Disillusionment

            Wes has to admit, he's still in shock. A little bit, at least. He expected Angel to come back, one way or another. But now that it's happened, it seems unreal.
            He reflects on this as, watching himself in the bathroom mirror, he carefully pulls his shirt off. The gunshot wound still hurts like hell if he moves the wrong way. He still feels the need, however unfair, to blame Angel for that. Then he thinks about the look on Angel's face, the bruising all over him. Wes hadn't even asked what had happened.
            The bandages swathing his abdomen are clear of blood, finally. They have been for a while, and he's glad of this. And he sees Angel again, plowing the truck through the windows, flying out of it, attacking the Skilosh demons. His face had been covered with huge, deep, purple bruises.
            Wes puts his shirt back on. He goes out, down to his car.
            It's a short drive to the hotel. He hasn't been there in a while, but it's not as if he's forgotten the way. He pulls up in front of the building and sits staring for a minute or two.
            Somehow the place seems bigger than he remembered. Huge. Angel has been here all this time, alone. Fighting the darkness.
            But how hard had he really fought? If he'd really fought with everything he had, would he have allowed those people to be slaughtered? Okay, maybe "people" is a loose term when applied to lawyers of Wolfram and Hart, but they weren't demons. They were humans, and Angel allowed them to be slaughtered.
            Angel also saved Cordelia's life, and Wesley's. And Angel came crawling back.
            Wes gets out of the car, wincing. He needs this, needs to talk to Angel one-on-one, alone, without Cordelia present. Because Wes knows things Cordelia doesn't, things Angel told him one afternoon when Wes lay naked in his arms. About the demon, and about the struggle. Cordy knows nothing about this.
            Wesley's footsteps echo in the lobby as he walks into the hotel. The place is utterly silent. Angel is nowhere to be seen. He's here, though--Wes is sure of it.
            He hesitates, just for a moment, wondering if this is a bad idea. A few weeks ago, it might have gotten him killed. But something's changed. Angel has come back.
            Wes heads up the stairs. It hurts, even working his way up one stair at a time. He's torn himself back open too many times, and suffers still from that indignity. His body may never forgive him.
            Finally, he finds himself in front of Angel's door. He's been here before, standing here trying to decide if he should knock. Sometimes he has, sometimes he hasn't. He's been in Angel's bedroom before--he's been in Angel's bed. It's always a struggle, the decision, whether or not to open himself up this way.
            But this time the door is already ajar. Silent, Wes pushes it open.
            He sees Angel then, sitting there on the edge of the bed. Just sitting. He is shirtless, and in the light from the bedside lamp Wes can see the bruises. Not just on his face, but all over his torso and arms. They are dark, purple and black, all the more brutal against his pale skin. And Angel just sits there, and his eyes are empty.
            Wes stares for a moment, shocked. Angel looks broken. Tired. No, more than tired. Angel looks mortal.
            His head moves a little then, vague awareness coming into his eyes. "Wesley," he says.
            Of course he would know Wes is here. Wes walks into the room, still hesitant, finally comes to stand next to the bed. Angel looks up at him. The side of his face is a deep purple; his chest and stomach on that side nearly black.
            "My God," Wes breathes. "Who did this to you?"
            "Lindsey," says Angel dully. "He made me late. I almost didn't make it to you guys in time."
            It is hard to believe Angel had fought in this condition, much less defeated the Skilosh demons that had threatened them.
            "Not with his fists.  He couldn't have."
            "Truck," says Angel. "Sledgehammer." He starts to move in the bed and stops, wincing. He blinks suddenly, hard and fast. "God, Wes, this hurts."
            "No wonder." Wes takes a step forward. Something crunches under his feet. At the same time, Angel lifts his hand from the mattress and stares at it. His palm weeps blood.
            Wes looks down. The floor is littered with glass, bits and shards of it, and when he looks back up at Angel he sees suddenly that there is glass along the foot of the bed, as well. The dim light and his focus on Angel has made him miss a rather large detail--the doors into Angel's sleeping area are broken, and the glass from their windows is scattered everywhere.
            "What happened?" Wes asked. Obviously he's missing a lot of facts about the last few weeks of Angel's life.
            Angel stares at his hand, at the blood running down his wrist. "Darla," he says dully.
            Wes decides to take that at face value for the moment. There are more important things to address right now. "You can't sleep here." He moves to the bed, touches Angel's shoulder. "Get up."
            Angel looks blankly up at him. How much effort has it taken him, Wes wonders, just to get himself back here and into his own bedroom? Wes can't imagine. And now Wes has asked him to move.
            "Come on," he says gently. "I'll help you to the next room."
            And now it's Wesley's turn to draw on his last few threads of will as he urges Angel up from the bed and takes some of his weight, draping Angel's arm over his shoulders, clasping his own arm against Angel's waist. Angel is cold, icy cold, his skin almost waxy. He needs blood, Wesley realizes, and wonders how he can possibly make it down the stairs and back up again to fetch it. Especially after this--his body strains and protests at the burden of Angel's weight.
            Fortunately, they don't have far to go. Wes pushes open the door to the room next door and guides Angel to the bed. The room is clean--Wes cleaned it himself a few weeks ago, anticipating the occasional sleepover. Then Angel had shut him out, had shut all of them out, and Wes is still not entirely sure he'll ever trust Angel again.
            Angel is shaking as Wes eases him down onto the bed. He collapses backward, lying down, and Wes is surprised to see tears on his face. Angel struggles to get his feet into the bed and finally Wes grabs his ankles and heaves them up. Angel still has his shoes on; Wes unties them, pulls them off.
            "You need to eat," he says, chastising.
            "I did. Cleaned out the fridge." Angel shudders, winces again. Wes regards him soberly.
            "You're in bad shape."
            Angel makes a strangled sound that might be laughter. "Yeah." He closes his eyes. He is deathly still for a few seconds.
            "If you need blood..." Wes ventures.
            Angel's eyes snap open. "No."
            Wes nods. It was a stupid idea, anyway. He's in bad shape, himself, and any more blood loss would probably kill him. Still, it's hard seeing Angel like this. Here, close to him, and in slightly brighter light, Wes can see a concavity under the black bruising on Angel's left side--ribs smashed in, shattered.
            "Is there anything else I can do?"
            Angel gathers himself to speak. "Cream. In the bathroom."
            Wes nods. He goes back to Angel's room and searches the bathroom. There's a container of white cream next to the sink. A homemade label on its side says, "Magicky Fix-Up Cream for Angel," and Wes is surprised to recognize Willow's handwriting.
            "Willow made this?" he asks as he sits back down on the bed next to Angel.
        "Yeah. She'd been working on it for a long time--since before I left Sunnydale." Angel speaks a little more easily now, but his voice is quiet. "She sent it a couple of weeks ago.  Said she finally got it right."
            "What's in it?" He unscrews the lid and sniffs hesitantly. Mint overpowers the other, fainter odors.
            "Not sure, but it works."
            Wes scoops out a little. It shimmers on his fingers, and it is warm. Gently, he smears it over the deep, black bruise on Angel's too-cold shoulder. In spite of             Wesley's careful gentleness, Angel flinches, but relaxes a moment later, as the cream glows a little on his skin, then fades. Wes isn't sure, but he thinks the bruise looks a little lighter.
            "Don't stop," says Angel. Wes nods, and scoops out a little more of the cream.
            It seems to make very little visible different to the bruising, but Angel relaxes, slowly, by inches, as Wes treats him. Wes spreads the magic cream generously, feeling the warmth spread into Angel's flesh, feeling the familiar shapes and textures of Angel's body. It's been so long since they've been near enough to touch each other. Wes is concerned, though--he's never felt Angel this cold, and it disturbs him. Carefully, he unfastens Angel's pants, eases them off. Most of the bruising is concentrated in his upper body, but Wes strips him completely, just to be sure. He's intact under his boxers. This relieves Wes; something about the brutality made him think a sledgehammer blow to the groin wouldn't have been unexpected.
            "Roll over," Wes says, and Angel obligingly moves onto his stomach, the movement slow, stiff. Wes swallows hard. His back is every bit as damaged as his chest. More black, deep bruising over his ribs, the lines of his tattoo almost obscured by purple discoloration.
            "My God," Wes breathes, unable to hold it back. "Why did he do this?" Wes doesn't know Lindsey McDonald that well, but it's hard to imagine him lashing out with this kind of violence.
            "Darla," Angel mumbles. "Because of Darla."
            There are so many pieces missing, Wes realizes. So many things he doesn't know. Angel has been pounded nearly to death with a sledgehammer because of Darla. There is glass all over the floor of Angel's bedroom because of Darla--and suddenly Wes thinks he might see what goes in the empty spaces.
            "You slept with her," he says dully, and he can see it in his head and he doesn't want to.
            "There was a little sleeping. Not much."
            Wes can't help himself. He shoves his finger into Angel's right shoulder blade, about where the griffin's eye would be if he could see the griffin through the horrible, blue-black bruising. Angel jumps.
            "Angel, you are a fucking idiot."
            "I know," says Angel, and his voice is small.
            Wes feels bad now, for hurting Angel. He gets more of the cream and applies it gently across Angel's shoulder. He's still angry, though.
            "You told me once you would protect us if you thought you were too close to the edge. And now I find out we could easily have ended up dealing with Angelus." He tries hard not to think about the day when Angel made that promise to him, a day spent making love in Cordelia's bed. He can't help wondering how Angel would have been with Darla. Darla liked pain, liked to torture and humiliate whenever she could. Wes knows Angel can be gentle--so gentle, so careful--but he can't imagine this with Darla.
            And suddenly he's caught in the image and in the question--what would it be like to be in Darla's place, where sex and violence fused, where Angel would have used her hard, hurt her because she wanted it that way. What was it like not to be made love to by Angel the man, but fucked by Angel the vampire?
            He shivers a little, not sure if he finds this thought repulsive or arousing. Maybe a little of both.
            "There was never any danger from the curse," Angel says. "Not with her."
            "Were you certain of that when you took her to bed?"
            "I didn't really care at the time."
            This strikes Wes harder, perhaps, than anything else Angel has said. That he would risk Angelus and simply not care. This is not the Angel he has come to know. To love, if he is honest with himself. It's worse, in its way, than the slaughter of the lawyers. Because Angel, at some point, stopped caring about the very thing that defines him--his soul.
            "What did they do to you?" Wes murmurs, thinking of the last months, of Angel's ever-downward spiral, of Darla, Drusilla, everything that has come to pass. But Angel is silent under Wesley's hands, as silent as death, and Wesley realizes he has fallen asleep.
            Perhaps the pain is less, then. The bruises are just as dark, just as horrible to look at. Wesley's abdomen twinges in sympathy as he looks at them. He can't imagine enduring this kind of abuse. Then again, he is human. Angel is not.
            And suddenly Wes is tired, too. Beyond tired. Exhausted, as if all the events of the past few days have just fallen on him, and fallen hard. He's not sure he can muster the energy to go back home. He's not even sure he can muster the energy to go back downstairs.
            He looks at Angel for a long moment, and for the first time in a long time sees him through the eyes of a lover. He has pushed this aside for a long time, because if he pushes it aside he doesn't have to deal with the pain that comes with it. But now he can let it in again, if hesitantly.
            Slowly, he unbuttons his shirt, his pants, takes off his shoes. He undresses, folds his clothes neatly and lays them on the table next to the bed. Clad only in his underwear, he lies down in the bed next to Angel.
            He is just drifting to sleep when Angel suddenly rolls over, puts an arm around him, pulls him close. The cold shock of Angel's chest against Wesley's back wakes him up, but he doesn't mind.
            Angel is still asleep, and Wes has no way of knowing if he's reached for him out of affection, or simply a desire for warmth. It doesn't matter. Wes closes his eyes, and as his body warms Angel's, he drifts into sleep.
#
            He awakens a few hours later, his back against Angel's now. Angel still lies utterly still.
            Wes leans back away from him a bit. The bruises have faded visibly, the lines of the tattoo on his shoulder almost visible again. Careful, his fingers soft on Angel's skin, he touches the bruising, then leans forward to kiss Angel's back.
            Angel makes no response. Wes slips out of bed and retrieves the cream again. Angel looks like he could use another treatment. He opens the jar and sets to work.
            In spite of having had extensive physical contact with Angel over the past few months, Wes still hasn't quite gotten used to touching him. His skin is odd, cool to the touch, with a texture different from human skin. He's not certain exactly what the difference is; perhaps a slight lack of elasticity. He tries to convince himself this repulses him, but it really doesn't, in any way, shape, or form.
            He spreads the cream over Angel's shoulders, his back, as gently as he can. It shimmers and fades into Angel's skin, leaving the bruising paler in its wake. His ribs seem to have healed somewhat already; the concavity Wes noticed last night has filled in.
            Even though he's seen it already, the extent of the damage still surprises Wes, makes him hurt. Part of him wants to find Lindsey and kill him for this. The rest of him wants to curl up and hide inside Angel's strength, to feel protected there.
            This is what he has missed the most, he realizes, since Angel began his downward slide earlier in the fall. Until then, Wes had counted on the sure knowledge that, no matter how bad things got, no matter how seriously Wes managed to fuck up, Angel would always be there to pick up the pieces if necessary. But that strength, that pillar, has been gone, as it has been painful and difficult for Wes to realize Angel is just as fallible as the rest of them. Perhaps even more, because his peculiar weaknesses can lead to such spectacular fracture.
            Wes smears cream into the small of Angel's back now, down onto his buttocks. He's naked in the bed, and as Wes digs out another fingerful of ointment, he rolls over, slowly, onto his back, and opens his eyes.
            "Wes?" He sounds a little lost, as if he's forgotten where he is.
            "How do you feel?" Wes asks.
            "Like somebody hit me with a truck and then clubbed me repeatedly with a sledgehammer."
            "Still?"
            Angel gives a wry smile. "It's better. I think I'll live. Or whatever." Grim again, he pushes himself to a sitting position. Wes reaches in to continue his ministrations, treating Angel's chest and stomach. Angel lifts his arm, giving Wes access to the concavity in his side.
            "Three ribs," Angel says. "All three went through the lung. Not that it matters, since I don't use it. Hurts like a son of a bitch, though."
            "How do you know that?" Wes finds this intriguing, in a scholarly sort of way.
            Angel shrugs. "I just know. I had twenty-five broken bones last night. Now it's down to twelve. Ruptured spleen, punctured lung, massive coronary bruising, numerous lacerations and contusions...I lost a quart and a half of blood and I'm so fucking hungry I could drink you where you sit."
            "There's no more blood downstairs," Wes says.
            "I know."
            "Do you want...?"
            "No."
            "Will you be all right?"
            "I'll manage."
            "But you're hurt--"
            "Wesley." Angel's tone of voice shuts Wes down. Mostly because there is a thread of amusement in it unlike anything he's heard from Angel in a long time.
            Wes reaches for the cream again, but Angel stops him, a soft touch of cool fingers against Wesley's hand. "I only want one thing from you right now, Wes."
            Wes composes himself carefully, not at all sure where this might be going. "What's that?"
            "Forgiveness?" Angel's voice is wistful, as if he can't imagine Wes would ever grant him something so precious.
            But Wes smiles a little, and his hand turns, his fingers weaving through Angel's. "In time."
            It's the best he can do. Angel has betrayed him on so many levels it's hard for Wes to articulate them all, even to himself. He's not actually angry with Angel any more, but the pain is wide and deep, and sits in a band across his abdomen, not far from where he was shot.
            Angel's smile is sad. "Thank you," he says.
            Wes is puzzled. "For what?"
            "For telling me the truth." He pulls Wesley's hand gently toward him. "I appreciate that."
            He touches Wesley's knuckles to his lips. It's less a lover's kiss than a kiss of respect, as if Angel's kissing Wesley's ring, though he isn't wearing one. But when Wes looks up into Angel's eyes, he sees something else. That need, desperation for some kind of connection. As angry as Wesley may be, as wounded as he feels in the aftermath of Angel's betrayal, he can't deny the almost physical pull of that look. Angel needs him. More, Angel wants him.
            Wes leans in, slowly. Angel hesitates at first, then he moves in, too. They meet somewhere in the middle. Angel's mouth is lax and soft, and Wes kisses him gently. Wes draws back, just a little, and Angel says against his mouth, "Wes?"
            "Are you up to it?" Wes says by way of answer.
            "Are you?" Angel gently touches the bandages across Wesley's stomach.
            "I'll be all right as long as you don't crush me under your enormous self."
            Angel smiles vaguely, then the smile fades and he tilts his head back a little more. "Virginia."
            "Virginia left me."
            Angel's expression darkens a little in sympathy. "God, I'm sorry."
            "It's all right," says Wes, but it's not all right, because he misses her terribly, her hair and her smell and her touch and the way her body slid under and over his and made him hot and hard, and the sure and certain way her small hands touched him. And now he's on fire, thinking of her, but sad, too, and Angel's hand comes up to cup his face, and suddenly he's kissing Angel deep and soft and slow, but also needy, to the point where he feels almost pathetic, working and plundering Angel's mouth, suckling the coolness of his tongue. It's been so long since Angel has touched him like this, and it hits him deep, almost like pain, wrenching in Wesley's chest. He makes a sound in his throat almost like a sob, and suddenly Angel shifts him, pushing him back into the pillows.
            Wesley gives himself up to it as Angel shifts, lowering his body over Wesley's. Angel is naked; Wes still wears his underwear, but it doesn't matter. Angel's wide, cool chest settles onto Wesley's, though Angel still bears most of his own weight as his hands move to either side of Wesley's head, and he's just kissing him, savoring it, deep and slow, exploring every millimeter.
            After a time, he pulls back, lets Wes go. Still balanced over Wesley's body, his eyes closed, Angel murmurs, "I wasn't sure you'd ever want me again."
            In response, Wes slides a hand down Angel's back, cups his ass. Angel, eyes still closed, responds with a tightening of his eyelids, a soft, glottal sound in his throat.
            Is he thinking of Darla? The thought rushes, unbidden, through Wesley's head and he wonders again how Angel could have possibly let himself sleep with her.
            "Why?" he says suddenly.
            "Because I want you," Angel says.
            "Not me. Why her? Darla."
            Angel stills, and slowly opens his eyes. The expression in them is bleak. "She was there," he says, his voice a broken thread, "and I was empty."
            What had they done to him, Wolfram and Hart? Wes wonders if he will ever really know. They broke him, certainly, or nearly so, isolated him from the human connections that kept him in one piece.
            Then, suddenly, it occurs to Wesley--they showed him his reflection, in Darla, and then shattered it.
            Wes knows he can never understand exactly how Angel feels. He can never fathom the pain that comes with a hundred and fifty years' worth of guilt. No one can. Probably not even Angel. Angel can only carry it, feel it, aching in him every moment of his life. Wes can't conceive what it must have been like for Angel to have seen Darla made human, Darla dying, Darla Turned again.
            He touches Angel's face, gentle. "I could have been there for you, if you had let me."
            Angel shakes his head. "I couldn't risk it. The darkness--it was too close."
            "You could have lost your soul."
            "I did. But I found it again." He bends his face to Wesley's again and kisses him softly. It's sweet and gentle, almost tender, then Angel shifts to lay his face against Wesley's. Wes cradles the back of his head.
            "If you ever do anything like this again, I'll kill you," says Wes softly, and he means it.
            "Good," says Angel, and Wes gets the feeling he means it, too.
            He nuzzles into Wesley's throat, drawing a long breath, smelling him. Wes can't help but wonder what he smells like to Angel. Aroused male, broken inside where the bullet rent him. Angel's hand moves gently down Wesley's body to the bandages, caresses him carefully, acknowledging the wound. Then his hand moves sideways a little, his fingers curing around Wes' flank.
            It's a question, asked gently, and Wes' body knows the answer before his mind does. He trusts Angel--at least, he does here, in this place, in this situation. Angel shifts as, beneath him, Wes rolls over.
            Angel settles his chest against Wesley's back, still careful not to crush him, his face against the curve where neck meets shoulder. Body to body, skin against skin. Wes moves under Angel's carefully balanced weight, just feeling the wide expanse of cool skin against his back. He has missed this, the textures and temperatures and shapes so different from a human's, so different from a woman's. He closes his eyes. Angel's hands slide up his arms, his fingers weaving between Wesley's, squeezing, and Angel is quiet for a long time, just lying there. He's not breathing, of course, and the utter silence of his body, twined so intimately with Wesley's, is off-putting if Wes thinks too much about it.
            But Wes has a bad habit of thinking too much, and he's trying to break it. Especially in moments like these, when he should be thinking about the renewed intimacy, the touch, the contact, rather than about the fact that this is exactly what it would feel like to be pinned under a corpse.
            Not exactly, though, because Angel's thumbs begin to rub against the backs of his hands, and he shifts a little, adjusting. His erection prods the backs of Wesley's thighs, and Wes opens, letting the shaft settle between his legs. Angel thrusts softly, not angling for penetration--and Wes still has his briefs on, anyway--just easing his cock in and out of the space between Wesley's legs.
            It's not an unpleasant sensation, the smooth, slick movement of Angel's torturously hard cock moving against the soft, sensitive skin of Wesley's inner thighs. Wes tightens his legs a little, pulling them closer together, applying a little more pressure to Angel's sliding cock.
            This goes on for what seems to Wes to be a long time. Angel's so still and heavy on him, his only movement the easy, patient thrusting. Then the movement changes, and Angel hunches against him, and Wes feels the sudden wetness as Angel comes between his thighs. The coolness of it surprises him; it's warmer when Angel is inside him, warm with the heat of Wesley's own body, but this is tepid.
            Angel lets out a slow breath against Wesley's shoulder. It's a quiet, slow orgasm, and he's taut for a few long seconds before his strong, corded body finally unwinds, and he kisses the back of Wesley's neck.
            This wasn't what Wes had expected--he'd anticipated penetration, a slow but thorough fuck--and now he wonders what Angel might do if he takes control now. Suddenly he knows exactly what he wants to do to Angel.
            He's not sure what his motives are, though, but after a moment he decides it doesn't matter. He pushes back against Angel's chest and Angel rolls off him, onto his back. Wes moves off his stomach, shifts across the bed toward Angel.
            Angel watches him, waiting. Wes scrapes come off his thighs, pushes his underwear off. He maneuvers out of the briefs and smears his cock with Angel's semen, preparing. Then he leans into Angel, pushing his thighs back, opening him up, as he moves toward him, belly to belly.
            Angel's head lolls back and his eyes drift shut. He doesn't fight or protest Wesley's shift to dominance, but accepts it, as Wes guides his cock up against him, into him. Wes has learned by now that Angel doesn't need the same kind of careful preparation Wesley does; he can take a man's cock in with little effort, knows how to accept deep and rapid penetration. Still, Wes takes it easy, a little slow, and Angel smiles, content, as Wes moves inside him. They're both wounded, after all, body and soul, and the reaching now is less for raw sex than for reassurance of each other.
            Angel tucks his hands into the bends of his knees, pulling his thighs back, opening himself deeply to Wes. It's a vulnerable position, a trusting position, and Wes moves into it, sinking himself deep inside Angel's body, settling down against his chest. His abdomen twinges, but it's not bad. He can handle this, as long as it's slow, careful.
            Angel opens his eyes a little. Wes can barely read the dark depths, but at least the shutters are gone. He brushes his fingers over Angel's face, the purple-black bruise on his jaw. Looking down, he takes in the bigness of the body he's claiming with his own, the brokenness, the marred skin. An image flickers through his head--he holds the sledgehammer, and this is his handiwork. He almost wishes it were true, but he shoves that back, hard.
            He doesn't hate Angel. He doesn't think he ever could. He has wanted to hurt him--has wanted almost to hurt him this much--but he would never do it. He couldn't. He slides into Angel's accepting body, feels the clench of muscle, the slick, cool, open passage encircling him, and understands, suddenly and completely, that Angel is the only person in his life who has never judged him.
            He arches his back, feels the orgasm coming, lets it go. Angel's hips tilt up toward him, taking him in, the clench of muscle milking him dry. It's good; whatever permutation sex acquires with Angel, it's always good.
            When he's done, Wes shudders in aftershock, and lowers his face to Angel's, kisses him. Angel lets his legs down, cradles Wes between his thighs, brings his hands up to cup his face, and kisses him back for a long time.
            There are no words. There's no need for them. The wounds are still there, but there is opportunity for healing. Perhaps, right now, Wes can ask for nothing more.
            After a while, though, he shifts to the side, careful of his own movement, favoring his right side. "Do you think you'll come back?" he asks quietly.
            Angel regards him. "Do you think they'd have me?"
            "I'll talk to them."
            Angel nods. "All right. I'll come by later. I have to go see Kate, as soon as I can move, and then I'll come by."
            "All right."
            Wes closes his eyes. It's quiet here, in Angel's arms, as it always is. It's familiar, and it feels right. But, in his heart, Wesley knows nothing will ever be the same again.

END.