Cagey Goodness (repost)

[thebratqueen]

Okay, princess_bunny asked for Angel, Wes and a cage and I said "You mean Cagey Goodness?" and she said "I mean who in the what now?" and in the meanwhile I'd sort of been thinking of doing more with Cagey Goodness anyway so for princess_bunny and my own benefit I've threaded together all the Cagey Goodness posts from earlier in the year into one single post. (Meaning if you've read them before then you've read what's inside. There's nothing new here except the threading)

For those who weren't around last April to read this, allow me to do the warning that this was my first LJ indulgence fic a la Strategy and Pet except this was before I'd really cut my teeth on the whole indulgence thing so what we have here is a collection of tiny drabbles around a concept (ie Angel, Wes, cage) which jump around all over the timeline with not much rhyme or reason. The gaps in this thing make Strategy look solid, lemme put it that way.

So, hyppogryff warning out of the way, I give you the repost of Cagey Goodness, which may or may not get more stuff added to it at some point down the line. Because, again, I don't have enough to do in the next 2 weeks ;)

Cagey Goodness

The room was dark. As most rooms were, in such instances, but Wesley felt that really it was improper because what one truly desired in moments like this was *light*. Flick every switch on. Drag in some lamps. Pass out a few dozen torches. Anything to chase off the shadows.

But no. The room was dark. As though the creature himself demanded it. As though it were his natural habitat - which of course it was - and he forced the world to accomodate it through some kind of heretofore unknown magical ability.

Travers stared at him, the older man's unreadable expression spurred Wesley to talk, activating his rather un-British like desire to fill silences with the sound of his own voice.

"Big fellow," he offered. It was an impossibly simple observation, yet Wesley felt compelled to make it all the same. For all the reading one did, for all the faded drawings and photographs one could find, nothing had even hinted at the sheer *bulk* of the animal.

Still, he was expected to prove himself. "Insanity is, of course, to be expected. Studies of cross-dimensional travel have indicated culture shocks to varying degrees, often due to the differences in time progression. In fact Hopkin's Theorum itself directly states - "

"It has no mind," Travers said, his voice was as devoid of inflection or emotion as his demeanor. His right hand patted at a coat pocket, as though searching for his pipe. "These things rarely do."

"Of course," Wesley agreed at once. "Base creatures, to be certain. However - "

Travers glanced at him, the quick movement of his eyes cutting Wesley's sentence short and forcing the last word to hang in the air between them.

"He was never like most of them," Wesley finished, finally, assured of the fact that this, at least, was indisputable.

"Still isn't," Travers observed. It seemed a gross understatement for the beast that growled and snapped at them, straining the very strength of the cuffs and chains which confined it even further in the cage that was its home. The hair on Wesley's arms rose, chilled by the sounds that no human-looking throat should have been able to make.

"Do you think you're up to this?" Travers asked.

Wesley clutched his pen and notepad, his preferred methods of recording. "Of course."

"I expect you won't disappoint us," Travers told him.

The vampire tore at his bonds once more, howling with a mixture of anger and frustration. It collapsed to the floor, ridges and bumps melting away to reveal a bloodied, human face.

Wesley looked down at Angelus, thinking to himself that nothing on record could have possibly prepared him for this.

"I'll be fine," he said, not really knowing why he felt so assured of it.

***

It was becoming impossible. Too good, too perfect, in that keen, sharp, felt like a direct cut through his chest kind of way (up and down this time, not straight through, because it was different, everything about it was different).

And it was stupid, and wrong, and in truth he hadn't really let go of the idea that he didn't belong here, that it was all a mistake, and he'd just stumbled over some hidden portal out of Hell and landed here, in Watcher-created Purgatory, and any day now some auditor was going to notice a souled vampire missing on the not-kidding-around torture inventory and haul him back where he came from.

Which meant he wasn't supposed to be here. Which meant he shouldn't make connections, make ties, make *this*.

Or maybe he should, because it was a mistake, and when they found him again it would go away like someone had pushed a big reset button and made it all right again.

Or maybe he knew he belonged in Hell, and knew with even more certainty that a tiny sin added to his list now wasn't going to make much difference.

He craved the light. Ached for it. Felt it under his skin until every sound just past that door drove him skirting up towards madness again. But he fought it, because sanity was here, now, with Wesley and he'd cling to it with every bit of his strength if he'd had to.

And he'd ignore the tiny voice that asked him if this *wasn't* madness, this fantasy of tiny bits of bliss that were given to him freely by one who had every right to hate him. Who had hated him at the start.

Whatever it was, Angel held on to it. Clutching it to himself so hard that he barely slept, terrified of the loss or gain of sanity that might occur should he dare close his eyes. He passed out, yeah. Council bastards made sure of *that*. But as soon as he could he grabbed up towards wakefulness again, happily mortgaging his rest into a dim and uncertain future. Life became a matter of moments. *This* moment. Then *this* one. Then the next until Wes was there, blue eyes eager and enraptured, fountain pen scratching away as he wrote down tale after tale, Angel digging far back into his memory to find every detail, padding stories out with nuances he never would have cared about in the past, taking a memory that could be wrapped up in a sentence and filling it instead with talk of Darla's lace, Dru's cascading curls (put into her hair by a maid, and of course that was a story in and of itself), the shine of his own belt buckle, and Wes, ever fascinated, wrote it all down in a blur that would have done a vampire proud.

Wes, who sat closer and closer each time. Who didn't notice when the dirt of the floor smudged his pants, or when the dinner bell had long gone silent, or when night bled into day and neither one of them had moved.

There was a lesson there, Angel knew. Because Wes sat and nobody asked for him. And the blue eyes that looked at him so curiously became damped down and clouded when he finally *did* rise, stiff-legged, and make his way towards the door.

So it wasn't wrong, Angel figured, to encourage him.

Less wrong still to sit closer - or as close as the chains would allow, with Angel quickly learning how to hide the blood that leaked down onto his hands when he strained too far and Wesley, Wes, became worried and frightened.

Very wrong, though, to lean further still. To draw closer to him when Wes sat with his head against the bars, hints of his own private despairs seeping through him, his face so weighted and inanimate that it was impossible not to touch him, not to break that final barrier at last, and wrong most of all to enjoy it, to kiss and moan and feel Wes responding in return, his own body jolted into life as now he was the one straining against metal, trying to get as close as he could through all the restraints that were meant to keep Angel from touching *him*. But it didn't matter. Because they touched, and kept touching, and Angel knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this would not be the last of it. Real or not, sane or not, *this* would keep happening, and for Wes alone he knew he'd find a way to get them both out of this.

He told Wes that, once, as they sat in their respective corners, Angel's body too shattered for even love to move him, and Wes had reached back, stretching his arm as far through the cage as he was able, touched his cheek and smiled, saying that he believed in him.

***

"It's not working out," Travers said, as though this were nothing more than an observation about the weather.

"It's working *fine*," Wesley said. He put his notebook down onto the conference table, daring anyone to dispute the weight of it. "Already the observations gathered - "

"Are boring and repetative," another Watcher, Joshua, said. He appealed to the table at large. "The vampire is insane. There is nothing to be learned from him."

"The vampire is centuries old purely in our own dimension," Wesley pointed out. "Adding in the time he has spent elsewhere, the amount of knowledge he must have obtained is immeasurable, particularly regarding Hell dimensions. Few creatures *besides* vampires could have managed to survive such circumstances. To throw all that away because progress has not been achieved in only a few days - "

"Weeks," Travers said.

"Weeks," Wesley admitted, but forged on, "it's a crime against knowledge. It's a crime against what this organization stands for."

"He does nothing but scream," Lydia said. The tone of her voice made it impossible for Wesley to decide if she was disturbed by that, or supported him in spite of it. Perhaps it was both.

"Because, as we all know, the proper response to time spent in a Hell dimension is a burst of glorious song," Wesley shot back, having long grown tired of that argument.

There was a moment of silence. Wesley dared to think it was due to his own reputation. To the strength of his efforts, and test scores, and family name when it came right down to it, reminding them all that he wasn't to be dismissed this easily. He had earned this opportunity and he wasn't going to let it be snatched away by impatience and petty jealousies.

"It's just a vampire," Joshua said.

"It is Angelus," Travers said, and Wesley felt a glimmer of hope for his chances. "Moreover he is the only known vampire in possession of a soul."

"We should put him out of his misery," Lydia shuddered.

"He's not much use to us if he can't speak," Travers said, finally looking back to Wesley. "I'll give you two weeks. If you can't find some way of making him coherent, he'll have to be given over to the labs entirely."

"That shan't be a danger," Wesley said. He picked his things up again, readying himself to go back down into the erstwhile dungeon. "I have faith."

"Have *results*," Travers suggested. "They'll be more useful."

***

Nights passed. Wesley sat in his chair and watched as the vampire screamed and howled in agony, the sounds only stopping when he was tranquilized in order to be taken into the research wing, where he was poked and prodded and cut and measured as only the scientific branch of the Council could examine such things

All other times, he was Wesley's.

Wesley wasn't sure when he'd started to look upon the creature as having enough of a self to be worth thinking of in human terms. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, if the detecting spell was right, that the vampire possessed a soul. Perhaps it was the weakened inability for the vampire to constantly maintain his demonic face.

Perhaps it was the night the screams *had* quieted, only to be replaced by hoarse, bitter weeping.

Wesley watched all of this, and took notes.

He kept accurate journals of every moment, every action, knowing that, yes, certainly, by now it had become repeatative but hoping against hope that it would provide him with enough information with which to find a key. *Something* that would allow him to decode this language of pain and find something resembling communication.

He tried speaking to the vampire in every language that he knew. He studied others and added those into the mix. He recorded the harsh cries and analyzed them when he should have been sleeping, desperately trying to find a pattern that would indicate some kind of meaning.

He boned up on the known histories, wondering how they could be applied.

Then, one night when Angelus lay curled into a tight ball, his shackled arms crossed protectively over his chest and his throat so raw that blood spilled out of his lips as he sobbed, an idea came to him.

Wesley stole out of the room and headed directly for the archives. A few questions found him the box he needed, and inside he found the item that would probably work best.

He returned to the dungeon. He found a long stick and placed the item on the end of it, holding it out before him so the vampire could - he hoped - observe it without actually making contact with Wesley.

It took a long while. Wesley thought his arm might break from the strain. But, finally, the sobs quieted as the vampire sniffed the air, and looked around in dazed, half-blind bewilderment.

"Buffy?" Angelus asked.

Wesley smiled, holding out the shirt that had once belonged to Merrick, the Slayer's first Watcher, and congratulated himself for figuring out how to get through to the vampire she'd sent to eternal damnation.

***

"You're shaking," Wesley said.

"Comes with the territory," Angel replied. He was sitting as far back in the cage as he was able to. His back was pressed against the solid stone wall. His legs were folded underneath him. His arms were crossed against his chest.

And he was trembling. Even through the dim light and the distance Wesley could see it. Were they able to touch Wesley was convinced that Angel would be practically vibrating.

It made him sick.

"They shouldn't do this to you," Wesley said.

Angel gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Lotta things shouldn't happen. Doesn't seem to stop them though."

"They should treat you better," Wesley insisted. He squatted down on the floor, at eye level with the vampire now. His gaze was obsessively drawn towards the blood stains that marked his shirt. With a start he realized that some of them were still fresh. "You haven't even *healed*."

"It's fine," Angel shifted his position. The chains connected to his wrists made harsh, clanking sounds.

Wesley shook his head. "No, it isn't. This is intolerable. You are - "

"A *vampire*, Wesley," Angel snapped, his eyes flashing. "That's all I am. That's all I'll ever be. A monster who did exactly what they're doing to me *and worse* to more people than you could ever meet in a lifetime."

"That's hardly the point."

"No, it's exactly the point," Angel said. He sighed, some of the anger leaving him. "What do you want, Wes? This is what I do. This is what I get. And it's either this or - " Another bitter laugh escaped him. "Let's face it. Right now you're the only one here who likes me for my mind."

"This is important work," Wesley said, not sure if he was reassuring the vampire or himself. "What you know - "

"Doesn't mean *shit*," Angel replied. He shifted position again, and Wesley realized he was trying to find a way to be comfortable in spite of the damage done to him. "Right now all I am is the strongest vamp they've ever laid hands on. The minute they get bored with me, the minute they're tired of all this 'research' - "

"I won't let them," Wesley said.

"*I* won't let them," Angel said. His eyes became dark, determined, and Wesley felt something unnamed stir inside of him at this promise. "I'm tough. I can handle this. Hell, I've handled much worse. Literally."

Still, Wesley shook his head. "This is torture."

Another shift of his body, this time with a painful wince as he stretched his right leg out in front of him. Wesley wondered if he was seeing the damage of broken bones. He could find out, he knew. Pull Angel's file, read what the others were doing to him, but he hadn't yet. He doubted he would. Somehow he felt that Angel needed this. These moments with one person who could help him pretend that these horrors had never happened, that the damage was due to some mysterious cause that never needed to be named.

"I can take it," Angel said, the words surprisingly firm in contrast to the tremors that made it impossible for his hands - or the chains connected to them - to keep still.

"Angel," Wesley said, quietly. "It's only going to get worse."

Again Angel met his eyes. The expression was so intense Wesley almost looked away. "It's worth it."

***

Angel's eyes went unfocused again. Wesley willed himself not to panic. He kept still, controling his heart rate as best as he could, trying to project absolutely nothing of his terror.

"Angel," he said, trying to draw the vampire's attention to him. "*Angel*."

The vampire shook his head, drunkenly. He curled up tight against the wall, and Wesley became far too keenly aware of the slack in the chains, of the bruises on Angel's throat, of how easy it would be for the vampire to wrap the metal around his neck again and try once more to snap his head clean off.

It was possible. Statistically difficult, but not out of the realm of chance. The odds of it happening were insane, but at the moment... at the moment sanity was exactly the problem.

"*Angel*," he said again. "What were you saying? I didn't hear you."

Angel's head twitched. He brought his hands up to his eyes, rubbing them. Wesley longed to yank his hands away. The vampire's cheeks were already red from the repeated friction.

"No," Angel moaned. He jerked his head to the side, as though turning away from someone who wasn't there. "*No*."

"*Angel*," Wesley snapped, and this time his tone brooked no argument. It was the tone of headmasters. Of matrons. Of his father. "You were speaking to me. Is eye contact now too much to ask for?"

Angel's hands dropped down. Brown eyes blinked open and closed as though the vampire had to consciously remember how. "Wes?"

Wesley's spirits sank. It was as though Angel was noticing him for the first time. Still, he took whatever avenue he was able. "Yes. I'm right here. Can we continue our conversation?"

Misery weighed every muscle in Angel's form. Wesley felt heavy *himself* just looking at him. "I - I can't. They - "

"There is no one here but me," Wesley said, his voice crisp once again. He silently told the ghosts, hallucinations, or *whatever* they were to bugger off. "We were talking. Do you remember?"

A frown slowly shaped Angel's face. It would have been comical, if not for the marked contrast this gave to their conversations from previous evenings. Before the nightmares started. Before Angel began jumping at shadows and muttering to himself about things not being true and wouldn't they please just go away?

"I - " Angel swallowed, and a hint of clarity flickered through his eyes. "Weren't - weren't you saying - "

"We were talking, yes," Wesley agreed, gently prompting him. With all of his will he urged the vampire to follow the conversation, as though he could mentally grasp him by the hands and pull him out of the madness. It was all he could do not to reach through the cage.

"Yeah," Angel said, the memory returning to him. His hands dropped down to the ground, now, and Wesley almost fainted with relief. He would have staple gunned Angel's hands to the ground if it would have done him any good. The thought of the vampire killing himself was absolutely unthinkable.

Wesley realized Angel was studying him. "You're dressed. Fancy."

Wesley shrugged, dismissing the now dust-stained tuxedo as though it were nothing. "There's a party upstairs."

Again there was a pause as Angel tried to work this out. "Christmas, right?"

"Correct," Wesley told him. He smiled, hoping it would add to the encouragement.

"You should - " Angel made a vague gesture, most of the meaning lost in the sluggishness of his movements. "Don't. I'm not - "

"I haven't anyone to be with," Wesley told him.

Angel seemed surprised by this - or as surprised as he was able. "You didn't get a date?"

Wesley thought of Caroline, last seen bending the ear of Joshua. "No."

"Family still alive?" Angel asked, his voice mysteriously rough.

"Yes," Wesley said. He sat down on the ground, crushing the reminder from his father not to be late for cocktails that night which he'd carefully placed inside of his trouser pocket. "But we've no holiday plans together. I've no one to be with, Angel." He thought about adding to this, directly asking the vampire to be his only companion, then worried it might be too much, that the extra detail would give way to the lie. Instead he said, "So I thought we might talk again. If it's alright."

Angel stirred. The chains scraped across the floor, and Wesley nearly wept with joy as the slack was taken from them as Angel crawled as far away from the wall as he was able in order to sit closer. A foot of distance separated them from either side of the bars. Wesley felt an irrational urge to reach out and brush the dirt away from the vampire's face.

"What - " Angel looked faintly shamed, "what were we talking about?"

Wesley thought back over all the topics he'd tried, dismissing all the requests for memories that had only prodded Angel deeper and deeper into his despairs and the taunts of his invisible attackers. "Music. Do you recall?"

"Oh yeah," Angel said. He rested his elbows on his knees, his body still obviously not totally under his control, but at least it was more relaxed than it had been. A moment passed as the vampire thought. "You were - you were saying.... you didn't like it?"

Wesley smiled, glad that Angel had achieved coherence enough to remember the one completely trivial and harmless topic that they had discovered. "It's not my taste, I'm afraid."

"It's a classic," Angel defended.

"So's syphilis," Wesley replied.

"I think it's pretty," Angel muttered.

Wesley found this impossible to believe, but he continued all the same. "It's a song about a cake."

"It's a metaphor," Angel said. He twitched, as though shying away from an unseen hand.

Wesley ignored the ghost, or whatever it was. He caught Angel's eyes again. "It's a very silly metaphor."

"Maybe," Angel admitted. He met Wesley's eyes for a moment, and Wesley dared to hope he saw a hint of peace in there. "I like it."

Wesley found himself longing to pat the vampire on the hand. "That's all right then."

***
A constant rapping sound tore Wesley out of sleep. He grabbed his glasses and quickly belted on his robe, stumbling across the dark bedroom to open his door.

"Lydia?" he asked, blinking in surprise to see her.

She looked upset. Her hair was mussed. A few strands had slipped out of her usual bun. "It's Angel," she said.

Wesley immediately ran for the stairs, mentally cursing all the while. How long had it been? It was dark out, had an entire day gone by?

Lydia kept close to his heels. "He attempted it again. With his hands. They think he was trying to - "

"Get to his heart," Wesley immediately guessed. He left the first staircase and went to another, the one that went all the way into the basement. With each step he felt a pang of guilt - he should have been there, he should have stopped it.

The litany in his head immediately quieted when he reached Angel's cage.

As before, the vampire was curled up in the far corner. Wesley immediately tried to asses the damage. He could spot only glimpses, but the hints of blood and torn skin were more than enough to paint a picture.

Angel's hands batted at the air. He shook his head, muttering to himself in words Wesley could barely understand. Then, with a suddenness that made Wesley jump, he roared into life, clawing at his chest and tearing open the barely-healed flesh. "No. No. *No*."

"*Angel*," Wesley said. He came right up to the bars and slapped them, ignoring Lydia's attempt to pull him out of the way. "*Angel*."

"I'm sorry," Angel moaned, and Wesley knew better than to assume the words were directed at him. "Stop - please. I didn't - I'm *sorry*."

"We may have to tranquilize him," Wesley told Lydia.

She nodded, then frowned. "Travers won't allow it much longer."

Wesley snapped his attention towards her. "Pardon?"

"I overheard him," Lydia said, pitching her voice lower. "This afternoon. If he must be drugged the entire time Travers wants him given over to research. Or - "

"That's not an option," Wesley said. He hit the bars again. "*Angel!*"

"I *can't*," the vampire pitched forward, arms wrapped around his stomach now as though he might be sick. "I - I *can't*. I *tried*."

"What's he talking about?" Lydia asked.

"It doesn't matter," Wesley said. He refused to give the cause of these visions anymore power than they already had by actually acknowledging them. "Angel, can you hear me?"

Angel's head jerked up. He stared at Lydia. "You. God, I - I never meant to kill you."

Lydia shook her head at once. "He never laid a hand upon me, I swear it."

"I know," Wesley said. He felt sick himself for a moment. How was this the same man he'd left just that morning? The one who'd kept him company all night with talk of music, and books and movies. Come 6am it had been Angel himself who'd gently insisted that Wesley retire. And now - "He's not seeing you. He doesn't see either one of us."

"Mad?" Lydia asked, mouthing the word more than speaking it.

The question hung between them for a long moment. Wesley wished he had a definitive answer. "Possibly haunted. Ghosts. Demons."

"Here?" Lydia's hand gestured to the walls around them, taking in the whole of the Council. "But we've protections, barriers - "

"None of which apply *here*," Wesley reminded her. "Else he'd never have survived this long in the first place."

"We could do new ones," Lydia said. "Something to bar any interference. Put a stop to this."

"Forbidden," Wesley said, flatly, having fought that battle already. "He is a vampire. We do not protect them."

"But couldn't we -"

Wesley raised a wry eyebrow. "As though any form of magic would go undetected?"

"Oh," she said, deflating.

"Didn't - didn't - " Angel was mumbling. He'd pressed up against the wall again. His fingers tugged at the stones as though trying to pull something from them. Wesley could see blood begin to fleck the walls.

"Poor dear," Lydia murmured. "He's been like that since the laboratory."

Again Wesley snapped his attention to her. "What?"

"Since they worked on him," she replied.

"They - " Wesley bit off the urge to swear. "They *can't* have done that. I forbade it. He's not strong enough!"

"We don't protect vampires," Lydia reminded him, quietly.

Wesley came closer to the bars and truly *looked* at Angel. "He's paler than a phantom. Get some blood. He's probably starving."

"Of course," Lydia said. She ran to the door. "Er - animal or human?"

"Whatever's faster," Wesley told her. "And heat it up."

She nodded, then disappeared.

Wesley knelt down. "Angel?"

To his surprise, the vampire turned. In a voice so soft and uncertain it might as well have been a breath, Angel asked, "W-Wesley?"

"Yes," Wesley said at once. He leaned forward, trying to encourage the eyecontact. "Angel, it's me. Can you - "

Angel crawled towards the bars, the very picture of a wounded animal. True enough, Wesley saw him test the air as though getting a scent. "Wesley."

"Yes," he said again. He wasn't sure where this was going, but at least he could confirm it. "I'm right here."

Angel was right in front of him now. He spoke in a whisper that Wesley had to strain to hear. "I can't - they won't stop. They won't leave me alone. I - I - "

"Ignore them," Wesley said. "You have to. It's the only way."

"*Trying*," Angel said. He flinched, as though someone had grasped his shoulder. "She won't be quiet. She says - "

"I don't care," Wesley told him. "She's not important. You've better things to do than coddle some spirit with nothing but practical jokes on her mind."

"I *can't*," Angel said. He pressed his hands to his ears. "Wes, please - make it stop. I want - I just want it to *stop* - "

"It will," Wesley promised him, making his voice as reassuring as he could in spite of the fact that he was making up every word as he went. "You only need to be strong. You can do this, Angel. You've survived Hell *and* these accomodations. I know you can handle it."

Angel's hands curled into fists. Wesley wondered if the vampire was strong enough to actually crush his own skull with the right determination. "Won't shut up. Just keeps talking and talking and - "

"Talk to *me*, then," Wesley told him. "Come, we'll continue our conversation from last night. I believe we were making fun of Dante."

"Here," Wesley looked up to see Lydia pressing a large mug of warmed blood into his hands. "I hope that's the right temperature."

"I'm sure it is," he told her. He held the cup out to Angel. "Drink. It'll help you feel better."

Angel shifted forward. He reached out for the mug then stopped, his hand too shakey to even attempt to grasp it. "I - I can't."

"A straw?" Wesley asked Lydia. She nodded, then immediately produced one. Wesley took it but glanced at her quizzically.

"I thought you might need it," she said. She motioned towards the doorway. "I should - I could try to stay if you need but I'm expected at the meeting and - "

Meeting. Wesley dimly remembered some all-staff affair they were expected to go to. "No, go. You're right. They'll suspect something if you're gone."

She stepped away. "I'll tell them...?"

"That I'm fixing their error," he replied.

She nodded, then left.

Wesley put the straw into the mug and held it out again. "Here. Drink it slowly. I can get more if I need to."

Angel shifted forward and attempted a sip. A few drops spilled onto his mouth and he sat back to lap at them. "She's - girlfriend?"

It took Wesley a moment to translate that. He held the straw still as Angel bent down to drink again. "No. Watcher. She has a particular interest in your family, however."

Angel continued to drink but managed to give him a curious look.

"Spike," Wesley clarified.

Angel sat back again, leaning his head against the bars. "Not his real name, you know."

Wesley did, but he wanted Angel to keep talking. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Angel said. He took a few more long pulls of blood. "Named himself that. Accent's fake too. But so's mine."

Wesley held the straw out again, encouraging Angel to finish it. "You faked your own accent?"

"No," Angel shook his head. The movement was sluggish, as were the words. Wesley realized the vampire was becoming sleepy, much like an infant after having a meal. "Just... not Irish."

"With all that time in the States I expect you would pick up new speech patterns," Wesley agreed.

Angel drained the last of the blood, then wiped his mouth. The gesture smeared a drop across his lips and Wesley felt the urge to clean it. "Yeah. Something like that."

Wesley put the mug down, hoping the motion would inspire Angel to follow it. "You must have a great many interesting stories about Spike."

"Some, yeah," Angel said. His eyes drooped then, with them, he slumped down further, finally lying on the floor. "Could tell you... tell you lots."

"I look forward to it," Wesley said. He thought about it for a moment, then asked, "Angel?"

"Yeah?"

"Why - why did you notice me? How did you know that I was real?"

"You're you," Angel said. He pillowed his head on one hand, the other aborting the motion to help when the chain held it back. "Wouldn't... couldn't make somebody like you up."

"Oh," Wesley said. He wondered if that was an insult or a compliment. "I see."

Angel's voice slurred as sleep finally overcame him. "Always know you, Wes."

"You as well," Wesley said, although he wasn't sure if that meant anything under the circumstances. Regardless, it hardly seemed to matter as Angel had finally dropped off into slumber.

Wesley watched him, disliking the tiny twitches that suggested torments still going through him. On the other hand, he'd never known the vampire to get a truly peaceful night's sleep since his arrival so Wesley dared to hope things were normal.

The shivering, however, was mostly new. Knowing fully well it would probably make little difference he sat up, unbelted his robe, then slipped it through the bars. After a few tries he managed to flick it in the air in just the right fashion to let it fall down and drape over the vampire's shoulders.

That done, Wesley wrapped his arms around his own now-bare chest and sat quietly beside him as Angel slept.
***

The path back down to the dungeon felt comfortable and familiar to him. More like coming home than entering the Council walls could ever hope to be.

A week. One could become entirely used to a new life in a week, Wesley thought. He'd been gone for that long. He'd grown used to a life he'd hated.

Which, all things considered, hadn't been *that* much different than the one he'd left behind.

A familiar voice floated out through the crack in the open door, and Wesley found he wasn't at all surprised.

"Joshua," he said, striking a faux casual pose in the doorway. "What a pleasure. You may leave now."

Joshua turned and looked at him. Eyes which were far too beady for Wesley's taste glittered at him from over a clipboard. "I'm doing your job."

"Much obliged," Wesley said. "You may leave now."

"Happy to," Joshua said. He came forward and thrust the clipboard out, handing it over with more force than was necessary in the obvious hope it would make Wesley flinch.

Wesley didn't flinch. He'd watched Lawrence of Arabia far too many times for that.

"It doesn't talk, you know," Joshua said, making the words into a snear.

In the corner a shadow unfolded itself and stood to its full height. "It talks," Angel said, the words quiet and full of a power that only a being with hundreds of years could have, "just not to *you*."

"This is going in my report," Joshua told him.

"By all means," Wesley said, holding the door open for him. He closed it behind the retreating figure. "Prat."

Angel remained where he was, his arms folded across his broad chest. "You went away."

"Indeed," Wesley said. He came forward, tossing the clipboard aside for the utterly useless record that it was. "Just got back this morning. Took the red eye. Dreadful - "

"You *left*," Angel said, and Wesley faltered. The vampire's tone hadn't change, and now the contempt that had been aimed towards Joshua had been redirected towards him.

Wesley felt a flare of anger. Angel dared question him? What was he, some sort of beholden pris -

Wesley aborted the word before he could finish thinking it and felt deeply ashamed.

"I'm sorry," he said, rapidly abandoning the temper-tantrum like argument he'd been about to launch about Angel's possessive feelings towards his time. "It wasn't my intention. They forced me."

The tension in the air dropped with a nearly audible pop. Angel came towards the bars. "They did?"

"To offer me a job," Wesley told him.

Now Angel looked curious. "Don't you - "

"A - " Wesley hesitated over the word "promotion" " - transfer."

"Oh," Angel said. His brown eyes remained as mysterious as they ever did.

Wesley rested his hands against the bars. Angel kept his at his sides. "A reward, for all my good work."

Angel smirked at that. "Really."

"Rupert Giles has been sacked," Wesley said, feeling this detail needed to be gotten out into the open as rapidly as possible.

Angel was taken aback. "What? Why?"

"He has a father's affection for the Slayer," Wesley said.

Angel nodded, unsurprised. "Sounds like him."

Wesley felt a moment of dissonance. He became keenly aware that he was talking with Angel, the creature who had *tortured* Rupert Giles not so very many months ago. Rupert. His collegue, if not in any way, shape or form his bosom companion. Someone who had taken the same oaths that he had. Someone who had laid his own life down to protect the world.

Someone who was now merely a high school librarian, because he had grown too close to his charge.

Sometime during Wesley's reverie, Angel apparently managed to put two and two together. "You don't smell like - "

"They took me to Greece," Wesley said. "They know I like it. They pitched the job to me. Sunnydale. Two Slayers. All mine."

The silence between them stretched out for so long Wesley felt as though he were stuck inside of a nightmare. Not for the first time that week, he begged Fate to give him some sort of sign that he'd made the right decision.

Finally Angel asked, "You said - "

"No."

Again the room was quiet. Then Angel reached out, stretching the chain to its limit, and rested the tips of his fingers against the cage. A single vertical bar separated Wesley's hand from his.

"Good."

Wesley closed his eyes and enjoyed a moment of relief.

***
He didn't open his eyes when he woke up. He had the weird feeling like it wouldn't *matter*. Like maybe his eyes were already open and he couldn't even tell. He'd just gone blind. Blind and numb.

Except - no, not numb. Because he hurt. Everything hurt. His bones ached, his skin throbbed, and each tiny bit of movement brought with it a blossom of agony across his chest.

His fingernails felt grimy. He realized they were still caked with his own blood. The memory made his hand twitch, his fingers digging into his palm, and he was suddenly seized with the thought of *pressing* of *cutting* and tearing the flesh down to the bone, of *looking* at the bone and touching it as though it wasn't even real, not even a part of him but some *thing* he could -

"No," Angel whispered, and curled up into himself.

"But why not?" a gentle female voice whispered.

"I don't want to," Angel answered, then shook his head. "No. You're not real."

"Angel," she said, patiently, "you know that's not true."

"You're *not real*," Angel said again. He closed his eyes tighter, as though he could squeeze the noise out of his brain.

"I'm as real as you are," she said. "Why do you keep denying that? Why do you keep pretending that you don't belong with me?"

"Because you're *not real*," Angel said. He clung to the words, forcing himself to believe in them. It was hard. Reality had become so slippery - had *been* so slippery for centuries. He couldn't even remember when his mind had cracked. When all the torments of Hell had finally broken him. Truth be told, he didn't even know if any of this was a step towards being fixed. But *she* was wrong. She had to be. *God* she had to be.

"What do you think is real?" she asked. Her voice was closer now, as though she'd knelt down beside him. "This world? This cage? The torture? Is *that* real to you?"

"Feels real," he muttered.

"Since when do you trust your feelings?" she asked.

"This *has* to be real," he said. He curled up tighter, trying to blot her out. He felt something slip along his body and he jumped, thinking she'd tried to touch him. Opening his eyes, though, he saw that that wasn't the case.

It was a robe. One of Wes's. Angel held it, staring at it and feeling every conviction in his bones that it would dissolve in an instant if he so much as blinked.

"Like *that's* real?" she mocked.

Angel clung to it. He could feel it in his hands. And - yeah - smell it. He cradled it to his chest, terrified she might snatch it away. He looked around. If he had the robe, then -

There was Wes. Asleep. Head resting against the bars of the cage. Shirtless.

Angel held the robe tighter.

"He could be real," she agreed. She was practically whispering into his ear now. "All warm and vulnerable. You could touch him. You could *taste* him."

Hunger licked through him. His mouth drooled at the thought of a mortal's neck grasped in his teeth.

"You want to taste him," she purred. "You could do it right now. Just grab him. He won't know what - "

"Shut up!" Angel told her. He shoved himself back from the bars. "I won't. I won't!"

Wesley woke up at the sound. He blinked at Angel, blearily. "Angel?"

"You can't make me do it," Angel told her. "I won't."

"Kill yourself then," she said. "Be with me."

"Angel, what's wrong?" Wesley asked. He sat up, facing the cage properly.

"He doesn't trust you," she said. "He thinks you're crazy. Look, you can see it in his eyes. He knows how lost you are."

"Angel?" Wesley said. "Angel, can you hear me?"

"*I* believe in you," she said. "I'm here, aren't I? I didn't let anything tear us apart."

"You're *not real*," Angel whispered, his voice hoarse.

"*Angel*," Wesley said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the fog.

Angel's attention snapped to him. He held on to the robe, thinking that Wes must be cold. Mortals got cold in places like this.

"I could be," she told him, her voice a soft caress at the back of his neck. "I could be as real as you wanted if you joined me."

"You - " Angel managed, his eyes focused on Wesley. He held the robe up, hoping the gesture conveyed a question.

"You needed it more than I did," Wesley told him.

"There'd be no more doubt," she said. "No more questions. You'd be with me and you wouldn't have to wonder again."

"Do you want it?" Wesley asked. "You can keep it if you like."

Angel took in a deep breath, letting the scent of it fill him. "Can't," he said. "They'll take it."

Wesley frowned, then nodded. "You're probably right. Still - you could have it until then."

"Once he's gone," she said, "you won't know if he was here. If he was just some memory. But I'll still be here. I'll always be here."

"They'll tear it up or something," Angel said. He held the gift out, stretching so that it could reach the bars and Wesley.

Wes took it uncertainly. "All right, if that's what you'd rather."

"This isn't where you belong," she said. "You know it's not."

"Are you feeling any better this morning?" Wesley asked, slipping the robe on. "Are you hungry? Should I get you something to drink?"

"He'll never trust you," she said.

"Shut up," Angel told her, vamp-soft. He brought himself closer to the bars again. "Blood? And - and talk? I - I could tell you more. About me. Or - or whatever."

"We could do that," Wesley said. He gave Angel an encouraging smile. "I could get myself some tea and fruit, perhaps. We could have breakfast together."

"You're imagining this," she told him.

Angel jerked his head away from her. "Yeah. I'd - that'd be great. If you wanted."

"My pleasure," Wesley said. He started to get up, then paused, frowning at him. "Angel - are you all right? Are you still getting the visions as badly as yesterday?"

Angel shook his head, ignoring the spectre of Buffy beside him. "No," he lied.