For Zortified

[thebratqueen]

Wesley groaned, burying his head in his arms. His lean body shifted under Angel's hips.

Angel continued to massage him. "You don't wanna talk about it?"

"No," Wesley said, his voice muffled. "I *don't* want to talk about it. I want to be shot. Preferably in the head. As you claim to love me, I trust you to do the honors. Tell Cordelia she may have my stereo."

Angel paused. "I thought *I* could have your stereo."

"As though you listen to proper music!"

"And Cordy *does*?"

"That's hardly the point!" Wes roused himself enough to cast a critical eye over his shoulder. "Is this really the sort of conversation you're going to have on my deathbed?"

Angel considered their situation. "Nah. I'm thinking of gnashing my teeth, rending my garments, throwing m'self on the coffin. Usual."

"Once a traditionalist, always a traditionalist," Wes observed. He reached out and downed another scotch, then tried to pour himself another. His hand slipped and spilled a few drops onto the nightstand. "Bloody Hell."

Angel reached over to help him, patting Wes's back "Rough day."

"*Horrible* day," Wesley agreed, putting his head back down again. "Absolutely - and I say this without hyperbole - the *worst* day of my life, and I include the day I gave a report in my final year in front of the whole class with my fly undone when I make this statement."

Angel bent to place soft kisses on his lover's shoulders. "We'll make it better."

"*You'll* make it better," Wes said, not angrily. "*I'm* going to wallow. It seems the sort of day for it, and I see no point in arguing."

Angel moved his hands down, eliciting another moan from Wes when his fingers hit a sore spot. He applied pressure, making the tension melt away. "You're gonna wallow?"

"Yes," Wesley said. He took another drink. "I, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, am going to wallow. I shall lay here in my abject misery and reflect upon the shoddy hand Fate has seen fit to deal me on this dismal evening. I shall call upon the tradition of Wyndam-Pryces everywhere who, when the chips were down, sat right down with them and declared 'Oh bugger it all, life's too hard'."

Angel snickered.

"Laugh all you like," Wes said, mock-glaring at him. "I come from a long line of wallowers. I should think as my lover you'd respect my background and honor it as I've come to."

"Hey - you yell at me when I brood," Angel pointed out. He applied more oil to Wes's back and worked it into his skin.

"Yes, because that's *brooding*, you great idiot," Wes replied. "It's a completely different thing. It's not like wallowing in the slightest. That is why wallowing is *called* wallowing and not, as for example, brooding, which, as I've stated, is a separate animal entirely."

Angel thought this over, his thumbs rubbing up and down Wesley's spine. "You're drunk."

"I'm *wallowing*."

"*And* drunk."

"These are not mutually exclusive states of being."

Angel turned his attention to Wes's shoulder blades. "I don't think I've ever seen you drunk."

"Yes, you have," Wesley sighed, relaxing under the ministrations. "You remember the Christmas party?"

"That's different," Angel said. "You were just a little buzzed. This - this is *drunk*. Like - *drunk*."

"Yes, thank you for the clarification," Wes said, dryly. "You're the one who gave me the scotch you know."

"Yeah," Angel said. "Because you had a bad day."

"A *horrible* day."

"You wallowing again?"

"I see you're starting to get the idea."

Angel smiled, shaking his head. "You're fucking adorable. Even when you're drunk and wallowing."

"You're adorable when you're patronizing," Wes replied, and for the first time all day his eyes shone with a hint of good humor.