a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Threnody and Breakdown 
Author: Christina A.
Pairing: A/W
Rating: PG-13
Setting: Just before 'Dear Boy'


Tea and Misery


"That'll be $18.29, sir." Her chipper voice rises melodiously as she stretches out a hand in supplication.

My glasses slip to the edge of my nose as I hastily dig for my wallet. "Yes, surely." My long, bony fingers free the bulge of brown leather from my back pocket and I leaf through the neatly-ordered bills (smallest to largest, all facing the same way, of course) and pull out a twenty. The price strikes me as absurd for a box of tea, a half-dozen tins of condensed soup, and a few high-carb workout bars. I sigh. This is, after all, LA.

The cashier drops a receipt, a slightly wadded dollar bill, and some change into my open palm. Her fingers graze mine for a moment. They are smooth and cool, like a child's. She cocks her head, flipping her short blonde hair as she attempts a game smile. "You have a nice day."

There is a line forming that could easily stretch to the East Coast if it doesn't start moving, and I will myself to stop fussing with my wallet. I drop the change into the bag and go. Soft loafers padding on glossy white linoleum, I slip out the glass-encased exit of the supermarket.

Free of the sickly yellow overhead glare, my senses spring to life. The slanting brightness of late afternoon sunlight washes my face, the chilled coolness of an early spring breeze makes me draw in a breath of contentedness. The air is free today, moving and playful. My thirsty skin begins to relax and embrace the moisture. Layers of fantastic smells drift by- the cloying sweetness of fried dough in corner vendors' carts, brewing coffee smoothness from overpriced corner cafes.

The sunlight is incredible. Simply being out in it, seeing the world tinted gold like an old photograph, is a rare moment when I'm happy to simply just be. It's not the same for him. He can never share such a quiet joy with me. Of course, Angel isn't quite the kind who can just let himself be. It pains me- the quiet champion, the weight of the world on his wide shoulders. Even if he could walk in daylight , he'd never be fully present, never really there. Just a shadow at my side, a man of worries and penitence. It is in moments like these that I feel nearly guilty for enjoying the fresh air, for allowing myself this muted release.

The sidewalk is uneven. I trace its jagged edges as I traverse the labyrinth of eclectic side streets and byways, through open markets and decaying alleys. The mouth-watering flavors of fresh-squeezed peaches and papayas intertwine with those of closed nightclubs that smell like mud puddles and grain, the clashing tinkle of wind chimes dancing in the air.

I find myself humming pleasantly out-of-tune as I walk the two blocks to the Hyperion Hotel. I nudge aside a crumpled up Whopper wrapper as I jaunt up the stairs, fumbling for my keys as I cradle the sagging brown bag in the crook of one arm. Click, click. I'm in.

The lobby sprawls before me, high-ceilinged and marble-floored. And empty. My fingers glide down the wall, finding the light switch and flicking it on. The abrupt brightness is altogether too much. I decide that I like the lights much better off. The soupy golden sunlight is turning dusky as it filters through the front windows, and I pull the heavy door closed behind me and drop the sagging bag on the countertop. On goes a tiny lamp, its slightly jaundiced tinge conflicting with the oncoming sunset.

Wes... Out for dinner. Can you believe it? I'm getting a life! -C.

Cordy's loopy handwriting makes me smile. I pull the tea from the bag, set it on my desk. Dutifully retrieving my change, I smooth out the wrinkled dollar bill, its texture slightly grimy, and place it in my wallet just so. I grasp the energy bars between my fingers and drop them in a small heap on Cordy's desk. Soup tins in the cupboard, paper bag in the recycling bin Cordelia brought in last week insisting that we "do our part to save the planet, you know." I had merely adjusted my glasses and quirked an eyebrow, knowing that somehow this had to do with earning extra money so she could by yet another pair of pumps that she'd wear exactly twice in her life.

Carefully tearing the box of tea open, I bring it to my nose, tasting the subtle spice of jasmine blossoms. I pull out a bag, drop it in the mug that I run under the cool tap- it in the microwave, 2:00, start. I grimace. It in England, I never had to use a microwave to make my tea.

I peer up the staircase that leads to Angel's flat. I sense nothing there, but what else is really new? Angel's absence is a quiet buzz, the sound of loneliness and emptiness. I close my eyes and take in a breath. There isn't even a comforting scent anymore to mark his passing in this place. No hint of soap and shampoo reaching its slender fingers to embrace, no breath of patchouli, the herbal-sweet musk like every indulgent fantasy ever broached. Nothing but the buzzing it in my ears, the sound of my own blood pumping and surging. He is gone, he is absent. Well, not in an entirely physical sense, although his appearances have rapidly become fewer and far between. Angel rarely speaks to me anymore, unless it is reference to a case or meaningless chit-chat as he warms up his blood and proceeds to once again entomb himself in the silence of his room.

Then the microwave goes off, its wail piercing the thick silence. I pull the steaming mug from the machine, and my palm throbs red with heat. A little cream, a cool blast from the refrigerator. The sun has set, and the sky is ambushed by the creeping of dusky mauve. Clouds draw together, and it appears that it will rain soon. I brush aside a bandanna left forgotten on my desk- Gunn's- and pull a cracked, leather bound volume from the short stack on my desk. The stagnant air is like a too-warm blanket, and I loosen my tie.

I stir my tea desultorily, and I pretend to pay attention to the painfully-rendered descriptions of such-and-such demons as I thumb through the thin vellum pages. The first sip is disappointing. The flavor is not rich enough, not creamy-smooth enough to quench the craving. Bhairaz demons- hmm. I try to be fairly interested. It seems they spend their entire lives in tight-knit clans of three or four, pledging their lives, their services, ((their souls)) to their leader, the eldest of the clan.

((I am your faithful servant, Angel.))

I rub at my closed eyes. No. No I won't. I set my jaw, I take another sip of tea down my burning throat.

But I'm so weak. I can't help it. Can't help that he can exist without a trace while simultaneously branding his image into the tender tissue at the back of my corneas. Can't help remembering how it felt to have his enraged heaviness atop me as sleep-muddled threats fell from his lips. Can't help how I couldn't stop my hips from arching just so slightly, how I almost begged him then-

Begging for what, exactly? It doesn't matter. In the end, it's all the same. La petite morte... isn't that what the French call it?

Another sip to quench the dryness. The hurt, the need so desperate for closeness that some nights you just pass out, curled up on the bathroom floor after a shower when you realize you can't even smell the scent anymore. The masochist's paradoxical prayer- smash me, desecrate me, break me, use me- just please make this all stop. Complete me. No, I don't care how.

And an empty buzzing answers you back.

There is a detached whimper, a jagged hitch. I realize that it's me. My lenses are blurred. I remove my glasses and press my palms into my eye sockets. Blast my needful frailty. My fingertips are damp. I press them to my lips, tasting the bitter saline there, the offering. Rain faintly patters far away and on my face.

How cruel can the man be? How can he know- for he surely must know- the fervently ripped prayers, the starving need to be possessed- and do nothing? My starved glances, the silent screams. He must see. He must scent how my blood warms whenever he is near, But who am I to judge? He walks his own tenuous line, where the boundary between fate and the beast is as gossamer as a spider's strand. How can I ask of him any more? It's not as if I am owed anything, and for that reason, I tell myself not to expect anything of him. So much rests upon his shoulders already. I could not bring myself to be yet another worry.

Still, I want it. My brain is swarming with feverish if-onlys. If only he were here. How one look in those ancient eyes would drive me to silence, how sweet the submission as he would smooth my cheek with the pad of his thumb. How my heart would drown at the cool pressure of his lips murmuring absolving words against mine. The release and friction as deft fingers would untuck my shirttails and flutter against my stomach, tangle in my belt and oh-

The stolen gasp, the quiet shame of solitude. I do believe that need is the most important word in the English language. The wrenching, the repression, the juices, the blindness, the silent pleading. And the self-pity... The stabbing finger that really is a fate worse than death. Inevitably followed by the realization like vinegar in a knife wound that in the end, none of it matters. That you could die tucked into the fetal position, mummified by your own salt, and nothing would change. That all those hours spent huddled under the stairs were sucked into the hollow void of mocking fate. The faithless understand it. Me? I'm in denial.

"Wes?" I freeze. I hear his voice, low, the final consonant of my name softly shirring like the crinkle of tissue paper.

"Yes, Angel?" I keep my back to him; no need for him to detect my pain with another of his finely-tuned senses. "I thought you were out."

"Sunlight, Wes. It's only 6:30- I'd rather not get crispy."

"Oh, right." Stupid.

"You okay?" His attempt at acknowledging That Which Is Unsaid.

"Just something in my eye, is all," My attempt at maintaining the illusion for both our sakes. That's all it is, really. A marvelous illusion. We are confidantes, co-workers, soldiers in the same war. Nothing more. If there were to be more, it would complicate things unnecessarily. This is logic, I tell myself. It sounds like logic, so it must be logic. But deep inside, I know I will never be able to accept it, my quiet self-deception. A part of me will always be Angel's faithful servant, scolding myself for a walk through the park and forever waiting. Forever aching for even just a moment of that shared acknowledgment, a veiled glance in my direction.

"Okay, then." He turns away. "Oh, and Wes? I'll be upstairs if you need me."

Oh, dear God. The irony in those words.

*

Another Time


My eyes linger on dingy linoleum. I stare transfixed, as if the mysteries of the universe lie in the grimy footprints imprinted on its dulling surface. I cannot tear my eyes from the floor. There are too many mysteries, too many questions, and I claw for answers. Silence mocks me in response.

Why did the Powers That Be choose to hinge the fate of the world on a slurring, drunkard, degenerate son? Why do those lawyers care so goddamned much about breaking me that they'd resurrect ghosts of a fractured past? Flash of subtle dimples and knowing mouth, blonde ringlets and deceiving eyelashes. Right now, I feel like breaking, although they had nothing to do with it.

My eyes come unstuck from the linoleum as someone passes, and they attach to his unstained sea-green hospital scrubs. So many grim masks in this hall, the solemn quickness in which they all scurry from here to there. I trace the deep worry lines near a woman's mouth. She is accustomed to this- to hearing the worst. Her days are colored by disappointments. "Thank you, Doctor," comes as naturally to her as the nervous habit of running jumpy fingers through her neglected, mouse-brown hair. I smell strong disinfectant in the filtered air, and note how the sterility is tainted by subtle scents of business and grief.

Or maybe that's just me.

Why am I here? Because he is here. Because of the shame that I am the reason for it. It was my fault that his intestines almost spilled on the filth-laden streets of gangland LA. It doesn't matter how indirectly.

I stand unnoticed by those wrapped up in their own microcosms of pain, I blend into the linoleum. I watch. He lies immobile, wires threading his nose and into the tender veins of his slack forearm. His eyes are welded shut, the paper-thin flesh there the delicate blue of a fading bruise. His thin lips are set straight, something easily observed even when he is conscious. It keeps the pain from leaking out.

My Wesley. My own tight little ball of need and vulnerability... and the desperate restraint of a proper Englishman. Right now, I need his restraint. Because I want to draw my tongue over those eyelids - softly, softly- to see if they will taste of English tea. Another mystery.

I shouldn't be here. But it's strong inside me- I clench my fists almost helplessly at my sides and set my brows straight. The need is consuming. I have to watch- he is mine. My responsibility. My claim. He came to my home, and I sheltered him. I watch over him day by day, even when he is unaware; I observe the sleepless nights buried in dusty tomes, the grim desire that hangs about his office and weaves its way into his wary glances. That desire, those needy eyes, they belong to me. Wesley, the ever-faithful. He would give his life if I so asked him for it, if only to feel my lips on his neck, the slick coolness of tongue and fevered piercing of teeth. In return, I offer protection, I offer safety and preservation. Tonight, I have failed in my duties.

I solemnly stand a few feet away, motionlessly watching Wesley through the smeary glass window of his hospital room. No one notices me, no one cares. They are all busy wrapping themselves up in their own pain cocoons, busy pushing away worries and stilling the ache of their fears come to life.

He is waking now, I see his cheek twitch once or twice. When they open, his eyes are disoriented as his pupils dilate in the sickly artificial light. He doesn't know quite where he is, but he knows that there is pain. Merely of a different variety than usual. I let out a slow breath of relief- or at least I would, if I did breathe. I am momentarily less tense.

And then he smiles. But not at me. Gunn is there to greet him as he wakes, the greatest testament of friendship that he has shown to Wesley yet. I swear, my heart actually beats for a moment as Gunn reaches over to pat his arm reassuringly. Wesley flinches, then his mouth forms a tenuous, grateful smile.

My nails dig into my palm, drawing a few tiny half-moons of blood as the first couple layers of skin are broken. I notice his eyes flicker around the room. He's looking for me. When he rediscovers that I have abandoned him, his jaw tightens, and he twitches as though a spasm of pain has shot up from his freshly-bandaged wound.

I want to go in. I feel propelled to go in by some indefinable urge, to haul Gunn out on his ass, draw the blinds, and fall to my knees. But I can never be what he wants desperately to give himself up to, and I can never be the one to hold him and murmur words of comfort that erase the atrocities from the obsessive movie theater in his head. The sting of being cast off, of trust maligned. I know that he will have nightmares, he will relive the terror of the gun, the silent panic of being a hairâs breadth from death. Even so, he can never find succor in me, even if I could wrap myself around him and stroke his hair and tangle his lips with mine. My cold hands can never warm him. One can never find peace in the faithless.

At least that's how I justify it. It's too complicated. I have neglected him, my steadfast, beautiful, breakable boy. I am no longer worthy of his loyalty. Though he may never blame me, that terrible knowledge will always be there, just barely veiled, coiling and pooling in his mind- the champion failed. Still, I know, and that is enough. I donât deserve such devotion, I donât deserve his needful tears, I donât deserve to whisper my confession against his lips and beg forgiveness. I donât deserve the release of cat-o'-nine tails across my back. But even now, as he lies there grimacing back the pain that is spreading through his limbs, he wants me. I see it in the way his eyes linger closed just a second too long, like he's waiting to be kissed. I canât bring myself to touch him, to stain him more.

A strident voice pierces my ears. It's Cordelia. Not Cordy. There's a difference. And she's wearing a mask. Her features are as clear as ever- well, maybe her hair's a little different- but she's trying to look perfectly fine.

Right.

I've spent too many years wearing it myself, I don't buy it. I pretend that I don't see the peeling layers of betrayal and hurt beneath it as she bitches to make herself feel better. My mask is solid. She turns on her heel and leaves me in silence, my expression unchanged. Cordyâs mask is one of hard-wrought control and steely resolve, just as Wesleyâs is of desperate English discipline that disguises his hidden hunger, and mine is of removed indifference. By in the end, my presence betrays my mask.

Now isn't the time. Wesley is glad to see Cordelia, and it dulls the low throb momentarily. I look one last time at my family, of which I am once again the degenerate son, and turn my back, striding away from the window. Another time.

*

Shatterings

It's been a long day. I remove my glasses and blink a few times until the blurry haze recedes, forming discernible shapes. My first week back on the job- my new office fits me boxily, far too big for someone like me. I feel adrift, horribly isolated behind the large desk floating somewhere in the center of an ocean's expanse of hardwood flooring. ((Funny how it hadn't seemed that way when it was his office.)) And a lonely wheelchair is tucked away in the corner, wedged behind a row of file cabinets. Just in case.

I exhale a great rush of air I hadn't realized I'd been holding. There is silence. An empty stillness fills the hotel, and behind my nicely polished oak double doors, I hear nothing but the faint tick-tick of a clock. 6:28.

I rub gingerly at the bridge of my nose, trying to smooth away the imprints my glasses have left. A faint pulsing marks the beginning of what I'm sure will become quite a magnificent headache.

I don't know if I can stand it, this silence. The loneliness doesn't bother me so much- that I've learned to live with. I brush aside the stack of papers- I'd had no luck at all today, really. I'm almost certain that there is a Tumult demon in town- the last rash of attack seem to say so, at least. How often does a human killer leave his victims perfectly untouched·? Not counting the missing gallbladders, of course· a strange species they are, indeed. I just wish I could find the pattern, or some particular feeding radius at the very least- I feel pathetically useless and grimace as a fresh shock lances up from my abdomen. I squeeze the edge of my desk white-knuckled and hold my breath for a few perilous moments until the pain subsides to its usual dull ache.

I fight the urge to reach for the phone and ring Cordelia. No luck, can I come over for tea? But I mustn't be a burden- I've done that twice already this week. Even Dennis seems to get melancholy when I'm about· no, its best to let Cordelia enjoy a night in peace. Why, I bet she's off somewhere getting something waxed or pierced right this very moment.

((What about him, Wesley?))

Now I could use some tea. Grasping the sides of my plush armchair, I stand gingerly, careful not to disturb any scar tissue that might be forming. I am a man of aches, of crackles and pops and days spent in exile.

A fresh shock of stabbing pain hits me when I give a startled jump. Angel has burst through the doors, bringing with him that air of frenetic urgency he bears so well.

"Wesley."

"Good lord, Angel. Is the world ending right this very moment, or are you just trying to give me a heart attack on top of..." My voice trails off as he frowns impatiently. No, it's best not to bring that up again.

"Any new leads on the Brummell case?"

The Brummel case. My weary mind struggles for recognition. Oh. I drop my eyes. "No, I'm afraid not." Angel looks vaguely annoyed. "But I definitely venture to say that we have a Tumult demon on our hands-" I add hastily before he cuts me off.

"Had," he interrupts.

"Excuse me?"

"Had, Wes. I took care of the Tumult an hour ago. He was nesting in a meat packing plant in Sun Valley."

"Angel-" I sigh, exasperation creeping into my clipped tone. "I thought that·"

He catches my tone and looks worried, his palm clasps uncomfortably at the nape of his neck.

"You're right, Wes. I should've told you first." Well yes, of course he should've told me first. I'm the boss now, after all. His shoes are suddenly very interesting to him.

I ease the chair back and move past him into the lobby's small kitchenette. "Quite alright, Angel. I know how difficult this adjustment must be for you." I sense doormat Wesley creeping back in. ((He doesn't need you. He never did.)) No. Mustn't have that. I force some timbre of strength into my voice. "But I do insist that you clear your plans with me next time."

I wince as I bend over to retrieve the small metal kettle from beneath the sink- a guilt offering disguised as a get-well present. "Here, let me get that for you." He reaches down for the knob.

"No thank you." In my quiet burst of defensive anger, I slap his hand away a bit harder than I had intended to. I take a slow breath, taken aback by my own bitterness. "I'm not an invalid, Angel. I can do it myself," I say softly.

He takes a step back, brows furrowed. "I'm sorry, Wes."

"No need to be," I answer briskly, filling the kettle with water from the tap. "Wait a moment, Angel. It's barely 6:30- how on earth did you take care of the Tumult?"

He makes a quiet noise that sounds something like a snort. "It's been raining all day."

"Oh." Indeed, rain faintly patters against the window glass- the sky is an impenetrable gray. Perfect. "So it is." Uneasy silence reclaims the room as I place the kettle on the stove top. My head is beginning to pound. ((You can't even bear to be in his presence, can you?))

Well, if this situation isn't just terribly awkward. Things were so easy before, so simple. Angel would tell us what to do, and we'd do it. A little pleasant banter to make the day go by faster. It made the submission so much easier to bear. Now this man is standing before me, awkwardly awaiting my words. Sometimes I wonder if I'm not just a temporary replacement while he struggles to redeem himself. Any moment I could fall, I could let us all down, and wouldn't that be the perfect time for Angel to reintroduce himself as our savior? They all look to me now for leadership, but my authority is on loan, able to be taken back the moment he decides he's had enough of supplication. ((He's just waiting for you to slip up, you know he is.)) And now I try small talk. Empty phrases designed to simulate some degree of normalcy. Light chatter that denies that there was anything more, denies those long months of tacit restraint. Because if I'm not Angel's faithful servant, what am I?

When the whistle wails a few minutes later, we realize we haven't been speaking at all. And yet part of me is so fascinated. Angel, the man who had all the answers to everything but the secrets of his own soul, is sitting in front of me fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers, silent. He whose coat always billowed so smoothly and whose step was always so light and sure, is insecure. ((But at least he hasn't been that way all his life.)) Perhaps this is delusion, my ideal view of the man I wish I could be inside ((or perhaps have inside of you?)), but my head is throbbing and my eyes are strained, and for the moment, I am perfectly content with my apparition of Angel. It is safe, it is comforting, it is terribly out of my reach.

I reach for a spoon and dump a teaspoon of sugar into a clean mug. A teabag goes in next, and then the steaming water fogs up my lenses. I hear a roll of thunder coiling in the distance.

"Blast," I curse. I've dropped the spoon, and it clatters sharply to the floor. I feel my lips purse involuntarily. Instinctively, I clasp my side protectively as I kneel to retrieve the fallen utensil. Perhaps a tad too quickly. Fresh sparks of pain catch my breath, and I cover a sharp whimper with a cough.

And there are cool fingers on mine, grasping the spoon, tenderly helping me into a chair. "You okay?"

"I· yes," I exhale a shaky breath. "I'm fine." Except for the fact that I believe I may have ripped open some scar tissue. I peer down, thankful to note that no blossom of red stains my neatly-pressed periwinkle shirt. ((Does it matter? It's not like he can't smell it.))

Angel's eyes catch mine for a moment and holds them. "Wes, I think that maybe you should lie down."

And my heart gives an odd little twitch, something halfway between agony and anticipation. What a nice little scenario that would be, no? If only- "That's quite alright," I whisper in a tone that says I'm your boss, and I said so for whatever reasons, so don't question me, okay?

"Wesley," he argues in that tone of no-nonsense authority that I used to worship, "this is a hotel. There are hundreds of rooms. Pick one." Perhaps he is anxious to get me- and my fluids- out of his sight.

"I'm a grown man, Angel. I can take care of myself," I find myself insisting for the second time in however many minutes. "I-" I'm cut off by a fresh wave of dizziness. As I fight to steady my breathing, I feel close to helpless tears. I can't let him see me cry. If I start, I might never stop. And strangely enough, a part of me wants that, wants him to see how weak he makes me, wants to be punished for it, if only so that the fear in my heart would no longer go unspoken. Desire aches, but silence is slow death, to be sure.

"That's it. Upstairs." I feel arms lifting me up; I feel the effort taken not to hurt me further. I make a few moans of protest, but they're of no use. I can't exactly go kicking and screaming, now can I?

The stairs prove to be quite painful- by the second floor, he opts for the elevator. We stop on the sixth floor, and for a moment I feel the sick sensation that he might place me in his own flat. I would be on his grounds, in his bed damp with the sweat of his dreams, with the bitter scent of his seed imbedded in the sheets, and that would be too much. Lying in Angel's bed would be too much of a terrible tease for me to bear.

And then he damned near kicks in the door next to his. I feel a rush of relief, and with a surge of insight, I decipher that other emotion coiling in my gut. Disappointment. Maybe that tease would be the closest I'd ever get to tasting Angel's sweat, the closest I'd ever be to his most intimate touch, to his inner sanctum. Perhaps if I could just lie there, pull the sheets up close around me·

He lowers me onto a bed that hasn't been used in nearly sixty years, but the sheets are suspiciously clean. I clamp my eyes shut so I don't have to look on his face. "I'll be right back," he says, and strides out of the room. It's so stupid of me to believe just for a moment that- well... Any look of concern was certainly well shaded behind an unaffected frown. I stare blankly at the ceiling. I have no clue what comes next.

What comes next is Angel, washcloth and bowl of lukewarm water in hand, a bandage tucked beneath an armpit, and one of his $200 black silk button-ups between his teeth. Oh, dear lord. ((That's it- get your hopes up. This surely won't be a schoolboy's dream come true.)) My khaki pants suddenly seem terribly uncomfortable. The room is too hot.

Angel releases the shirt and sets everything carefully on a slightly dusty nightstand. And then he frowns. My shoes are on the bed. A wave of defensive anger rises up in me. Damn him! Even now-

Oh. He's reaching down, carefully slipping off my loafers. For a moment of horror- I have the most hideous feet. He mustn't touch them... But he's already peeling off my gray socks, setting them neatly aside. "Angel," I breathe, "is this really necessary?" My tone is clipped. Panic is welling in my chest.

He shoots me a withering glance in response. It occurs to me that I'm no longer in charge here, and anything that happens is his sole decision alone. Tiny beads of sweat begin to soak into the navy blue bedsheets. I find myself clenching them involuntarily, a great bunch of sticky smoothness between my curled fingers.

His weight sinks into the bed. Methodically, he begins to unwork the buttons of my shirt. I feel close to death. Cool fingers graze my skin, and I'm about to simply pass out as the final button gives way, the hair near my navel absurdly sensitive to the slightest touch.

He could care less. Or at least he's pretending not to notice my loaded silence, the restrained whimpers, just to keep the illusion. To spare me the shame of exposure.

A deft flick, the shirt is parted. Angel flicks on a lamp for more light, and my pale thinness is painfully apparent. Why did he have to do that? Even with drawn curtains, I'm sure he could see well enough· another crack of thunder rolls. I lift my head to look down.

There is blood, but not as much as I had expected. Three thin rivulets trickle down my side, and there is a shallow pool gathering in my navel. Most certainly, I have seen worse. Even so, I'm quite proud that I manage to keep my grip on consciousness.

For a moment, Angel stares transfixed, intensely yet oddly vacant, and I feel a sharp pang of terror. "Angel?" I ask quietly, my voice foggy. ((You're the hunted, Wesley. You're comfort food.))

His head snaps up, and there is guilt in his eyes. But he doesn't apologize. He dips the cloth into the water, squeezes the excess carefully away. The damp cloth glides across my skin, pinkish smears trailing behind. My eyes clamp shut. No. No, this can't be right at all. His fingers- no. He's just being careful. There's no reverence at all. How could I even think that-

"Ah," I stifle a gasp as the cloth presses over the scar, its pink newness scrimmed with fresh crimson. I bite my lip, but still I can't help those pathetic little noises in the back of my throat. Those fingers.. Is this really pain? I don't mind it so much·

And it seems to me that this is not the first time I have burst the scar in his presence. The memory floats back with stinging shame. I had tried to be a man, had tried to stand up to him. I'd hidden it well as he strode angrily out the door, more self-possessed beast than man. He hadn't cared; I'd called for an ambulance.

And I still loved him, even then. Thank heavens Virginia hadn't known the real reason I had to say goodbye. My dirty little secret was still safe.

I wonder if it is still.

Angel gently eases me out of my shirt. How charming and chivalrous of him. I am grasped by the wrists- my fingers clench at the air. He unrolls the bandage and- oh god. He's too close. Touching me. Too close.

My breath begins to hitch as I fight to keep myself from shaking. Exposure overcomes me, and I feel my eyes start to burn with the sting of restrained tears. Anxiety is welling up strong, and I can't help but be absolutely terrified about the very thing that has haunted my waking fantasies, perpetually dancing on the skirts of my jaundiced daydreams.

"Here, Wes. You're going to have to roll over just a little bit· careful." Still, why isn't he looking at me? What has he got to be ashamed of? ((He just doesn't want to look at you. Who would?))

Turning over is harder than I'd anticipated. I draw in great breaths of stale air. His hand rests on my hip, steadying me as he tucks the gauze beneath me. This is just too much. Blood suffuses my face, and I'm far too hot. His coolness grazes my skin, tightening on my hip as he struggles to position the bandage without injuring me further.

I strain to control my breathing, but the helpless tear that slips over my nose soaks into the pillow. No, he mustn't see. His hand moves up, softly, as if he were cradling a small child, and he eases me onto my back. His eyes survey the damage. He freezes. He has seen it. Hot tears of shame are spilling over my cheeks. A sudden stillness spreads sharp and final over the room. I can't even hear the rain anymore.

"God," I cough, and with morbid humor, I realize how absurd that is.

And he raises those liquidy brown eyes to mine. At least I have the dubious distinction of having shocked Angel beyond his usual patient indifference. His lips are taut, those eyes intense and unreadable. I look away, jamming a palm over my steaming eyes. The illusions, painfully kept, are shattering. He'd know. My stomach twists up into a tight knot of icy dread. He knows.

Leave, I will him mentally. Just go. At least give me that much. Please, Angel, just go.

And then something happens that sets my mind spinning. Without a word, tenuously, almost with unspoken wonder, he passes his palm over the warm bulge. My quiet whimpers form low sobs. "Angel, please. Just go," I murmur, the salt on my lips blurring my words. I strain to hear a response. It comes only a few thudding heartbeats later.

"Why?" Barely a whisper. I let out a slow, shaky breath. Too many darting thoughts, too much mud to wade through. Quick, think of something. Think.

"No, I don't think you want me to go at all." His hand has not moved, and he flexes his fingers for good measure, a gentle flurry of sensation that makes me gasp. "Do you, Wes?"

Stop it, Angel. Stop saying my name like that. Like it means something. Stop giving me false hope.

I feel his weight shift. He peels my hand from my puffy, raw eyes. Those can't be cool lips on my eyelids, that tongue lapping gently at my tears.

"Wes? Come on, talk to me."

"Just leave," I hiss. "Jesus, Angel. Go-" I feel helpless. Because what I really mean is stay. Stay, rip me to pieces, justify the pain so that voice will just shut up·

He sits back abruptly, the space between up buzzing with tension. He looks me over once- I make such a pathetic, stiff, bloody mess. And for a moment, I think I see a glimmer of pain in those ancient eyes. Oh no. I think I've hurt him.

"Okay," he murmurs quietly, acquiescing. And he stands. His hand on the doorknob yields a moment's pause, but he opens it.

My lip quivers. I feel something break loose inside me, something that had once guaranteed safety. I'm shattering. The possibility that it could end here is incomprehensible.

"Angel, wait." I hate the pleading tones in my own voice. He stops and momentarily favors me with a mournful gaze. My lips curl up. God, I feel so stupid. But he doesn't say anything, and I can't bear to have him look at me like that.

"Stay," I say, a fresh wave of nerves blooming within me.

He hesitates. It is perhaps the longest few heartbeats of my life. And then he steps forward, closing the door quietly behind him. Sick joy surges in my chest. I need you, I think so loudly that the thought forms words. Here. Please.

Another tentative step. He crouches at my eye level, studies me for a few solid seconds. I'm bloody terrified. Terrified of what this means, of what I've just done- everything I stand to lose. It's not my life I fear for, it's my soul. I would offer the very essence of who I am so that I might lose myself in his alabaster skin. Such a high price for broken fairytales.

Closer. Sitting on the bed, looming over me. And then, in a flurry of fingers, he's undone my trousers. "No, Angel. What-" I'm protesting now. Too much, too fast, too close· panic welling, bursting ((What was that you were wishing for, Wes? You want to be broken, you'll get your wish)).

"Hush," he says in a tone unaccustomed to resistance. He lowers his lips to my chest. A gentle, insistent hand slips beneath my waistband. Oh- I think I'm dying.

"You aren't real," I whisper.

It gives him momentary pause. He lifts his lips from one stiffening nipple. "Why am I not real?"

"You can't be. This is just my dream and you could never· you·" Could never care for me, is what I mean to say, but it sticks in my throat.

"If I weren't real, could I do this?" Wonderful, terrifying sensations flood me. I let out a protracted moan. Still- oh god, make this last, remember this- no. No, not like this.

The moist kisses are working their way down. He lingers on one hip, sucking at the tender hollows. The pleasure is dulling my cries of protest. I'm ready to feel that smooth mouth descend on me when I feel his body freeze. It is with a dim awareness that I realize I'm still bleeding. Much slower, to be sure, but a slow trickle still stains the bedding below. ((How much are you willing to pay for this?))

I feel his hunger, see his hands ball up defensively. In my delirious state, it's quite possible that I'm imagining things, but did he just whimper?

"I should go," he says in a defeated voice, barely audible. A second shattering ricochets through my body.

"No," I say, grabbing his hair, drawing it down to my wound. "Take it. Take me."

He's fighting it. And then he submits. To me. And I am shocked at myself. All the need, all the pain, all the nights spent wanking off in the shower to the half-remembered imprint of his lips, all coalescing. This scream inside and its raw, raging power, overriding every modest cell of my body· it terrifies me. It is as if I have become a new creature if only for a brief, shining moment, able to reach out to fate and grasp release in my own two hands.

I feel his tongue tenuously dip down, uncertainty evident in the silent pause, but the need overcomes him. He laps gently, and I feel no more than a cool tingle. I thread my fingers through his bristly hair, quietly urging him on. I hear soft moans , and I have a dim awareness as he sucks softly , careful not to take too much. But the pain quickly vanishes to a quiet hum that is at once something less than pain, yet most certainly more than pleasure. I float there in the void, suspended in time, giving, giving, in silence punctuated only by the occasional sound of Angel's suckling as his hunger ebbs. I am not even certain when he removes his mouth from the wound, though my entire body is alive with stirring sensation.

When I open my eyes, I see Angel at the foot of the bed, eyes vacant and downcast. He is ashamed. I see it in the way he refuses to meet my eyes. Is he thinking of the other time, thinking of her sweet blood?

"Angel?" I call weakly, my tone plaintive. He doesn't answer.

"Angel, you needed me. Now I need you." And when he raises his eyes to mine, I see the most heartbreaking thing- emptiness. Shame has completely detached him. "Angel, please."

A glimmer ripples beneath the surface as he realizes what I am asking of him. I reach out one hand, and I see the frost begin to recede. He creeps quietly into my arms, cradling my head in silence. He wipes at my dried tear tracks with the pad of a thumb.

I look up, studying his face in extreme close-up. For a moment, I am not the weak man whose frail shell I inhabit. I draw his jaw gently down, press his lips to mine. And dear god- am I doing this correctly? It's been so long· but it feels good. I feel his coppery tongue seek out mine, and I'm lost in the soft tangling.

I feel him slowly begin to unbutton my trousers, working them gently down, exposing all of me. Stretched out and shivering, I present myself as a delicate wonderland to his devouring gaze. I reach for him, drawing him closer to my lips as I unwork the buttons of his shirt. I suck gently at his bottom lip, I explore his mouth with an insistent, insatiable tongue. Angel tastes like red wine and salt, flooding my mouth to quench my need.

He carefully balances above me, and cradles the back of my head in his palm as I reach up to trace maddingly slow circles around a nipple, savoring it like hard candy beneath my tongue. Angel moans softly, and I fumble over the soft material of his trousers to cup his hardness, running my fingertips over his tender parts like a whisper. He begins to work his way down my chest with sticky-wet kisses and licks, and I cannot remember ever feeling so lovely. This is beyond comprehension- I tremble with every slick stroke.

He reaches the tender junction of my thighs. Those he licks fiercely, nibbling at the flesh, scratching at my stomach with his fingernails. I am stiff in anticipation, aching, needing his lips secured around me, needing his smooth, cool flesh embedded deep within me.

I will moan for you, Angel. No one but you. Fill me up with your delicious, languid murmurs. Fill me to the brim.

The first teasing lick steals my breath. He is so cool, I am so sensitive, this feels like heaven. I need this to last. I need to remember it all. I need to remember this actually happened, and that this solace isn't not just another of my hopelessly fractured fairytales. Angel is moaning, mouth around my cock, and I am desperately suppressing sobs of joy, sobs of fear that this will never happen again.

He tongues me leisurely, discovering me, finding out which spots make me gasp and which ones produce low moans in the back of my throat. He finally settles on a tortuously slow rhythm, sucking me deep and hard on the upstroke. This is like nothing else ever, and yet it is somehow akin to a cool breeze on a tumultuous Autumn night, or perhaps a sticky, dripping vanilla ice cream cone after a long day, or maybe even smooth, tangled sheets on a rainy Sunday morning. All I can think is that it's a damned good thing I don't have a perfect happiness clause. Yet I know that this will never be his perfect happiness. I may never be what she was to him, but I will settle for good enough, good for now. Faithful, I am. And Jesus·

Pain lances up from my abdomen as the mounting wave rocks me, and I come sharply, powerfully. Such a devastating shudder, the raw howl of orgasm, the primal breath crying in release. Angel swallows me down and sighs quietly, contentedly, against me. I gasp, shivering, flooded with trepidation and adrenaline. I don't think I can return to a world without this. I can't return to being a needful, breakable man. Not yet.

I wonder what it would be like to have Angel's cock in my mouth. I've wondered it often- in the shower as I touched myself, in bed before I drifted off. I wonder- well, I'm finished with wondering. I squeeze his shoulder, I want him next to me. "Take those off," I say softly, almost prayer-like, indicating his trousers. Oh, please, let me serve you. And he does. He slides them over his hips and down, exposing himself entirely. It is quite a magnificent sight- ropy muscles and delicious lean hollows, dark brown dusting of hair and he's swollen and hard. He's hard for me. There is something in his eyes that I can't quite describe. It can't be world-altering love· I'm done with those delusions. But there is something there, some thing quiet and devastating. Affection, caring· certainly a fair deal of passion. But also, skirting the edges is the kind of love that flows between the needed and the needy, the absolver and the absolved. The trusted and the faithful. I feel close to tears- there's nothing I've ever wanted more.

Gingerly, as to not further disturb the wound, I roll over onto one side, so that I may rest my head on his thigh. When Angel slides up skin-to-skin, so close, I flick the head of his penis with my tongue. He sighs a bit, back in his throat. He is so cool, so thick. He fills me up, and I take him whole, teaching my mouth to be a warm shelter, learning how to make him groan. I suddenly realize that those are my own moans that I hear. Angel's hand desperately clutches the sheets, the other steadying my back, rubbing in slow, comforting circles. I decide to explore a bit- I kiss his thighs softly, I linger, savoring the musky salt of the sweat that slicks him, and I lick him clean. He likes to be fondled, he likes my fingers to tease and caress. I prepare to swallow him again and then-

"Oh, don't."

"What?" No, oh god, don't tell me that. Please don't let this be over· I want this· no, I need this·

"I want to be inside of you," he murmurs, tracing light circles on the back of my neck.

And that is a terror of a completely different kind. All I can do is nod weakly. He disappears from the room momentarily, and I am left naked and alone, shivering in the sudden coolness of the room.

My heart is slamming in my chest- all I had prayed for, to be devoured, stretched, invaded. It's coming true. The thought of sex with Angel makes me feel once again like a virgin schoolboy.

When he returns, he carries a tube of lubrication. He glances me over- what blood that was left on my skin after he finished is now drying, marking my skin in pale brown streaks. I feel his weight sink into the bed, and I am tenser than I have ever been· tenser than when I was a fledgling in training with the Counsel, tenser than if I were in the heat of battle. Noiselessly, Angel nudges my legs apart, and my throat is so dry that I cannot swallow.

He applies lubrication liberally to himself, and gently to me, swirling around the sensitive flesh of my rear teasingly. When he probes with one finger, and then two, I am almost certain that it is only because he wants to hear me gasp. I clamp my eyes shut, for I cannot help but commit every touch to memory, storing it away like a precious jewel for many long showers to come.

I only open my eyes when I feel his weight shift atop me. He brushes against the short stubble of my chin with his cheek as he pushes himself in. And it's been too long. I know it, because it hurts. But this isn't going to be a hurried bathroom fuck like many of the others. Angel's going to take his time.

The first few strokes are a slow burn, seemingly designed specifically to punctuate the ache. I am stretching and stretching for him- I need him inside of me as far as he will go. All at once, I want to claw at him and tear long, angry red stripes into his inhumanly pale skin. I want to crawl inside of him and make room for myself to stay forever.

The rhythm picks up like a whirling dance- the ins and outs and ups and downs and moans and aches of passion. The sensations are forceful, concentrated and deep- a vulnerable pleasure that borders on pain in its exactness. I moan loudly in his ear with each nudge- I must be breaking apart.

Angel's eyes remain fiercely closed the entire time, and he grimaces in something akin to pain. He pants as he thrusts, altogether human in his primal instincts. Humanity to Angel is at once unattainable and also his most intrinsic trait. To my surprise, just as he begins to come, shaking and shuddering in the throes of climax, his lips clamp down upon mine, claiming them, kissing me more intensely than I have ever been kissed. I moan into his mouth, and clasp him hard in my embrace until he is finished. I stroke his face with a few rough fingers, and he rests his head on my chest.

I realize that he is listening to my heartbeat. The idea that he could envy me for such a small thing when I adore him for all that he is sets me reeling, and I hold him there for a few moments, acutely aware that those precious moments are all I have left.

When we part, he looks at me with genuine kindness, with affection. He kisses my brow.

I know not to say a word. Tomorrow is a new day. Perhaps there will be other days, other shatterings, but until then, we must proceed with no more than wordless memory of the illusions that have vanished. I feel a moment of longing well up, sorrow for those barren days yet to come, and I put it firmly down. I must be stronger now.

Angel grasps one hand, giving it a single squeeze. I return it, communicating my understanding, if not my compliance. And I believe I heard him mutter a word of thanks as he slipped from the bed, the door closing dully behind him. The voices are stilled as I listen to my quiet breathing.



-Fin-


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