Strategy Part Nine

[thebratqueen]

PART NINE

Heaviness. It seeps through his body. Fills every cell. Weighs him down. He's leaden. Doesn't move nor does he think to. He can't even remember how.

He's in a chair. He's staring at nothing. Something flits about him and the library of his mind supplies the information of: Connor. But Wesley has no reaction to this.

When his throat was slit - and he remembers that now, his throat being slit - there was pain. Sharp, thudding. Stickiness all over and a feeling in his heart not unlike betrayal. The beating organ unable to understand how he had allowed all its work to come to nothing, literally spilt onto the ground.

Shock. He knew shock. Knew, even at the time, he was in it.

Failure. Another feeling. The worst feeling in the world, that, knowing that he'd failed. Failed the most important task he'd ever been given, in his opinion.

But, also, hope.

He'd had friends. People who would look for him. People he could talk to, explain things, show them why he'd done what he'd done.

People who would forgive him.

So getting his throat slit, at the time, hadn't been as impossible as all that. Horrible, but nothing he hadn't thought he could recover from.

Wesley thinks about this. It's as far as he can get, right now. The conclusion he's drawing towards isn't ready yet. *He's* not ready for it yet. It waits, just outside of his attention. It's inevitable, like death, so he feels no worry about it leaving.

"Open your presents," Connor is saying. Or, rather, Wesley knows that he is saying this. What he takes in is the sight of soundless, moving lips, and then belatedly the words catch up to him. Everything is slow. An entire world trapped in amber. He's drowning in plain air, and wonders why it's not killing him.

"I don't know where to begin," a voice says. With a measure of comfort Wesley realizes that it's his own. Part of himself moving on, taking care of business, completely unbothered by it all.

Connor is smiling, a picture of happiness. "Wherever you want. I got you lots of stuff. I thought you'd like it."

"That's quite kind," Wesley's voice says.

A lapse of time. Dreamlike, the boxes are stationary, then opened, tissue paper scattered over the table and the floor. A blink of an eye and he's amongst a sea of books, fountain pens, designer clothing, jewelry, watches that can tell ten different kinds of time and even receive phone calls.

"So much money," Wesley says, this being the only fact he can think of as he looks upon it all.

A hand over his. A squeeze. "You're worth it."

I'm no such thing, Wesley thinks, but doesn't speak it.

Connor's still speaking. Talking about the trip. It occurs to Wesley that he should pay attention to this. There's probably important information to be found in the telling. But listening takes such effort and he finds that he's deaf.

More time passes. Connor is now staring at him.

"Maybe you should go back to bed."

The thought of the bed fills Wesley with a nameless horror, but he allows himself to be led there anyway. He lies down. Stares at the wall. Can't remember if he blinks or not.

At some point, like a switch being flicked, he goes unconscious.

***

He's dreaming, but he doesn't *want* to now. Thoughts of pleasure tease at his senses and Wesley shoves away from them, kicking his legs like a swimmer slicing his way towards the surface. He dislikes the thoughts, the memories. Can't think of a single one that would truly make him happy. There's nothing but pain and he wants to be lost to it. He wants to die. He's not sure why he's not dying.

Thinks to himself perhaps he did die. He died and this is the last circle of Hell.

The conclusion lurks beside him, as patient as it ever was.

***

Noises. Whispered conversation. Voices tense, angry.

Wesley's awake. Can't remember opening his eyes.

The room is bright. Sunlight streams in through the living room window. It's mid-afternoon.

Wesley stands. There's a robe nearby. He dresses. On automatic pilot he moves into the kitchen, makes tea, savors the boiling hot liquid as it pours down his throat.

"Did you know about this?"

Connor, in the kitchen door. Impatient. Cross.

Wesley finds that talking is easier now. "About what?"

"Last night."

"Your homecoming?"

"Angel."

Ah yes. There it is. Agony so exquisite that it's like embracing a heart attack. Teacup falls from his hand, shatters. Once again Wesley's voice speaks without consulting the rest of him.

"Never say that name to me again!"

"Did you *know*?"

"Never *speak* of him, do you hear me?"

The boy grabs him by the shoulder, jerks him around. In the living room two goons are staring, suspicion in their eyes.

"They found him last night," Connor, monster to the core, is telling him. "In the tunnels. Trying to get in. Did you *know* about it?"

"I never," Wesley says, each word dripping with contempt, "want to hear his name again."

Connor won't back down. "Did you *know*?"

"How would I?" Wesley asks. "I'm trapped in here like a lightening bug in a jar without even a hole to let me *breathe*. And even if I had some secret means of communication, what exactly do you think I would discuss with your father? Our relationship? Your declarations of love for me? Do you think these are the sorts of things I would care to tell him?"

"You love him," Connor accuses.

The truth of those words possesses Wesley. Three words which define his entire being. He snaps. "Which you knew when you claimed me! As I recall that was the entire *point*. Well now you have me, Connor. In every way your father cannot. In every way your father *will* not. I can give you no more. You've taken it all. If you choose to possess me like this and yet still do not trust me then I have nothing left. Kill me, if I'm so meaningless to you."

Trust hovers, but does not yet come to the forefront. "Why was he in the tunnels?"

"Ask *him*. I'm not a mind reader."

"I can't - " and here Wesley's heart seizes again, and he knows in full clarity that the words that come have the power to destroy him " - he ran off."

Relief grips him so hard that he staggers. Can't even hide it.

Connor's shaking his head, disgusted. "Knew that would make you happy."

"Did you let him go for me?" Wesley feels compelled to ask.

"I wasn't there." It isn't an answer, but it's informative nevertheless.

More emotions are coming. A floodgate has been opened on the dam erected last night. He's not ready yet. Can't take the final thought just yet, but others, preliminary ones, are leaping to the forefront.

"Don't ever speak of him to me, Connor," Wesley is saying. Lecturing, as he once did about proper rope tying and the making of tea. "You don't understand. I don't - I want - " so hard, so difficult to say these things, these things which are so deeply untrue on one level and yet mercilessly accurate on another " - look into my heart, Connor. Your father is gone to me. Dead. I never want to speak of him again. I can't even bear to *think* of him."

The boy is unswayed. "Because you miss him."

And here, now, Wesley can meet his gaze without masks. "No. That's not the reason at all."

Blue eyes look back into his own. Read his face like a hunting trail. There is a nod, and Connor is satisfied.

***

The conclusion is there, now. It sits beside him as he sips water, pushes a sandwich around on a plate.

So many conclusions, really. All coming together to form this single whole. A hive of bees creating a swarm. Tiny stings, each one of them. The whole of them, deadly.

Each injection of venom comes quickly:

Angel, in the tunnels.

The passion between them.

Angel trying to find him.

Connor's affections.

Jasmine's control of the world.

The murder her followers cheerfully commit when tracking down her enemies.

This and more chases around his head. Makes it spin, though he's never felt more stable.

And, on top of it all:

Angel never forgave Cordelia.

It's the final, crushing truth. Angel, though possessed of many fine traits, only has so much forgiveness in his soul to give and Cordy, whore that slept with Angel's son, received none of it. Not even after, when Angel learned that it hadn't been her fault. That'd she'd been possessed. Manipulated. Put into that bed by forces beyond her control.

Wesley knows, now, that he and Cordy are neck and neck. Arguably worse, depending upon how one thinks about it.

Knows, too, though in a way he always did, that he's never going to get Angel back again.

Mourns this, for a moment. Allows himself to feel this loss. Cries out, in his head, for what might have been. For the relationship that can't ever happen, now, thanks to a decision that he himself made.

Then, moment passed, he gets rid of it.

The world is falling. Wesley doesn't know how much, but he has an awareness that now it is most of it. Practically everyone is under Jasmine's thrall.

Wesley had meant to put a stop to this. To help, at least, with the one thing he could do.

He hasn't done it though. Not yet.

As he sits with his swarm and his meal he understands that he was foolish. Arrogant. Stupid, to think that he could come out of this in some way ahead. That he could try to win for good without one crucial thing.

He remembers a word he was comfortable with. Not prostitution, apt though it still is, but sacrifice.

To win, there must be sacrifice.

Angelus had grabbed him by the throat once, put him directly in the line of fire. In that moment Wesley had known without hesitation that his life was over. More, that it was *right*. His life, in exchange for Angel's. Not because of Wesley's love for him, but because Angel was *needed*. The world was dying, and it needed its champion.

Wesley's not responsible to himself. He's responsible to the world.

The swarm settles about him. Covers him like a second skin. The stingers pierce and with that Wesley lets go of everything he's held on to. Lets go of hope, of love, of Angel.

Gives up everything of himself and doesn't even pause to consider regret.

There's more important tasks. Wesley understands, now, that there's only one way to go about them.

***

Emotion gone, the actions are easy. He stands, pushes his meal aside. Goes into the bedroom. Picks up the red shirt and black pants from off the floor. With a strength surprising for a man of his frame he tears them. Rips them into a pile of pieces. Gathers them and throws them away.

Goes back to the table. Moves aside the tissue.

Takes out a new shirt. New pants. New clothing, from head to toe.

A watch covers his wrist, a ring goes on his finger.

Mere primping then. A fixing of his hair. A checking of the fine line of stubble which he's known for a year now has been an attractive feature.

When he's done he looks beautiful. Handsome. Deadly.

Owned.

Connor's in the living room. Sulking, still. Not fully satisfied from before. Still bearing a grudge with his father's name on it.

Wesley slips into place behind him. Breathes warm air across the tanned neck. Doesn't bother with intelligent discourse. Instead, whisper-growls: "Fuck me."

A jerk of response. A suspicious glance.

Wesley presses in. "Fuck me. And punish me for every wrong thought I've ever had. I'm so sorry, Connor. So long with Angel and it's warped my mind. I keep wanting to do things his way when I know it's not the right one."

Hesitation. But it's Wesley's hand now that moves down and feels a cock waking up beneath his fingers.

"Angel is a monster. Soulless, and cruel. I thought his way was the only way but it isn't. There's you. And I - I'm not good enough to understand it, Connor. What you give me... I don't deserve it. But, please - " closer there, another warm and wet breath " - let me feel it."

Connor's leaning back. Thin hips sway. "I love you."

"*Show* me," Wesley pleads. "Take me. Take me any way you want to. I - I tried not to admit it, Connor. I thought I was betraying them but - " a lick now, right up to the boy's ear, then a whisper "I *want* you."

It's more than any nineteen year old can resist. Strong hands grab him, shove him to the floor. The fucking is hard, ruthless. Wesley encourages it. Asks for more. Begs for Connor to love him, forgive him. Touches him like a proper lover would. Claws the boy's back when the orgasm doesn't come quickly enough. Screams Connor's name when it hits him.

When they're done they lie side by side on the rug. Connor pants, smiles. Wesley looks at him, the very picture of wonderment. "How did I survive without you?"

Connor shrugs. Palms a hand across Wes's stomach. "Now you won't have to."

Wesley leans up. Licks the boy's lips. "Perfect."

They fuck again. Same as before.

Each time after Wesley gears up for another attempt. Watches Connor as he does.

Watches the claw marks on Connor's back. Notes how quickly they heal. Finds out what makes Connor come so hard his eyes close and his body goes slack in the afterglow.

Learns how much he can wound the boy, while he's unconscious, without ever leaving any evidence.

***

Days later it's a different Wesley that emerges from the suite. Dressed to the nines. A regular fashion plate.

Confidence comes from him. There's no echo of the shadow he was before - the victim who couldn't even make it five seconds in the hallway.

Instead there is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, something of a relative to the man who owned his own slave-girl over a year ago, a man who passes by the guards at his door without even a second glance. Who goes over to Lorne's door, then stands there. Waits, until the guards there look at him. Until they realize something different.

Realize the power dynamics have changed.

Realize that this man is more than a prisoner now. He's the man that Jasmine's father adores.

He's the man who could have them killed in an instant, if it so pleased him, because pleasing him makes Jasmine's father happy.

He's the man who is, now, very aware of this.

The guards jump. Move aside. Belatedly realize that something so utterly mundane as touching a *door* will not be done by him. so they open the door to Lorne's room themselves, nearly bumping together in their eagerness to get out of his way.

Wesley walks into the room. Waits until the guards close the door for him.

"Holy - what *happened*?" Lorne says, coming forward. He's looking Wesley over, trying to find signs of damage from Connor's return.

Wesley doesn't engage the conversation. Instead he takes something out of his pocket, deposits it into Lorne's hands. "I believe you know who to give that to."

Lorne looks down. Sees a vial of blood and a piece of paper with a demon language message. Is surprised. Pleased. Wants to know how -

"By tonight, would be ideal," Wesley says. He goes out of the room again, saying no other words.

Lorne stares after him. Feels like something's up. Wishes Wes's aura wasn't so shuttered closed that he can't use his powers to discern it.

Tells himself, for now, that it's probably just depression. Wes reacting to missing Angel, and having to be with Connor again.

Can't imagine what else it might be.

***

That night, in the fort, Angel sits on his bed. He's got the message. The first communication from the hotel since the night of Wes's no-show. Delivered through the chain of hands that make those communications safe. The blood is on his weapons trunk, waiting to be used. Outside Fred and Gunn are prepping people. Making schedules for inoculations. Getting ready for the possible withdrawal pains that might come, even for people who haven't been under Jasmine's thrall yet.

Angel stays in his room, staring at Wes's handwriting.

Not Kungai this time. Callimac. An obscure demon tongue, but one that Angel's more fluent in. One he's got no problems doing the translation of.

The message is short. Nine words. Words which Angel has no idea Wesley spent hours thinking over, just to make sure they were right.

*I'm sorry, Angel. I'm still in love with Lilah.*

As Wesley guessed, it's the one claim the vampire can't refute. Wouldn't even dare to. He loves Wesley too much to try to argue with his heart.

Angel crumples the note. Clutches it in his hand. Wonders why, after so much practice, he can't get used to hurting like this.

***