Strategy Part Eight

[thebratqueen]

PART EIGHT

Lorne's not deaf. He hears noises. Jumps out of bed, throws a robe on, jogs over to his door.

Sees Connor heading into Wesley's room.

Thinks: *Oh shit*.

Panics. Thinks about doing something - dropping a book, hitting a high note, making some *noise*, but then thinks what the Hell is that going to do? There was no signal for this. Wes isn't going to know what it means.

Shit, is Wes even there?

Checks the time. Thinks maybe Wes is. Wes wasn't supposed to leave until twenty after so maybe -

Shit, maybe not.

Pauses. Prays to whatever Powers might still be giving a crap that Wes got impatient, got *out*, left to go see Angel before he was supposed to because then at least there's still a chance and...

And Connor's not yelling. Stomping out of the room. Demanding to know where Wes went off to.

"Damn," Lorne whispers.

Doesn't linger on it. Moves to the next thing. Grabs some clothes. Makes himself presentable. Thinks if he's lucky Danny didn't call in sick tonight and therefore Lorne can nip downstairs, get past Dan, try to figure out how to find the meeting place in the sewers from totally the wrong direction. Maybe go to any one of the checkpoints they've been using to ferry messages back and forth. *Somehow* let Angel know to abort, pull out, the mission is *ovah*.

Stops when he sees a big lug standing outside his door.

"Um, hi," Lorne says. Smiles. Tries to lay the charm on. "Say, would you mind scootching just an eensy bit to the left? I've got a hankering for something sweet and I'm sure there's a couple of guys named Ben and Jerry who are calling my name from down in the kitchen."

Big Lug stands there. Doesn't move.

Lorne tries again. "Just a *little* bit to the left." Motions, tries to be encouraging. "Not much, why it's a half-step if anything. Come on, I bet you can."

"You stay here," Big Lug tells him.

Me, Tarzan, you Jane, Lorne thinks. Out loud he says "Oh, I know. *Definitely* my place is here. Which is why I'm going to come *right back* once I'm done. Won't even miss me, promise."

"Connor said you stay here," Big Lug informs him.

"Yeah, but - "

"*Here*." And then the door closes and Lorne's left standing in the dark.

***

Angel waits.

He's in the office. His and Wes's office. *Their* place, because now they have a place. From months of nothing to - you wanna meet? Sure. Come to our place.

Thinks to himself: maybe this could be a regular thing.

Thinks: heh, you can still see the marks on the desk from when Wes was sucking me off.

Thinks: wait, did I remember to clean these pants?

Self-consciously checks himself for dust. Wishes that wartime wasn't putting him in a situation where he can't exactly play fashion victim. There's other stuff that needs to be worried about. Piddly things like, in order of importance to Angel, weapons and food. But it's Wes and it's a meeting and Wes was looking *good* the other night (soft voice, waaaaaay in the back of his head, whispers "No, he didn't. He was too thin.") so Angel wants to try. Wants to make an effort.

He's got a blanket. Swiped from his own bed. Debates where he should put it then settles on the floor because there's more room to spread it. Fusses with bumps, wrinkles. Makes it perfect.

Wants Wes to be there. Wants him naked. Wants to fuck him on it. Wants to feel Wes wrapped around him, nice and tight. Hear Wes saying stuff like he did the other night. Stuff about love, and want, and them and *Christ* what was he thinking with that Aruba thing? Hello, my name's Angel and I'm a big, undead *dork*.

That had been *so* not slick. Not sophisticated. Not suave, as Angel liked to think of himself as being. But the cool thing was - it hadn't mattered. Wes hadn't laughed. Didn't make fun of him. Instead said he liked it. Wanted to move there. With Angel, which made it even better.

Angel liked that about Wes.

He knew what the others thought. Didn't give a *shit* about it but he knew. They figured Wes for Angel's stable pony. And maybe that was true. Okay - it was. But there was a reason for it.

Because Wes was Wes. Somebody who *got* him, not-suave and all. Somebody who didn't laugh at him when he noticed and said stupid stuff because, you know, it's not like Angel *was* stupid. You didn't get to be *his* age by being dumb. And yeah, sometimes he didn't get stuff but not *all* the time. Sometimes he just saw things a different way. Didn't mean it was wrong.

Like that time three years ago. When he and Wes had been in a mall and passed by a candy store and Angel had said, really enthused, "Hey cool! They've got the ones that come on paper!" which meant those candy dots that came on a strip and, well, *Angel* thought they were neat because, well, they just *were*. They didn't have stuff like that when *he* was a kid and, you know, it was *useful*. You could fold it up, put it in your pocket, not worry about losing any pieces or melting them.

And Wes had just smiled and said yeah, they were pretty cool. Though he personally had a preference for those wax bottles with the sugar water in them.

And he and Wes had bought some of both, and Wes had eaten all of it because in all actuality candy made Angel's teeth itch but still. It'd been nice. Nice not being laughed at.

Then time had passed and that Wes had gone away.

Not that Angel hated him for that. No, the hate thing had been pretty much wrapped up in the Connor thing and let's just leave *that* where it was. But *after* - man, *after*. *That* had been a killer. That *new* Wes. That scruffy and don't give me shit Wes. The Wes who *wouldn't* talk to him. Who *wouldn't* meet his eyes and smile like the old Wes would. Who wouldn't answer a question like fruit basket because, you know, that shit's not *intuitive*. They'd dealt with demons before, some *like* fruit baskets. Hell, *Angel* wouldn't have said no to a fruit basket. He wouldn't have *eaten* it but he'd have understood and appreciated the *effort*, he would have -

How had he even gotten on this?

Oh yeah, Wes.

Angel sat down on the desk. Looked at the blanket in front of him. Decided to fuck the ups and downs of memory lane and stay focused on the present.

Wes. *His* Wes. Wes who didn't shut him out anymore. Who didn't laugh at him. Who'd *noticed* the little notes he'd written and wrote some back which were, let's face it, fairly dirty and whoo boy had *that* been a happy bonus to discover in the boyfriend department.

And that last one. With the symbol. The one Angel didn't exactly know the translation to but knew it somehow meant possession and maybe that meant Wes belonged to him or that he belonged to Wes and he wasn't sure but neither did he care because both were true and Angel was happy to agree with it.

His Wes. Who'd been there just a few nights ago, clinging to him, warm mouth wrapped around him, whimpering and moaning in such a hot and sexy way. Getting off on Angel's *hand* like it was the best thing on earth. Like anything more would have blown his *mind* with how good it felt and then -

("He flinched, *retard*," the soulless voice in the far back of his head whispers. "He *flinched*. Not just when you touched his chest but when you grabbed his *hip*. You *know* that flinch. You've *made* that flinch. Remember Spike? Remember Dru? Remember that 8 year old outside of Milan? Remember the *hundreds* of people you've made flinch like that? You know what it means. You know *exactly* what it means. You *stupid*, moronic -")

(But Angel's not listening. Because the thousands of layers of protection he's placed between him and this pervert won't even acknowledge the suggestion. *Can't* acknowledge the suggestion. Because the whole thing's unthinkable and therefore he refuses to think it. Not consciously. Not willfully. But quietly. Like an unspoken wish. He won't think it, can't cope with thinking it, because even vaguely thinking it will make it true. And if anyone had asked him, he wouldn't have even known what they were talking about.)

- when Wes had come it had been so perfect, so spectacular that Angel hadn't really gotten a good night's sleep for *days* because the memory of it had lingered with him and made lying down on his stomach a little bit of a challenge.

He wants it again. Wants Wes with him, right now.

Realizes Wes is *supposed* to be with him, right now.

Checks his watch.

Checks it again.

Stares at the second hand to make sure it's working.

Waits.

Keeps waiting.

Waits even more because he's coming any minute now, right?

Maybe the hour was wrong. Did he get the hour wrong? Did he think one and write the other? Did he say the top of the hour when he meant a quarter after? Did he think tonight but write yesterday?

No, it has to be today. The place doesn't smell like Wes had been here yesterday. That had to mean tonight. Wes was coming tonight.

He keeps waiting. Ten minutes becomes twenty, becomes thirty, becomes an hour, becomes a half hour more.

He thinks: Wes is coming any minute now. The longer I stay, the more likely it is he'll show.

Thinks: I have to stay.

Thinks: I should wait.

Thinks: That passage to Connor's room works both ways.

Angel leaves the blanket where it is. Touches all the weapons hidden in his coat like they're familiar friends. Heads into the sewers, the very picture of a predator in motion.

He makes it halfway there before a squad of guards stops him. The fight's a good one. He wounds eight, kills two.

Unfortunately there's a total of, he roughly guesses, twenty.

When he returns back to the fort that night his coat is torn. His hand aches from bones that are knitting.

And, unlike the mark on his cheek which will eventually heal, the deep slash that cuts diagonally across his chest will end up leaving a scar.

***

The room is quiet.

Connor's asleep. Breathing deeply. He's on his side, one arm flung across Wesley's hip.

Wesley picks it up. Places it on the bed.

Stands.

Realizes a moment later that he's gone into the bathroom. Doesn't remember needing to use it but the door is closed. Here he is. He must have decided to do so.

Oh. The water's running. He's taking a shower then.

The water is - warm? Cold? It feels like both, actually. And - did he take his clothes off? He can't remember - oh, yes. He's nude. He came in here nude.

Did he? That doesn't seem like him. Usually the hotel is so cool...

He wipes water out of his eyes. His vision is blurry. He thinks he shouldn't have left his glasses on the table then remembers he doesn't wear glasses anymore. There was surgery, that problem was fixed.

That's good then, he thinks. One less thing to worry about. Rather a pain, losing one's glasses.

There's a word. It's skirting around the edges of his brain. He knows this word. Sees it in Lorne's eyes whenever they are together. Knows Lorne is thinking it. Feels it hovering between them whenever there's a heavy pause in the conversation, whenever the subject truly needs to be changed, whenever something comes up that makes Lorne regard him quietly, offer him a soothing drink, touch his arm in a pitying way.

Wesley *hates* this word.

He doesn't use it. It's not *meant* to be used. It's not *right* here. It's an abuse of the language to even think it.

Language. Wesley could show Lorne language. Teach him a thing or two about proper vocabulary. Give him a list of synonyms in hundreds of dialects that show how *not* applicable that four letter word of Lorne's happens to be.

Words like: sacrifice. Compromise. Bargaining. Prostitution.

Yes, prostitution. Wesley likes that one. Apt word, that. Nails its situation right on the head. Puts things squarely in the realm of commerce. Business. An exchange of goods or services *for* goods or services. That's all it is. That's all it's ever been. Wesley went into this with his eyes open, *knowing* what he was getting into, *agreeing* to it. *Consenting* to it.

In point of fact it was *his* bloody idea. *His* thought. Nobody else's. His plan to - to do this. To come here. To agree to -

His hands are shaking. Foolish thing, that. He needs to eat more. Clearly his blood sugar is completely out of control. He should be more careful. He's past thirty. A man his age needs to watch out for that sort of thing. Proper diet. Fiber. Plenty of exercise. He can't let himself become too sloppy. Yes. Food. He'll eat something, when he's done. Some... breakfast. Or... dinner. Whatever... he can't remember the time, just now. He - did he have a watch? Was he wearing a watch? Seems to remember being here, with a watch and yet - he's not wearing one right now, is he? He did *check* his wrist, didn't he? A moment ago?

This is business. It's nothing more than business. Like last summer. With Lilah. Which - all right, perhaps a bad example with *him* and Lilah but not with regards to - to Connor. Lilah would have done this. Fucked Connor, if it meant getting her way. Lord knows she'd fucked *him* as an attempt at getting her way, and it wasn't as though any emotions had - had ever made that situation complicated. For her anyway.

It's no different. It was Wesley's idea. Wesley's choice. Nothing that happens here *matters*. Again, like last summer. When he'd spent hours upon hours writhing with Lilah in his bed all the while pretending to be someone he wasn't. Someone who was detached. Uncaring of the world around him. Someone who hadn't, as for example, locked a woman inside of a cage with only a bucket for company and a little gruel to keep starvation at bay.

Someone who *hadn't* given a flying fuck about - about the *situation* of that summer. About - about the ocean. The - the ship. The searching. The -

Wesley distractedly realizes that someone is trembling. Doesn't know who it is. Wonders if anyone's going to do anything about that. Not him, though. He doesn't care. He's professional.

He doesn't care about anything.

"You're awake," it's Connor, brushing the shower curtain aside.

"Yes," Wesley says. Because clearly this is true. He's standing. He's showering. These activities are only done when one is awake. It's an easy hypothesis for him to test and agree to.

Connor's looking at him, taking in the view. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Didn't occur to me," Wesley tells him.

Connor shrugs, unbothered by this. "I'm awake now."

"Indeed you are."

The curtain is moved aside even more. Connor steps in, moves behind him. Slides the curtain shut to contain the spray. "Mind if I join you?"

Wesley ponders this. It's a question. What does one do with questions?

"Could wash your back," Connor suggests. Fingertips move up the spine. Dance over to the shoulders. Slide down to the base.

"I - all right," Wesley says. Can't remember if the action's been done yet.

Soap-slick fingers begin to work. "You're quiet."

"Am I?"

"A little." Hands move down to arms. Wesley rests them by his side. Lets Connor reach whatever's needed.

There's an age difference here. Connor, so much younger than him. Half his age, perhaps. That means something.

Flash of memory. A baby. In his arms. A baby belonging to - to -

He was going to...

"Wes?"

There's a hand on his throat. He realizes it's his own. He's touching something. A scar. He fingers it, wondering why it means nothing to him. Had this hurt him once?

Connor's hand covers his. Guides it back to Wesley's side. He kisses Wesley's ear. "Relax," he says.

"I - I can't," Wesley says, bewildered by this.

Connor thinks about it. "Long night?"

"Perhaps," Wesley says. Tries to remember - did he do something that day? Something strenuous?

Connor's frowning now. "Did you try to go out?"

Out? Oh yes. Downstairs. Did he? "I... yes," Wesley says, testing the feel of it. He thinks it's right. It carries a sense of rightness. "I think I did."

Arms wrap around his waist now. Connor kisses his neck. Holds him. "Don't do that," he says, his voice protective and kind. "It's too hard on you. Don't go out without me."

No. It's not right. There's something *wrong* about this. "I..." again tests the words, tries to find true ones. "It's not out. It's...." There. A possibility. "People."

Connor nods. Apparently he's heard this before. "I know. You don't like to see them."

Wesley contemplates it. Tries to imagine being around others. Having them look at him. "Yes. Yes. That's it."

A hand caresses his chest. "Then they'll stay away. I'll *make* them stay away."

A feeling of relief. Gratitude. "Thank you."

Connor shrugs. "I take care of you."

Wesley hesitates. Wants to say it isn't so. But it must be, because there they are. Undisputable fact. Like the shower.

Hands move lower down. The touch familiar.

Someone else, Wesley's not really sure who, responds to it. Moves with Connor's touch. Enjoys it.

Wesley himself goes somewhere else. Somewhere where his mind thinks only of business.

***