Angel stands staring at the closed door at the head of the stairs, then down
at the folders in his hands. Nothing went right, nothing came out right. He
hasn’t settled anything, or fixed anything.
He knew exactly what he was going to say to Wes when he walked in. But when
he opened his mouth, something else came out, and now Wes is gone, an abrupt
departure, Angel left standing there alone, dismissed like an errant schoolboy.
His mouth tightens. He clutches a hand on the files. He had little choice, now,
but to find Dinza.
#
Returning from the sewers, and Dinza’s domain, he feels disoriented, drained.
You have so much more to lose… What more can he possibly lose
now? Connor, Cordy—he feels like he’s been stripped already of everything
he ever loved.
Wesley.
He stops that thought before it can start. But his course changes so that he’s
no longer heading for the hotel. Instead, he emerges at street level in front
of Wesley’s apartment building.
He knows he’s not welcome. Never mind he’s been invited in before,
and so could cross the threshold if he chose. Wes doesn’t want him there.
Wes has closed himself off. It was too obvious, there in the warehouse.
Angel doesn’t understand, though. He remembers everything from the boat—Wesley’s
gentle hands, his gentle words. He knew Wes meant everything he said. But Angel
was so awkward, so stupid in the warehouse. Wes probably thinks now that Angel
has rejected him.
Mentally berating himself for his inability to say what he feels, Angel shimmies
lightly up the outside of the building. He finds Wesley’s window easily
enough, and moves along the fire escape.
Before he reaches the window, he hesitates. Soft and not-so-soft noises drift
from the partially open window. And a smell he knows all too well—the
smell of Wesley’s arousal.
He doesn’t realize his hands have tightened on the railings until he hears
the metal creak under his fingers. Carefully, he loosens his grip. He moves
toward the window.
He thought he smelled something on Wes in the warehouse, but amidst the reek
of demon blood and pus it was hard to tell. It seemed like a whiff of perfume,
and it moved when Wes did.
Not his imagination, then. He moves far enough to see over the windowsill into
the half-dark of Wesley’s bedroom.
He is naked, his body undulating among the covers, hips thrusting with that
sleek, easy grace. There’s a woman under him, her body arching against
him. Her round breasts press against his chest. As Angel watches, Wes grabs
a handful of her hair and jerks her head sideways, scrapes his teeth harshly
down her neck.
Angel’s teeth grind hard together. It’s Lilah, and he fights an
urge to climb through the window and grab her, snap her slim neck. Rip her dark
hair from her head and wear it on his belt as a trophy.
The demon is harsh inside him, demanding vengeance. He won’t take it.
His vision has gone red with rage, and he can taste blood in his mouth, but
he won’t do anything about it. He’ll just hang there at the windowsill
and watch, the rage slowly drawing back into the cold depths of himself, where
he keeps it under careful control.
Then there’s the other part of him. The part that just wants to watch.
He lets emotion drain away, forces the rage into a place where he can put a
lid on it, and takes in the scene. Wesley’s slim, lean body, moving faster
now. Angel can see that he’s fucking Lilah hard, taking her almost brutally.
Her moans are a cross between need and pain, but she doesn’t pull away.
She arches into him, encouraging him.
Angel has no interest in Lilah. He can smell her arousal, too, sweet and musky
in the chilly night air, but his attention is all for Wes. Wes is beautiful.
The way his body moves, the way his smells rise on the night. Angel takes a
deep breath and swallows. He can taste the scents, Wesley’s thick, heady
need. His own cock grows thick and heavy, but his hands remain clenched on the
metal railings. He won’t touch himself. Not here, not now.
Wes fists Lilah’s hair again, yanking at it. He looks like he’s
trying to break her neck, but she laughs as he whispers in her ear.
“Scream for me,” he murmurs. “Scream hard, you bitch.”
His hips shove forward, three times, and she does, indeed, scream. Angel sees
her body convulse, smells the sudden rush of her orgasm. Then he smells the
salt-sweet of Wesley’s come, and it’s all he can do to keep himself
still and silent. He wants to climb in that window, pin Wesley to the bed, pull
his thighs open and fuck him until he, too, screams.
But he’s not welcome. Wes has made that all too clear.
Angel’s body shivers. He waits a few minutes, until he’s calm again,
then slowly climbs back down from the window. Swift and silent in the darkness,
he goes home.