1 A.D.

Angel, a slashfic in five parts

Rating: NC-17 for graphic male-male sex

Pairings: primarily Angel/Wesley and Angel/Spike

Disclaimer: "Angel" and "Buffy," with their related characters and themes, belong to Joss Whedon and others, not to me. I make no money from this venture.

Dedication: This slashfic is for Ewan McGregor and Alexis Denisof. What pretty...names.

Wherein demons explode; Spike makes unscheduled appearances; and The Amazing Angst Man and His Trusty Sidekick, Watcher Boy, battle the forces of darkness.

Notice: As a favor to Diamond, and to readers, I would like to warn you that there is odd religious imagery in this story that may be offensive.

Lar

"Angel" Part One: 1 A.D.

Doyle.

Wesley Wyndam-Price.

Doyle had worked for The Powers That Be to atone for wrongdoing.

Wesley was a former Watcher. The Watchers were bureaucratic demon hunters.

Doyle had been half demon. Also half Irish.

Wesley was English.

Doyle had worn casual clothes, a cheap leather jacket, brightly colored shirts.

Wesley wore clothes that were pressed and even dry-cleaned.

Doyle had had ugly former associates, outstanding debts, people and demons who wanted those debts paid.

Wesley had an expensive education, stores of knowledge of legends and spells.

Doyle had known how to talk to Angel, what Angel wanted, what Angel needed, when to press and when to leave him alone.

Wesley knew demonology and sorcery and ancient texts; what Wesley didn't know Angel did, and vice versa.

Doyle had known about Angel's past, about Angel's crimes, and about Angel's former life in Sunnydale.

Wesley was from Angel's life in Sunnydale.

Doyle had tasted like beer and brogue and Doyle.

He had no idea how Wesley tasted.

Doyle.

Wesley Wyndam-Price.

He'd called Wesley "Doyle." He couldn't believe that he'd done it. When Cordelia came to talk about it, showing a rare new sensitivity, she said that it didn't matter how Wesley felt. But it did matter. Because obviously Wesley was sticking around, and they needed Wesley to stick around, and it wouldn't be right to have Wesley feeling like Doyle's replacement. No one could replace Doyle, ever.

Wesley was a former Watcher. Angel hated the Watchers, their black-and-white vision, their bureacracy, their lack of human feeling. They were so English that they went beyond an ugly stereotype. He'd come to respect and admire Giles. But Giles was different from the other Watchers; that old Ripper persona kept popping through after a while, not to mention genuine feeling for Buffy, and Giles was fired. Enter Wesley. Wesley was short-lived in Buffy's universe; no one listened to him, he tried too hard to enforce Watcher ideals and didn't listen to what needed to be done in the real world, and eventually Wesley was gone.

Now Wesley was here, growing less pompous, less uptight, less annoying. It was a gradual process, but it was happening. Angel needed Wesley, needed someone who knew the ins and outs of working in the demon world. Wesley didn't have much if any hands-on experience, but Wesley was good in the research and resources department. Cordelia was valuable but he respected her limitations, he couldn't rely on Kate, and there was no one else. He needed Wesley. He wasn't sure whether it was more like having Giles there or more like having Xander, but it was something, at least.

He'd tried to wear some lighter clothes or colors after being advised to do so, not wanting to scare off people or potential clients. But he'd fallen into his old habit of dressing in black. He was more comfortable in black, denim and leather and silk; if it looked as though he were dressing in mourning for Doyle, well, maybe he was. Or maybe he was keeping to the stereotypical habits of a creature of the night. Or maybe it made lurking and stealth a lot easier.

He tried to smile. Sometimes he could. He'd lost things before, lost people before, lost himself before; this was one more loss. He'd live. Or not.

Doyle had talked about his happiness clause. Had sworn, against his wishes, to complain to The Powers That Be about it. He wondered whether Doyle had done so. He knew that they'd do nothing; he had a soul, and he had a price to pay for keeping his soul. It meant that he couldn't be happy. He'd made the mistake with Buffy. He hadn't made it with Doyle. Which meant that although he'd kissed Doyle so often and so long that he knew Doyle's mouth better than his own, he hadn't gotten to explore much else, because keeping himself in check, holding back, made him unhappy. He'd only been with one man besides Doyle, a long time ago, without his soul. What would it be like to be with a man while he had a soul? What would it be like to make love with a man?

Oh, he'd made love with a man. Even in the deepest rutting fuck, he'd made love with Spike. And even without their souls, they were capable of great tenderness, at least with each other.

Not that Angelus and William the Bloody went in for petal-strewn beds and violin music all that often. Sex between them had a lot more to do with corpse-strewn alleys and the music of screams. They made love fast and hard and passionate, always passionate, and bloody.

But they'd made love.

He hadn't had a soul then. He wanted to love with his soul. He'd loved Doyle. He hadn't gotten to make love with Doyle, to share his body, to join in that intimate and physical way. Now he never could. And with this life, it wasn't like he'd find someone to fall in love with again, male or female. He didn't want to; it hurt too much, to love and lose, to watch people get hurt or die, to hurt people and make them die, not to be able to love as he wanted or as they deserved. He couldn't make love. He couldn't even love, not truly; he had limitations, very real limitations. No direct sunlight, steady diet of cows' blood, tendency to be in great danger a lot of the time and to inflict that danger on others. He couldn't let anyone get close again. First Buffy, then Doyle - - no, never again.

He wasn't the same person he'd been when he'd first been with Buffy. He'd lost his soul. He'd gotten back his soul. He'd been sent to Hell. He'd come back from Hell. He'd left Buffy. He'd met Doyle. He'd learned to smile. He'd been human for a day; he'd gotten to enjoy life, food, the sun, Buffy, all over again. He'd given it up, given it back, gone back to being a vampire.

Could he be happy? Could he once again experience a moment of true happiness? Wasn't that rather naive? After all, now that he'd suffered and inflicted pain, now that he had to live with what he'd done as Angelus, what he'd done to terrorize Buffy, Jennifer Calendar, and now that he'd been to Hell and back, could he be happy? Wouldn't his guilt and shame and self-hatred keep pure happiness at bay through every second for the rest of his unlife?

He couldn't risk it. He didn't dare try. He couldn't be with Doyle knowing that there was every chance he'd turn around and terrorize Doyle. He loved Doyle too much.

Cordelia walked in and smiled cheerfully. "Brood much?"

"Cordelia. What do you need?" he asked, turning his swivel desk chair to face the door.

"I need time off," she said. "Commercial audition. I won't be in tomorrow."

"All right," he said. "Good luck."

"And all I have to say is that I'd better not get a vision in the middle of my audition. Can you imagine? It would kill my career!" She was gone. He sank into his thoughts again.

The day went well without Cordelia. Nothing happened, really; Wesley sat at her desk in case anyone called, translating a text on Rivana demons. Angel sat in his office and pretended to read.

Cordelia came in the next morning. While she was sitting behind her desk and he and Wesley were standing in front of it, she said, "Okay, I've been thinking about this. You're the superhero guy, right? You're Batman. And Wesley's like...Alfred."

"Alfred?" Angel asked, lost.

"I'm Alfred?" Wesley asked, sounding hurt.

"You know, English, well-dressed, helpful background person," Cordelia said.

"Alfred is the butler!" Wesley exclaimed.

"Really?" Angel asked, slightly amused.

"So I'm just the secretary," Cordelia said. "I answer the phone, I make the coffee, I make people pay their bills."

"Two out of three, anyway," Wesley murmured, clearly still miffed about being likened to a butler. "Anyone who considers this to be coffee-"

"Okay, can we focus?" Cordelia asked impatiently. "You're Batman, you're Alfred, I'm the secretary. The secretary does not take part in the weirdness. The secretary keeps files on the weirdness-"

"You keep files?" Wesley asked.

"-and researches the weirdness and calls up the weirdness to be paid for handling the weirdness, but the secretary does not take part in the weirdness. I comfort the victims."

"Quite the maternal type," Wesley said.

"Now you," Cordelia said to Angel, "being the undead vampire demon guy already, have enough weirdness of your own, I think. And you," now speaking to Wesley, "you're all educated in the weirdness, you have some sort of certificate degree in weirdnessology. So I think that you should be the one getting the visions."

"Cordelia," Angel said, "you can't pass around the gift like a...a..."

"Cold," Wesley said.

"Which works as a metaphor thing because Angel can't get colds, either," Cordelia said. "Look. I know that it's a special thing, and I know that The Powers That Be or whatever are behind it. And I know that Doyle gave it to me, and considering it was the only thing he ever gave me besides a lot of leers and ogling, it's all special and important and meaningful, I get it. He trusted me with his gift, and he trusted me with, you know, looking after you, and if you make me cry I will kick your butt." Cordelia took a moment to compose herself. "Okay. But I don't think that I'm the one who's supposed to be getting these visions. They don't sit right in me. I think that Wesley should have them. He's trained for the weirdness. He's Watcher boy. Ooh, that could be our thing - - Angst Boy and his sidekick, Watcher Boy!"

"Excuse me, Angst Boy?" Angel asked. "I do not-"

"Oh please," Cordelia said. "You angst more than...more than...Duncan MacLeod."

"Or Hamlet," Wesley said.

"Wow," Cordelia said. "That's a whole lotta angst."

"At least make me Angst Man," Angel said.

"I am not a sidekick," Wesley said. "I am not a sidekick or a Watcher or a butler or a boy."

"Well, you know, considering Angel's so much older than you are," Cordelia said.

"He's twenty-six!" Wesley snapped.

"Look, do you want the vision gift or not?" Cordelia asked.

"I don't think that you can give it to me," Wesley said. "Even if you could, I don't think that you should."

"It's my gift, they're my visions, and I think that I can decide what to do with them. Doyle trusted me with them, and I think that you should trust me to know what I'm doing. I think that I was just the interim person."

"You know the word interim?" Angel asked.

"You don't have to worry about being Tact Boy," Cordelia said. "Doyle trusted me with his gift, okay, but only for a while. Wesley came, and Wesley's here now, and I think that Wesley should get it."

"You tried to give him the visions before," Angel said, "and it didn't work."

"Too early. Too soon. He just got here, he wasn't settled yet, he was being weird and wearing leather. Now he's getting established and I think that it's time. So can I kiss him already?"

"By all means," Angel said.

"Cordelia," Wesley said. "Assuming that this works, are you sure that you've considered the implications of your actions? These visions were Doyle's parting gift to you, and I would never want to-"

She stood and kissed him. There was a white flash between their faces. She stepped back and said, "Wow. What have you been eating?"

"Toast," Wesley said. "Tea." Angel handed him a tissue and he wiped the lipstick off of his lips.

"You taste like you've been eating pure sugar," she said. "By the way, stock up on aspirin. Those visions get pretty painful." She seated herself. "Now you all get out; I have work to do."

"She does work?" Wesley muttered, tossing the tissue in a trashcan.

Angel went to his office then to sit and ponder. He was sure that the vision gift couldn't be passed from person to person in a simple kiss. Obviously Wesley was intended to get the visions. Why? Or could it be passed at random to certain persons; maybe some people were more willing receptors. No, that couldn't be right. Could it? Or was Wesley somehow meant to be Angel's...guide. Sidekick. Assistant. Doyle had been sent by The Powers to be a messenger. Could The Powers have something in mind for Wesley?

Angel walked back to Cordelia's desk. Wesley was standing off to one side reading. He stood before Cordelia and said, "So. How was the audition?"

"I didn't get the part," Cordelia said without looking up from painting her nails.

He'd never escape the scent of nail polish. Cordelia, Buffy, Drusilla, Spike. Hmm, Oz had painted fingernails too, right? "It didn't go well?"

"Understatement," Cordelia said. "Major understatement."

"What happened?" He wanted to be nice to her so maybe she'd be more inclined to tell him why she'd really decided that Wesley should get the visions. It hadn't worked the first time, so why had she thought that a second kiss might work?

"Oh. Um, nothing," Cordelia said quickly. "No, I just, you know, didn't-"

"Cordelia," he said firmly.

"God, don't get pissy," she muttered. "Look, I just didn't have a good time. You know, what with lapsing into a coma and everything."

"What?" he asked, startled.

"I passed out before I even got to read my lines," she said. "They couldn't wake me for like fifteen minutes. I was breathing and everything, but they're used to anorexics and drug users, thanks a lot that was really flattering, so they called an ambulance. Fortunately I woke up before they carted me off somewhere."

"You were unconscious for fifteen minutes?" Angel asked. "Why didn't you say anything? You need to see a doctor."

"What I need to see is a psychiatrist," Cordelia said. "I spent those fifteen minutes having this really great time with these people who were, like, so bizarre and weird. And their fashion sense, can you say beige?"

"What?"

"I know they weren't the Oracles, because Doyle told me about them. They're the shiny man and woman in the body paint, right? Well, whoever I saw was just as weird, let me tell you. These four old white men dressed like Jedi or something. They said a whole bunch of stuff about how great Doyle was, and then they thanked me for being the interim girl, and then they said that it was time to pass the gift along to Wesley. I was really relieved to hear that, but couldn't they just send me an e-mail message or something?"

So that was where she'd gotten the word "interim." "What did they say?" Angel pressed.

"Excuse me, were you invited? I don't think so. It was a private conversation between me and them."

"You don't know who they were?"

"Obi-Wan wannabes, I don't know."

"Why Wesley?"

"They think he's special. Maybe he's going to bring a balance to the Force, I don't know."

She knew more than she was saying, but she wouldn't tell him any of it. He gave up for the moment. "You should have said this before. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, thanks for the concern you show so often," she said sarcastically. Her tone softened. "Angel, I'm fine. And I won't tell you any more."

Then he realized that Wesley still was standing right there in the room, pointedly not listening but staring at the book's pages rigidly. He didn't know why it upset him to know that Wesley had been listening. After all, he'd known that Wesley was there when he'd started the conversation. And it hadn't been a private talk, not really. And it was about Wesley, anyway, about why Wesley had the vision, so it concerned Wesley more than it concerned him.

Maybe part of what disturbed him was that he'd forgotten that Wesley was in the room. He had his own stealthy lurking thing happening, so that he could hide in shadows and sneak up on people. But Wesley could disappear right out of thin air. Being quiet and still and, of course, a Watcher, Wesley apparently had developed an ability to be overlooked and unseen. Really it was an awful ability, to be forgotten while standing completely visible two yards away in the same room. What was it like to know that one could be forgotten like that? Wesley must feel...insignificant.

But The Powers thought that Wesley was significant. Why? Because Wesley was here? Because Wesley was the only person in Angel's life besides Cordelia, who didn't want the visions? Was Wesley equipped to handle the visions?

Angel knew Cordelia. He knew how strong she was. He knew that she could handle the stress and toll, psychological and physical, that the visions took. Could Wesley?

The Watcher organization had known that Buffy was running a little renegade, so they'd sent Wesley to put her in line. That meant that they considered Wesley to be a real by-the-book guy, that they thought that Wesley would stick fully to their straight and narrow, black and white vision of the world. That also meant that they thought that Wesley was capable of putting Buffy in line. He hadn't done that by any means, but then who was capable of such a task? After the Watchers, Wesley had been lost; he'd been a rogue demon hunter. Which meant that he'd known what he wanted to do, but not quite how to go about it. Now Wesley seemed to have a purpose of sorts, to help Angel and Cordelia just as Buffy's friends helped her. Wesley had Giles' Watcher background but not Giles' fierce strength or Giles' fierce love for Buffy. Which made Wesley half Willow (ability to cast spells, familiarity with books) and half Xander (background guy who wanted to help but sometimes needed rescuing instead).

Wesley had the closed book in one hand and was pinching the bridge of his nose with his other hand, glasses dangling from his fingers.

"You okay?" Angel asked. "Wesley?"

Wesley shook his head once as though coming back to himself. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you." He straightened his spine, put on his glasses, and put the book on the shelf, then reached for another. "You need to go to a Chinese restaurant on Bay Street."

"What?"

"You just had a vision," Cordelia said, standing. "Wesley had a vision."

"I'm afraid that I can't tell you what the precise danger is," Wesley said. "You may want to hurry. It'll happen in the kitchen." Cordelia handed Wesley two pills and a cup of water. "Thank you," he said, swallowing quickly. "I do hope that that helps."

"I'll be back," Angel said, and left. Wesley'd had a vision. That was it? It had been quiet and still, no collapse, no grimace, no convulsions, no cries of pain. Angel had barely noticed that anything was wrong. Was Wesley taking the stoic track on the visions? He knew that they must be awful, having watched Doyle and then Cordelia suffer through them, but Wesley's only concession to pain had been rather small.

He found Bay Street. He found the restaurant. He found the kitchen. Why did these things have to happen during the day? He stood in the restaurant arguing with the manager, pretending not to understand the man's English, stalling for time. Then the back door opened and two demons walked in, and everyone fell to the ground as though practiced but still scared, and the manager tried to shove Angel out of the way and into hiding. The demons saw Angel, and one said, "You're not human."

"Neither are you," Angel said.

"Here, please, go," the manager said, trying to distance himself from Angel, holding forth an envelope. An envelope of money, probably.

The first demon took the envelope, counted the money, spat some green ooze on the floor. The second said to Angel, "You'd better get lost, or watch out on the next bright sunny day." Even more eloquent than Angel had expected. The demons left. The workers scurried back to work, someone coming with a mop for the ooze. The manager shouted at Angel, who left quickly and carefully.

Back in the office, Angel said, "Two demons, extorting money. A protection racket?"

"No violence?" Cordelia asked. "Darn. We have to keep you in fighting shape."

"What kind?" Wesley asked Angel.

"I don't know. The one spat this green stuff. They were about 5'10", three short horns across the brow, blunt noses. Not violent, just threatening."

Wesley started paging through books.

"We'll have to find out who else they're extorting from," Angel said. "They could be working for someone else, too."

"And will the nice Chinese restaurant be paying us for killing them?" Cordelia asked.

"Sehkmet demons," Wesley said, coming over to show Angel a sketch in a book. "They're reasonably non-violent, though they fight rather well when riled. Their saliva and other bodily fluids are, in fact, green in color though non-toxic. The horns, however, are tipped with a lethal formula secreted by the demons at will."

"Poison comes out of their horns?" Cordelia asked. "So if they head-butt you, watch out?"

"Precisely," Wesley said, moving out of Angel's space again. "They're rather intelligent, though it's likely in this case that they are working for someone else."

"Why?" Angel asked.

"They're intelligent and peaceable. The protection racket is often used by greasy hoods and the Mafia, from my understanding of Hollywood cinema. I can't quite picture these demons coming up with this idea on their own without some other instigation, such as another demon or reasons of personal necessity such as desperation."

"Like needing cash?" Cordelia asked.

"Precisely." Wesley started flipping through books.

"We need to talk to the restaurant manager," Angel said. "Find out what he knows. He might know who else is involved, who else is being extorted."

"If he didn't tell you anything the first time, is he going to open up now?" Cordelia asked.

"He might," Angel said. "To you."

"Me?" Cordelia asked. "Great, I'm being sent out again. What, you want me to ask him if he's been harassed by any demons lately?"

"Yes," Angel said.

"If he has, I have complete sympathy for him." She glared at Angel and left.

"Ah," Wesley said. "What about a Cail demon? Big tough guys, often bullies, having a certain resentment for China."

"They have a grudge against China?" Angel asked.

"They were exiled," Wesley said. "Some years ago."

"Exiled from the entire country?"

"It was a mass exorcism, so to speak. They haven't quite gotten over it yet. Ah, yes, here's a drawing."

"What'd they do to China?" Angel asked, looking at the picture of the demon.

"Raided. Stole all of the tea."

"They like tea?"

"Rather."

"They stole all of the tea in China," Angel said. "Is that where we get that saying, all of the tea in China?"

"Interesting proposition," Wesley said, considering it.

Great, one lame comment and he'd thrown Wesley into scholar mode. Time for a distraction. "Did the aspirin work?"

"Oh. Not much, no."

"Maybe you should go rest."

"That won't be necessary, thank you."

"If you're sick-"

"I'll just make myself some..." Wesley stopped. "Tea."

"What?" Angel asked.

"I think that I will go," Wesley said. "Enjoy your day." Wesley handed him the book and left.

"Bye," Angel said, a little lost. "Oh damn it. Wesley!" Clearly Wesley was going off with some plan and not telling him about it. It wasn't that he didn't trust Wesley to come up with a good plan; he just didn't trust Wesley to handle the plan safely. But Wesley was gone.

Cordelia walked in later, saying, "I just had the best egg rolls."

"What's Wesley's number?"

"Wesley's phone number? Isn't that something that you should know?" She sorted through the mesk in her top desk drawer. "Here. What's wrong?"

"What'd you find out?" he asked, dialing quickly.

"Sure, like you're going to call him and listen to me at the same time. Why isn't he here?"

"I sent him home. He wasn't feeling good."

"Well, no kidding, he had a killer headache."

"Hello, this is the answering machine of Wesley Wyndam-Price. Please leave a message after the beep."

"Wesley, it's Angel. If you're doing anything other than sleeping, call me."

"What's going on?" Cordelia asked.

"I think that he's doing something he shouldn't be doing. What'd you learn?"

"I learned that I still don't like fortune cookies. Okay, so these gross demons, the ones with the horns, they've been getting money from every Chinese restaurant for miles. And, get this, the restaurants have been giving them tea by the pound. Like, who needs that much tea? Are these demons British or something? Anyway, it's been going on for like two years now and the restaurants are seriously going broke."

"Did they mention any other kind of demon?"

"Yeah, some big thing with a tail, but that's a rumor. The guy I talked to had never seen it himself, and he doesn't know who did see it."

"Does anyone know where these demons can be found?"

"Sometimes in a motel room off of Sixth. One of those seedy places."

"All right. Thank you."

"So what's Wesley doing?"

"Can you go to his place and find out? I'm going to the motel."

"If he's not there, I am not running all over L.A. to find him."

Angel went to the motel and talked with the owner, which got him somewhere when he made his meaning clear with a few bills and a few snarls. He learned that the Sehkmet demons had been around a few times, but that no one knew where they actually lived. The owner knew nothing about the Cail demon(s). Angel checked out the Sehkmets' regular room but found nothing; he went back to his office.

Cordelia was there. "Anything?" she asked.

"Where's Wesley?"

"I don't know. Not at his place. Stop worrying. If danger comes, he'll run. What are we doing now?"

Angel looked through two of the books Wesley had shown him on the Sehkmets and Cails. "We're going to find these Sehkmet demons."

"Take the 'we' out of that sentence and I'll be a lot happier."

Angel read the information on Sehkmets' typical habitats, placed a few phone calls, and by midnight he'd tracked down the two from that morning. He tried not to rile them, not wanting a physical fight if he could avoid it. They told him nothing, so he left. He waited outside their building, hoping that they'd do something, maybe report to their boss that he was trouble. Half an hour after his visit, they left quickly. He followed in his car. They went to a church. A church? He followed carefully, and they went downstairs. He followed even more carefully and listened.

The upshot was, there was a nest of Cail demons in there, and the Sehkmets were working for the Cails. The Cails' regular shipments of tea hadn't come in, and the Cails were pretty upset about it. The Sehkmets promised to take care of the problem. The Cails were angry and ready to get violent. Over tea. Angel couldn't believe it. Then the Cails killed one of the Sehkmets as a warning to the other.

He hurried out of there and went to the Chinese restaurant from that morning, found the manager living above it. He told the man what he'd learned.

"Yes," the manager said. "That girl works for you, with the long hair and the wide smile. The Englishman was here, too, he said that he was your butler. He said that we should not send in our tea today."

"Why?"

"We will send it tomorrow, all of us, at once."

"All of the shops and restaurants?"

"Yes. As an apology to the demons."

Angel tried to sort through this information. "Wesley came and told you not to send any tea today, then to apologize tomorrow and send it. He wants all of you to do that. Did he say why you can't send it today?"

"Because today he has it. He has collected a shipment from everyone and is going to cast a spell over it. A very talented man, your butler."

"You have no idea. I have no idea. Thank you for your time. I'm sorry to have woken you. Did he say where he and your tea would be?"

"Fung Kento's warehouse on Lehigh St."

"Thank you." Angel went straight to Lehigh. He found Wesley in a warehouse surrounded by carefully arranged bags of tea leaves, standing with a book in one hand and a stick of incense in the other. "Wesley." There were a few flashlights grouped together on the floor to cast light on Wesley's actions.

Wesley dropped the book loudly. "Angel."

"What are you doing?"

"Reading through this book. I've finished with the spell. It's a simple incapacitation spell. I thought that I'd give you time to kill the demons that way. Or, if you'd rather not kill them, I also have an exclusion spell ready."

Angel remembered listening to the Cails kill one of the intelligent, peaceable Sehkmets. They were bullies, and they were bloody, violent bullies at that. "How incapacitated?"

"It should take effect within twenty minutes of ingestion. That gives them all time to drink plenty before they realize that anything's amiss, you understand. After the twenty minutes pass, they will not be able to move from their position. If they're sitting, they'll be stuck in the chair. If they're standing, they'll be so kept in place that they can't fall over. Until death, of course. They will be able to yell at you, but their hands will be kept within two inches of the original positioning."

It would be a slaughter. Could he walk in and kill one after another, when they were defenseless? Did he have the right? After all, they were only taking money, not hurting anyone.

Then he remembered the killing of the Sehkmet demon.

"We'll have to keep careful watch without being caught. We'll need to know when they drink it and when it takes effect. Assuming that this works."

"We," Wesley repeated.

"You and me."

"Ah."

"Unless you don't want to come."

"I'll go," Wesley said. "The deliverymen will be by at six to pick up their tea. Then the Sehkmet demons will make the rounds to get everyone's contribution. The Cails should receive the bounty by eleven am."

"Sehkmet demon," Angel said. "They killed one tonight."

"Ah. May I ask why?"

"They wanted their tea."

Wesley paled.

"Oh, Wesley, I didn't..." Shit, he hadn't even thought of that. "It's not your fault."

"I fail to see why not," Wesley said. "I'll be going home now."

"Wesley, you can't - - the Cails are greedy and violent and cruel."

"Therefore not to be toyed with, to be treated with caution. I rushed into my plot without thinking of the consequences of my actions."

"You're helping all of these restaurant and shop owners."

"You're going to tell me that just because it was a demon who died it doesn't matter? I think not." Wesley left.

It was somewhat tricky to get Angel to and inside the church the following morning, but they managed it. Cordelia was back at the office; after each time the Sehkmet picked up tea, she'd get a call from the restaurant owner. That let her know that operations were running smoothly, and that nothing was suspected. Angel's cell phone was on vibrate; if something went wrong, she'd call.

The Sehkmet came and delivered the tea. The Cail, waiting with boiled water, accepted the tea and killed its bringer. Then they set about making their tea. Of course they had to take time to steep it, as Wesley warned Angel quietly. Time passed as the Cails decided to hire new demons to replace the Sehkmet, and to kill some of the restaurant owners as a warning to the others. They started to argue over which owners to kill. They settled on killing all but one, then to terrorize the remaining man for sport. Angel was feeling better and better about killing these demons.

They started to complain about feeling sluggish. Then they started to flip out, shouting, accusing each other of treachery, accusing the slain Sehkmet, accusing the Chinese men, accusing the Chinese race in general. "Now," Angel said to Wesley, and they burst in on the immobilized Cail.

"Oh gross!" Cordelia shouted. "What is that all over you?! Silly string?" She was standing behind her desk, backing away as they entered.

"The Cail tend to explode," Wesley told her. "Something not mentioned in our research."

"If you could start calling the restaurateurs to tell them that the Cail won't be bothering them again, I'd appreciate it," Angel told Cordelia. "I'm going down to clean up. Why don't you go first," he suggested to Wesley. "You can use my shower."

"I'd appreciate that," Wesley said.

Angel stood in his kitchen and had a drink while Wesley showered. He tried not to drip on anything. The shower stopped. He was definitely going to have to wash these clothes, but he couldn't take them off and put on anything else without showering, and wandering around naked with Wesley there and Cordelia nearby wasn't really a good idea, so he kept on his soiled clothes for the time being. Good thing he'd taken off his duster before it got too gross.

The bathroom door opened and Wesley stepped out in wet, stained clothing. Clearly some attempt had been made to clean the clothes first, but a futile attempt it had been.

"Thank you for the shower," Wesley said. "I do-" He turned his head to the side quickly, eyes closing. He inhaled sharply through his nose.

"Wesley?" Angel asked.

"Ah, yes. You might want to hurry up and shower yourself. You'll be busy tonight saving two young blonde women in an alley." Wesley met Angel's eyes. "One right after the other, apparently. Haven't cleaned up from the first before the next comes knocking. I feel like a prostitute when the sailors are in town." Wesley went to the lift.

Angel showered and changed clothes. When he got upstairs, Cordelia said, "I sent Wesley home to change, but he'll be back soon. I could not let him walk around in those gross disgusting clothes. You know, he really should keep a set of clothes here, because this is likely to happen again. And again. And again. Anyway, he left me this, here's the address where the blonde girls are, and he thinks that it's three vampires, but maybe only two."

"Thanks."

"Now that he's gone, can we talk about him?"

"Why?"

"Because... Okay, here's the thing. First of all, who's paying for the job you just did? All of those dead demons, and who's footing the bill? I say we get paid from all of those restaurant owners. They're used to paying big money, aren't they? One more payment, to the good guys this time, won't hurt them. You have rent, utilities, phone, whatever, plus you pay my salary. And, okay, what about Wesley?"

"What about him?"

"Where's his income? All he does all day is look through dusty books for you, and no one's paying him to do it. It takes money to dress like that, Angel. And he has an apartment of his own, and I've seen it. It's not pretty. And maybe you can survive on blood and rats, but some people need to eat. I know that Doyle was doing this to atone, but Wesley's not, and he should be getting some compensation for putting up with you."

"I never thought about it. If Wesley wanted to be paid, he would have said something."

"Why don't you say something?" Cordelia suggested.

"I should go look for these girls."

"You have hours."

Wesley walked in and smiled briefly. Angel forced himself to speak up before losing his nerve. He opened his mouth and what came out was, "I don't want you to feel like a prostitute."

"So you're going to pay him?" Cordelia asked. "How does that help?"

"What?" Wesley asked.

"Oh my god," Angel said.

"What?" Cordelia asked.

"Should I go out and come back in again, or go out and not come back at all?" Wesley asked.

"I want you to come," Angel said. "Back, come back."

"This is getting more and more interesting," Cordelia said. "May I help?"

"Please don't," Angel said. "No, on second thought, please do."

"Angel wants to pay you as an employee of Angel Investigations. Not that we can afford you; he barely pays me as it is. But he'd like to pay you. So if we ever get any money, you'll get some of it. All right?"

"You were paid by the Watchers," Angel said. "You're performing some of the same duties here. So we want to pay you for your services."

"Is it time to make a joke about you servicing Angel?" Cordelia asked. "Because that would really fit in with the whole prostitute thing. Where did you get that, by the way?"

"Wesley said that he felt like a prostitute," Angel said.

"My god, what did you do to him, maul him in the shower?" Cordelia asked.

Angel sat on the sofa. "This is not going well."

"I would accept some financial compensation for my work here," Wesley said. "Especially since I can see my hospital bills stacking up with each passing day. However, I do not want you to go out of your way to pay me, as clearly you're in some financial straits already. If you have money at some point, I'll accept some of it."

"There we go," Cordelia said. "You pay me first, then the bills, then with whatever's left over you pay Wesley."

"Now may I please go?" Angel asked.

"You're dismissed," Cordelia said. "Go off and save some lives. We'll be waiting."

Which was one of the new and interesting parts of his life. Someone was waiting. Someone cared. Someone was there to notice, even to care, if he got hurt, if he disappeared, if anything happened to him. It wasn't Buffy or Doyle, but it was someone, someone who cared. Even two people.

He saved the blondes, killed the vampires, and by the time he returned to the office his cuts and bruises had healed. Cordelia and Wesley saw that he was fine, said good night, and left.

A week passed. Wesley had visions, Angel took care of business, Wesley and Cordelia backed him up, everything ran smoothly. Wesley left him alone more often than Doyle had, for several reasons. That was fine, and he was just as happy to be allowed to sit alone. But he and Wesley weren't connecting; they were coworkers, but not friends. And not even coworkers; Wesley worked for him, not with him.

He helped out Kate, and when she came by the office she noticed Wesley. The night after that, Wesley had a date with Kate.

A date?

"It's not a date," Wesley told Cordelia. "I simply am taking the opportunity to educate the local police force on the behaviors of the local demon population. Granted, we can't exactly hold a conference and show slides, but I'd like to have one officer with an open mind on our side. She's been exposed to this line of work already, but she's resistant. I'd like to educate her."

"Is that what you kids are calling it these days?" Cordelia asked.

"And I assumed, correctly, that she'd prefer to discuss the subject with someone of the human persuasion," he added, casting a look at Angel.

"Hello, you're not exactly run-of-the-mill yourself," Cordelia said. "And before you get all flattered, I was talking about the visions."

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her," Wesley said. "The alternative is to have you talk with her, and I think that since I have an extensive education and you tend to say 'ick,' perhaps I'd better do it."

"Don't make any moves," Cordelia said. "She's trained to fight and she carries a gun."

"What makes you think that I'm not and that I don't?" Wesley asked. "Good evening."

"He is so bluffing," Cordelia said as the door closed behind Wesley. "Angel? He is bluffing, right?"

"Kate could kick his butt," Angel said, and went to his office.

"He doesn't have a gun, does he?" she persisted.

"I hope not," Angel said. "It'd just get him killed, one way or another."

"By the way, what's with the double tenders?"

"The what?"

"Double tenders."

"Double entendres," he said. She glared at his arrogantly flawless accent. "When?"

"Last week when you called Wesley a prostitute and said that you wanted him to come."

"I didn't call him a... It was nothing."

"I know that it's, you know... Doyle's gone, and you're in a lot of pain, and everything. But you got over Buffy pretty fast, you know, and moved right on to Doyle. So if you're moving on again, I won't hold it against you or anything."

"I didn't get over Buffy," Angel said.

"Okay, so you'll still love her, even while you're apart, even when she's a rotting corpse, okay, I get it. And you'll love Doyle forever too, I understand that. But you can't have Buffy, and Doyle's gone now. If you want to move on, with Wesley or Kate or someone else, maybe it's time."

"You think that I want Wesley and Kate?"

"I think that you want Wesley and Kate wants you."

"I don't... Wesley?"

"Fine. You don't want him. The fact that you were telling him to come meant absolutely nothing. Angel, I was here when you and Doyle started doing that 'let's stand really close together and look at each other all of the time and pretend that we're not drooling and horny' thing that you were doing. And this time, when you look at Wesley, believe me, Xander is less obvious. You want Wesley. Are you in some weird denial thing? Is it because of Doyle or because you don't think that Wesley likes you?"

"You think that I want Wesley and he doesn't want me?"

"Sorry to crush your ego there," Cordelia said. "Face it, no matter how he looks, we don't know if Wesley's gay. And we do know that he's not too fond of vampires. And we do know that you haven't given him too many reasons to be fond of you in particular. Angel, I'm nicer to him than you are, and I don't do nice."

"I'm nice to him."

"And now he's dating Kate."

"It's not a date."

"See that? That, my brooding vampire friend, is jealousy."

He wasn't jealous. He didn't want Wesley. He liked Wesley, but they were too different. Frankly, every night he wondered whether Wesley really were cut out for this job. Wesley just wasn't his type - - if he had a type. Considering he'd loved Spike, Buffy, and Doyle, maybe he didn't have a type. But he'd been a different person himself with each of them. First Angelus, then Angel, then post-Hell Angel. Now he was post-Angelus, post-Hell, post-Buffy, post-Doyle Angel, living in the shadows and trying to atone, working every night to make the world or at least LA a safer place.

The next day was a hard one. Wesley had a vision while walking through the door in the morning. They took care of that, and Wesley had to take advantage of the spare suit he'd brought after the silly string incident. Then they got a call from Kate and they ran out to take care of that one, too. They got a phone call from a damsel in distress, and Wesley went to shower in Angel's apartment.

Angel had two sweatsuits, one gray and one black. Since they fit him they wouldn't fit Wesley well, but his other clothes were less likely to fit. So he handed Wesley the black sweatsuit and went to take a shower of his own.

When he was clean and dressed he went up to the office. The first thing he saw was Wesley wandering across the room with an open demon tome in one hand, right hand absently clutching the waistband of the sweatpants to keep them from slipping down trim hips.

"She called back," Cordelia said. "It wasn't a demon, it was her uncle in a Bart Simpson mask. False alarm."

"You're sure?" Angel asked.

"I'm sure." She coughed. "Angel."

"What?"

Cough cough. "Angel."

"What?"

"Angel!"

"What?" he demanded, finally looking at her.

"You're making Xander look as suave as Don Juan, you idiot. God, drool much?"

"Are we allowed to call Angel an idiot?" Wesley asked with some surprise, looking over at them.

"No," Angel said firmly.

"So may I leave or isn't it safe?" Cordelia asked.

"Safe?" Wesley asked. Then he turned his head to the side quickly in a motion they'd both come to recognize. His right hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist while the book slipped from his left hand. "Oh dear."

"Are you all right?" Cordelia asked, rising and coming around the desk.

"What did you see?" Angel asked.

Cordelia smacked Angel in passing. "Lesson number one, learn to have some human sympathy instead of being interested only in business. And while you're at it, get some aspirin and water." She turned to Wesley. "You're all right?"

"I'm fine, thank you. Visions always relate to something that will come to pass, correct? Nothing that's said and done?"

"So far, yeah," Cordelia said.

"And it's five past midnight now."

"Right," Angel said, and handed him the water and pills.

"Thank you. There was a clock, and it read eleven thirty. It was dark outside, so if it's in this time zone, it won't happen until tomorrow night. How odd. That's almost twenty-four hours early. There were two men fighting in an apartment on Valjean St."

"Two men fighting?" Cordelia asked. "No vampires, no body snatchers, no weirdness?"

"One of them had a tail," Wesley said, tossing out the paper cup.

"That counts as weirdness," Cordelia said. "Well, if nothing's happening until tomorrow night, I'm going to go home." She left.

"Maybe we should check it out tonight," Wesley said. "In case the vision was late."

"You've been in two major battles and had two visions today," Angel said. "I think you should just go to sleep."

"Perhaps you're right."

"As soon as you walk out that door you're going to go to Valjean St., dressed like that and dead on your feet, to knock on doors and see if anyone's fighting or has a tail."

"I might," Wesley admitted.

"Why don't you stay here? Not here, in my apartment, downstairs."

"I won't get into any trouble. I'll just look around a little."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"If I weren't I'd be a fool."

"I won't attack you in your sleep. And I don't trust you to leave here and go straight to your place. You can take my bed."

"Won't you need it?"

"I don't need much sleep. And there's the sofa."

"Which doesn't look as though it would sleep me comfortably, much less someone of your...bulk."

Angel crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

"Fine. I'll stay here tonight. But I'm taking the sofa."

"Wesley-"

Wesley crouched and picked up the book he'd dropped. "Poor thing. I detest people who abuse books." He caressed it slightly and made sure that he hadn't bent the pages, then, clutching it in one hand and the pants in the other, rose and replaced it on the shelf. "I'm going downstairs to sleep, assuming that this headache doesn't keep me awake. Good night."

Angel went down an hour later. In the darkness, Wesley was lying on the sofa, wrapped in Angel's large warm sweatsuit. Angel listened, heard steady respiration, stepped closer, heard a regular heartbeat. That sound was...seductive. Alluring. The pumping rhythm, the rush of blood, the pulsing-

"Are you trying to scare me?"

"Sorry. Just making sure you were asleep."

"I'm not."

"Headache?"

"Apparently Excedrin has no effect on The Powers That Be."

Angel had come to view humans as a distinct race. He'd been through so much that he couldn't really relate to them as equals. Not because he felt superior, but because they were very different from himself. With Buffy, despite her being the Slayer, he'd been keenly aware of how vulnerable she was, emotionally and physically. He'd also been aware of how different he was from the other people in her existence. He had no idea how to be a young adult male, like Xander or Oz or Riley. Or Doyle or Wesley. He tended not to see people as ages or genders or races, just as human, one large and mysterious grouping. But he noticed, now, that Wesley was very male and very adult. He saw Wesley suddenly as a real person, a distinct individual, a grown man, young and vulnerable but-

-and then he realized that he was still standing there, in the dark, staring. And it was dark, but he was a vampire, and he could see the pale flush of Wesley's cheeks, the lush lashes fluttering just slightly, the stubborn set to Wesley's jaw, the more stubborn press of Wesley's lips. Wesley was sitting up against the arm of the couch, one hand resting along the back of the sofa. Wesley used to have the pale elegant hands of someone with an expensive education, with the mark on the back of the right hand middle finger that showed a tendency to write. Now, Wesley's hands were beginning to develop calluses from holding weapons and had a few ragged fingernails from fighting demons.

"Do you miss the Watchers?"

"They gave me a purpose and a structure. They allowed me to feel that I was accomplishing something worthwhile with my life. I'm trying to accomplish something worthwhile here, as well. I may have found a purpose with these visions. And the structure, I'm beginning to find one in the rhythms of the work and in the dichotomy of the relationship that the three of us share."

"Do you miss the Watchers?" he tried again, patiently.

"Not much, not anymore."

"But you're lonely."

"As are you. As is Cordelia."

"But I... I'm different. You and Cordelia don't have to be lonely. There's Kate."

"Yes, I'm seeing her for lunch tomorrow."

"You like her?" Please, he wanted Wesley to be straight.

"To be entirely honest, no, not much."

Angel was surprised. "Why not?"

"She's still seeing in black and white, as the Watchers did. I've learned to see that it's not the demons against the humans. It's the bad against the good, and sometimes it's hard to see where the bad lies. Sometimes it's hard to see where the good lies. One has to be willing to look for the nuances in the shading, and I'm working hard to look. Those who refuse to look, or self-righteously pretend that they have looked, anger me."

"You had to see it for yourself to learn."

"Kate's seen it. She knows you."

"You were willing to let me die."

"That wasn't my best moment."

"What was?" Angel asked, wanting to know.

"I'll let you know."

That was just depressing.

"What was yours?" Wesley asked.

Angel smiled slightly. "Making Spike. Leaving Buffy. Not making love to Doyle."

"I might have to disagree with that first one," Wesley said.

"It was a good idea at the time," Angel said.

"I realize that you're suffering and atoning, and I realize that you have a lot to suffer and atone for, but it strikes me as unusually cruel that you'll never get to be happy."

He and Wesley had never just talked, especially not like this. "I'd agree with that," he said.

"Now that you're working for The Powers That Be, can't they do something about it? It's from your original curse, is it not, which was reenacted by Willow. That was before you were taken in by The Powers. While you are working to atone, wouldn't it be in their best interests to keep your soul as intact as possible?"

"Make my soul permanent, not dependent upon my happiness? That would be nice."

"Nice," Wesley repeated.

"Doyle was going to petition The Powers," Angel said. "I don't know if he did."

"I'm sure that he tried. It must have been important to him."

"It was."

"Since we're on the subject, may I ask, why doesn't Buffy know that you're bisexual?"

That was blunt. "I didn't tell her. Did you know?"

"Yes. I suspected, before, that you and Spike were involved. And when I came here, the more I heard about Doyle, the more I suspected again. But Buffy never seemed to suspect anything."

"I don't think that she wanted to see it. She doesn't seem homophobic, and since she handled me being a vampire pretty well, I wouldn't think that me being bisexual would bother her. But I didn't tell and she didn't ask. Giles knew. Oz knew."

"Oz knows all," Wesley said.

This was what they got for letting Cordelia try to acculturate them. "You should try to sleep if you're meeting Kate for lunch."

"Yes, I should."

"You must be exhausted."

"Yes, being a poor frail mortal, fragile and delicate."

"You are vulnerable, and you don't have the resources that I do," Angel said. "I'm used to working with Buffy, who's faster and stronger and heals better than regular people."

"Yes, I am a standard-issue human with standard human recovery times. I suspect that it does take someone special to fight in that tight skimpy clothing. And her hair never gets in the way. It baffles the mind." Wesley slid down to lie on his back again. "I'm not going to be able to sleep if you keep lurking."

"Sorry. I'll go lurk in the bedroom, how's that?"

"Better, thank you." Wesley's eyes closed.

Angel peeked out hours later on his way to get some blood. Wesley was soundly asleep, breath slow and even, curled on one side.

Suddenly Angel turned and walked away fast, going to the bathroom and closing the door as though to hide. So. He'd wondered at what age men stopped getting a morning erection. Apparently not at that age. He'd better give Wesley a little privacy. He dressed and fixed his hair and went up to the office.

Wesley came up a little later. "I'd best be on my way if I'm to meet Kate. I'll return your sweatsuit this evening?"

"That's fine," Angel said.

"Thank you for the sofa."

"I'm sorry you didn't get more sleep. And I'm sorry that doesn't fit better."

"Thank you for letting me borrow it. Good morning." Wesley headed for the door, then stopped walking suddenly and fell right over onto the floor. Angel was there in an instant, crouching beside Wesley, turning Wesley over, mind flashing in awe - - warm soft hard alive. He always forgot just how alive people were, skin and muscle and bone and hair, blood pumping, their heat, their movement. He was glad that his hands were on the soft cotton of his sweatsuit heated by Wesley's body and not on Wesley's bared flesh. "Wesley!"

Wesley's back arched, and Angel pinned his shoulders to the floor, trying not to see Wesley's pelvis lifting in that pornographic manner. Dark lashes fluttered as Wesley's lips parted. "Wesley!"

Wesley's body shuddered once and then collapsed against the floor. Wesley looked up at him suddenly. "I have never in my life acted out such a display," Wesley said.

"Are you all right?"

"Mortified but fine. The rest of me is fully intact, though my brain clearly has become unhinged." Wesley sat up, and he pulled back his hands quickly, realizing that he shouldn't be grabbing Wesley. "Matters have escalated. The man with the tail is going to be killed by the other man."

"That was a vision? An ordinary vision?"

"An ordinary vision in the guise of a Grand Mal seizure. I'm amazed that I didn't swallow my tongue. If this happens while I'm in public - - worse, while I'm driving - - I don't know what could happen. I hope that The Powers are paying attention to when they hit me."

"You should stay here."

"I have an appointment with Kate, and I have to dress first besides."

"Cancel."

"That would be rude and unnecessary. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. You look sick."

"If we're going to insult each other's appearances, may I be frank?"

"No." He put his hand to Wesley's forehead, then the back of Wesley's neck. "You have a fever."

"Forgive me for stating the obvious, but your hands are nice and cool."

"You need a doctor."

"Has the vision made me ill, or was I ill to begin with and my weakened immune system made me more vulnerable to the-"

"Go down to my apartment and get some rest. In the bed. I'll call Kate to cancel, and I'll ask Cordelia to bring some...medicine stuff."

"I assure you, I will be perfectly fine."

"I'll make tea."

"That would be nice," Wesley confessed, almost wistfully.

"Let's go," Angel said, rising, pulling up Wesley by the hand, trying not to think about the fact that he was touching Wesley. When they got downstairs in the lift, he said, "Go to the bed and rest while I boil water."

"Cancelling a lunch date because of a little fever. Disgraceful," Wesley said.

"Don't make me force you," Angel said.

Wesley went to bed, muttering. Angel boiled water, steeped the tea bag, and went to the bedroom. As he'd hoped, Wesley was asleep. He pulled up the covers and went upstairs, where he called Kate, called Cordelia, and drank the tea himself.

When Cordelia came, she said, "I swear, if you made him sick just to get him in your bed-"

"Cordelia." He was increasingly intolerant of her theory that he wanted Wesley.

"All right. Here, I bought a thermometer and some aspirin that's supposed to reduce fevers. You should take his temperature regularly. If it gets too high, take him to the hospital. I'm leaving. I will not be here with ill people. Hanging out with the undead on a regular basis is icky enough. Nothing personal."

"Could you come over tonight while I'm out working?"

"I could," she conceded. "As long as he's not barfing."

"Thanks."

He went downstairs and stood by the bed, watching. Wesley needed to shave. His gaze dipped down a bit and snagged on Wesley's pulse, its steady beat, its powerful-

Wesley's eyes opened. "Angel?"

"Hi. Cordelia stopped by. She brought something to relieve your fever and a thermometer. How do you feel?"

"Were you staring at my neck?" Wesley reached for his glasses on the bedside table.

"Why would I do that?"

"I feel...not quite myself, to be honest. I should go home and curl up for the day. Tomorrow I'll be fine."

"You're staying here. Let me take your temperature."

"It can't be too high."

"What's too high?"

"Just give me the thermometer." Angel found it and handed it to him. "Ah, something non-digital and time-consuming. How lovely." Wesley did seem pleased, which made Angel want to smile. Wesley stuck the glass stick under his tongue and sat there while Angel turned over the miniature hourglass. When the sand ran out, Wesley removed the thermometer and said, "101. Not too bad. I'll live, so far. I don't seem to be vomiting, and liquids would be beneficial. Do you have anything that I might be able to drink?"

"Water."

"It'll do." Angel brought him some. "I drank blood once."

"You?"

"It was disgusting."

Angel's mind flashed to an image of Wesley with blood-stained teeth. It was shockingly erotic. That was when he realized that he'd lost his mind. "I called Kate and cancelled your lunch."

"Thank you. I'll call her myself later to apologize."

"I think she likes you."

"I think she likes you. Well, 'likes' is hardly the accurate word."

"She can't stand me and I disgust her and she hates me, but she likes my body," Angel said.

"Yes, that's about it," Wesley said.

"But she does like you."

"Put us together, then, and you'll get-"

"One weird person," Angel said. Wesley smiled. "She's just attracted because I have the tall dark and mysterious, brooding, dressed in black, angst thing happening," Angel said.

"Good for someone who likes bad boys or fixer-uppers," Wesley said.

Angel noticed that Wesley said "someone" naturally, the way most people would say "a woman" in that place. Apparently Wesley was comfortable with, familiar with, the bisexual vocabulary. So Wesley, he assumed, wasn't homophobic. Even Angel had stray homophobic thoughts at times. Like when he found himself wishing that he were straight so that he'd live up to Buffy's ideals, which maybe were his own ideals. Although his life tended to be filled with more pressing issues than whether he wished that he were straight. He had other things to wish for...

"Angel?"

"You should try to get more sleep," he told Wesley.

"That might be for the best," Wesley agreed.

When he came back later, Wesley was sleeping again. All of the covers had been kicked off of the foot of the bed. The black sweatshirt was on the floor, leaving Wesley in a white tank-style undershirt, shoulders and arms bared, pale, strong... The sweatpants, too large to begin with, had slipped down during Wesley's sleep and now were revealing Wesley's underwear. Soft pale blue. Boxer-briefs, from what Angel could see. He'd expected plain white briefs.

He forced himself to close his eyes, then opened them purposely to look elsewhere, trying to burn the image of a half-dressed (half-undressed) Wesley lying sprawled and vulnerable across his bed. His to ravish. His to satisfy his every lust with - - his sexual appetites, his hunger for blood, his bone-deep desire for companionship.

Once upon a time, Spike had been his companion. His favored childe, his best friend, his lover, his mate, his everything. He'd hoped to have an echo of that with Doyle, who'd been sent to him by The Powers That Be, after all. It had been too long since he'd had someone with whom he could share his life. His unlife. His anything and everything.

Once upon a time...

There was something on the bedside table. A notepad from the kitchen, and a pen. While he'd been upstairs, Wesley had gotten up and moved about the apartment? Wesley was supposed to be sleeping! He picked up the pad, and read:

621 Valjean St. Apartment 3G. Christopher Ramsey and Frank Scanlon. 11:26 pm. Chris half-Kildare. Gun.

Angel frowned. Had Wesley had another vision, or just remembered details from the first two visions and wanted to write them?

Wesley rolled onto his stomach and groaned.

"Wesley?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Did you have another vision?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Let me take your temperature. You shouldn't be getting out of bed."

"I was up anyway, vomiting in your toilet."

"Wesley..." He felt guilty, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe because Wesley's sickness was tied to the visions, which were his fault. And he wished that Wesley would pull up the sweatpants, but he doubted that Wesley realized that they were down there or really cared, either, this sick.

"I couldn't tell who had the gun. It was there, I saw it, but I couldn't be sure whose hand held it. I suspect that it was Frank. What time is it?"

"It's five. Would you like - - someone's coming."

"Cordelia?"

"Not for hours." Angel left the bedroom and walked to the lift.

"Angel?"

"Kate."

"I wouldn't have come down, but no one's up in the office. I was just stopping by to ask how Wesley's doing."

"Not too well."

"He's here, you said?"

"He's resting." Uh-oh. He recognized this feeling. He was feeling possessive, jealous, protective, and most of all, territorial. This was his apartment and his Wesley, and she had no business being anywhere near his apartment or his Wesley.

She nodded, clearly ill at ease. "Tell him I came by."

"Kate."

Angel turned, saw Wesley propping himself up in the doorway to the bedroom, glasses on, sweatpants held up in one hand but slipping down just enough to be wonderfully enticing, white tank T-shirt clinging to Wesley's body like Angel wanted to. Wesley couldn't have been more seductive if he'd tried. Angel had seen less provocative cologne ads.

"Wesley," Kate said. "How do you feel?"

"Awful, but I don't think that it's contagious. I'm sorry that I had to miss lunch."

"No, I understand."

Angel wanted to growl when she noticed how her eyes kept flickering over Wesley. He knew that she probably couldn't help it, because he knew that he couldn't control his own impulses to stare with lust-drenched longing, but he hated her for it regardless.

"As soon as I'm recovered we'll make another lunch date," Wesley said.

Date. Qualified as a lunch date, but a date nonetheless. Angel growled. Kate and Wesley looked at him in surprise. "You really shouldn't be out of bed," he told Wesley, having quick visions of Wesley never leaving his bed.

"I'm sorry," Kate said. "I just wanted to see how you were. I should have just called."

"It's good to see you," Wesley said.

"Call me when you're better," she said. "I'll see you then. Angel."

"Kate." He watched her leave.

Wesley turned, giving Angel a heart-stopping view of white cotton clinging to a long slender back, broad shoulders tapering to slim hips, the flirtiest little view of underwear before the black sweats swallowed up Wesley's bottom and long legs. Bare feet, long toes, gracefully high arches. Wesley got into the bed and lay down with a sigh, eyes closing. He set his glasses on the table and folded his hands over his stomach. "You really don't like her."

"I used to. I wish that I still did." Wait, heart-stopping? His heart wasn't beating in the first place.

"Why don't you?"

"It's personal. I don't really understand it."

"It's hard for her. I do understand that. All of her life she was blind to the inhuman elements as she fought all-too-human criminals. Now she's forced to face that the inhumanities perpetrated among us sometimes are perpetrated by the inhuman. Not to mention that vampires killed her father."

"Now that she knows she can protect herself."

"Not necessarily. Sometimes knowing what one faces makes facing it all the much harder. Sometimes ignorance is bliss."

"If you don't know how long the path is, you don't know that you can't walk it."

"All of that brooding has honed your philosophic edge."

He handed Wesley the thermometer. Wesley shook it and it went under Wesley's tongue. Without touching, he could feel how warm Wesley was as heat radiated from Wesley's body. Fever-hot. He wanted to touch, to get burned.

"104. I'm getting worse. If it gets much worse, I'll need a hospital."

"I should take you now."

"Try it and I'll stake you with that pen."

Angel pocketed the pen. "When it gets to 105, you're going."

He checked in a few more times, always to find Wesley sleeping. When he returned at ten, Wesley was leaving the bathroom.

"I'm back to 98.6," Wesley said.

"You're sure?" Angel asked.

"I feel much better," Wesley said. "A cup of tea and I'll be ready to go."

"You're not going anywhere."

"I've had three visions of Chris and Frank, and I've spent all day at death's door because of those visions. I am going to see these two men and I am going to find out what's important about them."

"You are not going anywhere."

"If you don't take me with you, I'll go on my own. Cordelia won't be able to stop me."

"I could tie you up, handcuff you to a chair."

"I'm coming with you," Wesley said, and went into the bedroom, pulling on the discarded sweatshirt. "I feel much better, Angel, and I've developed a personal interest in how this case goes."

"I understand that, but you've been sick all day. You should rest tonight."

Cordelia came down in the lift. "So, how's the patient?"

"Losing patience," Wesley said. "Cordelia, would you rather sit around here with me being bored, or would you rather go?"

"Well that's a no-brainer," Cordelia said. "You know, for someone who's dying, you look oddly...really good."

"Thank you," Wesley said. "You may go now."

"Really? Great! Oh, I'd rather stay here, to find out if Angel comes back or not."

"You can stay and keep Cordelia company," Angel told Wesley.

"I am going," Wesley said. "With you or without you. Cordelia can come with us."

Well, it didn't sound overly dangerous. Angel didn't like that Wesley had had three visions concerning this duo, but it was just two guys fighting, not a pack of wild demons. "All right, but you two stay back. We'd better hurry."

They got to Valjean, found the building, made it inside and upstairs. Angel told Wesley and Cordelia to stay in the hallway out of sight while he went to knock. The knock proved unnecessary; suddenly he heard raised voices. Chris and Frank, no doubt, arguing. He listened.

"You don't understand-"

"Oh, I don't understand? Of course I don't understand, I'm just an insignificant human being without access to the higher powers and the wisdom of the ages. I couldn't possibly understand your big bad demon-"

Lovers, they were lovers.

"I didn't mean that, and I didn't say that!"

"Oh, but you forget, I don't understand."

"Frank-"

"So explain it to me! Explain to me why you and your demon friends and-"

Angel came through the door. "Excuse me. I was just-"

"Watch it," Chris said, stepping between Frank and Angel. "He's not human." He knew it was Chris because of the voice and the tail.

"Of course not!" Frank yelled, rather irrationally in Angel's opinion. "I'll bet he's one of your-"

"I don't know him," Chris said. "Who are you?"

"I was just in the hallway and I heard you two arguing. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong!" Frank shouted. "Nothing except that he-" here Frank swung a gun up to aim at Chris' head "-is out all of the time with his demon friends at his demon parties leaving me-"

"Frank, what are you doing?" Chris asked in surprise and dismay.

"Where did you get a gun?" Angel asked.

"This is L.A.," Frank said. "Who are you?"

"My name is Wesley," Wesley said.

"Wesley, get back," Angel said.

Wesley slowly walked to Angel's side, eyes on Frank. "Are you going to shoot him? Kill him? I thought that you loved him."

"What would you know about it?" Frank asked.

"Not much. I've never been in love. I can't imagine what it's like."

"It's like Hell," Frank said.

Angel kept quiet on that score. Personally he found Hell worse, but in his experience love certainly wasn't easy. Oh, it was easy to fall in love; Doyle had been amazingly easy to love, for instance. But living with that love, not being able to express it, feeling frustrated at every turn, that wasn't easy. And loving Buffy, well, fraught with angst was an understatement.

"Then you want him dead," Wesley said.

"No!" Frank said. "No. I don't want him dead. I want him to love me."

"I do love you," Chris said. "I love you, Frank. Put down the gun."

"You love me but, see, you're never satisfied! I'm never good enough!"

"You're good enough," Chris said. "You're more than enough."

"Is he a demon?" Frank asked.

"No," Wesley said. "I'm not."

"I can't tell anymore," Frank said. "Nothing makes sense. No one's who you think he is. And you! You, spending every second with them, talking about them, I'm not one of them, I can't be one of them."

"I don't want you to be one of them," Chris said.

"To keep me separate, so I can't share it with you."

"No, to protect you, to keep you safe. To keep you you."

"No." The safety clicked off and Frank's finger tightened on the trigger. "You're lying. You always lie."

"I don't lie to you."

"You make me so angry. I'm so angry I want to hurt you. But I can't hurt you. You aren't human."

Chris was growing desperate. "Frank-"

The gun swung. Angel dove. There was a sound like an explosion. Wesley's body slammed back against the wall and then slid to the carpet.

Angel grabbed the gun, wrestled Frank to the floor. "Cordelia! Call 911!"

"What happened? Who got shot?" She was in the doorway. "Wesley! Oh my god Wesley!"

"Cordelia! The phone!"

"What? Oh, god, right, oh, god." She scrambled for it in her purse. "Wesley? Wesley!"

Angel, with the gun, told Chris to watch Frank and dashed to Wesley's side. "No heartbeat. His heart's not beating. He's not breathing, either. Chris, call 911, get an ambulance. Cordelia, you need to perform CPR."

"You do it! I don't know how!"

"I can't breathe," Angel told her. He got Wesley's airway open, told Cordelia to seal Wesley's nose and breathe into Wesley's mouth. He did the counting and the compressions. Dimly he heard Chris on the phone. Blood, Wesley's blood, everywhere.

"Angel."

"Angel, he's gone. He's dead. Angel! Stop it!"

matthew@matthewtime.com
"Angel" Part Two: After Wesley Died
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