Protocol, Part Thirty

[thebratqueen]

Previous parts can be found here.

PART THIRTY

"You're a jackass, and you're wrong, and you're a jackass, *that's* why," Spike said.

Angel glared at him. "No, no, and that last one was the same thing as the first."

"It bore repeating."

"If I'm stuck here one more damn minute I'm going to kill somebody," Angel said. "Right now my vote's on you."

Spike sprawled into the armchair, annoyingly unfazed. "Big threat from the gimpy man."

"I am *not* a gimpy man," Angel snapped. Then he immediately regretted it as the movement made his shoulder twitch. He clamped down on the sparks of pain that scattered through his body.

"Your masculinity's a question for us all on the best of occasions," Spike said. "As for the gimpy bit - "

"I do *not* have a gimpy bit."

Spike's eyebrows quirked. "That's between you and your -"

"Good morning, my lord," Wes said, coming into the room. He was dressed in silks and linens, and smelled like fresh laundry.

"Perfect timing," Spike said.

"Everything all right?" Wesley asked.

"Angel's being an idiot," Spike said. "So same old same old."

"I'm not being an idiot," Angel said, "Spike's being a pain in the ass."

Wes deposited a box he was carrying onto the table. "Is there something I can help with, my Lord?"

"Spike won't let me go out," Angel said, then realized how petulant his tone was. He tried to improve it. "I *want* to go out."

"My Lord does remember that it is daytime?" Wesley asked.

"Not outside," Angel said. He gestured towards the doorway. "*Out*. Out of here. Out with everybody. Make sure everything's all right. *Run* things. I'm supposed to have a job of some kind in this place. I'm thinking it's time I did it."

Wes's fingertips danced along the edge of the table. "My Lord *is* in charge, of course."

"He can't do it," Spike said. He leveled a glare of his own in Angel's direction. "He's not well enough yet."

"I can too," Angel said, then again mentally kicked himself for sounding as though he were three. He turned to Wes for support. "You think it's okay for me to go out, right?"

Wes cleared his throat. "I'm sure my Lord knows what is best in all things."

"Hell he does," Spike snorted.

"Wes trusts me," Angel said.

"Wes can't say *boo* to you," Spike retorted. Then, to Wesley, added, "no offense."

Wes responded by folding his arms, then cocking his eyebrow. "If my Lord feels he is capable of walking I do not see how it is anyone's place to dissuade him."

"Anyone with a *brain* should be able to dissuade him," Spike said.

"It is not my place to question my Lord's decisions," Wesley said.

"Which means you're a jackass," Spike told Angel.

"Which means you're outvoted," Angel replied. He pushed the blankets aside, moving to swing his feet down onto the floor. "Look, I'm just going to go out, take a sec, and maybe - "

Spike's hands were holding Angel up before the floor could rise up to meet him. Angel bit down a cry of pain as white-hot jolts of agony lanced through his system.

"Maybe sit this dance out, eh?" Spike suggested, gently guiding him back to the pillows.

"Horizontal," Angel said. The sheets underneath him became dotted with the cold sweat that had broken out on his skin. "Horizontal is good."

"I could get some pain killers?" Wesley offered.

"Might not be a bad idea," Angel agreed. He blinked to clear the spots from his eyes.

Spike sat down on the edge of the bed, lowering his voice for privacy. "You're still healing, idiot. And you've got a boy in there trained to do nothing except make you feel good. For Christ's sake take a bloody week off and enjoy it."

"Oh yeah," Angel said, wondering if throwing up was going to be next on the list. "I'm really enjoying this."

"Here," Wes said, returning with one of Willow's concoctions.

Angel sat up enough to drink. He swallowed it down in two gulps, long having learned to drink Willow's stuff faster than the taste could catch up with. "Thanks."

"It's the weaker version," Wesley said. "You can have more of it in a half hour if you're not better yet."

"Weak?" Spike asked.

"Told Will I was sick of being a zombie," Angel replied. He swallowed again, wondering when he would stop tasting roses every time he did so.

"Not like any of us could tell the difference," Spike said.

"Spike," Wes said, his voice hitting the note of disapproval. "The insults in my hearing…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Spike said, getting up again. "Death to any who insult your blah blah blah. Big Council talk, little Council action."

Wes busied himself putting the empty potion cup away. "Protocol is what it is, Spike."

"Tired of listening to his whining anyway," Spike said. "Gonna go give my boy the how-do."

"I really never need to hear those details," Angel said.

"Holler if you need me," Spike said, the comment vague enough that it could have applied to either of them. Then there was the sound of the outer apartment door closing, which left Angel and Wes by themselves.

"He's just kidding," Angel said.

"I am not supposed to tolerate insults to my Lord," Wesley said. Then sheepishly added the required title. "My Lord."

"Angel."

"My Angel."

"See, now you've made it so I can't get mad at you for tricking me into walking," Angel said.

Wes sat down on the bed, moving carefully so that he could get close without bumping into him. "A spouse should never trick his husband, my Lord. I only stated the truth."

"You're very tricky with the truth," Angel said. Then, hoping to mollify any insult that might be implied, he said, "Guess you guys have to be."

"Spouses must be very careful with their conversation," Wes agreed. He shifted position, folding his legs underneath him so that he could face Angel's side. "Is my Lord feeling better? May I serve in some fashion?"

"Keep me company," Angel said. "Talk with me. And that - what is that?"

Wes's hands had been dancing a light, strange pattern over Angel's leg. He paused, worry creasing his forehead. "My Lord is displeased?"

"Your Lord is confused," Angel said. "What are you doing?"

"It's a massage technique," Wesley said. "We are taught it when we are small. It eases aches, and promotes healing."

"Special spouse powers, huh?" Angel said.

"It is something only we are trained with, yes," Wesley said.

"Well keep going," Angel said. "It felt good."

Wes's fingertips resumed their work, moving up and down Angel's leg as gracefully as a pianist in front of ivory keys. "I am happy to be useful, my Lord."

"You haven't been useless yet," Angel said. Sure enough, his leg was starting to relax. A thought niggled at him. "Why are you taught that when you're little?"

"We are very often married to the old and infirm, my Lord," Wesley answered.

"I am *not* - " Angel started to say, then stopped himself. "Okay, probably a bad time for me to be making that argument."

Wes ducked his head, but Angel could see the smile. "Possibly, my Lord."

Angel tilted his head, trying to follow him. "The infirm is just temporary."

"Of course, my Lord."

"And I am *not* old."

"Of course not, my Lord."

"I was turned when I was about your age," Angel said, daring Wes to challenge this. "Maybe younger."

"As you say, my Lord."

"I'm practically a baby."

That did it. Wes made a curious snorting sound, then covered his mouth, turning his head away so that Angel couldn't see.

Even so, Angel watched, enraptured. "Problem?"

Wes turned back, his eyes dancing. "You are the most unexpected man, my Lord."

"Not really much of a man," Angel said.

"No, you are," Wesley said. "A vampire, but a man. And actually very funny."

Angel propped one hand behind his head. "This isn't like Xander-funny, is it?"

"It is humorous funny," Wesley said. He was doing the sunshine-smile again. "Very wonderfully so."

"Didn't think I'd make you laugh?" Angel guessed.

Wes sobered up a bit, his hands resuming their work. "I anticipated something much more serious, my Lord."

Angel decided it was time for a change of subject. "Missed you. Where'd you go today?"

"I had duties as part of my Lord's requests of me," Wesley said. "Small things, to help ensure the smooth running of his home."

"Anything interesting?" Angel asked.

"I happened to be there in time to see the birth of a Vars'ish demon," Wesley said. His fingertips concentrated on a spot not far from Angel's knee, pressing into the tender area until Angel nearly wanted to weep, or be more religious again. "It was actually quite fascinating."

"Vars'ish?" Angel asked, trying to place it in the catalogue of demon names he kept in his mind.

"Land demons," Wesley said. "Not unlike insects. When their children are born they have eight working legs, and are expected to use them at once. Apparently if a newborn does not skitter across the floor immediately after birth it's considered a bad sign."

"And did the kid skitter?" Angel asked.

"He did indeed," Wesley confirmed. He moved his fingers higher. "The parents were most pleased. I left just as the midwife was singing the walking song."

"There's a walking song?"

"I'm told it comes after the birthing song."

"There's a birthing song?"

"I did not feel it my place to ask if there was a song to honor the child's conception," Wesley said.

Angel thought about that. "I don't remember any eight-legged demons in the fortress."

"The children lose four of the legs when they reach puberty," Wesley said.

"I don't remember any four-legged demons either."

"They're very shy."

Angel stared at him.

Wes looked back. "My Lord?"

"You're either pretty funny yourself," Angel said, "or you're having me on. Which actually may be the same thing. I think Willow's potion is starting to kick in."

Wes looked hurt. "My Lord, a spouse cannot play jokes upon his husband."

"I'm sorry," Angel said. He reached out, drawing Wes close. "C'mere. I'm sorry."

Wes settled against his chest, picking his position carefully to avoid hitting any wounded spots. "You do not need to apologize to me, my Lord."

"I do, I will," Angel said. "End of discussion. So let's talk about something else."

"As my Lord wishes."

"What's in the box?" Angel asked.

"A picnic," Wesley said.

Angel was momentarily gobsmacked. "You brought me a picnic? Wait - it *is* for me, right?"

"My Lord is ill," Wesley said. "Apparently illness inspires picnics."

"It's not *inspired* so much as - " Angel sat up, wincing as he did, and tried to peer into the box from where he was. "Really? For me?"

"Is that not what we do, my Lord?" Wesley asked.

"Yeah, but normally I'm the guy with the box," Angel said.

"I could take it back?" Wesley offered. He was doing the tense thing which Angel knew meant Wes thought he'd done something wrong.

"You do not take back picnics," Angel said. "It's against the rules."

For some reason Wes only looked more worried. "I - my Lord I apologize if I have violated some aspect of this tradition, but the kitchen - that is to say *I* did not specify all of the items to be included and - "

"What's wrong?" Angel asked.

Wes looked as though he was ready to be executed. "I sent something back. I'm sorry. There was strawberry ice cream and my Lord had expressed such displeasure at the idea that the picnics include any item of health and I thought that fruit would have offended the - "

Angel stopped him. He stopped Wes by kissing him, which was meant to be a quick gesture but turned longer and longer when his mouth saw no reason to be anywhere else.

When they finally parted, Wes was breathing heavily, each exhale bathing Angel's skin with inviting warmth. "My Lord - "

"I missed you so much," Angel said. He stayed close, their noses touching. "Months and months of no awkward conversations, and weird rules that I don't understand, and blood in tiny teacups, and nobody who reminded me of a kitten-bird - "

"Kitten-bird?"

"It could exist," Angel said. His hands were roaming Wesley's chest, familiarizing himself with things he hadn't touched in far too long. "You. I missed you. I don't get you and I might not ever understand you, but you try so hard to make me happy and all I want to do is keep you safe."

"You do," Wesley said, softly. He was moving against Angel, his body pressing into the touch. "You do, my Lord."

Angel recognized the need. "I waited for you. I knew you wouldn't give yourself any relief, so I waited for you."

Wes's eyes widened in shock. "My Lord - "

"I wanted to do it," Angel said, trying to head the argument off at the pass. He looked down at himself ruefully. "'course in my version I didn't come back to you with a broken body."

Now Wes looked coy. "My Lord, spouses are frequently married to the old and infirm."

"I'm *not* - " Angel started, then stopped. "Oh."

Wes moved closer, his hand sliding near the top of the blanket. "We are trained in many arts of pleasure, and are not limited to ideal circumstances."

"I'd like to pretend that in some world I've got willpower enough to say no to this," Angel said.

"Why, my Lord?" Wes asked. Then, just as Angel answered, replied along with him:

"Catholic."

They grinned at each other.

"You're very funny, my Lord," Wesley said.

"You're very tempting, Wes," Angel replied. He put his hand on Wes's wrist and guided it lower. "But I'm doing you next."

"I'm happy just to touch you, my Lord," Wesley said. Then, softer, "My Angel."

"Still doing you next," Angel said. Then he found Wes's mouth again, and kissed him as Wes's smooth fingertips began that light, dancing touch, and slowly but surely drove him out of his mind.