Protocol, Part Thirty-Three

[thebratqueen]

Previous parts can be found here.

PART THIRTY-THREE

"I have a problem," Angel said.

"Only the one?" Xander replied.

Willow swatted him. "Xander!"

They were out in the living room area of the suite, as part and parcel of reacclimating Angel to a world beyond his bedroom. Going *past* the suite was enough to make even him feel exhausted, but a small gathering of a couple of friends - and Xander - was okay for a halfway point.

"Guys," Angel motioned for quiet. "Voices *down* maybe?"

Willow looked contrite. "Not well enough for loud yet?"

"More like discreet would be a good idea," Angel said. He nodded his head in the direction of the dining room, where Wes could be seen chatting with Gunn. Angel didn't look for too long, though. Looking at Wes seemed to wake up some kind of spouse-related sixth sense, and was apt to make Wes look *back* at him. Not that Angel minded the view, but the conversation was awkward enough. "I need to talk to you two about something. Get your advice."

"This is a really bad day for you then, huh?" Xander said, with genuine sympathy.

"No kidding," Angel said. He sat forward, wishing he didn't still have the occasional urge to pass out and/or vomit distracting him from the current task. "It's about Wes."

Willow frowned. "There's a problem with Wes?"

"Yeah," Angel said. "I like him."

"Well that's horrible," Willow said. "I mean with him and you and - and - and no, I don't get why that's horrible. Why is that horrible?"

"We *had* to be married," Angel reminded her.

"So?" Willow asked. "If you have to be together, isn't it better if you like each other?"

"Sure, *like*," Angel said. "But not *like*."

Willow and Xander exchanged a look.

Xander circled his hand encouragingly. "And the second one is different because…?"

"It's not fair to him," Angel said. "I realized that while I was gone. He's stuck with me. What if he doesn't like me? What if he wants to be with somebody else?"

Willow glanced back towards the dining room. "I don't think he wants to be with somebody else."

"He can't *say* that," Angel said. "It's the rules. He's got to act like he wants me and likes me. Which, okay, I get it. But I thought maybe I should give him a chance. Let him meet somebody, or something."

"We've got plenty of somethings around here to meet," Xander agreed. "So what's the problem?"

"He didn't like the idea," Angel said. "And now I don't either."

Willow's lips curved in a smile. "Because you like him."

Angel nodded, marveling at how he could feel pathetic and miserable both physically and emotionally at the exact same time. "Right."

Willow's grin widened. "I think that's sweet!"

Angel immediately appealed to Xander.

"Guys don't do sweet, Will," Xander informed her. "Not even the really gay ones like Angel."

"You know, *one* of us actually had a wife at one point in his life," Angel reminded him.

"Darla was twice the man than *either* of us and I think both of us are secure enough in ourselves to admit that," Xander countered.

Willow had curled up in her chair, her position pushing her forward enough that she could place her arms on Angel's armrest. "So, you *like* him like him? Did you tell him? Did he say anything? How'd it happen?"

Angel tried to follow all of that. "Sort of. No. No. And I don't know. There was staring."

"Staring," Xander repeated.

"I was in game face," Angel added, in case it would help.

"He didn't freak?" Willow asked.

"No," Angel said. "He was just… *interested*. Then there was, you know, other stuff."

"Please give no details," Xander said.

"I don't want him to be with anybody else anymore," Angel said. "I want him to be with me. Or at least I want a shot at it."

"Well considering that you're married to him in an agreement so binding that it puts some of the finer S&M gear to shame I'd say you've already got that one covered," Xander pointed out.

"I want him to *like* being with me," Angel said.

"I'm pretty sure he does," Willow said.

"I want him to *really* like being with me," Angel said.

"Does anyone *really* like being with you?" Xander mused.

Willow shot a look at him. "Angel asked for our help."

"Yeah," Xander said. "Why is that?"

"He's talked to you two," Angel said. "He's talked to you about me. I thought, maybe, he's talked to you about himself? What he likes, what he doesn't like?"

"He talks about you," Willow said. "Pretty much all the time."

Angel's shoulders slumped. "I *really* hate those damned rules."

"He's talked about magic with me," Willow offered. "Does that help?"

"Not unless I want him to take a love potion," Angel said.

"Do *you* talk to him?" Willow asked. "If he's going to tell anybody anything, it'd probably be you."

"You'd think that, but no," Angel said. "I mean, I know some stuff, but it's like pulling teeth. Or wrestling a bear, or something. He can't want anything, he can't be a burden - it's amazing I get his name half the time."

"It's Wesley," Xander reminded him.

Angel gave him a dry look. "Thanks."

"Maybe you have to look for clues?" Willow suggested. "Maybe when you do things there's some things he likes more than others?"

Angel thought about the look of pleasure and damned near relief when Angel stopped hemming and hawing and flat-out demanded that Wes suck his cock, or spread his legs for him. He was reasonably certain this was not what Willow had in mind. "Maybe."

"Try things," Willow told him. "He had a life before you, right? He was somebody before he was a spouse."

Angel wondered how much it would betray Wes's confidence to tell Willow that in all likelihood, Wes *didn't* have a life before becoming a spouse. Instead he settled on, "I think he didn't have too many hobbies."

"Favorite color? Favorite food?" Willow prompted. "Favorite song? Favorite book?"

"He wouldn't be allowed to tell me," Angel reminded her. Though the more he thought about it, the more he wasn't certain Wes didn't *have* a favorite food or book or song or color. He was willing to bet that the answer to those questions would either be "Whatever my husband likes" or, if Wes was in one of his more candid moods, "I'm not allowed to have a preference about anything."

Angel suddenly realized he didn't *like* that Wes wasn't allowed. That was the kicker of it. It'd be nice if Wes liked *him*, but damn if he didn't want Wes to at least *once* understand what it felt like to like things.

"You okay there?" Xander asked.

Angel blinked. He'd been lost in his own thoughts. Which happened a lot thanks to the potions. "Yeah. Thanks. For all of it. I'll see what I can do."

Xander looked at him long and hard, as though searching for, or debating something. Finally he said, "He spent a lot of time in the greenhouse while you were away. Don't know if that does anything for ya, but it's all I've got."

Angel filed that away for future reference. "Thanks."

***

The day moved on. Xander and Willow left. Gunn followed suit not long after. Wesley immediately busied himself, tidying up the area around Angel and throwing used items away.

"We've got servants," Angel reminded him.

"It's my pleasure to take care of you, my Lord," Wes replied, the words coming out of him with no effort at all.

Angel studied him. "Do you *like* anything, Wes?"

Wes looked up at him. His blue eyes seemed puzzled. "I like *you*, my Lord."

"Besides me," Angel swiped his hand through the air as though to erase himself. "Take me out of the picture."

"I'd rather not."

"Play along," Angel asked. "I'm not here. You're - whatever - back with the Council or something. What do you do? What makes you happy, during the day?"

Wes stared at him for a long time. "Being with you, my Lord. If you were not in the picture, I would want you back in."

Angel reached out. He brushed his fingertips over Wes's cheek, knowing the look on Wes's face that meant Wes thought he'd said something wrong. "Okay, you've got me. I'm here. What do you want *besides* that?"

Wes shook his head. "Nothing, my Lord. I don't want anything besides you."

Angel sighed and let the conversation drop.

***

Angel decided to try things. He didn't know if they would work, but he figured there was nothing else to do. Especially since his own limited mobility restricted his options.

They had servants. Angel used them to get things.

Flowers first. Direct from the greenhouse. A big bouquet of reds, yellows, purples, oranges, blues, whites, and even pinks, which effectively summed up Angel's ability to *describe* said flowers beyond "Those are roses, and I think that one's a begonia". They were cut and arranged and put into a crystal vase that Angel had placed on Wes's bureau while he was out of the suite one day. Then Angel spent a lot of time on the card, which went through a lot of incarnations before settling on "For you, Angel" as being direct and to the point.

Wes came home, saw them, and then immediately pocketed the card. "Thank you, my Lord. That's very generous, and kind."

"Do you like them?" Angel asked.

"They're quite beautiful, my Lord," Wesley said, and Angel immediately knew that the answer was no, Wes really didn't. He caught Wes looking at them from time to time, but Wes didn't really *interact* with them in any way that could be expected. Instead he avoided them, carefully not touching them whenever he came near, and even walking a few steps further away from the bureau than he normally would whenever going by.

That night Wes was tenser than usual, and Angel recognized the start-stop-start-stop movements that meant Wes *wanted* to hold on to him to fight off an attack, but that he wasn't yet scared enough to let himself. Angel responded to that by pulling Wes close into his arms, then having the flowers put somewhere else once the maids came in the next morning.

Wes did, however, keep the card.

***

Next Angel tried food. He was proud of this one, because it meant he'd been paying attention. He placed the order carefully, then watched Wes's face when it arrived.

"Tea… with *oatmeal*, my Lord?" Wesley asked, still holding the silver cover for his tray aloft.

"You like oatmeal," Angel said. "I remember you telling me that. And you like tea, right?"

"I… yes," Wesley said, which wasn't so much a confirmation as Wes simply moving the conversation along. He put the cover down, then studied the array of food in front of them. It was a high tea service, just as they'd had before. Only in place of the tasteless sandwiches were custard cups filled with piping hot oatmeal. The scones and pastries were the same.

"Do you like it?" Angel asked.

Wes's brows were furrowed together. "My Lord, are you feeling well? Has there been an adjustment to your medicine? Would you like me to call Willow?"

It took Angel a moment to realize why Wes was asking him this. "No, no, I'm fine. Why, did I do it wrong?"

Wes looked shocked to be asked a question like that. "My Lord, you never do anything wrong."

"It's just - I remembered you saying you liked oatmeal," Angel said.

Wes's eyes darted back in the direction of the fireplace. "I remember as well, my Lord."

"I *remembered*," Angel stressed, wanting Wes to understand that that had been an important conversation for him. A meaningful one. One that had kept him company during months of fighting, and then personal agony.

Wes's eyes met his. When he spoke, his voice was soft and intimate. "I remember as well, my Lord."

Angel wished like Hell he could translate that.

***

Sex was easy. In fact, sex was extra enjoyable thanks to the constant desire to problem-solve the question of just what in *fuck* did Wesley like, because if there was one thing Wes *did* like it was being in Angel's arms, and Angel knew for damned certain he was the only person in the world who had ever touched Wes with a desire for Wes's own pleasure.

Not that Wes asked for it, because he couldn't. And not that he talked about it much because he was effectively gagged on that one too. But the moans were unmistakable. So was the look of wonder and surprise on Wes's face every time Angel touched him. Like he couldn't believe that Angel *wanted* to touch him, or that Angel was touching him in the first place.

It made Angel greedy for it. He couldn't peg the book or the color or the song or the food, but he could make *Wes* happy in a very core and primal way. He could grab Wes and pull him into his lap, or their bed, get himself between Wes's legs and just *claim* him. Fuck him proper - or as proper as he could with a body that wasn't all there yet - and get Wes gasping and mewling and biting his lower lip and trembling and clinging to him and whispering "Oh - oh - *oh* - " until orgasm overtook him and he fell against Angel, sated and blissful. Then Angel could kiss him, long and hard, soft and slow, light and teasing, or any and all of the above in any order of his choosing.

Sometimes he even made Wes laugh. A bit of happiness bubbling out of him, unbidden and unexpected. Angel liked those moments best. He just wished he could make more of them.

***

Then one day Wes started acting weird.

Angel had been asleep thanks to the wonders of Willow's potions. When he woke up he went through the usual disorientation of trying to remember who he was, where he was, and what language he spoke when - *ow* - yeah, there was the reminder that it was still, sadly, not that long ago that pissant demons had been trying to carve him into pieces, and his body hadn't quite recovered yet.

Which was normal. What wasn't normal was the way Wes was flitting around.

"My Lord, I - can I get you something?" Wes asked, hovering, which he did, but by the doorway, which he usually did not. "Food, or medicine?"

"C'mere," Angel said, which was his usual instinct to Wes being in any way off. Off usually meant panic attacks. Panic attacks meant keeping Wes closeby until they passed. "Let me hold you."

Wes came to the side of the bed. He perched on the edge with an awkwardness that was entirely unlike him. "Do you need something to drink? I can get blood. Or tea, would you like tea?"

"What's wrong?" Angel asked.

"Nothing, my Lord," Wes replied.

Angel put a hand over Wesley's. "You can tell me anything. What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, my Lord. I am here to serve you."

Which was Rote Council Bullshit 101 and even Angel knew that by now. He absolutely *hated* having to do this, but some days the only way to fight Rote Council Bullshit was with Rote Council Bullshit. If Wes was going to parrot trained phrases then Angel would order him out of them. "Don't dodge the question."

That did it. Wes winced. "I'm sorry, my Lord."

Angel squeezed his hand. "I'm not mad at you. I just want to help."

Wes shook his head. "There is nothing to help, my Lord. Everything is taken care of."

There was the sound of a thump.

"Or will be," Wes hastily added.

Angel took a moment to marvel at the idea of Wes so blatantly trying to tap-dance around something. Then he tried to place the sound. "Wes?"

"My Lord?"

"Was that your teapot?"

Wes looked as though he really didn't *want* to answer the question. Which, Angel supposed, was a preference of a sort. "Yes, my Lord."

Angel turned his head. He could see the teapot on Wes's nightstand. He saw the top lift up about a centimeter, then fall back down again.

Silence rang out for a long moment.

"Did I hallucinate that?" Angel asked.

"No, my Lord," Wesley said. Then, as though this had just occurred to him, "Assuming my Lord is referring to the movement of the teapot and not something else."

"There's something else?" Angel asked.

"No, my Lord," Wes assured him.

"Just the teapot?" Angel asked.

"As far as I'm aware," Wes replied.

"And you're not worried about this sudden attack of very specific ghosts?" Angel asked.

"It isn't ghosts, my Lord, it's - " Wes sighed. He stood up, crossed over to the nightstand, picked up the teapot, then sat down on his own side of the bed as he handed it to Angel. "I'm sorry, my Lord. I'll get rid of it."

Wes seemed so worried that Angel could only try for humor. "So you *do* admit that it's an ugly teapot."

"I *like* the teapot, my Lord," Wes replied, and from the hurt tone Angel might as well have insulted Wes directly.

Angel mentally kicked himself, then removed the teapot's lid.

Two eyes stared back at him. They were surrounded by grey.

Angel took this in. "Wes?"

Wes looked as though he were bracing for a blow. "My Lord?"

"Is this a kitten?"

Wes only became tenser. "Yes, my Lord."

A white paw freed itself from the mass of grey fuzz. It patted along the rim of the teapot. Then, apparently finding a satisfactory answer to whatever it was feeling for, a small head popped out next.

"I know this didn't *come* with a cat when I bought it," Angel said.

"I put it in there, my Lord," Wes told him. His hands were tight fists in his lap.

"Uh-huh," Angel said. He watched as the animal tried to lift itself up. It bobbed unsteadily, too young to coordinate the complex procedure of getting four paws on the rim, or to navigate a jump past the barrier. "Wes?"

"My Lord?"

"*Why* is there a kitten in your teapot?" Angel asked. "'cause if you were going to pour hot water on it we really need to talk."

"I put him in there to keep warm, my Lord," Wesley said. "I thought if I warmed the pot, then lined it with a soft cloth it might be like being near its mother."

"Fair enough," Angel said. Unable to get out of the teapot on the first attempt, the kitten slumped back inside of the vessel, apparently needing to get its bearings before trying again. In his current state of health, Angel could sympathize. "Where'd it come from?"

Wes straightened his back as though giving a recitation. "A mother cat gave birth, my Lord."

"I know where cats in *general* come from," Angel said. "I meant specifically why here?"

"I'll get rid of it, my Lord," Wes said.

Angel held up a hand to abort Wes's attempt to take the teapot away from him. "I didn't say get rid of it, I asked why you had it."

"I'm sorry, my Lord," Wes said. "It was wrong of me. I shouldn't have burdened you with this annoyance. Whatever punishment you deem fit - "

"Wes, *stop* it," Angel grabbed Wesley's hand, holding it tight. "I'm not angry. I'm not punishing you. I'm just asking a question."

Wes looked lost. "I - something happened. The children who work in the storeroom found her, and the litter. They think perhaps a predator of some sort attacked them."

"Demon?" Angel asked. "Vamp?"

"I think perhaps another cat, my Lord," Wesley said. "Or a dog."

"Sometimes I forget we've got a basic food chain down here," Angel admitted.

Wes nodded. "As you say, my Lord."

"So mom and the siblings were goners?" Angel guessed.

"This was the only one left," Wesley confirmed. "The children asked me to take it. But I *can* get rid of it, my Lord. I truly am sorry that - "

"Seriously, stop it," Angel told him. He put the teapot down on the bed in between them. "Why would I care if you had a cat?"

Wes looked bewildered. "I'm not allowed to take things for myself, my Lord."

Angel gritted his teeth. "You *are*."

"My Lord - "

"You *are*," Angel snapped, then instantly regretted it. He wasn't mad at Wes. He was mad at whoever had done this to him. He swallowed his anger down, schooling his voice to be calmer. "You can have a pet if you want to, Wesley. I don't mind."

Wes shook his head. "It's not my place to make a demand of that nature, my Lord. "

"It is your place to accept gifts if I give them," Angel scooped the kitten up from the pot and held him out. "Here. Take him. If you want him, then I want you to have him."

"I - " Wes hesitated. Angel could see the various forms of protocol warring within Wes's brain.

"*Take* him," Angel said, making it an order and thus removing the barrier from Wes's way.

For the first time since Angel woke up, he saw relief touch Wes's face. "Thank you, my Lord."

"I like giving you things," Angel said.

Wes picked the kitten up carefully, then folded it against his chest. "It becomes cold so easily. I've been trying to keep him warm."

"Does it have food?" Angel asked.

Wes nodded. "A mixture. The kitchen makes it. Apparently it's safe for his stomach."

Angel sat back against the pillows, watching as Wes cradled the animal as though it were a child. "Looks like you two have spent some time together."

"I did errands while my Lord was sleeping," Wesley said. Then, reminded, a look of horror crossed his face. "My Lord, I - I'm sorry, I'll get you blood, and breakfast, and - "

"Just sit by me," Angel told him. He held out a hand in invitation. "You and your friend."

Wes looked uncertain, but allowed himself to be drawn near.

Angel pulled Wes against his own chest. He ran his hand up and down Wes's side. "Does he have a name yet? Fluffy? Tiger? Spot?"

"Hieronymus," Wes replied.

"That was going to be my next guess," Angel said.

Wes stroked the kitten's head with his fingertips. A soft purr could be heard. "He looks like a Hieronymus."

"Big name for a small cat," Angel observed.

"I feel he has ambition," Wes replied.

"You a cat person?" Angel asked.

"I've never had a pet before, my Lord," Wes said.

Angel rested his hand on Wes's hip. "Gotta admit it's appropriate. You're my kitten, now you have a kitten. Guess I should get you a bird next."

"That's not necessary, my Lord," Wes said, but he was smiling.

Seeing an opportunity, Angel asked, "Did you ever want one?"

"No," Wes replied, then immediately corrected himself. "That is, not as such, my Lord."

Angel frowned. "How do you 'not as such' want a bird?"

"When I was seven years old a bird flew into my bedroom window," Wesley said. "It died from the impact. I - I attempted to do a resurrection spell to bring it back. I don't know if my Lord would consider that in relation to his question."

"Not the same as a pet," Angel decided. "So how'd it go?"

Wes's shoulders tensed. Hieronymus responded to that with a mew of confusion. "I ended up not doing the spell, my Lord."

Sensing an entire world of untold story beyond that statement, Angel tried to see if there was anything he could tease out of it. "Did that upset you?"

Wes's fingers continued to stroke Hieronymus's fur, soothing the kitten, if not himself. "I was upset on the bird's behalf, my Lord."

Angel kept his voice casual. "How come?"

"I thought it was unfair," Wesley said. "No one should have to die trying to get into that place."

The words hung in the air for a long time. Angel weighed them carefully. "And you were how old? Nine?"

"Seven, my Lord," Wes answered, oblivious to the impact of what his story had implied.

Angel held Wes tighter. "I'm glad you're with me now."

Wes smiled up at him, the kitten was a small ball of contentment curled up on his chest. "As am I, my Lord."