Disclaimers: If they were mine, they'd probably rebel at some point.

Spoilers: A lot of S2 Angel.

Summary: Angel and Wesley make a deal.

Ratings Note: NC-17 for sex, violence, and sexualized violence. Blood,
children.

Author's Note: Well, Sheila just keeps on inspiring me... though this
was supposed to be light Gunn smut. Heh. Next time.

Acknowledgments: To Sheila, for being idea girl, cute girl, and sweet
tipsy audience girl, too. And, of course, to me Braaaaaain, which
includeth the Deb, who put the *original* idea in my head.

Feedback: You know it, baby. teland793@sbcglobal.net

*

The pressure starts immediately, of course. A teeth-grating presence
of Commandant Kate's personal collection of foot-soldiers, badly
disguised as simply random *people*.

Wesley knows about disguises quite intimately, but needs none of his
expertise to pick out the man walking a dog that clearly has no bond to
him. The other man sunning himself on the rooftop, day after day after
day. Cordelia mentions the woman that shops *every* day at the
excessively fashionable Tesa across the street.

The neighborhood around his flat feels unnatural, and he wishes he had a
ghost like Cordelia's. Dennis has apparently been extending his reach to
keep listening devices and the like away from the premises, and banging
pots and pans together while Cordelia is on the phone. Convenient, that.

Wesley is in charge of changing the codes for their beepers regularly.
911 becomes w-0-0, and ACK, and any number of codes memorized within
Angel's hearing space. It is, perhaps, too much of an effort, and it's
true that Wesley may very well become -- and the word grates --
paranoid, but none of the others suggest scaling back the vigilance.

Cordelia is deeply offended by all of it, of course. Gunn seems to be
taking it as a matter of course. Angel has become no less... strange since
the truth of his dreams was revealed. The purple powder had left residue
on the sheets, the bedframe, the floor. It is, in retrospect, exceedingly
obvious, and Wesley feels a little blamed. Or perhaps just a little bit
*worthy* of blame. He is their expert on spells, after all, and Cordelia
and Angel are both used to Rupert Giles -- who has performed enough of
the dark arts to know them like the back of his hand.

Another grate -- there is no reward for following the rules.

There is no reward for *anything*, truth be told. Not for loyalty, faith,
vigilance. Angel is still aloof, still half-mocking. Still quite, quite distant
in his strangeness and out of it. Drinking more and more blood, sleeping
stranger hours than before. Somewhere between two hours and a day.

Slipping odd, disturbing statements into everyday speech. Wesley had, of
course, known precisely what Angelus thought of convents. It is not
pleasant to think of *Angel* having those same thoughts.

Angel told the girl to kill her father.

Angel killed the demon worshiper Wesley had had to pull him off of --
Wesley checked, discreetly of course.

Angel is not Wesley's responsibility, in any way shape or form. It is not
the job of the squire to question the knight, it is not the right of the
intruder to question the host. Wesley had, quite willingly, thrown in his
fortunes with Angel, for better and for worse, and he will be here
through it all.

No matter how frightening it becomes.

The barest whisper -- none of them are good enough for him. Comforting,
to not be the only one unworthy, even though he's the only one who cares.
They can do nothing for Angel but. Love him, and back him, and that may
very well be the thing that brings them all down.

None of them will ever be Buffy, and while the thought has laughter
attached -- Wesley has enough pride in himself to blanch at the
thought -- it's also quite, quite serious. Slayers, by necessity, saw the
world in black and white. Watchers did, too, or were supposed to.
Somewhere along the way everything had sort of swirled together for
Wesley... it probably made him a better man, but not a better companion
for Angel.

Angel, who has never been anything but forthright in his thoughts about
himself. Unworthy, bad, weak. And it hurts to agree with any of that, to
be so disloyal, even within his own head, but... the world is grey for
squires, too, and Angel is. Weak.

Perfectly capable of being a good man, so long as someone gives him a
reason to be, and, apparently, the idea of humanity is far too nebulous a
thing for him to hold on to anymore.

And Wesley doesn't have nearly enough righteousness to call him on it.
He'd wanted Bethany's father dead, too. And the demon worshiper
undoubtedly had any number of atrocities to account for and somewhere
along the way Wesley has forgotten how much of his beliefs are his own,
and how much are his loyalty. His *faith*. His blind, misbegotten love for
a creature who undoubtedly dreams, sometimes, of swimming in their
blood.

Wesley will offer his throat without question, should it come to that.
Cordelia would make any number of comments, and make Angel pick a spot
that won't show. Even Gunn, given time, will most probably offer up
himself to keep Angel on the side of right. To keep fighting, to keep this
*space* open for them, and a sense of purpose. However crumbling.

Wesley finishes organizing his newest set of useful occult links and
shuts the system down. Rests his elbows to either side of the keyboard
and rubs his eyes. Breathes deeply, slowly. Anxiety has always been a
lurker on the edge of his being, but Wesley has the tools to keep it back,
even with that slightly *heavy* feel to the air.

He knows it's irrational, but Wesley doesn't think he'll ever escape the
idea that this hotel remains quite cursed. Haunted.

Perfect, wonderful thoughts for the brisk, *dark* walk home, since his
bike is still in the shop.

Shakes it off and stands, or tries to. The chair only rolls back so far
before stopping and Wesley is trapped for a heartbeat before going
into fight mode but he's not fast enough for the powerful arm that
wraps around his arms and chest, pinning him still. For the cool hand
on the back of his neck.  And there's really no question.

"Angel. Are you all right?" Not even trying to hide the terror.

Dark, low chuckle. "No, Wes, I'm really, really not. You see, I find
myself a little *puzzled*." Squeezing hard enough that Wesley can't
get quite enough air and.

"I'll do my best to answer any questions, Angel."

"It's less a question than a hypothesis, really."

Angel's body, moving against his own. "Oh?"

"Yeah, Wes. Do you want to know what the hypothesis is?"

"I'm always interested in the science of the occult."

"Of course you are. Fine rogue demon hunter that you are -- you should
wear the leather more often, by the way. It complements your scent."

"I'll take that under advisement."

"You weren't always this agreeable."

"I wasn't always in such agreeable company."

Laughter, open and broken and worse than the clipped intensity from
before. "I miss her."

"I know."

"She loved everything about me."

"Except your soul."

"Such a little thing, a soul. A thorn, Wes. The grit in your shoe. But
that's not what I wanted to talk about."

"No?"

"No. You see, I know a lot about you, Wes. The way you live. The way
you touch yourself at night... that *particular* blond you let fuck you
any chance you can get."

"Never let it be said that anyone can lurk better than you, Angel."

"I love that you can make me laugh."

Warming inside, despite himself, and it makes Wesley laugh, too. "Glad
to be of service."

"How far will you let me go, hunh?"

"No one *lets* you do anything, Angel. I do believe that you're the
proverbial 800 pound gorilla in this *particular* relationship." And Angel
is nuzzling him, into his hair. Silent. Vague, senseless wish that he spent
more on hair care products so that Angel could have something softer,
more alive to burrow into and once one accepts one's place in the world,
many things become easier.

Wesley shifts as much as he can, doing his best to nuzzle back with his
whole body, making Angel purr.

On, and on like that, and Angel relenting just a little. Giving Wesley the
freedom to move as much as he likes, so long as it's against Angel's body
and this was... this was a dream, not a fantasy. An endless torture of
rubbing and rubbing against Angel like a great, needy cat, and Angel doing
nothing to ease the ache.

But this Angel is not so cruel. His hand remains on Wesley's throat, his
hips move against Wesley's ass.

"It's a lie, Wes."

"Wha-what?"

"Everybody has a leash, somewhere, and I'm offering mine to you."

"To wear?"

"To hold."

"Angel, I --"

"Can you handle it, Wes?" Bending him over the desk, now, holding onto
Wesley's hips and rocking, rocking. "Do you want it?"

"Oh, God, *Angel* --"

"Think about it, little hunter. Everything you want. All the good you
want --"

Angel bent over him now, breathing cool breaths against Wesley's ear,
tonguing and still oh Christ rocking and Wesley's so *hard* and he can
feel his cock leaking pre-come and he must be flushed all over because
Angel's the coolest balm.

"All the good you want, Wes. Just so long as you know how to pull the
leash tight."

And that. Just then. Aching now, and needing, so badly. How many
fantasies now? How many will come after this night, assuming he
survives? And all this for some *stupid* fucking game between them,
but oh... at least Wesley knows how to play. "Get off me, Angel."

Rolling thrust. "What's that, Wes? You want --"

"Get off me, back away, turn around, and press yourself against the
wall."

A moment, right then, when Wesley *knows* that Angel knows. That he'll
make no protest should Angel rip open his pants right then and *take*
him... but Angel moves away just the same and Wesley straightens slowly.
Adjusts his clothes.

Turns to find that Angel has assumed the position, head hanging.

And the motions were once quite routine, if often from the other side
of things. Remove Angel's belt, put it aside. Undo his trousers from
the back, let them fall and puddle around his ankles. The lack of
underwear is a physical surprise, if not a mental one. Wesley hadn't
meant to touch Angel's skin, yet, but once done...

Uses his boot-knife to slice Angel's shirt up the back, lets it fall to
either side. Tugs at the brief thatch of underarm hair.

Licks the tattoo, one long, slow stroke of the tongue, and earns his
first reaction -- a full body shudder.

"Who taught you this?"

And has to smile, despite knowing that it isn't the sort of smile he
wants others to see on his face. "Some things just come naturally,
Angel."

"And others?"

"Are learned the hard way. Like this, actually." Rolls the buckle of the
belt around his left fist, keeps the knife in his right. Traces, carefully,
the lines of the tattoo, and then not quite as carefully. "You must be
feeling better already."

"Hmm?"

Slices a thin line down the hollow of Angel's spine, earning a hiss and a
jerk that ruins the line. Wesley supposes it's a good thing that vampires
don't scar very easily. "Why, you don't have to do *anything* any more,
do you? You don't even have to fuck me."

"All you have to do is --"

Crosses the cut with a horizontal slash from shoulderblade to
shoulderblade. Is tempted to bless the resulting cross. Can vampires have
any parts of themselves holy? How long would it take before... Before.
"Order you to and you'll pound me into a brand new shape, correct?"

"Yessss."

"You're weak, Angel. Lazy, shiftless, and weak... but then you know that
already, don't you?"

"Glass houses, Wes --"

"Oh *do* shut up, Angel, or I'll stop giving you what you need."

"And what, exactly, do I need?"

Angel's hair is almost too short to grab effectively, but Wesley gets a
hold just the same. A heartbeat's hesitation -- this is.. a *lot*, but, in
the end, it's not a very *deep* slash along Angel's throat. Just a thin,
burning line that Wesley continues until it makes a blurred collar.

Two more cuts at the shoulder, two along the ribcage, two just below
the buttocks and Wesley tosses the knife out of reach because it's
*Angel*, and marking him, he's *marking* him. Writ in water, writ in blood,
and Angel. Reaches around, in a moment's loss of control, checks and Angel
is rock hard. Leaking and oh, God, Wesley desperately wants to suck that
cock but now.

Is not the time.

The belt, now, so natural in his hand that he'd almost forgotten its
presence, but it's a burn inside him. Lighting fires all along his arm and
the first stroke is much, much harder than he'd intended but there's no
stopping. No pulling back, no apologies, just this. The two of them and
Angel's own belt and the way thick, cool blood splashes itself all over.
Opening and reopening wounds, and all Wesley can hear is the steady
*CRACK* and the blood rushing in his ears and his own staggered, jittering
breaths.

And all he can see is the way Angels moves under that slick haze of red,
rolling up and *in* to each stroke. Head back, game face and roaring and
Wesley thinks, maybe, this moment is meant to be forever. Just this
between them, and the understanding that this isn't punishment so much
as acceptance. Wesley's.

Yes, Angel, I will take this from you, and all of it, and you will forever
answer to me until such time that this is no longer necessary. Take it, all
of it, and give it back in a simple, straightforward form. This belt, this
knife, this cock.

Slicked and slimed with Angel's blood, nudging apart the rudely marked
cheeks -- how quickly do vampires heal? -- and slamming in. Impossible to
get a grip on the slick hips so Wesley simply braces himself of the wall,
bracketing Angel, dipping his head against the back of his neck and yes,
one taste of the blood, strange and singing.

And then it's only the fuck, so far gone there's as much pain as pleasure,
driving Angel against the wall, half-listening for words in the sounds
Angel makes and then simply surrendering to it. Sweat-oiled, sweet, sweet
fuck in and in and in and maybe another taste, and another. Iron and acid,
tang of something perhaps as wrong as this, or as right, and his orgasm is
a great fist to the spine, buckling his knees and he bites off a scream in
Angel's ruined back and then clings to the vampire, helplessly, as his cock
judders out its last.

Breathes, and breathes, and trying to hold on to mind, purpose, *anything*.
Pulling out with wet, vaguely awful sounds that make him want to laugh, cry,
and scream. Backing away, far enough, as far as he can. Just to the desk.
Some illusion of safe distance.

Breathes.

"Turn around, Angel."

"Yes."

"Get on your knees."

"Yes."

"Make yourself come for me."

"Yes, Wesley."

No tease, no show. Angel has one hand on his balls, and the other is
stripping his cock, fast, simple strokes. Thumb teasing the head but
Wesley can't help but search the eyes holding his own. Hint of a shine,
perhaps a glint but Wesley can't read any further. And when Angel comes,
he does so with his eyes closed, and his mouth open.

Silence, and a chance to focus on the particularly gruesome tableau. Wesley
has no idea what to do next, but Angel solves the problem by simply standing,
gingerly, and closing the distance between them.

Licking his own blood from Wesley's lips slowly, and with great care before
kissing him for what feels like hours, blood tacking them together. And
Wesley lets himself fall into it, and brushes away all thoughts of
responsibility.

It will be there tomorrow, after all.

End.