a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Fugue
Author: Sheila
Pairing: A/Wes
Rating: PG-ish.
Setting: AtS S2


fugue: 1) a musical composition for a definite number of parts or voices, in
which a subject is announced in one voice, imitated in succession by each of
the other voiced, and developed contrapuntally.


Third night in a row that Wesley was sitting behind the front desk in the
lobby, books spread around him like he was ground zero in some kind of
encyclopedic explosion, and Angel was...curious.

Okay, annoyed.

Like it wasn't enough that he confessed to having dreams. Like it wasn't
enough that he was willing to kill her again. Like it wasn't enough that he
was already paying for past sins.

He'd *confessed*. And somewhere, buried under centuries of knowing better,
was the belief that he should be absolved for it. Good strong Catholic
dogma, clinging to the boy he had been, the one who had wanted to believe.
Confess, repent, be absolved. Neat little trinity of forgiveness and Angel
really did know better.

Knew and was still annoyed.

And was it really too much to ask that Wesley at least *looked* at him? He
wasn't something so harmless as to be ignored.

"You're still here," said Angel flatly. He fought the urge to loom.
Cordelia'd caught him at it before and it had taken weeks for her to let it
go. Somehow, Angel got the feeling that Wesley wasn't one to let something
like that go. Not without barbs.

Wesley looked up briefly, his expression calm. "Yes," he said, and no one
could really do dry and vexed quite like the British.

"Why?"

"I work here." Wesley sat back in his chair and looked at Angel. "Unless,
of course, you meant it when you said I was gone."

"You know I didn't." Wesley had the good grace to look relieved. "Why are
you here, Wes?"

"I was thinking."

"Thinking."

"Yes."

"Did it hurt?" and the words were out long before Angel realized he was
thinking them.

Wesley smiled, but it was an unpleasant expression. "Yes. It did." He
looked at Angel sharply and that was new, too. "Don't you want to know what
I was thinking about?"

He really didn't, but there was something in Wesley's face that just dared
him to admit it. "You're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"

"Oh, I could keep it to myself," said Wesley. He gestured at the hotel
lobby. "What's one more secret in the air around this place?"

"Wes, I don't think--"

"No, you obviously don't." Wesley stood and began to stack the books
neatly. There was a small baggie of purple dust lying beside an open
notebook and Angel winced. Wesley caught the expression and glanced down at
the bag. "Ah yes. Interesting little powder, isn't it?"

His tone was far, far too innocent for Angel's liking.

Wesley picked it up and tossed it at Angel, who caught it reflexively. "Do
you know what it is?" he asked mildly, as if he really didn't know or as if
Angel were some particularly slow student.

"Calynthia powder."

"Very good," said Wesley.

"Smugness doesn't become you."

"I will keep that in mind." Wesley smiled again, and Angel wasn't entirely
sure he liked the new sharpness in his friend. "Do you know what it does?"

Still mild. Brittle. Angel closed his fist around the bag and it popped,
sending powder down to dust his pants and jacket. "It keeps a person
asleep."

Wesley nodded once and when he looked at Angel, he was frowning. "It was in
your room."

Angel nodded. "Yeah."

"In your room," Wesley said. "On your *bed*."

"Yeah."

"You didn't notice it?" asked Wesley, and there was a note there, a tiny
little thread of hope that made the question a plea.

The powder was gritty against his palm. "I noticed."

Wesley's face shut down and Angel's chest grew tight. "I see."

"Yeah, you do."

Unbidden, unwanted, and Angel heard himself saying, 'It was a cry for help,'
and Buffy's diamond hard reply. 'A cry for help is when you say help in a
loud voice.'

Angel was fairly sure Wesley wasn't so literal-minded. But--

"I see," said Wesley thoughtfully. He seemed to come to some sort of
decision because he was back to calm when he said, "I will not be in
tomorrow."

"Day after?"

"I don't know." He put his jacket on, the black leather, and considered the
pile of books. He picked up the first book and ran his fingers over the
plain cover.

"Don't go," said Angel.

Wesley just looked at him. "Why not? You obviously don't need me around to
tell you things you already know."

Angel took a step forward, felt the instinct to menace rising up in him and
he glared at Wesley. "You're running away."

"You could have killed us," said Wesley, not backing down.

The protest was automatic. "I would never have--"

Wesley touched his throat pointedly and Angel winced. "You did."

Oh yeah. Barbs. "I didn't mean to," he said and knew, when Wesley flinched
and took a step back, that it was the absolute wrong thing to say.

"Don't insult us both by lying, Angel. You knew what you were doing, and to
whom." Wesley's voice could have cut glass. "Were you happy with her in
your dreams?"

Angel swallowed. "Yes."

"Perfectly happy?"

"No," he said, relieved that it was the entire truth.

Wesley tilted his head to the side and the light from the desk lamp flashed
off his glasses, hiding his eyes from Angel. "Could you have been?"

A long pause then, and Wesley sighed. Angel took another step forward, past
the safety of the lobby and into what was clearly Wesley's marked territory.
"Yes." Another step and Wesley refused to back away anymore, just lifted
his chin and settled his weight evenly. Angel didn't smile. "I'm sorry,"
he said.

Wesley sighed. "That's hardly good enough."

"It's going to have to be."

"You didn't tell us."

Angel frowned then, because underneath the fairly righteous anger
was...hurt. Obvious. Obvious and of course, Angel had missed it. "I
didn't tell *you* and that pisses you off."

"Well, aren't you observant?" asked Wesley. He pushed Angel's hand away.
"We could've helped you and you shut us out because you were having wet
dreams about a woman who, at your last meeting, did her best to kill you.
You put all our lives in danger for the sake of what? An orgasm? Rest
assured, Angel, I am far beyond pissed off."

"Acceptance," Angel said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"She...accepted me."

The look on Wesley's face was, at best, insulted. "Accepted you. Because
we so obviously don't."

"No. I mean, yeah, you do, but--"

"We don't have sex with you?" asked Wesley, all innocent curiosity. He took
a step forward, invading Angel's space. "Is that all acceptance is to you?"

"*No*." Angel hated, hated hated *hated*, feeling as helpless as he did
right then. "She was different. She..."

"Fucked you," said Wesley bluntly. He hadn't moved away.

The shock of hearing Wesley say that struck Angel silent. *Wesley*. Said
fuck. Spat it, really, like it was filthy and the sound almost made Angel
cringe. "Yes."

"So, had one of us been, ah, consorting with you, none of this would have
happened." Wesley pressed forward, hand on Angel's chest, close enough to
drown Angel in the smell of leather and anger and aloe shampoo.

"Are you offering?"

Wesley looked at him. Just looked and leaned forward a little bit more.
"Would you accept?" His voice was soft, his accent softer and Angel wanted
to back away from him. Wanted to lick that lower lip. Wanted to
taste...everything.

"No," he said, but he couldn't stop himself from reaching up to grab
Wesley's shoulders.

"Ah. Well." Wesley shrugged and stepped away, looking regretful. "Nothing
left to discuss then."

And really, there was no reason to keep Wesley around. A whiz at languages,
sure, but how often did they need that talent? Research guy, but Cordelia
was handling that pretty well and he was so goddamned *annoying*, the way he
crept under Angel's skin and set up shop there like he was entitled to it,
like he was *needed* and he...

Was.

Anger felt good, clean, and Angel was pushing Wesley against the wall. "You
don't want this."

"You haven't the faintest idea what I want."

"Me."

Wesley snorted. "Hardly."

Angel felt his face slip into full on grr mode. "Liar." He pushed a little
harder and Wesley pushed right back, breathing quickly. High sharp scent of
fear cut through with adrenaline and: "I can feel your heart beating."

"Yes, well, I'm alive so that's not really a surprise."

"I could kill you," said Angel. He leaned in and bit hard at the pulse in
Wesley's neck, careful not to break the skin. "Eat you. I could do
anything and you wouldn't be able to stop me." And mocking words aside,
Angel really could feel Wesley's heart beating fast between them.

"Oh, get *off*." Wesley pushed harder and Angel shook his head. Slid
closer, and Wesley's eyes widened when Angel's hand wandered up to close
around his neck. He stared at Angel for a moment then said, "I trust you,"
but he didn't relax.

Didn't move his hands off Angel's chest.

Angel froze. Squeezed Wesley's throat in warning, let go, and heard him
catch his breath. And he still wouldn't move away, didn't push Angel aside
and walk out the door like he should have. "Wesley."

"Ye--" Wesley swallowed and Angel felt the movement under his hand. "Yes?"

"Why are you here?"

"You asked me to stay."

Simple as that and Angel knew Wesley wasn't talking about earlier. "Oh."

***

Outside Wesley's door and there was still time for Angel to get back to the
hotel before dawn. But he kept hearing the echo of Buffy's voice and
Wesley's.

'I know him. I *trust* him.'

'I trust you.'

Angel knocked on the door quietly. Shoved his hands into his pockets and
waited.

The door opened and Wesley blinked owlishly at him. "Angel. Is something
wrong?"

"No. I don't..." Angel shrugged and gestured at the door. "Can I come in?"

He just blinked again and walked back into the apartment, door still open.
Tacit invitation and that was more than good enough. Angel followed him in,
looking around. Small apartment, books and weaponry everywhere, and Angel
wondered if the bleached blonde had come here. Disturbing thought.

There was a low murmur from the bedroom and it looked like Wesley had a
guest.

A nice looking lady -- not a blonde -- and Wesley's taste in women was,
apparently, very good. She glared at him, at Wesley, and huffed out.

The door slammed and Wesley looked embarrassed.

Something rose in Angel that he identified as fierce satisfaction. Good
that she was gone, because Wesley was all his.

New thought. Good thought. All his and that was a strange little first.
Buffy had other ties, Darla owned him way more than he had any hold on her,
Spike would have done anything for Dru, and she belonged to her madness.

Wesley leaned back against the wall, boxer-clad, and Angel cleared his
throat. "Uh. Sorry about that."

"That would be a good deal more convincing if you weren't smiling," said
Wesley.

"Right."

"You're not sorry."

"Not even a little," Angel agreed. "She a friend?"

"I suppose you could call her that," said Wesley.

***

L.A. rain is the dirtiest there is. Wesley watches the drops sliding down
the sides of Gunn's windshield, defining the area cleaned by the wipers.
There are going to be spots, chaotic little spatters of dust and other
things, carried out of the air and deposited on the streets, on the truck,
hazing the windows, and the air tomorrow will be gloriously clear. Deep,
deep blue, and clean.

But for tonight, there's simply the rainbow gleam of oil on the street and
the perversely dry dust smell of wet asphalt.

Wesley leans his forehead against the passenger side window and breathes out
slowly, makes a little cloud against the glass, traces a quick rune into it
and watches the edges fade clear, all shape pulled away by the cold outside.

He shivers a little, hunches down into his jacket. Not all the cold is
outside.

"Heater's broken," offers Gunn apologetically and Wesley looks at him
sharply. Gunn shrugs. "I got another jacket in the back."

"No," says Wesley. "That's quite all right. I fear I've become rather
thin-blooded."

Gunn coughs. "Yeah, well. It was a hot summer."

And Wesley cannot help but notice that Gunn doesn't seem to feel the cold.
No surprise there, really.

Quiet falls again, heavy, kept from silence by the swish and scraping
shudder of the wipers, ocean sound of far off cars, endless tap of raindrops
on the hood of the truck. Wesley pulls his glasses off, tucks them into the
inside pocket of his jacket, and with the loss of vision comes privacy.
Oncoming cars are reduced down to the flare of their lights through water,
white and red, sometimes blue or green, passing only occasionally. Traffic
is light at four in the morning.

Gunn leans forward briefly, shoves the temperature bar over to red and
pushes the button for the defroster.

Doesn't look surprised when it fails to work. He just cracks open a window
and grimaces, fingers tapping the steering wheel in a rhythm that escapes
Wesley.

"You okay?" Gunn very carefully does not look at Wesley.

Wesley can't keep himself from reaching up to his neck, brushes his fingers
across the bandage. Dull ache there, beating in time with his pulse. "Yes.
Quite."

Ache in his chest as well, throb in his fingers, and Wesley has never been
so aware of his heartbeat. He can feel it everywhere, taste it. He wonders
if this is what Angel felt, if he could roll Wesley's pulse on his tongue
like candy, if he had savored it.

The palm of Wesley's hand itches and he curls his fingers, makes a fist to
hold in the feel of Angel's skin. Smooth and cold, just a little prickly
where his hair was cut short at the nape.

Wesley had felt the muscles under his fingers move as Angel swallowed.
Faster than Wesley had thought, obscene wet sound so close to his ear, and
Angel had warmed against him. Hardened and pulled Wesley closer, hand on
his hip, and Wesley will have bruises there.

He had been incapable of remaining aloof. Held so close and Wesley had
nuzzled against Angel's shoulder, offered himself up for whatever Angel
asked. Whatever he wanted. Angel's body shuddered next to his, into him, a
long slow shiver that belongs to Wesley now.

Remembered (imagined?) hand on his cock, ungentle and ruthlessly efficient.
Not enough and Wesley had wanted to beg. Almost had.

Would have fallen, save that Angel held him up, held him close, and that had
been near enough to fantasy fulfillment as to make no difference.

Reason tells Wesley that Angel's hands had been holding prey immobile, that
arousal probably added flavor, that Angel had held him not out of care, but
out of hunger. Reason sounds suspiciously like Gunn.

Wesley tells reason to fuck off.

Quiet little grumble in the back of his head, Cordelia's voice, and he can't
remember what had happened. He has a dim memory of Angel's mouth against
his, hot and sticky; Angel's tongue, and the remembered taste of fresh
blood. Gunn ("What the *fuck* is *this*?") and Gunn's hands on his neck,
surprisingly careful. Sting of antiseptic spray and it's all rather a blur,
though Wesley can quite clearly remember the sight of Angel, pushed out of
the way and licking his lips. Still hungry.

God help him, Wesley had wanted to give more. Give everything, if only
Angel had *asked*.

Wesley can feel himself turning red. Fights it down and turns toward Gunn,
who is simply a large, dark mass across the bench seat of the truck. "Pull
over."

"'Scuse me?"

He has to swallow once, hard, before he can repeat himself. "Pull over."

"Mind telling me why?" asks Gunn, but he's already signaled and is pulling
into an alley. Shuts the truck off and takes a deep breath before facing
Wesley. Rasp of corduroy against dry, cracked leather as Gunn makes himself
comfortable, leaning back against the door, one leg still on the floor, the
other tucked up onto the seat. And he seems larger somehow, wide open and
confident. Secure in the knowledge that he can take Wesley.

Oh, and Wesley is offended by that assumption, however true. Bright, sharp
burn in his stomach because he is unsettled and it seems unfair that Gunn
should be so calm. "I...Angel...we--" Hates himself for not being able to
just say it.

"He fed off you."

So *certain* and Wesley envies him that. "No. I...I offered." He watches
the knowledge sink in. Gunn leans forward, subtle shift from self-assured
to anger under control, disbelief. Wesley focuses on a point just behind
Gunn's shoulder. "He, ah. Gunn, he needs this."

"Okay, you realize that he could kill you, right?"

"He won't."

"But you know he *can*."

Wesley has to struggle not to move back, and the knowledge that Gunn is a
friend, an ally at least, carries no comfort. Right now he's simply a
dangerous young man who is.upset at Wesley. "He won't."

Loud sigh and Gunn says, "This is stupid."

Irritation sets in; why can't Gunn *see*? Wesley can do this for Angel,
give him something he needs, something he wants and--"Better that I offer
and he accepts than for him to feed off someone else."

"No, better that he drinks those handy little packets Cordelia gets him."

"It's not the same. For him." And this is the worst sort of justification,
intimately familiar, and Wesley can hear himself later: "He didn't mean to
take so much" and "It won't happen again." Knows just how weak this is, how
weak *he* is, and he can't help himself. Swallows down another blush, and
there has to be some reason he can give.

It's a small sacrifice. The Powers will protect him. The Powers will
protect Angel.

The simplest explanation: Wesley wants Angel. And had the Council known
just how far Wesley had fallen, they would have done more than simply spit
in his face and call his actions perversion. God help him, he *sympathizes*
with Buffy. Understands how she could have forsaken her calling to gain
this connection with Angel.

Wesley can feel Angel in the back of his head, cold little knot of worry and
guilt and ah, God, so much *need*. All for him and Wesley wants nothing
more than to go back to the hotel, arrange himself for Angel's pleasure and
take what comes.

Entirely possible that the feeling is simply Wesley's talent for
transference, though the hunger is certainly not his. The thought of food
turns his stomach and under everything else, Wesley wants to sleep.

Wonderful thought, bed. And Gunn is still looking at him. Wesley shifts on
the seat, looks away. "Perhaps it would be best if I went home."

Gunn says nothing, but faces forward and starts the truck. The windows have
fogged over and he wipes a patch of the windshield clear with the sleeve of
his jacket. "It's stupid."

Truth. "I know."

"Fuck," says Gunn and Wesley has to agree. Doesn't say so, of course;
there's no need to invite Gunn into all the places where Wesley doubts.

Quiet again, and Gunn turns the radio on. Wesley does not protest, just
returns to staring out the window at the passing streetlights. Bright and
garish, yellow light and it truly is beautiful in the gaudy way that most of
Los Angeles is.

For a moment, Wesley misses England. Soft and gray and carrying all the
weight of age. Roses and tea. Proper tea. Not the Moroccan Mint Latte
monstrosity of Cordelia's favorite coffee shop. Homesick, Lord save him,
and he has no one to tell.

He watches the streets pass, the buildings rising and falling in quality,
slowing as they approach Wesley's flat. It's hardly within the same class
as Cordelia's, though it has its own charms. Genteelly shabby, a little
worn, and this neighborhood has seen better days.

Wesley slides out of the truck and his knees buckle. Too long sitting, and
though Gunn's truck can hardly be considered warm, it's still better than
the open air. The rain is still falling and Wesley's jacket was never
intended to keep him dry.

Oh, Virginia will kill him for ruining it. And then she will probably buy
him another, and Wesley will accept it because it's far more pleasant to let
her have her way, and she enjoys dressing him well. He enjoys letting her.

And however childish it makes him appear, he does enjoy Cordelia's jealousy.
There is a small part of Wesley that feels vindicated by every irritated
look Cordelia gives him and he knows that whatever chance they had to be
anything more than friends is gone, but it feels good to prove that not
everyone thinks him incompetent.

Water seeps through the fine weave of his trousers and it takes far more
effort than it should to get himself standing again.

"Wes, you okay?"

"Ah. Yes. I'm quite all right."

Evidently Gunn does not believe him, because he comes around the front of
the truck and hauls Wesley up, careful, so *careful*, and his hands are
warm.

Long moment spent staring at each other. Gunn's grip tightens around
Wesley's arm and he lifts his eyebrows. "We going in?"

"Yes," says Wesley and when he pulls away, Gunn does not hold on.

***

End.


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