a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Younger than the Sun
Author: Like a Deuce
Pairing: Angel/Wesley (sub-text)
Rating: PG-13
Setting: AtS S1, post- 'Ive Got You Under My Skin'




Angel stopped, poised with his hand on the wooden door. His finely tuned vampire hearing detected something out of the ordinary; movement in the back of the office. Business hours were over, the lights were out. No one should be there. He eased the door open, slowly, quietly, wondering if the Ethros demon had survived their encounter, if it was back with friends. Or someone else, out to undermine Angel Investigations, maybe those weasely lawyers or –

We were bo-orn before the wind. . .

Someone was singing. The light was on, in the bathroom across the lobby, the water was running. . .

Also younger – than the sun. . .

. . .A man's voice was singing. With enthusiasm and inflection. Not especially well –

Ere the bonnie boat was won – as we sai-ail into the mystic. . .

For an insane moment Angel could only think of one person who would sneak on to his premises after hours to serenade himself with on out-of-key Irishman's song, and so he moved quickly, quietly across the lobby and turned the corner to see. . .

Wesley. Of course it was Wesley. He had his collar half open and pulled down, rubbing water against the fabric, trying to wash out the marks of his own blood as his voice rang. . .

Hark, now hear the sailors cry. . .

Wesley, alone in the office, with the light on, singing his heart out, absolutely asking for some creature of the night to burst in and rip his throat open. Angel felt an impulse to yell at him, teach him a lesson. And then –

-- Then he didn't. Instead, he stood in the doorway and watched the mirror, where his own reflection would have loomed, if he'd had one. Instead, the glass only showed Wesley's face, unaccountably happy considering the day that they'd all had. Wesley especially, braving the exorcism ritual and its risks, despite how clearly out of his depth he was – poor kid, Angel found himself thinking, and the thought startled him, because it had never struck him how young Wesley had to be.

At first, Angel had been distracted by the formalities of the Watchers' Council, seeing Wesley through Buffy's eyes as a prospective authority figure. But the Watcher, in some ways, had been younger than his charge – new to his job, still figuring out his duties and testing the reach of his authority, still thinking in terms of rulebooks and controlled circumstances, while the slayer was already a veteran of more than one real-world apocalypse. Later, when Wesley showed up in that Rogue Demon Hunter getup, it only made things clearer -– perfect watcher or lone wolf badass, he slipped into the personalities as uneasily as a child making costumes out of his father's clothes. And, as with a child, any challenge to his right to wear them only made him play the game with more force. Angel tried to remember where he had encountered that particular mix of bravado and insecurity, and with a start he realized: Wesley really wasn't anything like Doyle but on some days, in some ways, he bore more than a passing resemblance to Spike.

Now that was a terrifying thought, and one that he vowed never to voice out loud. There were some things you couldn't say to a former member of the watcher's council and, "You remind me an adolescent William the Bloody" was certainly one of them. Besides, Angel himself would never have sired William – that was Dru's insane decision. But Wesley – now, Angel thought, I might have seen something to work with in him . . .

And Angel pulled the brake and stopped that train of thought. Daydreaming about which of his colleagues he might have sired, back in the day, was not an acceptable diversion for an atoning vampire with a soul. Neither, he realized, was lurking in doorways and, for lack of a better term, spying on them – another vampire would have realized it was a compliment, but Wesley would probably just think it was creepy.

So when Wesley hit the first line of the chorus -- I want to rock your gyyypsyyy so-oul. . .

Angel said, "You sure about that?"

Wesley literally jumped, hitting his head against the mirror. "Holy Jesus fuck!" he cried, then whirled to face Angel. His face moved quickly from genuine fear, through a flash of annoyance, to obvious embarrassment – whether because Angel had managed to sneak up on him and caught him singing, or because Angel had surprised him into a rather undignified, and supremely un-English, display of profanity, he couldn't guess. "What did you do that for? Have you been there a long time?"

"Just got here," Angel lied.

"Oh – Well." Wesley smoothed down his shirtfront and managed a more conversational tone, "Say, you don't happen to have a razor downstairs?"

Angel looked down at Wesley's collar. "Yeah. And if you're going out somewhere, I probably even have a shirt without blood on it you can borrow. Come on." He led Wesley toward the elevator and called over his shoulder. "Got a date?"

"No," Wesley said, too quickly. "I'm just – meeting a friend for a drink."

Raising the door on the creaky contraption, Angel nodded, keeping a neutral face – fortunately, not that different from his natural expression. But Wesley was about as capable of a neutral face as Angel was of walking through Macarthur Park at noon. His eyes showed that he knew he'd misstepped. A date was easy enough to believe, but Angel doubted Wesley had a friend in Los Angeles that he didn't know about. "Well," Wesley quickly amended, "A girl – woman – she works at the shop down the street and I asked her if she wanted to get a drink after her shift so – if that's how you define a date I suppose."

"Oh," And now Wesley was so earnest and faux-casual at once that Angel couldn't exactly resist. Stepping out of the elevator, he turned to give Wesley an intense look. "You were just with her?"

Wesley nodded, following Angel into the room "She had to close up the shop, but she told me to come get her in half an hour. So – I didn't have time to go home you see and -- "

"That makes sense. I could tell you were just with someone who's –" He wrinkled his nose and sniffed. " -- really attracted to you. It does something to your pheromones."

"Really?" Wesley's mouth opened wide. "Angel, that's remarkable. You can tell all that just from the smell?"

"Yes," he said. "That's the smell of chemical attraction." He leaned close, sniffed again, then slapped Wesley's shoulder and stepped away. "Or tea. I get them confused."

"Well," Wesley said, sniffing his own shoulder, "I was just in a tea shop. . ." Then his voice trailed off, he dropped his hand to pick up a pen from Angel's end table and threw it straight at his chest.

"Oww!" Angel laughed, swatting it away. "Not nice!"

"I'm not nice?" Wesley crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "You're a bastard. You should be glad it wasn't a wooden pencil and I didn't aim a little better."

"Yeah, Wesley, make my day." But Angel smiled as he spoke, then stepped to his dresser and came back with a dark red Oxford shirt. "Here." He handed it over. "Buffy's mother gave me this last Christmas."

"Angel!" Wesley exclaimed. "I couldn't possibly –"

Angel gestured at his chest. "It's a little tight through here. Plus, you know, it's sort of –"

Wesley raised an eyebrow. "Not black?"

"I think Joyce was trying to drop a hint." He shrugged. "It might fit you."

Wesley hesitated a moment, then started to undo his own dress shirt, showing a pale, slender, though not badly muscled body, with a soft feathering of hair on his chest -- Don't focus on your colleague's chest, Angel -- he'd made that rule about Cordelia, but it probably applied here as well. He held his hand out for Wesley's discarded garment. "Here, I'll get that washed."

Wes smiled, slipping into Angel's shirt, which did fit him well. "No snacking."

"What?" Angel stammered.

"The blood," Wesley looked down at the fabric, "Which wouldn't even show on this – not bad," he approved. "So – do you have a razor?" He raised his hand to his chin, which was starting to show the slightest trace of evening stubble, then frowned. "Do you need a razor?"

"I have one –" He didn't actually need to shave every day, since his beard didn't grow like a human's. He did occasionally use it on his sideburns but that wasn't really the issue. "Actually, Wesley, that's not a bad look on you –"

"You think so?" The color rose on Wesley's face, and he moved to look around for a mirror, then stopped himself. "I feel like something the cat dragged in," he mumbled.

"It's a good look," Angel reassured him. He watched an uneasy smile settle onto Wesley's face, which then relaxed into a real smile. It was a nice smile, and a nice moment, and Angel's natural reaction – of course, why woudn't it be? -- was to send Wesley out of the room. He fished in his pocket, and took out all the bills he had. "Listen, I know you're a little low on cash and you deserve to have a good time. I can give you an advance on the money we're going to bill the Andersons' so –" He handed the money to Wes. "Buy your girl a drink."

"Angel, you really shouldn't – " He looked at the three crumpled bills in his hand and said, "Ah, I see you mean a drink. Perhaps a Pepsi-Cola?" Angel noticed that he pocketed the money in spite of his sarcasm.

"Yeah well – I don't usually carry cash," he apologized.

"Cordelia already advanced me, actually," Wesley admitted. "Leaving the finances to her is part of the business plan – correct?"

"We're supposed to have a plan?" Angel asked.

This time, Wesley picked up on the irony, and smiled, then nodded at the door. "I really need to go pick up Vishali." He looked down at his collar again. "Thanks for the shirt."

"Keep it if you like it," said Angel.

"I'll see how tonight goes." He gave that bright, full smile again. "Then I'll make up my mind."

Wesley was walking into the elevator, when Angel called after him, "Have a good time. You did good work today."

Stopping in his tracks, Wesley turned and gave a sudden, serious look. "All right, now I know you're lying." He raised his hand to his throat. "I got stabbed in the neck with my own crucifix."

"I couldn't have done it without you here. You knew what to do," said Angel.

Wesley rolled his eyes. "I always know what to do. Wait – that's not true. I very occasionally know what to do. And then I'm still bloody incapable of actually doing it without –"

"Help?" Wesley paused and Angel gave a tentative smile of his own. "I guess it's a good thing you have partners then."

"Yes," Wesley said after a long moment. "I suppose that it is." He cleared his throat. "Angel -- you did hear my entire conversation with Ethros? Correct? Even when you were in the other room?"

"Most of it," he said, then admitted. "Pretty much all. Vampire hearing."

"Well then -- you know that Ethros didn't know what he was talking about."

Angel blinked, wondering where that came from, then remembered the conversation he had overheard between Wesley and the demon. Not good enough for the Council, not good enough for Daddy. . .hours locked under the stairs. Angel didn't know what that was about, and he didn't think it was his place to ask. On the other hand, he wasn't sure he believed in a good relationship between a son and a father. And he had seen letters, in Wesley's meticulous handwriting, bounced back to the office with "RETURN TO SENDER" scrawled on the envelopes. "Clearly. I mean – " Thinking back on other things the demon had said. "There's nothing wrong with your Latin."

"Thank you!" Wes said indignantly. "The idea that this demon could take minor incidents and anxieties -- collected from the surface of my psyche and –"

"He was trying to hurt you," Angel said gently. "You didn't let him."

"I got stabbed in the neck."

"Yeah, well the last guy died. I'd say you're doing pretty well." Wesley's eyes widened, and Angel suddenly realized what his words had sounded like. "The last guy who tried the exorcism," he said quickly. "I wasn't comparing you to -- I don't have you confused with --"

"It's all right, Angel," Wesley said. "I know Doyle was your friend. I'm just --"

"My friend," said Angel firmly. "So help me out and don't get dead."

"I'm doing my best," Wesley said quietly. He sighed. "And now I'm not in much of a mood for that drink, I'm afraid. Maybe I should just go home and --"

"No," Angel said. "Not an option. You deserve to have fun tonight, Wesley."

"Yes. Fun," said Wesley. "I've heard about that. Not from you, of course, but --"

"That's right," said Angel. "Have fun but -- don't get too happy."

"No?"

"Yeah. It's not a good thing for guys like us."

"Guys like –" Wesley swallowed. "Us? You and me? We're – like --?"

"Us," Angel answered. "Us dark, brooding, mysterious, dangerous and silent types. Who fight demons and save children from fires --"

"And don't always remember to shave. And show up with unexplained neck wounds? You really think women like that sort of thing?"

"I could give you a couple centuries of evidence."

"That's all right." Wesley shook his head. "I'm sure you could and I still wouldn't understand."

"Fortunately," Angel answered, "Nobody says you have to."

"And so we sail," Wesley said, with a final smile, "into the mystic."

And the door closed behind him, leaving Angel in the dark.

END

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