Wes watches Angel ascend the stairs and frowns. He looks…broken. Tired. Empty. When Fred asks about Connor and Cordy, his voice when he answers is toneless and dead.

Even knowing what Angel is, it’s hard to believe he was able to walk away from the encounter with the Beast. The stake in his throat, the plummet from the top of the building – it’s miraculous even for a vampire. He wonders how much pain Angel might be hiding, his mind casting back to another time when Angel came home bruised and broken, the deep, black-purple marks of a sledgehammer on his body.

Wes had picked up the pieces then, and had gently put back together what he could. He’s not sure, this time, if he’ll be allowed. Or, for that matter, if he wants to.

He hesitates, watching the others go, unsure. Angel has trudged silently up to his room, and Wes isn’t sure what he should do. He should probably go home. He still doesn’t feel very charitable toward Angel, not after the awkward exchange in the warehouse, when it had been so obvious he’d been there simply to further his own search for Cordy. Then he remembers the brief liaison after the spell—remembers it vaguely, because the spell befuddled his memory. There had been a moment, brief but profound, where even with his mind muddied by the spell, his body had remembered. And known, and understood, that between himself and Angel there was a bond deeper than affection or love or any such prosaic terms.

Coming back from the influence of the spell, he had understood why Angel had done what he did—why he’d attacked Wes in his hospital bed. Because that bond was so deep, and that had made Wesley’s betrayal that much deeper.

His hand strays to the scar on his throat. It hadn’t been meant to be a betrayal. He’d thought he was doing the right thing. He’d thought he was protecting Angel. That had been his intention.

The scar itches vaguely. He rubs it, then presses his lips together, still looking at the head of the stairs where Angel disappeared. Determined, or perhaps just resigned, he heads for those stairs, himself.

Outside Angel’s door, he pauses, and almost loses his nerve. He looks at the closed door for a few long seconds.

Then Angel’s voice speaks from inside. “Come in, Wes.”

Wes swallows, gathering his courage. Quietly, he opens the door and steps in.

Angel is standing by his liquor cabinet, fumbling with the bottles. His hands shake, and a tumbler slips from his fingers to fall to the carpet. He stands there, suspended, hand still raised, staring down at the glass.

“Angel?” Wes takes a hesitant step forward.

Angel lowers his hand, but doesn’t look at Wes. His entire body seems to be shaking, vibrating almost.

“Angel, you’re hurt. You should lie down. Rest.”

Nothing. It’s as if Angel doesn’t even hear him. Fear trembles in Wesley’s chest. How badly is he hurt? Still hesitant, he moves forward, crosses the room to stand next to Angel. He lifts his hands and gently takes hold of the long leather coat, easing it back off Angel’s shoulders.

Finally, Angel moves. He shifts his arms just enough to allow Wes to ease the coat off him. Then he turns and walks haltingly toward the bedroom.

Wes follows. Slowly, Angel sinks down onto the bed. There is blood on his shirt where the crossbow bolts had hit him—bolts fired by Wes himself. And the wound in his neck—Wes winces, remembering, seeing again the stake as the Beast plunged it into the side of Angel’s neck, and then Angel flying over the side of the building. It had seemed to play in slow motion at the time, and Wes remembers a surge of panic, then a slow, suspended feeling of numbness.

Hesitant, Wes sits on the bed next to Angel. He touches Angel’s shoulder, and when he makes no response, Wes reaches around to undo his shirt buttons, one by one. By the time he has finished, Angel has begun to shake in earnest, his body shivering, teeth chattering.

“What can I do for you?” Wes asks quietly, but Angel just shakes his head.

Wes presses his lips together and continues with what he’s doing. Moments later, he slips Angel’s shirt off and looks at him.

On the surface, he doesn’t look as bad as he had after the sledgehammer beating Lindsey had administered. But when he runs a careful hand down Angel’s back, Angel flinches.

“You’re hurt.” It’s a stupid thing to say. Obviously he’s hurt. Badly. Angel doesn’t answer.

“Lie down,” Wes says then, his voice suddenly firm. Angel is still shaking, but he does as he’s told. Wes arranges the blankets around him, making a nest but not covering him up. He watches Angel lower his big, wide body to the mattress.

“How bad is it?” Wes asks, taking in the breadth of Angel’s torso, the pale skin.

“Bad,” Angel mutters. “It’ll heal.”

“Do you need blood?”

“I’m fine.” Angel’s response is curt, almost dismissive. He frowns. “I fell.”

“Yes.” He bends toward Angel, examining the deep, round wound in his throat. “We nearly lost you.”

Suddenly Angel looks directly at him. The look in his eyes is raw, pain there deeper than any physical pain could be. “Wes—“ But he stops before he answers any of the questions that have popped into Wesley’s head.

Wes waits a moment, but nothing is forthcoming. Finally, he touches Angel’s face. “Sleep.”

Angel just looks at him. He says nothing to acknowledge Wes has spoken, but after a few seconds his eyes drift shut. Wes stretches out on the bed next to him and closes his eyes.

***

He awakens abruptly, immediately tense. His brain tells him a noise woke him, but he can’t remember what it might have been.

Then he hears it again; a soft, strangled sound from the other side of the bed. He turns to see Angel jolt awake, startled by his own outcry. He stares at the ceiling, his eyes blank, then suddenly crumples on himself, and there are tears.

Pain? Or something else? Wes isn’t sure, but Angel seems to have forgotten about his presence, so he reaches out and touches him, cupping a hand around the top of his shoulder.

Angel looks at him, his expression startled for a moment, then he rolls toward Wes. Wes is again taken aback by the ugly wound in Angel’s throat, and he resists the urge to touch the scar on his own. His is long and straight, though, an underscore for his betrayal of Angel. Angel’s wound is blunt and brutal, like the action that had caused it.

“Angel…” Wes murmurs, but Angel says nothing. He just lies there, looking at Wes, silent tears sheeting his face.

Wes isn’t sure what to do. Finally he lets need and instinct take over, and he leans forward to kiss Angel’s wet face.

When he leans back, Angel’s eyes are closed, but pain is still evident on his face.

“How could she?” he whispers. Wes doesn’t know what he means, but he can tell Angel is distraught. He touches Angel’s cheekbone, fingers running along the slick, wet tears.

“Shhh…Angel.”

Angel nods. He says nothing else. Wes lies still, just touching him, fingers gentle on his face. And finally Angel rolls toward him and buries his face in Wesley’s chest, and holds him.

“I missed you,” Angel murmurs, and Wes blinks back tears.

END.