DISQUIET

      Fred is lurking outside Angel's room. Angel can smell her. She's been out there for nearly five minutes. He's been waiting for her to knock but she has just stood there. A couple of minutes ago, it sounded like she was crying, but she's not crying now.

      Knock, already, Angel thinks, and finally he gets up out of his chair and walks over to the door and opens it.

      Fred jumps and stares up at him, her big eyes wide. "I--" she starts, but Angel interrupts gently, "Why don't you come in."

      She nods, looks down at her hands, which are clasped in front of her, and walks into the room. "This is nice," she says, and Angel realizes she's never been here before. The realization surprises him a little.

      "Have a seat," he says, pointing toward one of the soft chairs in the sitting room.

      She settles down onto the very edge of the chair, as if ready to jump and bolt at the slightest provocation. Angel sinks back into his own chair, sprawling over the cushions.

      "Is he coming in tomorrow?" he asks her.

      Her gaze jerks toward him. "I....I don't know."

      Angel leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands folded. "Are you all right?"

      "I'm fine," she says quickly, but her voice quavers, and she gives up the pretense. "He tried to kill me, Angel."

      "I know." He says the words gently. "It wasn't his fault."

      "I know. But--" She stops, gathers herself. "He scared me. He scared me more than you did when you--" She breaks off again and he can tell she thinks it would be inappropriate, or would upset him, to mention what happened to him in Pylea.

      "Did you talk to him?"

      "I did. Angel--he was crying."

      Angel nods soberly. Something clenches inside him at the thought of Wes crying. He doesn't want Wes to cry. He wants Wes to be okay.

      And he promised himself he would stay away from Wes, because it's hurt Wes to be with Angel the way they've been, but he has to fix this. He's not sure anybody else can, and he can't stand the thought of Wes there alone, trying to deal with what has happened.

      "I'll go talk to him," he says finally, and Fred smiles.

      "I was hoping you might." She gets to her feet and smiles again, weakly, rubbing her hands on her thighs. "I think he kinda likes me, but I know how he feels about you."

      She turns and hurries from the room, leaving Angel in a state of befuddlement.

#

      Angel manages, barely, to get to Wesley's apartment in broad daylight without killing himself. He's steaming a little when he gets to the door, in spite of all precautions. He waits a minute, waiting for the charred vampire smell to subside.

      Before he can knock, Wes flings the door open and stares at him.

      "I can smell you," he says accusingly. "Just come in."

      He wheels and walks away from the door, toward the desk on the other side of the room. Angel hesitates, then steps into the apartment.

      "Interesting change of pace," he comments. "You smelling me outside the door."

      Wes gives a pained smile. He looks up at Angel from the backlit seat in front of the desk and Angel realizes he looks like shit. Like he's been holed up in here for days.

      "I want you back at work tomorrow," Angel says. "Otherwise I'm going to have to cancel your benefits."

      Wes snorts; he is apparently not amused. "Yes, and we all know the English are in need of dental."

      Angel frowns. "That was a joke?"

      "Yes, I suppose it was."

      "It wasn't very funny."

      Wes shakes his head ruefully and looks at the desk, at the papers and pens scattered across its surface. Sunlight falls over him, isolating him from Angel's touch. Angel wonders if he's aware he's done this.

      He waits.

      "I don't think I can face her," Wes ventures after a time.

      "Of course you can."

      "You don't know what I did to her, what I said--" His voice catches and there are tears in it. Angel shifts in his chair. He wants to go to Wes, to take him in his arms, but of course he can't, because of the sunlight.

      "No. But I know I've done worse."

      Finally, Wes looks at him as if he understands. And there is relief there, in Wesley's eyes, but Wes is holding it at bay, as if afraid to acknowledge it.

      Angel steps closer, aware of the boundaries of the sunlight. The heat prickles on his skin as he approaches it.

      "I wasn't..." Wes swallows, closes his eyes a moment, then opens them again to look at Angel. "I wasn't me."

      Angel wonders if Wes realizes how open he is, how vulnerable he has made himself. The look in Wesley's eyes hits Angel in the gut; Wes shouldn't suffer like this. Wes doesn't deserve it.

      "I know. I understand." He moves closer. "I know what it's like when your body isn't your own, when something else takes over, some deep, primal monster you can't control..."  He trails off. He's only a few steps away from Wes now, and Wes is looking up at him. Looking for answers. Angel doesn't have answers. Angel has experience, empathy, but not much else.

      Still, he's willing to offer Wes what little he has. He closes the distance between them and touches Wesley's face, there in the sunlight, lets his fingers trace Wes' cheekbone until smoke begins to roll off the back of his hand.

      Wes jerks his face back, and Angel withdraws. Wes is looking up at him in shock.

      Angel smiles at him gently. "It'll be okay."

      He steps back then, out of the circle of sunlight, back toward the door. But instead of leaving, he stops in the middle of the room and begins to unbutton his shirt.

      Wesley's face convulses, crumples, and he lets out a low, ragged sound, half-sob, half something primal and broken. Slowly, Angel unfastens his shirt buttons, peels his shirt off. Wes watches, staring, then finally gets up and walks to Angel. There are tears on his face.

      Part of Angel realizes this isn't entirely fair. He's told himself, and he's told Wes, that they can't continue as if they are lovers. It isn't fair to Wes, and Angel knows this. But he also knows Wes needs him. Needs him now, and needs him in as blatant a manner as Angel can feel free to offer himself.

      Wes walks to him and Angel looks into his eyes. Wes is broken. And suddenly Angel understands why.

      Wes and Fred.

      He hadn't noticed it before. He's been trying to deal with Fred's crush on him, trying to redirect her, to keep her from fixating on him, based on Cordelia's observations and advice. This has caused him to completely overlook what has been going on with Wes.

      Wes has fallen for Fred.

      The realization surprises Angel, but he feels the horror of it suddenly, realizing what Wes has done to Fred. He hasn't even had the chance to tell her how he feels, and now he's threatened her life, chased her with an axe, nearly killed her...

      "God," Angel breathes, understanding all too well the depth of Wesley's pain.

      Wes walks to him and embraces him, lays his face against Angel's shoulder, and he weeps.

      Angel just holds him. It hasn't been that long since Wes held him like this, since Angel wrung out deep, inconsolable grief at Buffy's death. No one has died this time, but something else has. Something deep inside Wes, something that has, until now, told Wes who he is.

      Angel understands this all too well. He remembers coming back from hell, and the slow return of the memories of what he had done as Angelus. The mortification, the shame, the knowledge that nothing he could do would ever make it right. And Buffy, holding him.

So he cradles Wesley's head against his chest and just lets him cry.

After a few minutes, Wes tries to push away from him. Angel catches a glimpse of his face, sees Wes is embarrassed now on top of everything else. Angel doesn't let him go. Wes starts to struggle, arms flailing.

"Just let me go... Let me go..." Mortification--Angel knows the tone well.  He pulls Wes against him and kisses him.

Wes fights him for a moment, then stills. Angel can taste the tears on his face, on his mouth, and savors them. He eases his hands over Wesley's body, gentling him, as if this is the first time. Finally, Wes eases against him, and when Angel kisses him this time, he responds.

It's been a while, and Angel loses himself quickly in the familiar warmth of Wesley's mouth. He has missed this. He's left Wes alone since he returned from Sri Lanka--not that long ago, really--and for good reason, but now the reasons don't seem as compelling as they did. The only compulsion he feels now is the need to take, to possess...

That's not right, either. That's not what Wesley needs.

Angel slips his hands between his chest and Wesley's, and carefully undoes the buttons on Wes' shirt. His fingers touch the springy hair beneath, touch his skin ever so lightly, just enough to feel the hard, fast heartbeat. Wes is aroused, upset, disturbed--everything combining to make his normally steady heartbeat a raging cacophony inside his lean chest.

"Angel..." Wes says, and his voice cracks and whispers.

"Shh." Angel pushes the shirt back from Wesley's shoulders, his hands stroking the warm skin. "I know what you are. And what you are is not what he made you."

"But you...things I've done to you."

"You've never done anything to me I didn't ask you for. You know that." They've had brutal, violent sex, but no rape, no unasked for violence. Even their encounter in the shower--their last until now--with the knife, the blood--even that was well within the parameters of what Angel considered tame. "And I don't think you could hurt me now even if I did ask."

Wes shakes his head. "No. No, I couldn't. Couldn't bear it."

There is genuine fear in his eyes, and Angel wonders if he expects to be asked to perform as he has performed before, to be the aggressor, to be as brutal as Angel needs him to be. Angel knows he can't ask that of him now. This isn't about what Angel wants. This is about what Wesley needs. And in that way, it becomes a memory, an echo of their first encounter, quite a long time ago now, the details of which Angel holds close and even cherishes.

"What do you want?" Wes asks.

Angel touches his face, tracing the lean lines, sliding a finger over Wesley's lips. "I want you to be okay. I want you to understand what happened to you."

"I was violated..." Wes says, and the way he leaves the sentence hanging makes Angel think he didn't plan to say it at all.

"You were. Again." A pang in Angel's heart. Why does Wes have to bear the brunt of this? It doesn't seem fair. "Can you tell me what you need?"

Wes shakes his head, but it's not negation. It's confusion, then consideration, and Angel watches, quietly, as Wes mulls the question.

"I need to know..." Wes stops again, then looks up, directly into Angel's eyes. "I need to know I'm not alone."

Angel smiles a little, then bends forward and kisses him. "You're never alone."

Wesley's eyes flash suddenly, burning through the tears.

"Damn you, Angel, I'm always alone. Always fucking alone."

Angel stares at him. This doesn't make sense, and it hurts him. He doesn't know what to say, or why Wes is so angry, so he says nothing. Instead he goes to his knees, pulls Wesley's trousers down, and sucks his cock.

It seems like a good thing to do. Maybe it isn't. Maybe it's not what Wes wants, or needs. But it seems to Angel that Wes needs to know that Angel still cares about him, cares about what happens to him, cares that Wesley hurts. And he wants to fix some of it. Maybe just the part that he himself has inflicted, but that seems fair. He can't fix what Billy did to Wes and he can't fix what Wes did or said to Fred. But he can take this step back into a place he had chosen before to vacate, and show Wes that he does, indeed, still have feelings for him, that he still cares.

Wes makes a strange sound, and Angel thinks at first that he's started crying again. He doesn't mind--he sees no shame in tears--but he hopes that's not the case, just because he wants Wes to be all right.

He pulls Wesley's cock deep into his mouth, reacquainting himself with the shape, the length, the taste of it.  It feels good in his mouth. He's missed this. He withdrew himself from Wes to protect him, but being alone again has hurt Angel deeply. More deeply than he chooses to admit. He needs touch, and he is touched so rarely, and Wes had become something of a lifeline for him, a place he could go for comfort. When he cut himself off from Wes, he cut himself off from that. He had entertained some idea that he might find what he needed with Cordelia, but in spite of what he feels growing inside him for her, she seems not to reciprocate. Not yet, anyway.

He closes his eyes and tries not to think. There are too many things running through his head, and this is about Wesley, not about himself. Wesley's hands close on his head, fingers digging into his scalp, and suddenly Wes thrusts into his mouth, shoving his cock deep down Angel's throat.

Angel would choke if he were human, but he's not, so it just surprises him. He lets Wesley fuck his mouth, hard, sucks him down, feels Wes shuddering against him, hears Wes still making that odd noise that isn't quite a whimper. Wes pounds hard, then Angel feels his body tighten as he comes. Angel swallows; it's hot and tastes like Wesley's body, what little he can taste of it. He makes a sound, involuntary. It feels so good, Wesley's hot cock pulsing against his throat, Wes' fingers digging into his scalp--

Wes drags himself free suddenly, and falls to his knees in a sudden movement. He jerks at Angel's trousers, opening them up, frees Angel's cock and shoves it down his throat.

Angel watches, wondering what exactly is up with Wes. Of course he understands the self-loathing, the abhorrence of what Wes has been made to do. But Wes didn't kill anybody. Wes hasn't killed children, hasn't raped and tortured women in front of their husbands, hasn't slaughtered whole families, flayed nuns alive and lapped up the blood--

He shoves the thought back and closes his eyes, trying to lose himself in the sensation of Wesley's mouth on his cock. This is only the second time Wes has blown him and it feels good. But Wes is pushing himself too hard, pulling too much of Angel down into his throat, deliberately gagging himself...

Angel pushes him back and Wes lets him go, looking up into Angel's face. The emptiness in his eyes chills Angel. He strokes Wes' face, gently, then goes to his knees in front of him.

They are face-to-face again, now, and Angel kisses Wes gently. "Don't do this to yourself," he says. "Don't hurt yourself over it."

"You do," Wes says bluntly, and Angel can't deny that.

"It's not the same thing," he protests. "What I did--what I've done--it's so much worse."

"But what you did came from a demon that was forced inside you. What I've done--it was inside me already."

Angel regards him, still cupping his face with one hand. He caresses softly, feeling the stubble against his palm. He likes the way it feels, likes the way Wes looks unshaven.

"You know nothing about me," Angel says gently. "You know about Angelus, but you know nothing about what I was before. And whatever that magic, that blood, dragged out of you, it has nothing to do with who you really are. I know that."

But Wes is broken, and Angel realizes, looking into his eyes, that he knows as little about Wesley as Wesley knows about Liam.

"I don't think that's true..." Wes' voice trails off but the pain in his eyes becomes suddenly very clear, very defined. Angel looks down into it and for the first time sees something there that looks frighteningly like himself.

He kisses Wes carefully. He's feeling far too much, some of it good, some of it like shards of glass spearing into his heart. "Come to bed," he says gently.

"It's the middle of the day."

"I know." He smiles a little, and Wes relents. He slowly gets to his feet, pulling his trousers back into place. Angel just leaves his pants behind in a puddle on the floor, and, naked, follows Wes into the bedroom.

#

Angel holds Wes in the wide bed, and they lie for a time that way. Angel is tired, because it's daytime, but he doesn't sleep. He lies still, with Wes' back nestled into his stomach, and he listens to Wesley's heartbeat.

"You're wrong, you know," he ventures after a time.

"How am I wrong?" Wesley's voice is still brittle, and Angel knows he's followed Angel's train of thought in spite of the long silence.

"It's not just you. Not something specific to you."

Wes seems to shrink away from Angel's embrace, as if he doesn't want to hear. "How can you say that?"

"You saw the evidence. You saw the people who were affected. It wasn't particular people, not men predisposed to violence or any other kind of heinous behavior. It was anybody.  All of them. Anyone he touched."

"Except you."

"Because of what I am."

"I'm not certain I understand."

"Not sure I do, either." Angel does. He understands perfectly, but he's not sure Wes needs to hear that right now. Doesn't need to hear about Angel's demon, and how it makes him different. Not human. Immune to primal hatred because his demon functions based on entirely different motives.

Angelus would not have beaten a woman because he hated her. He would have done it because it amused him.

Angel nestles more closely to Wes and closes his eyes, drawing in the warmth, the scent. Tension rolls out of his body in waves, an almost orgasmic sensation in itself, as Wesley's body heat soaks into him.

"I was wrong," he mumbles, and the words surprise him.

"About what?"

Angel doesn't want to answer the question. He's not certain why he brought up the topic in the first place. He strokes his cheek against the back of Wes' neck and finally says, "I shouldn't have pushed you away. I should have trusted what we had. Should have trusted you."

Wes is still for a moment, even his breathing arrested for that short time. Then he says, quietly, "You should have trusted yourself."

"I can't," Angel tells him. "I never could."

Again, Wes is silent. Then, slowly, he rolls over to look at Angel. He studies Angel's face, his own face just a little too close, his eyes squinting slightly because he isn't wearing his glasses.

"I trust you," he says. "I always have. Even when I probably shouldn't have."

"I know," says Angel. "And I'm sorry."

Wes regards him, frowning. "Why shouldn't you have pushed me away?"

Angel looks at him, directly, and says as much as he can allow himself to say. "I need you."

A moment passes, soft but strained in its way, a moment where everything has been said but nothing has been said at all; and finally Wes lies back on the bed, his head on the pillow.

"I hated her," he says softly. "I hated her with every cell of my being. I wanted to kill her. No, not just kill her. I wanted to flay her, to rip her into pieces, to see her bleed--"

He stops, and Angel hears him swallow. He turns his head to look at Wes, and sees the tears well again.

"Is that what it feels like?" Wesley's voice is the knife-edge of a whisper, compressed by tears so that he can barely speak. "Is that what it is to kill, and hunt?"

"No." Angel speaks softly, as well, and he reaches over to touch Wesley's face, to brush tears from his cheek.

Wes looks surprised as he turns his head to look at Angel. "What is it like, then?"

"It's cold. There's no hatred. Just a need for blood." He hears the Irish sliding into his voice and makes no attempt to hide it. "Cold, calculating pursuit. Amusement... icy desire--"

Wes is staring at him. Angel stops. They are still for the space of a breath, then Wes reaches out to touch Angel's forehead, just between his brows. Then he shifts forward, and kisses his mouth.

Angel lets him, tasting his warm tongue.

"I hated you, too," Wes whispers. "It was all there, dark and ugly. Misogyny and homophobia go hand in hand, you know. You made me into a woman, you bloody faggot."

"What would you have done to me, if I were there?" This confession intrigues Angel; he's never thought about it this way before.

"I would have fucking beaten you to death. Taken your head off with an axe and watched you dust." His voice has taken on hard edges, as he remembers the emotions Billy's touch had engendered in him.

Angel kisses him. Deep and warm, exploring his mouth. "Make love to me. Now."

"I want to hurt you."

"I know. Don't."

Angel lies back again on the bed, sprawled on his back. He lets his thighs fall open and he spreads his arms across the bed.

      Wes stares at him. He looks almost afraid. Angel closes his eyes.

      He lies there for a time, just waiting. And finally, finally, soft hands touch his body, fingers trailing over his chest. He hears Wesley's breath catch, hears his heart speed up and feels the warmth in the pads of his fingers as they caress him, sliding over his nipple, down to his belly. Wes traces the circle of his navel, then his fingers move softly through pubic hair, down to the crease of Angel's groin. His hand moves under Angel's thigh and lifts it, opening him.

      Angel keeps his eyes closed. He trusts Wes, even though Wes doesn't trust himself. Fingers-long, graceful fingers-Angel pictures them in his head-trace the inside of his thigh, down to his knee, then drift back up until they cradle Angel's scrotum.  Gasping, Angel moves his other leg to the side, tilts his hips up...

      Wesley's warm mouth closes on his balls and Angel makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. He squeezes his eyes closed to keep from looking, not sure why this feels important, except that it's a tangible indication of his trust for Wesley. He's not sure Wes is quite clear-headed enough at the moment to understand that.

      Tongue and teeth massage his testicles and Angel lets himself sink into the pillow. Wes knows how to work him-he's learned this over the last year or so, learned Angel's signals, knows how to tell what Angel likes. Angel thinks vaguely that he really can't express his trust any more profoundly than to let Wes bite him in the nuts.

      And God, but it feels good. Wes sucks and laves him, his tongue pushing between his testicles, moving them apart, and Angel feels like he's going to come to pieces. He's tempted to grab Wesley's head but he doesn't, clenching the bed sheets instead, crumpling them in his hands, and Wesley's tongue is moving and suddenly it's moving down, and back, and circling, and Wes is rimming him and Angel is hot and sinking hard into the beginnings of an orgasm that might bloody well kill him and suddenly he has a thought.

      Thoughts are bad in this situation but it's there and Angel can't ignore it. He grabs Wesley's head and shoves it back. He opens his eyes and looks at Wes. Wes' face is lax, his eyes hazy.

      "Why did you do that?" Angel demands.

      Wes licks his lips, and Angel doesn't like the look that comes into his eyes. It's too heavy, still laced with guilt and hatred. "You didn't like it?"

      "If you're doing it because you want to, that's one thing, but if you're just trying to humiliate yourself on me then I want no part of it no matter how fucking good it feels."

      Wes is starting to come back to himself. "I don't know... I don't know... I can't make it go away and it hurts... Angel-"

      God, he's crying again. Angel reaches a hand out to him. "Wes..." Wes leans forward and hooks his hand behind Wesley's neck. "Wes, you need to get rid of it. Pound it into me. Fuck it into me. Do what you have to do but get rid of it."

      Wes looks down at him, then up at the ceiling. Then back into Angel's face and Angel sees the deep-down revulsion come to the surface as Wes grabs Angel's knees, pushes them wide and back, and shoves hard into him.

      Angel flinches. He's clenched without thinking about it and the sudden penetration slices into him like a knife. He can't hold back a harsh gasp, but when Wesley's gaze flickers in doubt, Angel grabs his shoulders and drags him closer.

      "Do it."

      And Wes bends his head and arches his back and slams into Angel over and over, harder and harder, Angel making his body go loose, to accept the invasion, though it's more difficult without benefit of lube and it hurts like hell. He doesn't care, though; the pain slices into him in deep stilettos of arousal and he shoves back against Wes, taking him in deep and hard.

      Wes is sobbing now, letting it out, the sound raw, animal, shuddering through every inch of him as his cock spears into Angel, and suddenly Wes is howling, arching, and Angel feels him climax inside him. He looks up into Wes' face and finally sees the hatred wringing out of him, leaving his eyes. Wes fucks him deep, to the root and still pushing, as if there is more to shove in, as if he wants to disappear inside Angel's body.

      Angel reaches up and cups Wes' face between his hands. He aches-Wes has fucked him about as hard as he's ever been fucked and it hurts all the way into his chest. His hands on Wesley's face are gentle.

      "Wes..."  He strokes Wesley's hair back from his face. It's damp with sweat.

      Wes is still trying to regain control, his body shivering, his face contorted and wet with tears. Angel can smell his own blood now, can feel it damp on the sheets beneath him. He keeps Wesley's face between his hands-he doesn't want Wes to see that, to know what he's done.

      "Angel, I can't... I don't..."

      The words come hard, and Wes can't seem to make any more after that. Angel strokes his face, runs a finger along his lips, as the last, shuddering sobs wrench through Wesley's body. He waits, quiet, until finally Wes sinks down onto him. Angel puts his arms around him and holds him, and, gradually, Wes relaxes.

      "I hurt you," Wes said.

      "No."

      For once, Wes doesn't argue. He nestles his face against Angel's chest. "I need you," he breathes.

      Angel slides his hand through Wesley's hair, accepting the inevitability that he, too, has needs. Not physical. And that Wes, almost by accident, has come to fill them.

      "I know."

      He kisses Wesley's hair, and closes his eyes.