Strategy Part 7

[thebratqueen]

PART SEVEN

"Are you out of your *freaking* mind?!"

"Lorne!" Wesley snaps. Reminds him of the guards just outside closed doors.

"Sorry," Lorne says, eyes rolling hard enough to give himself a headache. He switches to a heavily sarcastic Pylean, a tone which sounds more guttural than the norm. "Did you get hit on your *head*?"

"I need to see him," Wesley repeats, using Pylean in kind with a tone that doesn't allow for questions.

"Wesley, you *can't*," Lorne reminds him. He comes forward, lowers his voice even though no one could possibly understand them. "Look, I was all for this illicit Romeo and... Romeo thing you had during the night but that's *it*. No more. Done."

"I have to go."

"Why?"

"I - " Wesley breaks eye contact for a moment. "I have to."

Anger melts. Lorne can't say he doesn't feel sorry for him. "It's not safe."

"It *can* be," Wes insists. "We can do it as we did before - "

"Yeah, three days ago, when we had time to plan."

"*You* had time to plan."

"You're welcome."

There's an actual acknowledgment to that. Wes keeps going, arguing his case. "It's the same plan. I don't need to do anything differently from before. All I have to do is meet him, then come back and - "

"And what? We set the place on fire so we can hide the scent?"

"I don't see why - "

"It's been *three days* and I *still* don't think we've used enough Febreeze," Lorne tells him. "He's a vampire's kid. *Your* vampire's kid - "

Colder voice now. "I haven't forgotten."

Lorne winces, keeps going. "He'll know."

"We can cover it up."

"He'll *know*."

"He *can't*!" Wesley says, desperation dropping him back into English again. He catches himself, returns to Pylean. "It - I can have new clothes again. Destroy them before he gets here. I - there's the pool. I could go swimming, surely the chlorine...."

Wes continues. Lorne tunes him out. He knows this can't be done. Days ago, maybe. Not now. Not with so little time. But Wes keeps going, blind to the consequences.

No. Not blind. Just needing something else more than he needs to see them.

Lorne can sympathize with it. Heck, sympathy's an arrogance. But still, it's all he's got. He remembers the Hell Pylea was like. Remembers being so miserable he hopped the first portal he could find because *anything* would be better.

Kind of understands it, then, for Wes.

Wes who's been at it for months now with a slow torture that, past grudges aside, Lorne doesn't think the kid deserves and sure as Hell shouldn't have had to agree to.

Lorne's come to understand now that that's what Wes is. Pays the price - no pun intended - with himself because - well it's not that Wes doesn't think that he's important so much as he thinks a lot of other things are *better*.

Other things. Like the good fight. Like a champion named Angel.

Lorne thinks about this. Thinks about how Wes signed on for this gig. Looked Connor - little shit - straight in the eye and *asked* to be fucked over, nice and literal. Then went off the other day and came *back* so Connor could do it again.

Not because Wes likes it - no, the near-constant shaking of Wes's hands which both he and Lorne have elected to never mention make it clear that happiness for Wes isn't a place which has Connor in it - but because that's what Wes does. He does what he has to. It's his way of being a good guy.

And now all he wants is a break.

Lorne has an epiphany, just then. Wes has paused in his speech-making. Taken a breath. And just as Lorne is thinking of all Wes has given up, Wes shifts his weight a bit and part of his neck gets exposed, showing off a bruise that Connor left there six days ago.

And these two things, together, make Lorne have a realization:

Angel and Wesley didn't really have sex.

In the past, yeah. The walls in their underground forts were never as thick as all *that*. But not the other day. Not three nights ago. Not when he sent Wes out on what he *thought* was going to be a little Com-shuk craziness because there is no freaking way that Angel saw those marks on Wesley's body and sent the boy packing back *here*.

Connor may be a possessive little fuck but Connor's daddy has got him *beat*.

And Lorne realizes: this is it.

Wes can get out.

Because if Wes goes out tomorrow and he and Angel do what Wes's aura is making it pulsatingly clear what Wesley *wants* to do with Angel, Angel's going to see. And Angel's going to get pissed.

And Angel's going to keep Wes with him.

And Lorne will be by himself, which in the back of his head scares him shitless because he's no champion and on the big fighty scale he wouldn't even list himself as being on par with *Fred*, let alone a Wesley, but he decides that doesn't matter.

Because sometimes, maybe, being one of the good guys doesn't mean you fight. It means you shut your mouth, get a little sneaky, and let one of the *important* good guys have a couple of benefits in life.

"Okay," Lorne says, out loud. "You got me."

Wes frowns. Isn't sure of what he's hearing.

"What can I say?" Lorne asks. He puts his hand on his chest as though covering a heart. "I'm a softie. A sucker for true love and all that torch song jazz. I'll get you some clothes. I'll help you out."

Wes smiles. The light that has only been in Wes's eyes for the past three days gets even brighter. "Thank you."

Lorne shrugs, tries not to show how petrified he is. "Don't mention it."

***

The next day, much like the first time they tried this, passes slowly.

They kill time again. Checkers (even split of two games each), Scrabble (Wesley), Kevin Bacon Game (Lorne - though with a not bad showing by Wes when it comes to anything British and/or Western), quiet reading.

Wesley paces. Keyed up with nervous energy. Feels butterflies in his stomach and can't even remember the last time he had the sensation. He's grown too used to other kinds of fear - ones for his life, ones for the lives of those he cares for.

He knows he should have that kind of fear now but he can't. Instead his hands sweat because he'll soon see Angel again.

Lorne procures new clothes for him. They have to be new, Wesley understands now, not only to be scentless but because then Connor won't notice them missing once they've been destroyed. It's a good use of planning and Wesley commends Lorne for thinking of it.

Wesley thinks a *lot* about Angel.

There's been no other communication since the note that set up the arrangement. Nothing other than Wesley's response of "Yes." After that they cut everything off to be on the safe side. Even the translations are gone. Sent off with Wesley's best efforts, because he doesn't dare chance Connor finding the pages once he comes home.

Time passes. Eventually Lorne gives a critical look at the clock. "Better get ready."

Wesley nods. Picks up the shopping bag. "Will you - ?"

Lorne smiles reassuringly. "I'll be the one to wake you up, don't worry."

Wesley thanks him. Lorne leaves. He's spent the past couple of nights in his own room. Both he and Wesley fear a repeat of him sleeping on the couch will be more noticeable than not. They decide to stick with the current routine.

Wesley goes into the bathroom. Takes a shower. Leaves his waterproof watch on so he doesn't stay too long. He soaps down, though, not sure if staying in Connor's quarters is scent enough for a vampire to question. He wants to be safe, not sorry.

He wants Angel to only think of him.

He gets out of the shower. Studies himself. Contrary to what Lorne believes, he hasn't forgotten about the marks. But they're older now and Wesley deludes himself into thinking that they're faded. At least faded enough that Angel might not notice them. Or, if he does, to be unable to discern their provenance.

He dries off. Imagines it's Angel's hands on the other side of the towel. Secretly thrills to the thought of Angel possibly leaving marks of his own.

He gets dressed. Lorne blessed him with extraordinary good taste this time around. The pants are black, soft but durable linen. The shirt is a deep maroon. Buttoned. Made of silk.

"Angel's going to plotz," Lorne had promised him, and Wesley hopes that it's true.

He lets the fantasy of Angel linger. It soothes and stimulates his nerves as he shaves, does his hair, puts the final touches on dressing.

It leaves him feeling almost as horny as when he went to bed the other night.

Perhaps more.

He closes his eyes. Smiles to himself. Thinks of the vampire appreciating this.

He opens his eyes again. Checks his watch. Knows he's got just a few minutes more until he can leave.

Turns around.

Tries not to jump when he finds Connor staring at him.

***

The boy is leaning against the doorframe. Relaxed. Catlike. "Hey."

"Hey," Wesley breathes, mostly parroting. His brain is frozen. He had no plan which anticipated this scenario. He finds himself struggling to process the new influx of information.

"I came home early," Connor smiles. He's proud of himself.

"Yes, I can see."

"Thought I would surprise you."

"You certainly did."

"You looked surprised," Connor agrees. He leans in, notes the steam in the air. "Taking a shower?"

Wesley makes a lame and vague gesture. "Just finished."

Connor gives him a rakish look. "Too bad."

Wesley blinks. This, for Connor, is different.

Connor comes in more. They're a few feet apart now. "I was watching you. Could you tell?"

Wesley curses mortal senses and a fogged bathroom mirror. "No."

Connor's pleased. "Maybe I'll do it again sometime."

Wesley has no response to this.

Blue eyes look up and down Wesley's form. "This is new."

He means the outfit. A single synapse of Wesley's brain fires and thinks: I ever doubted he could be gay? But the rest of his brain is busy with the question those three simple words pose. The ready suspicion behind them. The possible crime that could have been committed by an act Connor's unaware of.

Wesley takes a stab at it. Assumes any problem revolves around him having left the hotel without Connor there with him. "Yes," he says, smiling as though he expected this conversation. "Lorne bought it for me. Er - as a gift. For you. He thought you might like it."

Connor studies the outfit appraisingly now. Moves a hand to feel the shirt. "I do."

Wesley backs away. The outfit was Angel's. He doesn't want Connor touching it. "I don't."

"No?"

"Red's not my color."

Connor cocks his head. Thinks. "I disagree."

"Even still. I'm going to throw it away."

Distance is closed between them. There's touching now. Connor's hand runs slowly down Wesley's chest. The catlike look is back. "Then let me rip it off you."

Wesley freezes. Who in *Hell* has been teaching the boy to talk like that?

Connor mistakes the stillness for compliance. He moves his hand lower, cups Wesley's hip. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," Wesley manages, trying hard to think over the urgent screaming in his head which sounds like *AngelAngelAngelAngel*.

Even less distance now. "I got you presents."

"That's very kind."

"Wanna see?"

Wesley's hopes finally recover from the shock. Crash and burn. He abandons the thought of seeing Angel tonight. "Certainly."

Connor leans in for a kiss. Wesley manages to return it and then has a quick inspiration:

"Lorne."

Flash of something on Connor's face. It's not exactly good humor. "No, *Connor*."

"Of course," Wesley says. Caresses the boy's cheek. Pretends the not-joke was funny. "I only meant - we were going to play Scrabble tonight. I should go tell him the game's off." He tries for an intimate look in Connor's direction. "Make sure he doesn't interrupt us at an inopportune time."

Connor looks at him. Weighs this. Leaves the bathroom. Wesley follows and watches impotently as Connor locks and bolts their outer door.

"There," Connor says, and Wesley wonders if the boy is actually daring him to challenge this. "Now he can't come in."

Wesley has to pretend to be glad. Tries to hide his fear of Angel alone in the sewers with no one to warn him. "Oh good. Very clever."

"I can be sometimes," Connor tells him. He comes back. A hand reaches out and touches a pile of boxes and bags on the dining table, but he doesn't linger there. "It's just you and me."

"As it should be," Wesley lies. He turns away. Starts to unbutton the shirt. Tries to get it off before -

Connor's hand, possessed of that unnerving preternatural speed, stops him.

"Said I was going to do that," Connor reminds him.

In his mind Wesley hears cage doors slamming shut. Remembers how ultimately powerless he is to end this. "Of course."

Connor moves his hand up. Undoes buttons slowly. "I took tomorrow off."

"Did you?"

"Day after too."

"Wonderful news."

"We can spend the whole weekend together," Connor says. He's on the last button. His fingertips brush a spot just above Wesley's waist. "I don't have to leave you."

Wesley mimics a smile. "Quite a change from last week."

Connor's hand moves up. He's touching bare skin now. "We can do whatever we want."

"Excellent."

Keen eyes meet his. "What *do* you want, Wes?"

Wesley swallows. Looks away. Refrains from saying "Your father."

"Wes?"

Looks back. Dutifully says what he thinks Connor wants to hear: "Whatever makes you happy."

Connor takes this in. Decides he likes it. "Okay."

There's a kiss. Firm. Not demanding. Two hands are on Wesley's chest now, parting the shirt, moving back, massaging the flesh. There's movement, then a wall behind him. He's trapped between that and Connor's embrace. The kiss deepens. Connor probes his mouth with a velvet-soft tongue. A hip, lean but still supernaturally strong, nudges between his legs. There's a gentle rock. A tiny bit of friction. A cock hardening as -

Wesley gasps, shoves Connor away. Says a word he hasn't said once since all of this began:

"No."

Connor frowns, bewildered. "But you like it."

Wesley backs away. Feels true horror. Feels *sick* as he understands what's happening.

His body, which has been quivering like a live wire since his encounter with Angel, is now whoring itself for any man's touch.

Any man. Even Connor.

"No," he says again. Shakes his head. He can't do this. He won't.

"But you like it," Connor says again. He comes forward, cups that damned erection. "See?"

Wesley takes Connor's wrist, pulls him away. "No."

But Connor's stronger than he is, and the action is meaningless. "I want you."

"Want someone your own age," Wesley snaps, tiring of the ridiculousness of this.

Connor's face pinches together with hurt. "I want *you*!"

The charade's too much to even try to attempt. "You don't even know who I am!"

"I do so!" Connor is loud, petulant. "You're Wes!"

"You know my *bloody* name," Wesley snarls, finally jerking away from him. His voice becomes dry, an exact replica of his own father's tone. "How *proud* you must be."

Connor grabs him. Rams him up against the dresser. "Why are you doing this? Why are you *saying* these things?"

"Because they're true!" Adrenaline pushes him past the point of fear, anger, the knowledge that giving up now has utterly destroyed not only himself but all he's worked for. "You know nothing. You want nothing. You have *no* idea - "

"I have *every* idea!" Connor's keyed up now. He fists his hand, then backs up and hits it into the wall. Wesley flinches, but stands still. "You're mine!"

"I'm no such thing!"

"I *own* you!"

"I'm not your fucking pet! I'm not your toy!"

Connor's mouth opens and closes. For a moment he's speechless. "You - I - " He grabs Wesley by the arms, the very picture of fear and worry. "I - I didn't - "

"Stop it, Connor."

"I never - "

"I said *stop* it, Connor."

"I *love* you!"

Oh God. "No. No you don't."

Connor's mouth curls in derision now. "Why? Because I'm too young?"

Wesley laughs at him. Deliberately makes it sound mocking. Doesn't have to try too hard to succeed. "That and a thousand reasons besides. Now let me go."

"You don't mean this."

"There's few things I mean more."

"You're lying."

"You only just noticed?"

Anger, then a shake of a head. "It's not true."

"*None* of this is true."

"I am," Connor says. Looks at him with all sincerity. "This is."

It's so pathetic Wesley almost feels sorry for him. "No. Connor - "

"You're just scared."

"That's not - "

"It's okay," Connor tells him. Pulls him closer. "I am too."

There's another kiss. Insistent. Warm. Wesley struggles, tries to pull away, cannot *comprehend* how wrong it all is. Connor's stronger, more determined, much more skilled at holding on to his prey. All fights end with them in even more of a tangle.

"No," Wesley says, to Connor, to himself. He clings to the idea of Angel. This was *Angel's* night. *Angel's* arousal to play with.

But Wesley's body is only human and it doesn't give a damn for Wesley's soul.

They're on the bed. Wesley struggles again - this time trying to make it harder, piss Connor off, get him to *hurt* him as he's always done before. Make the sex rough, meaningless, something that Wesley can cope with as he's done for the past few months. It brought about orgasms, yes, but all of them clinical, basic stimulus/response, nothing that -

Connor's undoing Wesley's pants now. Tonguing his ear. Giving his body the thing it's been craving for days.

- he enjoyed.

He's sick. Disgusted. Wants to die even as his hips are moving, seeking out touch out of their own accord. He wants it to end. Tries once more to escape. Is held down by a demon who for some God unknown reason refuses to hurt him. It's a nightmare, straight out of a Watcher diary.

No, worse. A nightmare that's literally of his own creation.

Clothes are gotten rid of. Connor, ever helpful, is dealing with lubrication. Hell gets deeper, hateful, as Wesley feels those fingers inside of him.

It's no different, he tries to insist. It's the same as every time before. He's done this countless times before. It doesn't matter...

But it does. Because Connor can tell that he likes it and, just like the books, just like the tea, just like the food, tries different things again and again until he gets a reaction, finds out what Wesley wants.

Every attempt - every caress that gets him harder - is something stolen from Angel's hands. A thing Wesley dreamt of the vampire doing, now perverted by Connor's touch. Wesley clenches his teeth, squeezes his eyes closed, wants God to strike him *down* because it's not possible to live like this, to live *after* this, to somehow try to forget -

Connor's in him now. Rock hard. Hitting the - Wesley forces himself to use the sexless, medical terms - prostate and - it's no use. All the frustrated hormones are acting against him. It feels *good*, excellent, just what he needed and - God - he can't stop, it's too close now and - perhaps if he could just make it end *faster* but - no, Connor's hand doesn't comply, his hips won't accommodate him. He's learned how to tease somehow and he's doing it now, drawing it out, waiting until -

A word. A much worse one to admit to than the one he gave before. Spoken, unbidden:

"Please."

The orgasm, when it comes, makes Wesley want to vomit.

Sobriety, when it comes, makes him want to die.

***