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thebratqueenOkay, I'm posting this for Neige, my favorite stalker (or at least one of my favs ;) ). It's amazing what I'll do when people beg.
Just Friends
By The Brat Queen
Disclaimer: Not mine. All Joss Whedon's, Mutant Enemy's, 20th Century Fox's and all that sort of thing. 'tis but a non-profit, amateur effort, and y'all would need to get in line to sue me anyway.
Spoilers: Up to Epiphany, after which Joss and I go separate ways.
Rated: PG13 for language
Summary: Angel and Wesley have a fight. (Part of the Epiphany series, comes after "The Smallest Detail")
***
Punch. Punch. Kick. Punch.
Angel moved and kept moving. His hands and feet found their way to the heavybag unerringly, connecting each and every time with a satisfying *thump*. He turned, ducked, lashed out, connected, twisted, leapt, connected again.
It was routine. It was *his* routine, started long before he'd ever lived with anybody or had to share a home and office space with them. It was how he woke up. It was the only way he *could* wake up, since a non-beating heart often made it hard to get your blood flowing.
Kick. Kick. Duck. Jab. Kick.
Brain, really, was the important thing. Kick-starting *that* was the trick, preferably without coffee. Because coffee meant being around other people and other people tended to smile, and be chipper, and - worst of all - *talk*.
Heavybags weren't big on conversation. So, come morning, he came down here to the basement where he could test his body without scaring anyone who happened to be mortal. A vampire testing his limits was a vampire who tended to make a lot of noise.
Especially today.
Punch. Jump. Turn. Kick-punch-kick-*kick*.
The bag slipped off its chain and flew into the far wall. Angel stared at it.
He turned away and got his sword.
It was a good routine. It worked. It had worked for months, even with Wes changing his nighttime habits a bit. He'd had to skip it on the nights he'd stayed at Wes's apartment, but when Wes stayed in the hotel it was easy. Even better, because that way Wes got to take a shower, put on whatever spare clothes he'd kept upstairs, and then sneak down into the office before Cordy and Gunn got there, making it look as though he'd only woken up early instead of never leaving at all.
Wes's blue eyes always looked at him appreciatively when Angel would finally come upstairs, soaked with sweat, and ready for a shower.
Othertimes it was earlier still, and by the time Angel was lathering himself off Wes was right there with him, slipping into the stall so quietly you'd hardly know he was there - at least until you touched him. And then it would be at least an hour before either of them made it into work as soap and shampoo and hot running water became a living stroke fantasy for the both of them.
Angel tripped, his concentration broken. He centered himself, cleared his mind, and started again, moving his body and his sword smoothly from one position to the next, being *with* the sword and not -
- not -
*Fuck* it.
He snarled, started over. Screwed up again, started over. He fought the urge to throw the sword across the room. He fantasized about imbedding it into the heavybag, thrusting it in just *so*, in a killing blow, as though it was -
Damn it.
He stopped. He crouched down, resting his arms on his legs and the sword in front of him. He *had* to clear his head.
*It's not important,* he told himself. *It's not important. It's no big deal. It's okay. It's just a stupid thing.*
*We're - we're just friends.*
This time he did throw the sword. It landed poorly, which actually made him glad.
"Get a fucking *grip*, Angel," he muttered. Unable to do anything else, he paced, keeping himself moving, stretching out his muscles and reminding himself to let it *go*. It was just a thing, a moment, a *nothing*.
*Stupid, stupid, stupid,* he told himself. *You're stupid, this is stupid, the whole _thing_ is stupid. So let it fucking _go_.*
But he couldn't. The anger stayed inside of him, cold and leaden and anchored right in his gut. He wanted to shout, or scream, or … something.
He pulled himself together. He cleared his head. He picked up his sword again, checked it for damages, and started over. This time he kept to a mantra.
*Not allowed, not allowed, not allowed, not allowed, not allowed….*
He repeated the words to himself again and again, focusing on *them*, and not the memory of Wes last night. Wes, snuggling up and being fucked by him in one moment, turning around and *lying* about it in the next. Lying, without even thinking. As though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though it were nothing to him at all.
Angel realized he was going faster. He forced himself to stop. He put the sword down carefully, and switched over to Tai Chi.
This was better. A slow pace. A quieting of the mind - *not allowed, not* - a gentle action, to calm himself - *allowed, not allowed* - and ease the anger that bubbled up inside of him. The pointless anger, about pointless things. He had to release it. To let it float away from him as he let his hands float out into the air, pushing away the negative emotions that he felt, just as he pushed aside his bloodlust everyday.
Bloodlust.
Fuck.
He paused, casting his eyes upstairs.
Morning workouts eased a lot of aches. That is - if he could clear his head.
Angel felt the chaos inside of him. He resolved to stay downstairs until it quieted.
It took him a few hours.
***
Wes was in his room - his private, invitation-only room - when Angel finally came out of the shower. He was busy organizing things, and Angel took a moment to watch him, enjoying the movement of Wes's limbs in his faded jeans and oversized sweater. He was so beautiful.
Wes looked up and smiled at him, improving the view. "Hello, Angel. Come in? I was starting to think I might not see you today."
"Got busy downstairs," Angel mumbled. He stepped inside the threshold, but did not go further. Deep down, he could still hear the litany in his head - *not allowed, not allowed…*
"I think it's going to take me years to find everything," Wes said. He stacked various files and ledgers on his desk - a desk that Angel had found for him at a flea market. It had cost over two hundred dollars, and had been the exact kind Wesley wanted. Big and wooden, with lots of drawers and cubbyholes. "Do you know I could swear I've opened every box, yet I still can't locate my work on the Ferguson case? *Or* my tie from university. Honestly - it's like they've vanished to the land of misplaced socks and car keys."
"Could check back at your apartment," Angel suggested.
Wes gave him a quick look. "That'd be a bit illegal, don't you think?"
Angel just shrugged - like they'd never done anything illegal before.
"I suppose," Wes agreed, more fluent in Angel's shrugs and other non-verbal communication than anyone else on the team. He frowned, glancing at him. "Is everything all right?"
*Don't answer,* Angel told himself. But his mouth failed to listen. "Why'd you say that?"
"You seem out of sorts," Wes explained. He dusted off his hands and walked over. His lips curved in a shy smile. "And you haven't greeted me properly."
"I - " Angel told himself to lie. To keep his mouth shut. To kiss Wesley and be done with it. Again he didn't listen. "Why'd you say *that*?"
Wes frowned in confusion. "Er - what?"
"Last night," Angel said, making himself speak clearly since he couldn't make himself stop speaking at all. "At the store."
"Yes," Wesley said slowly, nodding encouragingly, "last night, at the store - what? I can't remember all that we talked about."
The litany had become a constant buzz in Angel's head. He was surprised at how easily he ignored it. "Not to me. To *them*. The two - those two women."
"The two - oh yes," Wes said, as the memory came to him. His eyebrows pulled together in puzzlement. "Was there much of a conversation? Honestly - all I recall is their perfume. You know these late night shopping trips might not be my thing."
"Just friends," Angel said, feeling the words tear out of his throat. He saw the flicker of emotion in Wesley's eyes but persisted. "You said we were *just friends*."
"Yes?" Wes replied, clearly expecting there to be more.
"*Just friends!*" Angel shouted. The litany was still there, but it was nothing against the tidal wave of possessiveness and anger that raced through him. "What the *fuck* was that, Wesley?"
Wes took a step back, watching him carefully. "Angel - are you all right? We were up rather late and I know you didn't get much sleep. Perhaps if you went and had a lie down - "
"I'm not tired!" he said. "I'm - " *hurt, angry, betrayed, confused* "I'm fucking at a loss here, Wes."
"About what?" Wesley asked, and Angel knew the look Wes was giving him - it was the same look he used on a lot of their clients. Calm down, it's okay, no you *aren't* being unreasonable to think that there's something that looks like an octopus with feathers living in your sink. It worked like gangbusters on their clients - Wes could project empathy with the best of them - but it felt like sandpaper across Angel's skin.
"Why'd you fucking lie?" Angel asked. "They *said* it, and you said it wasn't true!"
Wes actually chuckled. "Well it hardly matters, does it? We're not likely to see them ever again. And it's not as though either one of them was likely to tempt me home." Wes stepped closer, into the reach of Angel's arms. "You know you're the only one I care to be with."
"So why didn't you fucking *act* like it?" Angel said. He kept his hands at his sides, refusing to reach out to Wesley, not daring to let himself touch him - and not liking that it was suddenly a dare.
Wesley blinked a few times. A hand reached up as though to fiddle with his glasses, then abandoned the effort halfway. "Why - what? Did you expect me to shag you in the produce section? It was a one-minute encounter! What was I supposed to do?"
"Say 'yes'," Angel replied. He recognized his own tone of voice now. It was the quiet don't-give-me-shit voice he normally reserved for guys on the wrong side of one of Cordy's visions.
"Oh? Really?" Wesley asked, and *his* voice was starting to take a wrong turn at the kind of prissiness that really needed one of his old Watcher power suits to pull off properly. "I see. And then what next? Should I anticipate the question in the future, and give the answer right at the outset? Perhaps we should put it on our business cards. Of course there's that advert in the yellow pages that we'll have next year - I'll ring them up and tell *them* to include it. When Cordelia gets in on Monday morning I'll have her add it to the mission statement on our website, and once *that's* done, why don't we *both* conference call my parents and tell them *personally*?"
"It's not about your family," Angel said.
Wes pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. "The Hell it isn't."
"The Hell it *is*," Angel snapped. He made a broad gesture with his arm, as though he could actually include all of England in the conversation. "I don't give a fuck about you telling your family. I *get* you not telling your family. Fuck - you want to tell them that you're fucking *married* to *Cordy* and I'll sit still for the god-damn pictures to *prove* it. I will be your fucking *best man* if that's what it takes. But this isn't your family, Wes. It's two *strangers* who fucking *guessed it already* and you said no! Why?"
"Because," Wesley said, and turned away to focus on his papers again.
Angel stepped around him to block his way. "Not a good enough answer."
"Well too bloody bad," Wes said, moving to push him out of the way. "Because that's all you're getting."
Angel didn't budge. "You know - I deserve better than this. I have done *everything* I could to be here for you, Wesley, and the *one* time -"
"I would have thought this didn't need to be a request," Wesley spoke over him. He made his own gesture to indicate his family. "You're supposed to be my lover. You're supposed to want to take care of me. I would have *assumed* that it wasn't a requirement for me to actually have to *ask* you to respect my needs!"
"I'm not saying you have to *ask* -"
Wes ignored him. "But if I must, then yes, I, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, do hereby formally ask - "
"Fuck you."
"- you, Angel, nee Angelus - "
"*Fuck* you."
"- for the courtesy of manners and discretion in dealing with *my* family, to what I had assumed would be the mutual goal of my well-being. There. Do we have an agreement? Should we sign a contract?"
"Fuck *you*," Angel said, closing the distance between them. "Fuck you, Wesley. This isn't about your fucking family and you *know* it. And don't you *dare* pull that fucking card on me. You *know* how I feel. You *know* how much it fucking *kills* me to sit here and keep my mouth shut every fucking time you call home and pretend I *don't* hear the shit you swallow just 'cause your dad's speaking it because you don't *want* me to hear it and *I* figure I'm *supposed* to respect your god-damn wants. I would fucking *kill* your dad if you gave me even half a word of permission, Wes, and you know it. So don't pull this family crap on me now. Especially when you know it's not the issue."
Wes folded his arms, staring him down. He looked as though he were made out of colored glass. When he spoke, his voice was deadly soft. "So, Angel, enlighten me. What *is* the issue?"
Angel matched him stare for stare. "You tell me, Wes. I'm not the one who's lying to strangers."
"Why do you care *what* I tell strangers?" Wesley asked.
"Because apparently *you* do," Angel said. "You didn't use to, Wes. You know this isn't the first time somebody thought we were fucking - you used to laugh it off, just like me. So why's it so important now?"
"Because it's true."
The words hung out there between them for several moments. Angel felt like he'd been slapped. He started to speak, but Wes kept going.
"You've no idea what it's like for me, do you?" Wesley said. "None."
Angel shook his head. "Wes, I *do* know - "
"Like Hell you do!" Wes looked surprised by his own vehemence. "You've no idea at all! This is *easy* for you."
"*Easy*?"
"Yes," Wesley said. "Easy. Because nobody cares. Nobody cares at all what you do, Angel. Or do you honestly mean to tell me that there are people in this world who are more concerned with the fact that you - you *fuck* men than they ever were with the fact that you *killed* them?"
Angel clenched his jaw, staring at him.
"Yes," Wes said. "There it is. *There* is your bloody issue. Do you want to know why I didn't tell them? Because unlike *you*, my beloved vampire, *I* care. I care because I *have* to. You can go about doing as you please because there isn't a human label that can touch you. But they touch *me*, Angel! Each and every one of them! And in what passes for my comparatively short mortal life *I* must deal with the consequences - with the whispers, and barbs, and questions, and the prejudices and the *label* of being a *homosexual* in a society which hardly welcomes such a thing with open arms and non-ironic parades and *I am not ready for that*."
"Wes -"
"And don't *you* dare presume to come to me and tell me that you understand," Wesley said. "Because you don't. And don't you *dare* tell me that I haven't done enough for you when this is the *one* thing that I ask for. I have given up my entire life for you, Angel. You can give up one damn word for me."
Angel turned and walked away.
Something - and Angel liked to think it was Wes realizing the impact of everything he'd just said - made Wesley call out to him. Angel ignored him. He strode downstairs and without pausing grabbed his coat, heading for the trapdoor to the tunnels.
At the basement steps, Wesley caught up to him.
"Angel - "
He grabbed Wes's arm. Not hurting him, just holding him still. "I get it, Wes. Fuck - I even get why being a vamp isn't the same fucking thing. If you wanna lie to your dad, or mom, or whoever - fine. I'm there for you. I'm *always* there for you. I *love* you. But *you* need to get why this hurts me, Wes, and right now I'm too fucking pissed to talk. I'm going out. I'll see you later. Maybe when I get back we can figure this out."
He wanted to kiss him. A small peck, or even a quick and hungry fuck of his mouth - but he didn't. He waited too long and the moment passed. He squeezed Wes's arm instead, hoping it would convey the same message, and continued his way into the sewers, leaving Wesley behind him.
TBC
Just Friends
By The Brat Queen
Disclaimer: Not mine. All Joss Whedon's, Mutant Enemy's, 20th Century Fox's and all that sort of thing. 'tis but a non-profit, amateur effort, and y'all would need to get in line to sue me anyway.
Spoilers: Up to Epiphany, after which Joss and I go separate ways.
Rated: PG13 for language
Summary: Angel and Wesley have a fight. (Part of the Epiphany series, comes after "The Smallest Detail")
***
Punch. Punch. Kick. Punch.
Angel moved and kept moving. His hands and feet found their way to the heavybag unerringly, connecting each and every time with a satisfying *thump*. He turned, ducked, lashed out, connected, twisted, leapt, connected again.
It was routine. It was *his* routine, started long before he'd ever lived with anybody or had to share a home and office space with them. It was how he woke up. It was the only way he *could* wake up, since a non-beating heart often made it hard to get your blood flowing.
Kick. Kick. Duck. Jab. Kick.
Brain, really, was the important thing. Kick-starting *that* was the trick, preferably without coffee. Because coffee meant being around other people and other people tended to smile, and be chipper, and - worst of all - *talk*.
Heavybags weren't big on conversation. So, come morning, he came down here to the basement where he could test his body without scaring anyone who happened to be mortal. A vampire testing his limits was a vampire who tended to make a lot of noise.
Especially today.
Punch. Jump. Turn. Kick-punch-kick-*kick*.
The bag slipped off its chain and flew into the far wall. Angel stared at it.
He turned away and got his sword.
It was a good routine. It worked. It had worked for months, even with Wes changing his nighttime habits a bit. He'd had to skip it on the nights he'd stayed at Wes's apartment, but when Wes stayed in the hotel it was easy. Even better, because that way Wes got to take a shower, put on whatever spare clothes he'd kept upstairs, and then sneak down into the office before Cordy and Gunn got there, making it look as though he'd only woken up early instead of never leaving at all.
Wes's blue eyes always looked at him appreciatively when Angel would finally come upstairs, soaked with sweat, and ready for a shower.
Othertimes it was earlier still, and by the time Angel was lathering himself off Wes was right there with him, slipping into the stall so quietly you'd hardly know he was there - at least until you touched him. And then it would be at least an hour before either of them made it into work as soap and shampoo and hot running water became a living stroke fantasy for the both of them.
Angel tripped, his concentration broken. He centered himself, cleared his mind, and started again, moving his body and his sword smoothly from one position to the next, being *with* the sword and not -
- not -
*Fuck* it.
He snarled, started over. Screwed up again, started over. He fought the urge to throw the sword across the room. He fantasized about imbedding it into the heavybag, thrusting it in just *so*, in a killing blow, as though it was -
Damn it.
He stopped. He crouched down, resting his arms on his legs and the sword in front of him. He *had* to clear his head.
*It's not important,* he told himself. *It's not important. It's no big deal. It's okay. It's just a stupid thing.*
*We're - we're just friends.*
This time he did throw the sword. It landed poorly, which actually made him glad.
"Get a fucking *grip*, Angel," he muttered. Unable to do anything else, he paced, keeping himself moving, stretching out his muscles and reminding himself to let it *go*. It was just a thing, a moment, a *nothing*.
*Stupid, stupid, stupid,* he told himself. *You're stupid, this is stupid, the whole _thing_ is stupid. So let it fucking _go_.*
But he couldn't. The anger stayed inside of him, cold and leaden and anchored right in his gut. He wanted to shout, or scream, or … something.
He pulled himself together. He cleared his head. He picked up his sword again, checked it for damages, and started over. This time he kept to a mantra.
*Not allowed, not allowed, not allowed, not allowed, not allowed….*
He repeated the words to himself again and again, focusing on *them*, and not the memory of Wes last night. Wes, snuggling up and being fucked by him in one moment, turning around and *lying* about it in the next. Lying, without even thinking. As though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though it were nothing to him at all.
Angel realized he was going faster. He forced himself to stop. He put the sword down carefully, and switched over to Tai Chi.
This was better. A slow pace. A quieting of the mind - *not allowed, not* - a gentle action, to calm himself - *allowed, not allowed* - and ease the anger that bubbled up inside of him. The pointless anger, about pointless things. He had to release it. To let it float away from him as he let his hands float out into the air, pushing away the negative emotions that he felt, just as he pushed aside his bloodlust everyday.
Bloodlust.
Fuck.
He paused, casting his eyes upstairs.
Morning workouts eased a lot of aches. That is - if he could clear his head.
Angel felt the chaos inside of him. He resolved to stay downstairs until it quieted.
It took him a few hours.
***
Wes was in his room - his private, invitation-only room - when Angel finally came out of the shower. He was busy organizing things, and Angel took a moment to watch him, enjoying the movement of Wes's limbs in his faded jeans and oversized sweater. He was so beautiful.
Wes looked up and smiled at him, improving the view. "Hello, Angel. Come in? I was starting to think I might not see you today."
"Got busy downstairs," Angel mumbled. He stepped inside the threshold, but did not go further. Deep down, he could still hear the litany in his head - *not allowed, not allowed…*
"I think it's going to take me years to find everything," Wes said. He stacked various files and ledgers on his desk - a desk that Angel had found for him at a flea market. It had cost over two hundred dollars, and had been the exact kind Wesley wanted. Big and wooden, with lots of drawers and cubbyholes. "Do you know I could swear I've opened every box, yet I still can't locate my work on the Ferguson case? *Or* my tie from university. Honestly - it's like they've vanished to the land of misplaced socks and car keys."
"Could check back at your apartment," Angel suggested.
Wes gave him a quick look. "That'd be a bit illegal, don't you think?"
Angel just shrugged - like they'd never done anything illegal before.
"I suppose," Wes agreed, more fluent in Angel's shrugs and other non-verbal communication than anyone else on the team. He frowned, glancing at him. "Is everything all right?"
*Don't answer,* Angel told himself. But his mouth failed to listen. "Why'd you say that?"
"You seem out of sorts," Wes explained. He dusted off his hands and walked over. His lips curved in a shy smile. "And you haven't greeted me properly."
"I - " Angel told himself to lie. To keep his mouth shut. To kiss Wesley and be done with it. Again he didn't listen. "Why'd you say *that*?"
Wes frowned in confusion. "Er - what?"
"Last night," Angel said, making himself speak clearly since he couldn't make himself stop speaking at all. "At the store."
"Yes," Wesley said slowly, nodding encouragingly, "last night, at the store - what? I can't remember all that we talked about."
The litany had become a constant buzz in Angel's head. He was surprised at how easily he ignored it. "Not to me. To *them*. The two - those two women."
"The two - oh yes," Wes said, as the memory came to him. His eyebrows pulled together in puzzlement. "Was there much of a conversation? Honestly - all I recall is their perfume. You know these late night shopping trips might not be my thing."
"Just friends," Angel said, feeling the words tear out of his throat. He saw the flicker of emotion in Wesley's eyes but persisted. "You said we were *just friends*."
"Yes?" Wes replied, clearly expecting there to be more.
"*Just friends!*" Angel shouted. The litany was still there, but it was nothing against the tidal wave of possessiveness and anger that raced through him. "What the *fuck* was that, Wesley?"
Wes took a step back, watching him carefully. "Angel - are you all right? We were up rather late and I know you didn't get much sleep. Perhaps if you went and had a lie down - "
"I'm not tired!" he said. "I'm - " *hurt, angry, betrayed, confused* "I'm fucking at a loss here, Wes."
"About what?" Wesley asked, and Angel knew the look Wes was giving him - it was the same look he used on a lot of their clients. Calm down, it's okay, no you *aren't* being unreasonable to think that there's something that looks like an octopus with feathers living in your sink. It worked like gangbusters on their clients - Wes could project empathy with the best of them - but it felt like sandpaper across Angel's skin.
"Why'd you fucking lie?" Angel asked. "They *said* it, and you said it wasn't true!"
Wes actually chuckled. "Well it hardly matters, does it? We're not likely to see them ever again. And it's not as though either one of them was likely to tempt me home." Wes stepped closer, into the reach of Angel's arms. "You know you're the only one I care to be with."
"So why didn't you fucking *act* like it?" Angel said. He kept his hands at his sides, refusing to reach out to Wesley, not daring to let himself touch him - and not liking that it was suddenly a dare.
Wesley blinked a few times. A hand reached up as though to fiddle with his glasses, then abandoned the effort halfway. "Why - what? Did you expect me to shag you in the produce section? It was a one-minute encounter! What was I supposed to do?"
"Say 'yes'," Angel replied. He recognized his own tone of voice now. It was the quiet don't-give-me-shit voice he normally reserved for guys on the wrong side of one of Cordy's visions.
"Oh? Really?" Wesley asked, and *his* voice was starting to take a wrong turn at the kind of prissiness that really needed one of his old Watcher power suits to pull off properly. "I see. And then what next? Should I anticipate the question in the future, and give the answer right at the outset? Perhaps we should put it on our business cards. Of course there's that advert in the yellow pages that we'll have next year - I'll ring them up and tell *them* to include it. When Cordelia gets in on Monday morning I'll have her add it to the mission statement on our website, and once *that's* done, why don't we *both* conference call my parents and tell them *personally*?"
"It's not about your family," Angel said.
Wes pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. "The Hell it isn't."
"The Hell it *is*," Angel snapped. He made a broad gesture with his arm, as though he could actually include all of England in the conversation. "I don't give a fuck about you telling your family. I *get* you not telling your family. Fuck - you want to tell them that you're fucking *married* to *Cordy* and I'll sit still for the god-damn pictures to *prove* it. I will be your fucking *best man* if that's what it takes. But this isn't your family, Wes. It's two *strangers* who fucking *guessed it already* and you said no! Why?"
"Because," Wesley said, and turned away to focus on his papers again.
Angel stepped around him to block his way. "Not a good enough answer."
"Well too bloody bad," Wes said, moving to push him out of the way. "Because that's all you're getting."
Angel didn't budge. "You know - I deserve better than this. I have done *everything* I could to be here for you, Wesley, and the *one* time -"
"I would have thought this didn't need to be a request," Wesley spoke over him. He made his own gesture to indicate his family. "You're supposed to be my lover. You're supposed to want to take care of me. I would have *assumed* that it wasn't a requirement for me to actually have to *ask* you to respect my needs!"
"I'm not saying you have to *ask* -"
Wes ignored him. "But if I must, then yes, I, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, do hereby formally ask - "
"Fuck you."
"- you, Angel, nee Angelus - "
"*Fuck* you."
"- for the courtesy of manners and discretion in dealing with *my* family, to what I had assumed would be the mutual goal of my well-being. There. Do we have an agreement? Should we sign a contract?"
"Fuck *you*," Angel said, closing the distance between them. "Fuck you, Wesley. This isn't about your fucking family and you *know* it. And don't you *dare* pull that fucking card on me. You *know* how I feel. You *know* how much it fucking *kills* me to sit here and keep my mouth shut every fucking time you call home and pretend I *don't* hear the shit you swallow just 'cause your dad's speaking it because you don't *want* me to hear it and *I* figure I'm *supposed* to respect your god-damn wants. I would fucking *kill* your dad if you gave me even half a word of permission, Wes, and you know it. So don't pull this family crap on me now. Especially when you know it's not the issue."
Wes folded his arms, staring him down. He looked as though he were made out of colored glass. When he spoke, his voice was deadly soft. "So, Angel, enlighten me. What *is* the issue?"
Angel matched him stare for stare. "You tell me, Wes. I'm not the one who's lying to strangers."
"Why do you care *what* I tell strangers?" Wesley asked.
"Because apparently *you* do," Angel said. "You didn't use to, Wes. You know this isn't the first time somebody thought we were fucking - you used to laugh it off, just like me. So why's it so important now?"
"Because it's true."
The words hung out there between them for several moments. Angel felt like he'd been slapped. He started to speak, but Wes kept going.
"You've no idea what it's like for me, do you?" Wesley said. "None."
Angel shook his head. "Wes, I *do* know - "
"Like Hell you do!" Wes looked surprised by his own vehemence. "You've no idea at all! This is *easy* for you."
"*Easy*?"
"Yes," Wesley said. "Easy. Because nobody cares. Nobody cares at all what you do, Angel. Or do you honestly mean to tell me that there are people in this world who are more concerned with the fact that you - you *fuck* men than they ever were with the fact that you *killed* them?"
Angel clenched his jaw, staring at him.
"Yes," Wes said. "There it is. *There* is your bloody issue. Do you want to know why I didn't tell them? Because unlike *you*, my beloved vampire, *I* care. I care because I *have* to. You can go about doing as you please because there isn't a human label that can touch you. But they touch *me*, Angel! Each and every one of them! And in what passes for my comparatively short mortal life *I* must deal with the consequences - with the whispers, and barbs, and questions, and the prejudices and the *label* of being a *homosexual* in a society which hardly welcomes such a thing with open arms and non-ironic parades and *I am not ready for that*."
"Wes -"
"And don't *you* dare presume to come to me and tell me that you understand," Wesley said. "Because you don't. And don't you *dare* tell me that I haven't done enough for you when this is the *one* thing that I ask for. I have given up my entire life for you, Angel. You can give up one damn word for me."
Angel turned and walked away.
Something - and Angel liked to think it was Wes realizing the impact of everything he'd just said - made Wesley call out to him. Angel ignored him. He strode downstairs and without pausing grabbed his coat, heading for the trapdoor to the tunnels.
At the basement steps, Wesley caught up to him.
"Angel - "
He grabbed Wes's arm. Not hurting him, just holding him still. "I get it, Wes. Fuck - I even get why being a vamp isn't the same fucking thing. If you wanna lie to your dad, or mom, or whoever - fine. I'm there for you. I'm *always* there for you. I *love* you. But *you* need to get why this hurts me, Wes, and right now I'm too fucking pissed to talk. I'm going out. I'll see you later. Maybe when I get back we can figure this out."
He wanted to kiss him. A small peck, or even a quick and hungry fuck of his mouth - but he didn't. He waited too long and the moment passed. He squeezed Wes's arm instead, hoping it would convey the same message, and continued his way into the sewers, leaving Wesley behind him.
TBC
