Dissonance

            Angel awakens from his dream aroused, and he can smell Darla, even though he knows this is impossible.
            Memory can be a strange thing, he thinks, summoning as it has the odor of a woman who died three years ago.
            He knows she hasn't really been in his bed, but it was so real. Her body, her hands on him, her mouth, her voice, whispering in his ear, reminding him of days he's tried to forget. She brought them back so vividly, so realistically. And now he can smell her in his bed.
            He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and sits for a time with his face in his hands. In the silence, he can hear breathing.
            It's Wes, he realizes, and he's nearby. Why? And how close? Angel sits completely immobile for a few seconds, listening to Wesley breathe. He's in the next room, he concludes, and he's sleeping.
            Angel looks at the clock. It's three in the afternoon. It seems odd that Wes would be asleep, this time of day. He gets up, puts on a robe, and goes to check on him.
            Wes is sound asleep, snoring by the time Angel goes into his room. He's concerned Wes might be sick, sleeping in the middle of the day, but he doesn't smell sick. He just smells asleep.
            Watching him, Angel has half a mind to climb into the bed with him. It would be warm there, and he could sleep in that warmth, next to the rhythmic sound of breathing.
            The odd thing is, if Wes were a woman Angel had had sex with twice, he wouldn't have hesitated. Maybe that's a little sexist on Angel's part. Or maybe it's because he knows how uncertain Wes is about their trysts. He doesn't, after all, want to freak Wes out. Wes is freaked out enough already, and waking up to find Angel in bed with him would probably give him--what was it Buffy always said?--a major wiggins.
            Angel smiles at the thought. He doesn't have the same reservations Wes does. He's been through this before. He doesn't expect it to last, but he can't help wanting to take everything he can, while he can. His skin aches sometimes, wanting to be touched. He craves it sometimes every bit as much as blood.
            But Wes is asleep, and Angel has assured himself he's not sick. It's time to go. He turns, walks toward the door.
            "Angel?" Wesley's voice is uncertain.
            Angel turns. Wes is squinting at him; his glasses are on the nightstand but he makes no move to pick them up.
            "You okay, Wes?"   
            "Why are you in my room?"
            "I heard you. I was worried." Angel pauses, while Wesley continues to stare at him, still a little bleary-eyed. "It's an odd time of day for you to be sleeping, is all."
            Wes sits up, the sheets falling down to his waist. "I was tired." He rubs at his eyes. Angel gives him a minute, but he doesn't say anything else.
            "Rough night?" Angel ventures.
            "Actually, a few rough nights in a row." He frowns a little, and it occurs to Angel that he's missed a good portion of the last few nights, driven back to bed at hours when he would normally be awake, alert, and ready to go. "Are you all right?" Wesley adds. "You really should have been there."
            Angel considers the question. Maybe he should tell Wes about the dreams, but it seems unnecessary. Silly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just--having some trouble sleeping lately."
            Wes nods. Some of the bleariness has left his eyes, and while he still looks a little unfocused--and probably is, since his glasses are still on the bedside table--Angel's certain he's awake now, alert, and with his mental processes functioning, quick and shrewd as ever.
            "Would being warmer help?" Wes says. "You could stay here for a bit, if you like."
            Angel just stands there for a moment, unmoving, not sure he's heard right. Then, slowly, he takes a step forward. "Okay."
            Wes slides back down into the bed, covering himself back up. He has tensed up a little, but he says nothing, watching as Angel rounds the bed. Angel pushes back the blankets on the opposite side, careful not to uncover Wes in the process. He sheds his robe and folds it, drapes it neatly over the headboard. He's naked underneath, and Wes just watches him as he slides under the covers.
            It's warmer than his own bed already, the blankets suffused with Wesley's body heat. It feels good, as Angel twitches the covers up over his shoulders. It feels even better when Wes moves toward him, not quite touching him, just close enough so that Angel can feel the heat.
            "Thank you," Angel says, because he wants Wes to understand this is enough, that he doesn't expect anything else.
            Wes says nothing. After a moment, though, he moves closer. His chest brushes Angel's back. Angel resists the urge to nestle back into him, though it would feel so good, so hot.
            Wes is still then, quiet. His breathing slows. Angel listens to it for a time, counts the leisurely beats of his heart. Finally he falls asleep, and there are no dreams.
#
            He awakens in that warmth, that wonderful heat. He hasn't been this warm since the last time he woke up next to Wesley. He knows he'll never be able to explain to Wes how good that is. Except for a night here and there, Angel has been cold for nearly 250 years.
            He lies there for a time just looking at Wes, who lies facing him on the other side of the bed. His breathing is slow and regular, and he twitches from time to time. Angel can hear his heartbeat, and he counts the soft drumming, one beat at a time, until he reaches a hundred. It's a quiet, restful thing.
            He's been careful with Wes up until now. He knows what's happened between them has been largely Wes' working through his trauma. Therapy of a sort.  Angel's been through something similar, himself, in the first few decades of this century, plagued by memories of what he did to hundreds of innocent women, girls, proving to himself that he can make sex a good thing for a woman. He spent decades, off and on, relearning the art of sex in a way neither Liam nor Angelus would ever have considered. By the time he came to Buffy's bed, he knew how to make it good. Soft and gentle, even for her first time.
            Of course, then he hadn't known about the curse. Now he knew how to make love to a woman--or to a man, for that matter--but now he had to worry about going too far into the pleasure of it, about letting himself go. About losing his soul.
            There's no danger of this with Wes, for several reasons. With Buffy, Angel had known he was totally, utterly accepted, unconditionally loved. But Wes is more hesitant. Not, perhaps, because Angel is a vampire, but definitely because Angel is a man.
            The knowledge there's no reason for fear makes Angel want it that much more. He's let Wes take the lead in their previous encounters; he wonders, now, what Wes would do if he took the lead. The worst he could do, Angel thinks, is say no. And Angel can deal with that.
            But Wes did invite Angel into his bed, which tells Angel he might be open to more than sleeping, even though he didn't say it. So he reaches across the bed and gently cups Wesley's shoulder.
            Wesley's skin is pale, nearly as pale as Angel's own. This isn't surprising; Angel can't really picture Wes sunning himself at the beach. He traces a finger down Wes' chest. Wes is slim and wiry, much less bulky than Angel. Angel likes that. It reminds him of Spike.
            This isn't necessarily what Angel wants to be thinking about, but he can't stop his brain from going there. He told Wes he'd raped Spike--which is true--but what he left out was that there had been occasions when Spike had come begging for it, and so had Angelus. Spike did things to him nobody has done before or since. Good things. Angel wonders if he could teach this to Wes. If he'll have the chance. If Wes would want it.
            Wes stirs a little under Angel's touch, opens his eyes. Angel lifts his hand from Wesley's chest, cups his face.
            "Angel..." Wes says, hesitant. Angel pulls his hand back. It's okay, it's not a problem if Wes says no. But Wes says, instead, his voice going hard, "Turn over."
            Angel looks at him a moment. There's something brittle in Wesley's eyes, something Angel's never seen there before. He turns to his side. Anticipation shivers through him. He didn't expect it to go this way. But this is good.
            Wes smoothes his hands across Angel's back, pressing a little harder than a caress. The movement pushes Angel all the way down onto his stomach. Angel closes his eyes, feels the hands moving over his back. One hand slides down his right shoulder blade, moving over the tattoo. Every person who's ever been in his bed more than once has been drawn to the mark, has touched it, traced it, licked its lines...
            And suddenly Wes is doing exactly that--licking Angel's shoulder, tracing his tongue around the griffin's head. Angel has never imagined Wes might act like this.
            "Wes..." Angel ventures.
            Wes bites the back of his neck. Hard. "Lie still," he says.
            Okay, this is interesting. Then, suddenly, Angel understands. Understands because he knows exactly what's going on with Wes, knows because he's been there, himself. Wes is testing himself. He needs to know if he can be rough, can be the aggressor, but not make it brutal. He's still purging things.
            So Angel lies still while Wesley's teeth move over his shoulder. Wes can't possibly know how arousing this is for Angel. It's a vampire thing, the desire for that kind of penetration. If Wes could feed from him, Angel would be in ecstasy. This is second-best, but it's still damned good.
He clenches his fists into the blankets and shifts his hips so he's not smashing his burgeoning erection. Wes' cock prods into his hip and Angel is hot with anticipation, not sure what Wes is going to do to him but, on the other hand, completely certain.
            He closes his eyes and keeps them closed, focusing totally on the sensation of Wesley's chest rubbing against his back, Wesley's teeth grazing his shoulder. Wes is taut and suddenly his hands go hard, fingers digging into Angel's sides.
            Angel has a moment to wonder if he's wrong, if perhaps he actually doesn't know what Wes is doing. Because this is rougher than Angel would ever have expected from Wes. He doesn't mind--he likes it, in fact--but what's going on with Wes, that he would push the line so hard?
            Then thought disintegrates as Wes grabs his buttocks and takes him.
            Angel jumps. It's not that he wasn't expecting it--he was--but it's so sudden, so abrupt, and so not something Wes would normally do. He shoves in hard--not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to be solid, authoritative. And not dry--he's lubed himself at some point, though Angel has no idea when he might have done it. Maybe it's just spit, because the friction is more intense than it would have been with anything out of a tube.
            It's good, though, and Angel arches back into it, accepting it, wanting more. Wes thrusts, not at all hesitant, firm and fast and solid, and Angel works himself back onto his cock, taking him in deep. Wes loops his arms under Angel's for leverage and fucks him for all he's worth.
            Angel's driving his own cock into the bed now, his face pressed hard into the pillow, his back arching as the burn spreads through his groin, twisting, spiraling, ready to pound and explode. Wesley's lean, firm body against his back, the soft blankets underneath him... Angel latches to a memory and suddenly he is there again, sandwiched between two bodies, and he remembers, can almost feel Darla under him and Spike astride him, the intense sensation of simultaneously penetrating and being penetrated, and he's so close, just right on the edge...
            Then Wes convulses into him, and that's all it takes, and Angel's ejaculating hard into the blankets, and he's caught in that moment, that incredible intensity, and gasps into the pillow, "God, God, Darla..."
            He doesn't realize the words are coming until he hears them, and he knows immediately that this is very, very bad. But there's nothing he can do about it, not yet, because he's coming into the blankets, and Wes is coming inside him, and there's nothing either of them can do but finish.
            Which Wes does, and then jerks out and shoves off the bed, and Angel watches his naked back retreat across the room, to the bathroom, where he slams the door.
            "Shit," Angel mumbles into the pillow. "Shit, shit, shit."
#
            Angel finds clean sheets in a drawer and remakes the bed. It seems like the least he can do. Wes is still in the bathroom--he's taken a shower, and the water just shut off a few seconds ago.
            He should go back to his own room and shower, himself, Angel thinks, but he doesn't want to leave things broken the way they are now. He needs to be sure he and Wes are still good.
            Finally, Wes comes out, hair wet, wearing a robe. He looks at Angel with some perplexity.
            "You're still here."
            Angel shrugs. "Am I not supposed to be?"
            Wes starts to say something, but he seems unable to summon words. He finally just shakes his head in disgust. "I'm sorry."
            "For what?"
            Wes stares at him. "For what I did. It was uncalled for." He pauses. Angel starts to speak but thinks better of it, waits instead for Wesley's answer. "You told me...what Darla used to do to you. How she abused you. And what I did--how bad must it have been, to make you say her name? How badly did I hurt you?"
            Angel nods slowly, understanding. "You didn't hurt me at all, Wes. And I'm sorry I did the accidental blurting of the ex-lover's name. I'm usually a little better focused than that."
            Wesley's eyes narrow. "I didn't hurt you?"
            Angel gets the impression Wes doesn't believe him. He rolls his eyes. "Please, Wes. I'm a vampire. Even if you had hurt me, I would have liked it."
            This isn't entirely the truth, and Wesley's vague smile tells Angel he understands that. But then Wes looks at the floor, as if he can't quite bring himself to look right at Angel.
            "I wasn't sure I could do it." Wes' voice is so soft Angel can barely hear it. "I wasn't sure I could do it without crossing the line. Especially--" He breaks off.
            Especially what? Angel wonders, but he won't ask. Instead he says gently, "I know. I've been there. But you know where the line is. I could feel that."
            Wes steps toward the bed, hesitant. He picks up his glasses from the nightstand and turns them in his hands, stares at them. "How many ways," he says slowly, "does brutality break you?"
            And finally he looks up at Angel, and Angel recognizes the pain in his eyes. He's seen this pain so many times before, and it wrenches at him. Because when he's seen it before, in the eyes of his victims, it has pleased him. Amused him, even.
            "In every possible way," he says.
            Wes still fiddles with his glasses, as if he has no desire to put them on, no need to see anything more clearly. "I've never had a normal relationship," he says. "It's always been...not quite right. I couldn't...let go."
            Angel sinks back down to sit on the bed and looks up at Wes. He considers what Wes has said. Either he doesn't consider this, with Angel, a relationship, or he doesn't consider it normal. However--  "You can let go with me. You have."
            "I know." Wes puts his glasses on, finally. "I know. But it's not...it's not where I want to be."
            Angel just looks at him. He's not sure what he feels, not sure what to say.
            "I'm sorry," Wes says after a time.
            "It's okay." He hesitates. Something is wrong here, something he can't quite grasp. "I just...  Remember that I'm here for you."
            Wesley's head tilts back a little and he eyes Angel narrowly. "But, you see, that's the problem. You haven't been. And once I got started--part of me wanted to hurt you. Because of that." Angel is taken aback by this, and he starts to protest, but Wesley isn't done. "These last few weeks, you haven't been here for any of us." He folds his arms and studies Angel. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"
            Angel shakes his head, blindsided. "No. No, not really." He pushes his hands into the pockets of his robe and looks away. "I...I should go."
            He feels Wesley's eyes on him. It's uncomfortable. Mostly because Wes is right. Angel has been unsettled, sleeping too much, losing his balance.
            It's nothing. Just dreams. Nothing to burden Wes with. But somehow, as he closes the door behind him, he feels he's hurt Wes more than Wes could ever deserve to be hurt.
            He hesitates outside Wesley's door. He should go back in, perhaps. Confession should be a two-way street, here, and so far Wesley has given much more than Angel has.
            But in the end, he turns away, and goes to his own room, where he knows he will sleep, and dream of Darla.

END.