It all hurts so much, so deeply and painfully, Wes is certain he can’t bear it a moment longer. Then that moment passes, and he has borne it, and he moves on to the next moment.

Will it always be like this? Always and forever, will he measure his life against what he had when Jasmine ruled him, and find it wanting?

He knows they did the right thing. What Jasmine offered wasn’t peace and love in the end, but slavery. A grand mind-fuck that removed his ability to make a free choice. It was wrong. It stood against everything he believed, everything they had ever championed.

And yet it had brought him such peace.

What had he ever done with his free will, anyway? Fucked up the most meaningful relationship he’d ever had, in the course of trying to save Angel from himself. Chose to take away Angel’s free will in regards to his son.

And so it runs. He doesn’t want to think about it. He just wants the pain to go away.

Angel seems to have locked it all up, put it away where he doesn’t have to deal with it. His face is grim as he sets about with his plans. Wes isn’t sure if he envies or resents this. On the other hand, Angel has had a lot of practice repressing his emotions.

He is grim, preparing his weapons, then suddenly he stops, looks at his hands. It’s a few moments before he returns to his work.

Watching from the shadow of a nearby tunnel, Wes abruptly realizes why Angel did what he just did, and a fist clenches around his heart.

“You had to,” he says softly, and Angel goes suddenly still.

“I know,” he says after a time, but his voice is dead, and Wes is almost certain Angel doesn’t know at all, doesn’t believe he had no other choice.

Slowly, Wes approaches him, careful, as if approaching a wild animal. Angel goes still again, just for a moment, then resumes his work, polishing the blade of the big sword. It gleams already; Angel’s continued cleaning will likely make it paper thin and useless if he continues. Wes almost smiles at the thought.

He takes a few more hesitant steps forward and finally kneels next to Angel. Slowly, he reaches a hand out to touch the other man’s impossibly wide shoulder. “You had to,” he repeats.

Even knowing this, he can’t shake the memory of Connor’s limp body falling from the car, of the blood on Angel’s hands. If the image hurts Wes this deeply, how much more deeply must that knife blade stab into Angel’s heart?

Angel says nothing. Wes supposes there is nothing to say. They have gone to ground like animals, with no way to know if they will ever defeat Jasmine. No way to know if they’ll ever escape these tunnels, ever taste true freedom again. They are the mythological warriors of the underground, the only ones who know the truth. Not much good it does them, either.

Angel lays the blade down on the ground. He’s still not looking at Wes, and as he sets the sword down, he looks again at his own hands. Fingers scrub the opposite knuckles, as if trying to clean off the memory of Connor’s blood.

“I meant it.” His voice is so soft Wes barely hears it. He blinks, unsure what Angel means. Then, finally, Angel looks at him. A slight, flickering glance, then he looks away again. His dark eyes glitter in the vague light. “What I said to you,” he clarifies. “I meant it.”

Wes sits back on his heels, taken aback. “I --” He breaks off. He has no words.

Angel shakes his head once, as if he understands, as if giving Wes permission to not know what to say. Wes remains silent, absently rubbing his arm, the long scar there from the knife wound.

And then suddenly Angel’s hand snakes out, grabs the back of Wesley’s neck. He pulls him early off-balance, kissing him fiercely. Wes grabs at him to keep from sprawling on the tunnel floor. Angel’s mouth tastes of blood and dust, and Wes can’t get enough of it.

Finally Angel draws back. Wes can see pain in his eyes, deep and raw, like he’s been flayed open.

Then Angel turns him around. Wes doesn’t fight it as Angel jerks his jeans down and pushes him against the wall. There’s no lube. Angel uses spit, and it’s not enough, but Wes lets him, makes no protest at the rough entry. The pain reminds him he’s still alive, that there’s more to him than the vast emptiness in his chest that is all Jasmine left behind. It’s all so hopeless, he thinks, so broken. It’s the worst sort of evil, he thinks, that comes disguised as hope.

Angel’s arm wraps across his chest, bracing him, the big, familiar hand clasping Wesley’s shoulder. Wes covers the hand with his own, then clenches it hard enough for his nails to dig in, just clinging. Angel does not pull away, but leaves his hand where it is while Wesley’s blunt nails draw half-moons of blood from his pale skin. He is fucking Wes hard, too hard, in desperate, deep thrusts. The feeling of rough, welcome invasion is so intense Wes can hardly bear it.

Angel’s other hand finds Wesley’s cock, the cool fingers tracing its engorged length, the long ridge of the vein. Wes shivers and presses his forehead against the tunnel wall. Angel’s body behind him is so taut, so hard, full of need and power. The reek of vampire rolls off him, stronger than Wes has ever smelled it, yet he knows Angel hasn’t fed for days.

His cock jerks in the strong curl of Angel’s fingers. He feels his body convulse, his balls tighten, but the orgasm is somehow distant from him and he derives little pleasure from it. Angel’s thumb spreads his come over the head of his cock, then his hand draws back. Wes makes a small sound of protest, then realizes Angel is slicking himself with the ejaculate. The hard, deep thrusting loses the edge of pain and Wes closes his eyes, lashes suddenly moist, because the pain, the sensation like he was being fucked with a stiletto, was what made it all seem real.

Angel is good for a few more thrusts, these filling Wes with deep, unfathomable pleasure that seems so wrong to him now -- he is so empty, so gutted, he should hurt, he shouldn’t be able to feel this good, this complete, when Jasmine has been wrenched out of him -- but Angel has him now, and the big, solid body, the hand on his shoulder, the thick cock inside him, are all he needs of perfect happiness.

Angel comes inside him with a harsh, vampiric growl, and Wes feels fangs trace over his shoulder. The prickle of pain is followed by the wet, warm flow of blood, and Wes comes again. It’s dry this time, but he feels it; hot pulses of completion taking him in long, slow shudders.

I love you. He mouths the words but doesn’t say them, knowing Angel can’t answer in kind, not ever again. But perhaps he hears, because long, cool fingers lift to touch Wesley’s lips, and the prickle of sharp fangs against his shoulder becomes the soft, sweet touch of a lover’s kiss.