__Sleep on the Left Side__
By Kathlyn O'Brian



He is used to concealing his feelings.

He has spent his whole life practising.

From his early formative years, spent in the cold and loveless environment of his exclusive boarding-school (only the best of course). From his father's anger and cruelty, disappointed as he was that his shy, sensitive son failed time and time again to live up to his exacting standards of perfection. From the apathy and disinterest of his beautiful mother, far more concerned with her social engagements and numerous lovers than with her children. From his years of training at the Watchers' Academy, learning how to withstand anything, even the cruelest of tortures. He has learned well.

But he always was a failure. Occasionally he lets his mask slip.

And Angel is a creature of instinct.

An over-eager smile when invited to stay for breakfast. The way his face lights up at the chance to spend a few moments alone with Angel, talking like dear friends rather than colleagues. On these occasions, Wesley becomes a different man.

And Angel knows.

He knows that Wesley is in love with him.

He is not sure when he realised. It just became obvious over a period of time. At first, Angel tried to do the honourable thing. He remained silent, perhaps taking more care when around Wesley so as not to give him reason to think that his secret was discovered, or that anything was reciprocated.

But it is slowly becoming harder.

For there is something in those deep blue-grey eyes, so expressive, giving away every nuance of their owner's heart. Something in that voice, soft, low, cultured. The slim, wiry body, betraying little of the strength and resilience it possesses. Sometimes, Angel just wants to weave his fingers into that dark hair, kiss those beautiful lips, make those eyes widen with surprise, hear that voice gasp his name, in shock, in joy, in ecstacy . . .

Angel is in love with Wesley.

And it is torturing him.

* * * * *

Angel swore that after Buffy, he would never allow himself to lose control in that way again. He had almost destroyed the world for the sake of one night in the arms of a lovely girl. He came to LA full of purpose, his mind set on redemption and nothing else.

But now . . .

Each night, when the others have returned home, he sits, gazing out over the brilliantly illuminated cityscape. He doesn't switch on the lights. Alone in the darkness he can maybe allow his mind to wander, indulge in day-dreams of what could be if only. . .

Sometimes he finds himself doing strange things - tracing his fingertips over the page of a book that Wesley has just read, sitting in his vacated chair to feel the last remnants of his warmth. He wonders how Wesley would react if he knew that the bloodstained blue shirt he took off and left at the hotel and never found again, now resides beneath the pillow on Angel's bed, and Angel often drifts off to sleep holding it in his arms, burrowing his nose into the soft, well worn cotton to catch the fading scent of its previous owner. He will have to steal another soon.

* * * *

Wesley dreams as well.

He dreams of Angel's arms around him, those bulging biceps he has so often admired surreptitiously when patching his employer up after a battle, crushing him with their strength, protecting him from all that is bad in the world. He dreams of those beautiful, full lips pressed against his own, those hands which have torn and rendered and tortured, caressing him, making him mewl and cry and writhe in ecstacy. He dreams of holding Angel in his arms throughout the night, kissing away the sadness, the pain, the anguish his employer battles with every day and replacing it only with perfect contentment.

He knows, however, they can only be dreams. To his mind, Angel is able only to love a pretty blonde teenager with superpowers. A lanky, shy, bisexual Englishman could surely never to be to his taste.

* * * * * *

Angel pauses outside the apartment. He knows why he is here, has rehearsed what he intends to say over and over again, yet as the plain, green-painted door looms in front of him, his stomach starts to flip over and his hands begin to sweat. A measure of how nervous he is, as vampires sweat very rarely. He knows that what he has to say to Wesley could mean the end of their friendship, everything they have worked for.

It could mean that he may never see him again.

And, much as that thought tortures him, he knows that the words must be said. They cannot go on as they are. There will come a time when these feelings will boil over and the event that ensues will be disastrous. Angel is already reluctant to be alone with Wesley.

The knock on the door startles the Englishman. It is seldom that he receives visitors, especially this late at night. Ever-cautious, he peers quickly through the spyhole in the door, hoping not to see a representative from the Council standing outside. His heart jumps when he sees who it is, his handsome face cast down at the floor. Angel is clad in a black leather coat, the sleeve of which he is picking at, anxiously.

Welsey fumbles for the lock and opens the door. His hands seem suddenly all fingers and thumbs.

"Angel" he declares, hoping his voice will not give away too much of the joy he feels at seeing the object of his dreams standing on his own doorstep. "What on earth brings you here? Is anything wrong?"

Angel looks up at him. Wesley can see from his expression that he is deeply troubled.

"No - I mean, yes, well, there is . . . " he pauses. "Wes - can I come in?"

Wesley's heart does another funny little beat at the pet name. Angel has never called him "Wes" before. Only when . . . He brushes this memory away. This is not Angelus.

"I never revoked the invitation" he says, smiling.

Angel steps into the small flat, glancing around. Books, weapons, clothes. Little else. What more does a "rogue demon hunter" need in his life?

He is nervous, Wesley can see.

"I need to talk to you" he says, fixing Wesley with a direct gaze. "I've been needing to talk to you for a while . . . I mean . . .I didn't want to cause anything . . . "

Wesley gently lays a hand on Angel's shoulder. He has never seen his employer like this.

"Angel" he says, softly. "Please tell me what's wrong".

That is enough. The soft words, the tender touch, the concerned blue eyes are all too much like his dreams. Angel snaps.

Strong hands grab Wesley around the throat and pin him up against the wall. Angel is snarling.

"Is this what you want, Wes?" he gasps, staring into the wide, frightened eyes of the man in his grasp, who is too shocked even to struggle. "Do you want me to love you and kiss you and kill you? Because, God damn it, I could do it so easily! When you look at me with those eyes - those damn eyes - have you any idea how beautiful they are? I want to tear you apart and devour you, every last heavenly scrap! You're torturing me! I could throw you down right here" he is aware that he has changed into game face and is terrifying Wesley, but at this moment, Angel doesn't care. "and make love to you - make you mine. Then tear out your throat and, oh, what a pair we'd make, Wes! You've got that spark you know - the same one Will had. All shy and bookish on the outside but a volcano of emotion boiling over within. And look what I did to him. How'd you fancy being the new Spike, Wes?? Being my mate for eternity? Its not an easy job, believe me. . . "

Wesley has gone limp in his arms, his face deathly pale. He continues to stare at Angel, horror-struck.

As soon as it had begun, the rage subsides. Angel looses his hold on Wesley's throat and the mortal slumps against him. Angel wraps his arms tenderly around Wesley's body, pulling him close, at last, feeling the warmth, smelling the scent of this man whom he desires so. He struggles to regain his composure.

"I love you, Wes" he murmurs, still in game face, his fangs brushing the Englishman's pale neck which is covered with a fine film of sweat. Wesley is shaking, whether from fear or emotion, Angel can't tell. "Its killing me. I can't go on like this. We can't go on like this. Take my advice - leave LA. Don't tell me where you're going and for God's sake and your own, don't leave a forwarding address."

He pulls the limp, shaking body away from him and gazesdeeply into the shocked, tear-filled blue eyes.

"And Wesley . . ." he says finally, biting back his own tears. "please revoke the invitation".

With that he lets go and turns to the door. Wesley slides down the wall to land in a boneless heap on the floor. Angel doesn't look back.

After the door closes, the only sound in the apartment is that of a heartwrenching sobbing.

* * * *

Wesley woke on the floor. He had an uncomfortable crick in his neck, caused by sleeping with his head against the wall behind him. His body ached and his eyes were sore. He had the feeling that he had just woken up from a particularly bad dream, one in which he had admitted Angel into his home, and Angel had . . . attacked him. Threatened him.

Told Wesley that he loved him.

Slowly, Wesley put a tentative hand to the side of his neck and winced at the tender sensation of the bruise that was blossoming around his throat.

It had been real.

Wesley's thoughts were in a whirl. For a moment, he could do nothing but lie there, trying to gather the events of the previous night together in his shattered mind. Part of him wanted to sob for joy - Angel loved him. The man whom he had spent the last year and a half dreaming about like a lovesick schoolboy, loved him. Enough to tell him to leave. It was a cruel irony.

Slowly and painfully he inched himself up into a standing position, giving a quick, methodical check over his limbs to ensure there were no other injuries. He knew that Angel hadn't meant to hurt him.

Glancing towards the window, he saw that the sun had not risen. He fought hard against the urge that sprung in him to lunge for the telephone, or better still, to run every step of the way to the hotel, fling himself into Angel's arms and tell him that everything was going to be alright - that they could be together, without setting off The Curse. He stopped himself immediately. Hadn't Buffy hoped for the very same thing after Angel had returned from the Demon Dimension? It wasn't possible, Wesley knew that. His years of emotional isolation had made him unusually restrained, even for an Englishman, when it came to giving vent to his feelings, however high they ran.

But leave? Where was he to go?

He had nowhere else. He was a "rogue demon hunter" - a trained demonologist with some limited magical ability. What else could he do? Angel Investigations had been his life for the past two years. Home - England - was unsafe, with the Watchers' Council still looking for him. His family were unlikely to be supportive, especially should they find out why he had returned. The fact that Wesley had always conspiciously enjoyed the company of men rather more than that of women stuck intheir throats. And the thought that the particular "man" who had sent the prodigal son scurrying back across the Atlantic with his tail between his legs was none other than the vampire Angelus, who had also been Wesley's employer, didn't bear thinking about.

Wesley staggered into the kitchen, and set about making himself a cup of coffee. He glanced in the mirror as he passed and sighed at the reflection that stared balefully back at him. Pale skin, dark ringed eyes, red from crying. A blooming circle of reddish purple bruising running around his throat. Unshaven, hair tousled. He looked as much of a mess as he felt.

Coffee. He needed coffee. Maybe once his brain was in working order he would be able to think clearly.

Yet, as he stood, waiting for the kettle to boil, as he measured out a spoonful of ground coffee into his mug, as he took a sip of the bitter liquid, grimacing and wishing he'd made himself a nice strong cup of tea instead, deep down inside his heart was singing. Whatever happened to him now, he could die happy. Angel loved him.

* * * * * *

Angel spent the rest of the night walking. He wasn't sure where. Somehow he managed to reach the hotel just as dawn was beginning to break.

Three hours later Cordelia arrived at work, and literally jumped in surprise to find Angel sitting silently at his desk in the semi-darkness. The lights were turned off and none of the computers had been switched on. He hadn't even taken off his coat, which was still damp from walking in the early morning rain. He was staring steadily at the floor, his face devoid of all emotion.

Cordelia could get nothing out of him, other than that he and Wesley had had some sort of "fight" and that Wesley would not be returning to work at the Hyperion. Cordelia spluttered and nagged, handing the phone to Angel and insisting he call Wesley to make up the quarrel before she did. Angel hit the phone out of her hands and gave her such a look as to send a bolt of fear through her heart. Surely only Angelus could look that way?

He stormed off, disappearing down into the basement, telling her and Gunn, who arrived shortly afterwards to phone him on his cell phone if anything important came up but to otherwise leave him alone.

As soon as he was gone, Cordelia grabbed the phone and dialled Wesley's number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Eventually she hung up and virtually ordered Gunn to go straight to Wesley's apartment to see if he was alright. Gunn cocked an eyebrow at her imperious tone, but complied, understanding that she was worried. He, too was concerned about his friend.

Wesley wasn't at home. Or if he was, he steadfastly refused to answer the door.

Cordelia spent the rest of the day chewing her nails. She tried Wesley's phone again and again, but to no avail. The moment Angel mooched back into the office, begrimed and bloody and told them in a surly tone that they could go, he wanted to be alone, she snatched up her coat and bag and hurried from the building.

She reached Wesley's apartment and hesitated a moment before knocking on the door.

"Wes?" she asked, quietly, after there was no response from inside. "Its me. Come on. I really need to see you."

A pause, and then her heart swelled with relief as she heard footsteps inside the apartment and the scrape of metal on wood as a bolt was withdrawn on the opposite site of the door.

Wesley opened the door a crack and looked out at her, squinting painfully at the light from the corridor.

"What are you doing here?" he asked tersely.

Cordelia stared at him. He looked bad. Really bad. He was unshaven, and his hair was untidy, looking like he'd just got out of bed. He was still wearing the pale yellow shirt and blue tie he'd worn to the office yesterday, except that the shirt was hopelessly creased, as though he'd slept in it, and his tie hung loose around his neck. His eyes were heavily undershadowed and - worst of all - was that a bruise around his neck?

And he stank of whiskey.

Cordelia pushed impatiently at the door.

"Wesley - let me in" she insisted. "I don't know what went on with you and Angel last night but you've got to talk to someone about it - at least one of you has."

Wesley frowned. "What makes you think this has anything to do with Angel?" he asked suspiciously.

Cordelia looked down. "He told me" she admitted. "Well, sorta. Said you two had a fight or something. Wouldn't talk about it."

Wesley watched her in silence for a moment. His expression softened.

"Cordelia" he said, gently. "I regard you as one of my truest and dearest friends. So please don't be offended when I tell you that I can't discuss with you what happened between Angel and myself last night. At least, not yet. But please understand that I have to leave LA as soon as I can. Please try to make it easier for me by not asking me any more questions. I'll write to you very soon and let you know that everything is alright."

Cordelia stared at him. Her usual brusque manner had been totally swept away by the desperation in his voice, the look of haggard misery in his face. Something deep inside her - a suspicion perhaps that she had harboured for a long time, stirred to life. Wesley was hurting badly, and so was Angel.

There had definitely always been something there between those two.

She nodded. "OK" she replied, surprising herself at how easily she was taking this. "But - Wes - remember I'm only on the other end of a cellphone. So's Gunn. If you need anything . . . we don't have to tell Angel."

Wesley smiled gently. "Thankyou" he said. "Take care. Both of you."

And he closed the door.

* * * * * *

Once alone again, Wesley picked up his cellphone and flicked through his small, battered pocketbook, searching for a number.

He had few friends in America. At least ones that Angel did not know about. The only one he could think of turning to was Richard Halford. He and Richard had been close friends during Wesley's last year at Cambridge. Richard, who had always been very open about his sexuality, had fallen in love with an American man and had moved to New York to set up home with his lover shortly after graduation. Wesley had kept in touch with them via letters and the occasional phone call over the years. He felt awkward about asking them for help. But there was no-one else.

Luckily, Richard was at home, and was happy to listen as Wesley poured out as much of his tale as he felt prepared or able to tell. Richard agreed that it would not be safe for Wesley to return home to England, but that it would be quite alright for him to fly over to New York and stay with himself and his partner Steve for a while - at least until he had some idea of where to go next.

Wesley thanked him gratefully and disconnected. There wasn't really much to be done. Pack up his few belongings, settle up his rent and book a plane ticket to New York. There was also the invitation reversal spell to be invoked, of course. Angel had asked him to do that, and Wesley felt bound to comply with his ex-employer's wishes.

He could be gone within a week. Out of Angel's life forever

There was just the matter of his heart feeling as though it was being broken in two.

* * * * * * * *

He was packed and ready to go.

He would be boarding a flight to New York at 10.30, Monday morning. Away from LA, away from Angel, away from the danger.

Wesley sat in his bare flat, all his possessions boxed, stacked and packed away. The rain was falling heavily on the window outside.

He suddenly felt very alone.

He couldn’t face either Gunn or Cordelia just yet. He still hadn’t explained to either of them what had happened between Angel and himself, yet he had a feeling that Cordelia may have figured it out herself. She was an annoyingly bright young woman.

He stood and slowly reached for his leather jacket which hung on the back of the door. It was Saturday night after all.

Why not just go and get pissed?

* * * * *

Caritas was practically buzzing with activity, the air hot, smoky and humid from the presence of so many bodies, mostly of the demonic variety. After a quick scout of the premises to ensure that Angel was nowhere to be seen, Wesley made himself comfortable at a table near the stage and ordered a whiskey and soda. The microphone was currently in the large hands of some form of chaos demon, who was bawling out a rendition of "Without You" that made even Mariah Carey sound melodious. Wesley winced and reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. He rarely smoked, except for on special or stressful occasions and he felt that the last few days firmly fitted into that category.

"I can’t live . . . if living is without youooh . . . I can’t giiive . . .I can’t giiive anymore oooh oh ooh..."

Wesley gritted his teeth. Despite the unattractive way in which it was being sung, the words of the song were hitting home.

He took a drag on his cigarette, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Unaware that he was being watched.

* * * * * * *

The Host sashayed over, gleaming in a jade-green satin kimono which matched his skin, and flashed Wesley a dazzling smile.

"Evening, Handsome! On your own tonight?"

Wesley nodded grimly.

The Host patted his shoulder. "I’ve not seen Angel around for a while." he began. "I was wondering . . ."

"I really wouldn’t know anything about Angel!" snapped Wesley, pulling away from the Host’s hand. "He’s a law unto himself. And, if you please I’d prefer not to talk about him."

The Host regarded him silently for a moment, then smiled and nodded.

"Well, have it your way, blue eyes" he smiled. "Anyway, I’ve a feeling you’ll not be alone for much longer tonight". He plucked a glass of whiskey from a passing tray and placed it in front of Wesley.

"Compliments of the blond in the corner booth. And DAMN if he isn’t cute!"

As the Host turned to leave, Wesley glanced across curiously in the direction of the corner seat.

He drew in his breath at the sight that greeted him. A wicked smile, pale, pale skin, offset with even paler hair, high, sharply cut cheekbones, chiselled features and sparkling azure eyes. A slim, lean body encased in black leather. Wesley watched entranced as the figure raised his glass in an old-fashioned, British style of salute and toasted him. He returned the gesture politely. The man downed his whiskey in one. Wesley did the same, coughing slightly, it being a while since he’d done that. The blond stood and prowled like a panther across the floor towards the fascinated ex-watcher.

Wesley’s nervous system was thrumming. "Vampire!" screamed his mind.

"What the hell!" bawled the rest of him. This man was . . . beautiful.

And Wesley was lonely.

The man stopped at his table and nodded towards a chair. "Mind if I sit down?" he asked, in a deep, seductive tone, his accent a peculiar mixture of upper-crust Englishman and cockney wide-boy. Wesley knew many young men at home who spoke like that, in a desperate attempt to hide their priviledges backgrounds behind a facade of street-smartness. He nodded.

"Go ahead" he replied, with a friendly gesture of the hand.

The blond took a seat, folded his hands on the table in front of him, and fixed Wesley with those enigmatic cerulean orbs of his. "English eh?" he asked pleasantly. "Nice to meet a fellow countryman for a change. Fed up of bleedin’ Yanks. Yanks and Micks, I tell you! I’ve had nothing but Yanks and Micks for . . ." he trailed of, smiling impishly. "a bloody long time" he finished. "London, yeah?"

Wesley nodded, slightly startled. "Actually, I was brought up in Oxfordshire" he clarified. "But I did most of my . . training in London, yes."

The blond reached into his jacket for a paxket of cigarettes. He flipped one into his mouth with a long-practised and expert gesture. "Watcher training?" he casually asked.

Wesley started. "How an earth did you . . ."

The blond lit his cigarette and shook the match out, slowly. "Oh, come off it, mate!" he declared, in an insulted tone of voice. "Don’t you think I can’t smell him all over you? You bloody stink of him! What you been doing, letting him piss on you?"

Wesley gazed at him, startled. "Who?" he asked.

The blue eyes fixed him again. "My effin’ nonce of a Sire, is who." came the reply. "Oh, don’t say he’s never talked about me? His little boy, his pride-and-joy? Killer of two Slayers and would’ve had a third if he hadn’t of got in the way every bloody time?" He extended a long-fingered, pale hand, and Wesley noticed absently that his fingernails were painted with chipped, black nail polish. "Name’s William" the blond announced. "William The Bloody, that is. But you can call me Spike, most people do."

Wesley just stared at him.

Spike!

* * * * *

So this was Angel’s progidal childe? Wesley had to admit that Angelus had had taste. Spike - William - whatever he was called, was beautiful.

Of course, Wesley knew about him. What well-trained Watcher didn’t? William the Bloody was standard teaching in year three of Vampiric History at the Watchers’ Academy, being considered, as the killer of two Slayers, and good Slayers at that, to be an important subject. Wesley knew Spike’s history, what his mortal name and occupation had been, when and where he had been turned, and the sordid details of his exploits accross the globe, at first with his Sire and family, then accompanied by just his lover, the crazy clairvoyant Drusilla, who had so recently plagued Angel. He had even seen sketches of Spike, yet nothing had prepared him for the mocking beauty which now sat before him. This man was . . . perfect.

A few years ago, if anyone had told Wesley that he would be sitting in a bar, sharing a drink with William the Bloody, whilst breaking his heart over his employer, Angelus, Wesley would have laughed. A lot. But life had a strange way of turning out the absolute opposite of how you expected it to. And Wesley had simply stopped expecting. Best just to let things coast, see how they turned out.

And this could turn out quite well.

Spike sniffed and drew on his cigarette. “So” he said, exhaling twin streams of bluish-grey smoke from his elegantly shaped nostrils. “You and the Poof been at it, then?”

Wesley jumped slightly, and frowned. “Excuse me?”

Spike grinned. His teeth really were very white. Surprisingly, considering how heavily he smoked. “At it.” he repeated, emphasising the “it”. “You know, doin’ the nasty? The blanket shuffle? Gettin’ it on, ‘aving a shag, a bonk, a fu . .”

Wesley held up his hand. “Yes, thank you, I know what you’re refering to. And no. We haven’t.”

Spike’s eyes lit up with a teasing light. “No? Why not?” he asked, innocently. “I mean, Angel must have it bad for you. He always loved shy, educated Englishmen who wear specs. I should know, was one myself, once, y’know”

Wesley looked down at the table and fell silent. He knew all about William Francis Lawrence, the young Cambridge educated poet who, at 26, had made the mistake of attracting Angelus’ attention and had paid for it with his life. He understood when Angel asked “Do you want to be the new Spike, Wes?”. He realised how easily he himself could become like the pale-haired, battle scarred punk who sat before him in the body of a sensitive and cultured young Victorian gentleman. Wesley wondered whether he would be compelled to dye his hair and wear leather if he were turned. How would he torture his victims? Railroad spikes? Carving knives? And would he affect an East End accent too?

He also knew that this man, this vampire, was unsettlingly perceptive. There was little Wesley could hide from him. Why not just lay his cards on the table? He’d be away from this city within hours.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat under the blond’s unflinching gaze. “There is . . an attraction between us” he said, quietly. “At least, Angel has never spoken of it in actual words, but he’s made it plain in his . . . actions, so to speak. I’m soon going to be leaving LA, because. . .”

“Because, if you get down to it and shag he’ll lose his soul and that total penis Angelus’ll be back to make all our unlives a misery. Yeah, sweets, I got the picture.” Spike leaned back in his chair and smiled, luxuriously. “Must be a real pain in the arse, having it hard for someone you can’t get it on with - not that I’d know myself, of course.” he added, quickly, anxious to cast no aspersions on his own sexual prowess. “Now what you need is someone - someone who’s able to give you all you want, but won’t lose his soul, preferably because he hasn’t got one to lose. Some Hell-damned fiend with a packet in his trousers who’s ready and willing to make you scream so loud they’ll hear you in Sunnydale. You game?”

Wesley knew he was being propositioned. And maybe he was bitter. Maybe he wanted revenge on Angel. Maybe he was lonely and depressed and just needed a good shag, something to pour his energies into, get it out of his system.

What the Hell. Why not?

* * * *

Spike walked him home, moving with a soundless grace, only his flaxen hair gleaming in the murky glow of the streetlights, a trail of cigarette smoke over his shoulder. His black leather coat swirled around him in the slight breeze. He was a thing of preternatural beauty and no mistake. Wesley knew he should be flattered.

But Angel was there, always.

For both of them. He knew, he could tell that Spike was still in love with his Sire. And perhaps this was his way of getting back at Angel, too.

Whatever. They’d have fun at least. Angel broke too many hearts.

* * * * *

They reached the flat in silence, and climbed the stairs, the sexual tension between them hot enough to ignite the air. Both were aroused with anticipation. In through the front door, and Spike snatched the collar of Wesley’s jacket in both fists, pushing the taller man up against the back of the door. Cool lips descended on Wesley’s, tasting of whiskey and cigarette smoke. A smooth tongue probed his lips, which parted involuntarily as the kiss deepened. Spike’s hands were everywhere at once and Wesley was taken aback by the force and rapidity of his lovemaking. He felt his backside squeezed and groped voraciously, whilst another hand snaked down to his crotch to fondle his fast-growing erection. Before he could respond, he felt himself whisked over to the bed and dropped upon the matress.

His heart was hammering in his breast. This vampire, this . . . demon with whom he was about to share intimacy, was a notorious murderer, a killer of thousands, who could and quite probably would kill him. Fear and common sense battled with lust and desire, and he longed to possess this beautiful being. Spike had slid out of his battered leather coat and stripped off the tight-fitting black t-shirt beneath to reveal a pale, muscular form which rivalled the finest Greek sculptor’s work. Welsey swallowed the drool which rose automatically into his throat.

Somehow they were both naked, Spike’s cool, long, hard length pressing insistently into Wesley’s thigh. There was no question of who was to take the dominant role in this coupling. Wesley found himself unceremoniously flipped over onto his stomach, his legs drawn apart, and then a cold finger was probing, touching him intimately. He buried his face in the pillow, trying to swallow the burning shame which arose in him whenever he found himself in this position - shame sparked by memories of Form Four at his public school and the large, sandy-haired boy who played rugby (*”You’re such a pretty little flower, Wyndham, with those big blue eyes of yours. You do enjoy this, don’t you? I know you do because you always get hard.”*). He tried to pull his mind back to the present. This was now, not then, and no matter how unpleasant the losing of one’s virginity was, surely it can be made up with later experiences?

Spike thrust against him, hard, and Wesley felt his flesh give, open, accepting the cold shaft inside him. He closed his eyes, feeling the muscled body moving above him, feeling the icy hardness invading his body, and tried to imagine this was Angel. Although Angel’s breath surely would’nt smell of cigarette smoke, his kisses would be gentler, more tender and Wesley was sure that he wouldn’t keep up a running commentary of dirty words the whole time. Still, in a strange way it was arousing. Spike lived, breathed, exuded sex. Unlike Angel, he was aware of the fact and he was not ashamed of it.

Spike’s hand found Wesley’s arousal and began to pump in time with his thrusts. Wesley gritted his teeth and focused purely on physical sensation, thoughts of Angel filling his mind. Those strong arms surrounded him, those deep brown eyes, gazed into his (“I love you Wes.”). Tears filled his eyes and he shook with the force of his climax, Spike following him seconds later with a grunt of satisfaction. And it was done.

Spike pulled Wesley into a loose embrace and dropped an affectionate kiss on his head. “Thanks, luv” he mumbled, contentedly, before turning over and instantly falling silent. But Wesley could not sleep. He lay awake long into the early hours, beside the cold, still body of his bed-partner, and finally slipped into a light and uneasy slumber. He woke alone.

* * * * * * *

The hotel was silent, Cordelia and Gunn having been dismissed hours before. Angel couldn’t bear the company of anyone at the moment. He wanted to be alone, to wallow in his despair.

Wesley would be leaving the next day. It would be easier, now, with the temptation removed, for Angel to carry on with his quest, his cause, his battle. Not for him a soft bed, a lover’s warm body resting in his arms. This was part of his punishment. The Powers certainly knew how to torment. Cursed with the feelings and desires of a human, but without the freedom to exercise them without risking the lives of thousands.

He remembered being fascinated with priests in his mortal days - how did they resist the succulent young women (and men) who surrounded them, and remain chaste? He had once, in a moment of boldness and cheek, asked Father Byrne how on earth he managed it. The old priest had smiled, drawn Liam aside, and with a fatherly hand on his shoulder, had said . .

“My son, whenever temptation confronts us, we must remember our cause, our direction in life. Is the acquisition of pleasure worth the loss of our spiritiual redemption? Ask yourself that.”

It was a fitting yet fruitless entreaty to a young nobleman whose apparent “purpose” was to drink every tavern in Ireland dry and to bed as many comely young things as he could get his hands on. Angel smiled ruefully at the memory. He wondered what Father Byrne would say to him now.

If Angelus hadn’t killed him by stabbing him through the heart with a crucifix. The old man had been a fighter.

Wesley. Oh God. How was he to cope without Wesley? It was growing harder and harder to care, to live this cold existence. Fantasy had been his only escape. Fantasy and hope. And he was about to lose the latter.

He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he failed to hear the soft footsteps on the stairs and the creak of the door as it opened. But there was a scent in the air. A scent of . . . Wesley. Angel’s heart began to beat faster.

He was startled out of his reverie by a familiar, deep voice.

“Evenin’, Peaches. Enjoying yourself, I see.”

Angel turned quickly and saw Spike, lounging in the doorway, lighting a cigarette. An instinctive surge of feeling which always hit him at the sight of the one who had once been “his boy”, spread throughout Angel’s body, only to be quickly smothered by the sentiments of suspicion and irritation which he now felt on seeing the bleached blond vampire. He frowned.

“What the Hell are you doing here?”

Spike took a long drag of his cigarette and regarded Angel with nonchalant blue eyes. “Dunno. Thought I’d pop in and see how you’re doing. After I tortured you, that is.” He grinned and Angel’s frown deepened.

Spike tapped his head “Of course,” he continued, “Watcher will have told you about this fuckin’ chip business, so no needs to go reaching for your stake, Batman. Haven’t harmed a living thing. A few nasty evil demons, of course, but no humans.”

Angel cocked his head. “Yes, I heard you’d been ‘doctored’” he smirked, enjoying the look of annoyance which crossed the blond’s face. “I suppose it saves me the bother of staking your worthless hide. But you haven’t answered my question. Have you just come here to piss me off?”

Spike took another drag. “Partly” he said, through a cloud of exhaled smoke. “Partly on an errand from the Watcher. Oh, and partly to gloat over the fact that I’ve just fucked the man you’re in love with and he enjoyed it.”

Angel went cold.

Spike smiled and stretched gracefully, like a big cat who’d most definitely just got the cream. “Of course, you can probably smell him all over me.” he purred, seductively. “He’s a wonderful shag. I tell you, Angel, you’d be amazed. Under that shy interior there’s a real little slut just waiting to get out. And, I tell you, he’s one Hell of a screamer!”

Angel gripped the edge of the desk so tightly the wood began to splinter.

Spike dropped his cigarette onto the carpet and ground it out with his boot, leaving a large, black burn-mark. “Well, I can see you’re anxious to be rid of me, so I’d better be going. People to see, stuff to kill and all that. Oh and here - from old Ripper. Thought you might like it.” he threw a square-shaped package, wrapped in brown paper onto a nearby chair. “Have fun.”

Angel turned away. Spike pulled his duster around him and sauntered out of the room, along the corridor and down the stairs, whistling to himself. He’d enjoyed that.

Angel stood silently, staring out of the window into the darkness.

* * *