looks indignant, and Angel can't blame her. He nods a little, afraid any vocalization might make the situation worse.
            "She could have killed all of us." Cordelia's eyes spark fire. "She could have killed me. And you didn't find this possibility compelling enough to bother to tell us what was going on?"
            "I had no reason to believe she was alive, Cordy." Angel has to protest now--Cordy's just not being fair. "No reason to think she was anything but a dream."
            This placates Cordelia not at all. "It never occurred to you that a bunch of crazy wet dreams might be--oh, I don't know--dangerous?"
            Angel can't even answer that one. It seems so absurd on the surface, but on the other hand--
            "Angel's right," Wesley says then, and Angel looks at him in surprise. Wes has been silent throughout Angel's confession, and until now Angel hasn't been sure which side he's going to take. "There was no way he could have known. Apparently she was using calynthia powder to keep him asleep, so he wouldn't suspect."
            "And now I know," says Angel. "So I'm telling you."
            Cordelia still doesn't look happy. "And now you know, so you're going to get all broody and obsessive and drive us all completely nuts."
            She rolls her eyes and trounces out of the office, leaving Angel to respond lamely, "I am not!"
            He turns back to see Wesley regarding him with a look that would be chastising if it weren't so obvious he's trying not to laugh.
            "You know you will," Wes says.
            Angel gives him a look of irritation, then gives it up. "You know me too well."
            And suddenly Wes looks uncomfortable. Angel realizes he's been dreading this moment. Or perhaps anticipating it. He's really not sure. He's known that, as some point, he's going to have to deal with Wes.
            They're alone now, so it seems like a good opportunity, but Angel isn't sure what to say, what to do.
            "You should have told me," Wes says.
            Angel blinks. "You just said--"
            "I know what I just said. And there wasn't any way you could have known. But Angel--" Wes' lips are thin and Angel can smell his anger, thin and metallic. "Dammit, Angel, how could you not trust me with this? After everything--"
            He stops. Angel can't blame him for being unable to put words to what he's thinking.
            "I know," says Angel gently. "I'm sorry."
            Wes nods, but his mouth is still set in a thin, uncompromising line. "What are you going to do now?"
            Angel shakes his head. "I don't know. She's human, Wes. She has a soul. And Wolfram and Hart--I can't imagine how they must be playing her. I have to do something."
            He looks to Wes for approval, but sees none.
            "You can't let this consume you," Wes says, and Angel knows in that moment that Wes will never understand. That he can't. "Darla's isn't the only soul in this city in need of saving."
            "I know," Angel says. But something inside him breaks. He's told Wesley so much, yet Wes understands so little. And whatever quest draws Angel to Darla--and Angel's not certain yet what that will be--Wes will have no part in it. Wes disapproves, because Wes can't possibly understand what I means to have been the kind of creature Darla was, and to suddenly acquire a soul.
            So Angel turns away, and says with forced confidence, "It'll all work out, Wes. Don't worry about it."
            Of course it doesn't work out, because Wolfram and Hart have their own agenda, and it has nothing to do with the redemption of Darla's soul. Angel, beaten and drained, can do nothing but watch as Drusilla, his dark, broken childe, Turns the woman Darla has become.
            She had been ready. Moments away from finding the single thing Angel has longed for all this time. Peace. Now she will never find it, unless he can find her in time to keep her from becoming a demon again.
            They leave him there in a crumpled heap on the floor. He can't move, can't get himself to his feet, is too exhausted even to weep, though he wants to. He manages to get to his cell phone, and calls Gunn, because he only has the strength to push one button on the phone and the one he hits is Gunn's speed dial button.
            Gunn practically has to carry him to the car. Angel drifts in and out during the ride to the hotel, and when they get there Gunn drags him inside. Angel tells the others what happened. At least, he thinks he does. Nobody seems to understand him. By the time he manages to dig a stake out of a cabinet, though, Wes at least seems to have figured out what Angel's saying.
            And then everything goes black.
            When he wakes up, he's upstairs in his bed.
            "Damn, he's really out of it." This is Gunn's voice, wavering in and out.
            "Have to..." Angel isn't sure he's actually talking. He's so tired...
            "Angel, try not to talk." Wes' voice shivers with pain and Angel feels him touch his right wrist. Angel flinches, remembering the basin of holy water, the key at the bottom.
            "Darla," Angel says. "Have to..."
            Wesley's hand touches his shoulder. "It's all right, Angel. We have a few more hours."
            "He gonna be all right?" Gunn asks.
            "I'll take care of him. Gunn, get online and see what you can find out about where they might have taken Darla. I'll be down in a few minutes to help."
            "Okay."
            Angel drifts out for a moment. He's still trying to talk, to make Wes understand. He needs to get out of bed now, to find Drusilla, to stop Darla's rebirth. His attempts seem not to accomplish anything, though.
            When he fades back into consciousness, Wes is unbuttoning his shirt. Drawing back Angel's lapels, he lets out a gasp of pained astonishment. "This is bad."
            Angel opens his eyes, tries to push himself up on his elbows. "I tried to save her. They destroyed her. She had a chance, Wes. They took it from her." His voice comes choked; he can barely make words.
            "Hush, Angel. Shh." Wes pushes Angel's shirt back. "There was nothing you could have done. Not in this condition."
            "It was for nothing. Nothing." He is still so tired. His skin hurts where the crosses burned him. He hurts everywhere.
            Wes' hands are gentle as he assesses the wounds. "You need to feed," he says, matter-of-fact.
            Angel struggles again, this time managing to get to a sitting position. Wes helps him, leans him against the headboard.    "There's blood in the refrigerator," Angel says.
            "That won't be enough. Not if you want to find Darla before sunrise."
            Angel's head is beginning to clear. His wounds are healing--he can feel himself knitting back together--but it isn't fast enough.
            "The hospital," he manages. "I have a contact there. You can get blood, bring it back."
            "Angel..."
            There's an odd note in Wesley's voice. Angel shifts his gaze, looks into his face. Wes' mouth is set in a firm line. Angel shakes his head, but before he can speak, Wes says, "Angel, listen to me. I know how important this is."
            Angel says nothing. He can't seem to summon coherent thought.
            And Wes is unbuttoning his own shirt. Angel stares at Wesley's hands, watches the long fingers maneuver the buttons. Watches as the familiar planes of Wesley's chest are bared to his view.
            "She had a soul." Wesley's voice is sincere. "She had a chance for redemption. They took that away from her. And you don't want to see her become what she was before."
            Angel nods. Wesley does understand. Some of it, at least. Perhaps not the deeper things--the things even Angel doesn't quite understand.
            "You need to get to her. I understand that." He slides his shirt off. "It has to be someplace the others won't see."
            "Wes, no."
            "Just do it, Angel. You know it's the most expedient way." He presses a hand under the opposite arm. "There's a vein in the armpit, correct?"
            Angel pushes himself up a little farther, straightening his back against the wall. "Like I want to bite your damn armpit."
            "It's either that or the groin, and frankly a groin bite sounds like something that might put me out of commission for a while."
            Angel looks at Wesley's bare torso. Instinct has taken over and he can hear every corpuscle moving, the opening and closing of valves in individual veins.
            "Something other than a major vein would be better." Angel can't believe he's actually giving this serious consideration. "I won't be able to take as much."
            "Whatever you think is best."
            "I think it's best I don't do it at all."
            Wes bends in to him, looks directly into his eyes. "It's the only way to save her."
            Angel knows he's right. But...human blood. The last living blood he tasted was Kate's. He'd taken too much from her, lost in the heat and the thick, sweet taste of it, his mind clouded by the effects of the Shroud. It has haunted him ever since, the way the taste of Buffy's blood haunted him for months.
            He can smell it, hear it. He wants it. And so, he realizes, does Wesley.
            The blood calls to him. So does Wesley's anticipation, his arousal. It's not something he can easily ignore, especially in the state he's in. And Wesley's taking off his glasses. He lays them on the bedside table, then looks at Angel expectantly.
            Angel leans into him. His body wavers; he's having a hard time making it move the way he wants it to. But the demon has no such difficulty. It surfaces in a lurch of transformation that almost hurts, the bones in his face realigning, teeth lengthening. Wes doesn't even flinch.
            Angel closes his hands on Wesley's shoulders. Every instinct in him urges him to go for the throat, but he forces himself to lay his cheek against Wesley's chest, to listen to his heartbeat for a moment. It grounds him, makes it easier to maintain control. Then he turns his head, and bites into Wesley's shoulder.
            Now Wes flinches, but only a little. His hands come up to push Angel away, but instead they flutter uselessly in the air for a moment until they finally land in Angel's hair. And he cradles Angel's head there against him as Angel drinks.
            It's hard, at first, to get a steady flow of blood. Angel clenches in harder, his teeth tearing deeper into the soft flesh. Wes lets out a trembling moan of pain, but he doesn't pull back. It would be easier, Angel knows, if he'd gone for a big vein. But he's not sure he can trust himself not to kill Wes that way.
            Finally, he's ruptured enough capillaries and small blood vessels that he can drink in earnest. The blood flows hot into his mouth, thick and sweet, and he swallows convulsively, pulling Wes even harder into him.
            Wes is taut in his embrace, fighting his body's natural reaction to the pain. Gradually, though, he relaxes. Angel knows this moment--the moment when the victim is taken over by the feed. Wesley's hands clench briefly in Angel's hair, then slide down his back. It's a caress, an invitation, though he's not sure Wes knows this.
            The blood is revitalizing him already, filling him. He can feel the pain fade from his skin, his ravaged hand. Wes presses up against him, as if begging him to take more. And Angel, who's done this more times than he can count--certainly more times than he wants to remember--lets his uninjured left hand move down Wesley's body, to cup his crotch.
            Wes is hard. Hardly a surprise--Angel hasn't taken a victim yet who wasn't aroused by the experience, even in spite of the fear. He unfastens Wesley's trousers, slips his hand inside.
            Wes' cock is hot in Angel's hand. He curls his fingers around the hard length, still drinking, his mouth pulling harder as his hand pulls gently. He's drinking hard now, filling his mouth and swallowing in a fast, urgent rhythm. Wes starts to thrust through his fingers at the same tempo.
            It's a good gauge for when to stop. When Wes pops, Angel will stop feeding. He sucks hard, clutching Wesley's body, forcing his fingers to stay loose around his shaft, feeling the slick layer of the retracted foreskin sliding against his hand. The flow of blood into his mouth isn't nearly as rapid or satisfying as it would be from a vein, but it's good. It warms him, makes the aches in his body seem less intense.
            Wesley's head tilts a little, resting against Angel's. His body is taut, working, thrusting through Angel's loosely curled fingers. Faster and faster, and Angel draws and swallows the hot blood, and suddenly Wes stiffens and spills hot come over Angel's hand.
            Angel tears his face away from Wesley's shoulder. He forces his eyes to close, forces his face to change. At the same time, he slides his thumb over Wes' glans, milking the last of his orgasm out of him.
            Wes is gasping, still holding on to Angel. He tautens and jerks and thrusts again, but he doesn't have much left to give. Finally he's done, and Angel lets him go. He wipes his hand dry on the sheets; he can change them later.
            "You okay?" he asks Wes.
            Wes breathes deeply a few times, looks down at his torn shoulder. "I'm..." He shakes his head, as if perhaps not sure how he feels. "How are you?"
            Angel lifts his right hand. The skin has already turned from ravaged red to near-healthy not-quite-pink. "Better."
            "Good." Wes winces. "Then it was worth it."
            "I hurt you."
           "You bit me. Of course you hurt me. Now get yourself together. You need to find Darla."
            Angel nods. He gets out of the bed, goes to the bathroom, where he retrieves gauze and a tube of Neosporin. He comes back to the bed to find Wes zipping his pants. He looks a little embarrassed. Ridiculous, Angel thinks, after the intimacy they've shared, but this is Wes. It's just the way he is.
            Then, with a jolt, Angel remembers Virginia Bryce. He had completely forgotten. He stops there next to the bed, staring at Wesley.
            "What?" says Wes, looking up at him.
            "Virginia," says Angel.
            Wes shrugs a little, then flinches at the pain. "I'll tell her it was a work-related injury."
            "Not that." He sits next to Wes and opens the tube of ointment. Wes stares at the bedsheets.
            "It's okay."
            Angel shakes his head. "No, it isn't. I didn't even ask."
            "Did I stop you?" Finally, Wes looks up, and there's a certain bleakness in his eyes. "For a moment, there, I'm afraid she rather slipped my mind, as well."
            Angel has nothing to say to that, so he squeezes a generous amount of Neosporin onto his hand and gently applies it to Wesley's shoulder. Wesley watches his ministrations for a moment, then says, "Right now the concern must be for Darla."
            Angel coats the wound liberally with the antibiotic ointment. The wound is ugly and it's difficult for him to even look at it. The mark of his own teeth, jagged, brutal. But Wesley's words bring him back to what's been haunting him these past weeks. "How could they just--take that from her?"
            Wes watches Angel carefully tape gauze over the wound. He still seems uncomfortable. Angel doesn't understand this; Wes has helped patch up Angel more than once.
            "Wolfram and Hart giveth, Wolfram and Hart taketh away," Wes says.
            Angel gives him a sharp look. "They gave it to her."
            "I know. She didn't deserve it, she didn't want it. But you do."
            Angel focuses on Wesley's shoulder. He doesn't even want to think about Wesley's exact meaning--does he mean Angel wants humanity, which is true, or that he deserves it, which is debatable? Carefully, he touches the tape into place, makes sure the gauze is secure. He holds his hands against Wesley's chest perhaps a breath or a heartbeat too long, feeling the warmth.
            "This'll be all right," he says.
            "What about you?"
            "I'm fine."
            "Then why are you still here?"
            Angel makes himself look into Wesley's face. "Because I'm taking care of you." Gently, he pulls Wesley's shirt back into place, starts to fasten the buttons. Wes pushes his hands away and finishes the job himself. He looks down at the bed--anywhere but at Angel. Finally, he picks up his glasses and puts them on.
            "You'll need more blood. Go on downstairs." His voice quavers a little. "Tell Gunn I'll be down in a moment to help with the computer."
            Angel nods. He feels as if there's more to say; Wes has given him so much here--more than Wes can ever truly understand. But Angel can't quite acknowledge that, can't find his way into the right words.
            Finally, he goes downstairs.
            They find Darla, but Angel is too late. Too late for her, and, it seems, as he closes the door to Holland Manners' wine cellar, too late for himself. They have no idea the darkness he walks next to, what will happen when he lets it fill him.
            He knows he has to do it, knows it's the only way, but he can't look into Wesley's eyes as he fires them all.