Protocol, Part Twenty-Four

[thebratqueen]

Previous parts can be found here.

PART TWENTY-FOUR

A thought came to him.

"Teach me how to be you," Angel said.

Wes frowned at him. "My Lord?"

Angel decided to ignore the title thing for the moment. "Teach me how to be you. One of you. A spouse."

Wes's brows quirked together. "Are you thinking of changing careers, my Lord?"

"No," Angel said. "But funny."

"I'm trying to imagine why you are asking this of me," Wesley said.

"Because I want to learn what it's like to be in your shoes," Angel said. "Maybe - I dunno - maybe I'll finally get an idea of why you do everything you do."

Wes didn't look convinced. "My Lord does understand that I have a lower role in society than he does?"

"I do, yeah," Angel said.

"And that he's asking how to be come less than himself?" Wesley asked.

"I don't think you're less than me," Angel said.

"The rules of protocol, as well as a significant number of sentient beings in the world would disagree with you, my Lord," Wesley said.

"Good thing I don't have to answer to them then," Angel said. He gently guided Wes off of his lap and back onto the blanket. "Look, I don't understand where you come from - "

"England."

"*Emotionally* where you come from," Angel amended.

"Inasmuch as you've reportedly *traveled* to England, I dared presume you might have understood it," Wes added.

"Moving past the England thing now," Angel said.

"Yes, my Lord."

"I want to understand *you*," Angel said.

"Why?" Wes asked.

"Because - " Angel could see this was going nowhere. "*Because*, okay? I'm king, I said so, let's move past the discussion and get to the part where you help me."

Wes folded his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry, my Lord. I didn't mean to disobey."

"No, you didn't," Angel said. He drew Wes close again. "I told you it was a day off. It's okay if you were questioning me. I just want to skip to the good stuff."

"As you wish," Wesley said.

"Great," Angel said. "Teach me how to be you. Pretend I'm a spouse."

"My spouse in particular?" Wesley asked. "Or just a general candidate?"

"Whatever," Angel said. "Yours, a trainee, whatever. Tell me what I'd be doing right now if I had been owned by the Council."

"I could," Wesley said, "but I think I could illustrate that far more quickly if my Lord would allow me to get a handful of ash and throw it directly onto the carpet."

"Again with the funny," Angel observed.

"My Lord said he enjoyed my sense of humor."

"I didn't lie," Angel told him.

"I thought you might appreciate that answer more than actually being staked for the sake of artistic accuracy," Wesley said.

"You're not wrong," Angel said. "But let's move past the vampire thing."

"In which case then my Lord is too old," Wesley said.

"*Past* the vampire thing," Angel reminded him.

Wes shook his head. "Even ignoring that you are a vampire. Simply based upon your appearance it is obvious that you are too old to be a trainee and too old to be placed with a wife or husband."

Angel narrowed his eyes at him. "How old do you think I look, exactly?"

Wes neatly side-stepped the verbal trap. "I am sure there are many who would mistake you for twenty-one, my Lord."

"Uh-huh," Angel said. "And how many of that 'many' are actually blind?"

"My Lord was asking about being a spouse?" Wesley prompted.

"You're good," Angel told him.

"Thank you, my Lord," Wesley said.

"So pretend I'm younger," Angel said. "Or I've hit myself in the head. You'd take pity on some guy who just hit himself in the head, right?"

"Apparently I would marry one, my Lord."

"I'm your spouse," Angel said. "I'm here, I'm having a picnic with you, I'm eating - " Angel looked over the assortment of choices, then picked up a hot fudge sundae " - this. What do I do?"

"For starters you wouldn't eat that," Wesley said.

"Too worried about it going to my hips?" Angel guessed.

"Too worried about making a mess," Wesley told him. "A spouse would never eat something that dangerously sloppy. And certainly not one of my background."

"Your background," Angel said. "Which means…?"

"A prince," Wesley explained. "Both as royalty *and* as a spouse is it my duty not to make an embarrassment of myself."

"Which means no ice cream ever?" Angel asked.

"Which means no ice cream of *that* nature," Wesley said, pointing to it. He then gestured with his hands to indicate sizes. "A prince may have ice cream in small, spoon-sized portions, with only the tiniest decoration of fudge or other toppings, placed upon the ice cream in artistic and pretentious fashions."

"Sounds like fun," Angel said.

"All my meals were like that," Wesley said. "Tiny ice cream, vegetables cut into manageable sizes so I'm never caught at the table with half of a green bean dangling from my mouth - everything. It's an entire discipline all to itself. They have special chefs to staff the kitchens."

Angel tried to imagine it. "That's… really obsessive-compulsive."

"In England we call that 'tradition'," Wes replied, not even missing a beat.

"So I don't get to eat this?" Angel asked.

"You would rather die than be caught eating that," Wesley said.

"But it tastes good," Angel protested.

Wes perked up at that. "You can tell?"

"Not as much as if a human was eating it," Angel said, "but yeah."

"Fascinating," Wesley said. Then, maybe in concession to the knowledge he'd just gained, he said, "you could eat it if you'd been ordered to. That is the only circumstance."

A penny dropped. "So *you're* only eating this because *I* ordered you too," Angel said.

Wes nodded. "Correct."

"Which means that even on the day when I told you that we're not doing protocol and orders, you're still doing protocol and orders," Angel said.

Wes gave a small cough. "I would have thought my Lord understood that when he ordered me to have a day of not following orders."

"So today's been real big on the irony," Angel said.

"It's not without it, no," Wesley agreed. He made an encouraging motion with his hand. "Feel free to eat the sundae if it makes you feel better, however."

"I think I will," Angel said. "But help me out anyway. Pretend it's tiny ice cream. How am I eating this?"

"Presuming we're bypassing the parts about sitting on the bed linens while wearing this attire - "

"This attire is *my* stuff," Angel reminded him.

"Yes," Wes said, "and your clothes are not *my* clothes and *my* clothes are regulation. Now if you wish to carry out this game to the fullest you would wish to dress the part, but as I doubt that you'll fit into anything that's been tailored for me - "

"All right, all right," Angel said. "What's next?"

"Sit up," Wesley told him. "As straight as possible. A spouse must have good posture."

Angel did his best, stretching out his shoulders in the process. "Now what?"

Wes sat forward, moving him with light touches. "Hold your arm like this, and the spoon like this."

Angel did his best to follow, feeling his fingers cramp up from the new position. "Okay. Then?"

"Then you eat," Wesley said. "But *properly*."

"Don't put it into my nose, in other words."

Wes made a face at him. "*Here*, like *this*." He covered Angel's hand with his own, guiding him with a touch like a dancer's. The spoon picked up only a tiny bit of the melted cream, and Wes winced when drops of it fell back into the bowl. "You would try to clean that up, or wait until the drops stopped falling."

"Considering that this isn't going to last long this close to the fire," Angel said, "I'm guessing waiting isn't the option I want to pick."

"Just be careful," Wesley said. "You don't want to get any on your clothes."

"My clothes will wash," Angel told him.

"A spouse's clothes shouldn't *need* washing," Wesley told him. "You are to appear neat and tidy at all times."

Angel thought about that. "What if somebody splashes me with mud?"

"You get changed immediately," Wesley said.

"What if I'm out and there's no clothes handy and there won't be for hours and hours?" Angel asked.

"Kill yourself, I imagine," Wesley said.

Angel finally ate the not-even-a-spoonful, then put the bowl down. "Okay, ice cream's too complicated. Give me something else. What would I be doing now?"

"Sitting up," Wesley prompted, as Angel started to lean back. "And watching me without appearing obvious."

"In case you decide to run away?" Angel guessed.

"In case your husband or wife had needs," Wesley said. "You must be attentive at all times so that they are not forced to wait longer than they have to for you to obey."

"Because the half-second it would take to look over would bring about the apocalypse," Angel said.

Wes quieted at that. "This is my job, my Lord."

Angel wondered if he would ever get smart enough to be able to have conversations with Wes where he didn't end up wanting to kick himself multiple times. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to insult you."

Wes looked as though he didn't know what to say to that. Finally he settled on, "We don't say 'forgive me'."

Angel frowned. "You don't?"

"To say 'forgive me' is a demand," Wesley said, his voice taking on the cadence of a recital. "We are not allowed to make demands. A spouse may say that he is sorry, for he *is* sorry to have in any way bothered, offended, or otherwise inconvenienced his husband. But he may never beg for forgiveness, for that is never his right to possess."

"I'm sorry," Angel said. It was in part for the correction, and in part for the kind of life he was starting to see that Wesley had. He wanted to touch Wes again, pull him into that protective embrace, but something told him not to just yet. To wait and see what else he could learn.

Luckily Wes seemed content to keep going. "You would sit, and be attentive, but take care not to make offers that were unwelcome, or do actions that are unwanted. This is something a spouse must learn, based upon their husband's culture or personality. Some husbands desire spouses who leap to their needs as soon as they arise. Others desire spouses who remain quiet and still and neither speak nor move until they have been ordered to."

Angel watched the tiny flickers of Wesley's fingertips, then noticed how stationary the rest of him was. "They train you for that, don't they? How to be still?"

Wes nodded, his hands curling into fists. "Yes, my Lord."

Angel sat forward. "How do you learn all this? How do you *remember* all this?"

Wes seemed puzzled that this was even a question. "I have trained my entire life, my Lord."

"It's still a lot to remember," Angel said.

"I've had nothing else to dedicate myself to," Wes replied.

"What about fun?" Angel asked. "Do you do anything for fun? Have a hobby or something?"

"I had one," Wesley conceded. "Though it had to be Council-approved."

"Why am I not surprised?" Angel asked. "So what'd you like to do?"

"Shoot things," Wesley said.

Angel blinked. "O… kay."

"You asked," Wes reminded him.

"Never would've pegged that for the answer," Angel said.

"You think I can't handle a gun?" Wesley asked.

"I'm sure you *could* handle a gun," Angel said. "But doesn't the Council find that too dirty or messy or aggressive or something?"

Wes's hands twitched again. "The Council does not mind a spouse who can defend himself from his husband's enemies."

There seemed to be more to the story, but Wes didn't look like he wanted to pursue it. "Okay."

"Fun isn't part of the equation," Wesley said. "Hobbies must be in some way educational or useful."

"Hobbies are *fun*, Wes," Angel said. "That's why they're hobbies and not jobs."

"My life is my job," Wesley said. "There is no *room* in that for mindless amusement."

"Why not?" Angel asked.

"Because spouses don't do that," Wesley said.

"Why *not*?" Angel asked again. "Wes, what the Hell is the damage on you guys getting to crack a smile once in a blue moon?"

"Because that's not what we *do*, Angel," Wesley snapped. "We serve *you*. We serve other people. We get shipped off to men or women who we've never met before and who could have us killed for the slightest offense to them or their culture or the barest *hint* that we've in some way erred or done something wrong. Our entire livelihood depends upon making sure their every need and want is more than satisfied and doing so rarely if *ever* means that we shall have a pleasure to call our own beyond that of a job well done. Why in *Hell* would you teach someone like me that it's all right to seek out joy or personal amusement?"

"Because," Angel said, keeping his voice low, "you're a human being."

Wes stared at him, silent and pale.

Angel moved forward, resting his hands on Wes's knees. "Wesley, you tell me that you like this stuff and you actually take pride in serving me well. Okay. I believe you. But the thing you're describing to me isn't part of that. You're not some *thing*. You're not a toy, or an animal. You're a *person*. An actual man with *incredible* brains, heart, and talent. Spouses like you shouldn't be shipped off to assholes that treat them like a pair of old socks. They should be sent to people who appreciate you, and treat you with all the respect and honor that someone of your gifts deserves. A spouse should be treated like a rare diamond. *You* should be treated like a rare diamond. The rarest anyone could possibly find."

Wes's heart was beating rapidly. "My Lord - "

"Ah," Angel chastised him. "We're doing role-reversal. *I* should be calling *you* my Lord. I'm the spouse, you're the husband, remember?"

"I remember," Wesley said, his voice barely above a whisper. He sat up, sliding his hands over Angel's chest until they reached his neck then moved up to cup his face. "Angel," Wes sighed, then moved closer.

Angel pulled back. "Wes - don't. Seriously. I'm ordering this and everything. I want a real role reversal. Don't kiss me unless that's what *you* really want."

"It is," Wesley told him. He moved closer, until they were sitting chest to chest. "Angel I *want* to. I want to *be* with you."

"Not sure how I could ever deny that," Angel told him, then let Wes take his mouth in what felt like their first real kiss.