Archive of Our Own

The demons were big – seven feet tall or more – and ugly with moss-green scales and horns and large, sharp teeth jutting from their drooling mouths. And they smelled like a swamp. Man, they were nasty enough to cause even Angel to shudder with revulsion. He did not even want to know what was dripping from their mouths. From his vantage point on the roof above the alley, he watched Wes and his crew dispatch the demons one by one. The only good thing about Xantars is that they disintegrate upon death. They also leave a rancid smelling goo behind, but no one notices that sort of thing in LA.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had never been a particularly graceful fighter, but Angel thought that what he lacked in agility, he more than made up for in efficiency. And he proved it when the last demon had one of his team members pinned up against the alley wall. In an unhurried manner, Wesley pulled out the ever present Mossberg pistol-grip shotgun and whistled, causing the demon to turn toward him. Xantar demons are known to be extremely strong, but also extremely stupid and this one's stupidity allowed Wes to calmly shoot it in one of its four eyes, killing it instantly. Shouldering the shotgun, Wesley started issuing orders at his employees like it was just another day at the office. Which, Angel realized, it was.

It was also kind of hot. Course, Wes and his Mossberg were always a sexy combination. When you added in his apparent apathy and the coldly barked orders that had his men scrambling to obey, you had a situation that made it hard for Angel to resist the urge to swoop down and take Wes right then and there in the filthy alley and who cared if his crew saw it all?

Angel tamped down on the temptation because Wes was somewhat unpredictable these days and Angel wasn't sure if he'd stake him or bare his throat and invite Angel to kill him. In the alley below, the crew was collecting their weapons and Wes was shooting withering looks at their exclamations of disgust  over the nastiness of the goo. They were worse than Cordelia in the old days.

And damned if he wanted to think about Cordy or the old days. Cordy wasn't herself and the old days were gone forever, his family destroyed by Wesley and his damned fake prophecy and his belief that he knew what was best. Angel shook his head and opened his tightly-clenched fists to reveal four small, bloody crescents in the palms of his hands. They were already healing, and he wished he were alive so he could take a deep, cleansing breath.

The past was past, and neither he nor anyone else could change it. Even though he'd told Connor that champions lived as though the world were as it should be, there were times when you had to deal with the world as it was. And that world included his fractured friendship with Wesley and a craving for the man that had started that night on the boat when Wesley had pulled him out of the ocean and fed him his own blood. He'd tried to ignore it at first. After all, he'd been successful at ignoring his desire for Wes – and Wes' desire for him – for three years, but this intense craving for Wes' body and blood, he just couldn't shake. He'd taken to following Wesley around LA, watching him fight. Hell, he even watched him drop his laundry off at the cleaners, shop for groceries and have lunch in that faux-British pub that he liked so much.

He liked the man that Wes had become, both his looks – glasses gone, trendy haircut, stubble designed to hide the scar on his throat – and his attitude. No longer his faithful servant, the new Wes wasn't going to take any of Angel's crap. Not that he'd ever taken it, to be honest. He'd thrown Angel's declaration that they were square, which Angel thought was pretty nice of him considering that Wesley had kidnapped his son and let his enemy take the infant into a hell dimension, back in his face and walked away.

He didn't know what he expected from Wesley. Except maybe an apology. That would be nice. A simple 'I'm sorry your son had to grow up in a hell dimension with your worst enemy as a father figure.' Or maybe, 'I'm sorry your son came back as a teenager so damaged and bent on revenge that he locked you in a box and threw you in the ocean.'

To be fair, Wesley had rescued him from that box in the ocean. On the other hand, if Wesley hadn't taken Connor, Angel would never have been in that box in the ocean in the first place and wouldn't have needed rescuing.

 Damn. He really, really wished he could breathe.

A soft noise turned his attention back to the alley where he spied another demon. Klatsen. They were small and stealthy, and known to travel with the Xantars, scavenging what was left of the bigger demons' kills. Probably pissed off about having its meal ticket canceled. Klatsens weren't powerful – they were only about waist high, but their bite was highly toxic and had no antidote. They were also very quiet, and one was creeping up behind Wes.

Angel yelled a warning and leapt off the building to land behind the small demon. He brought his sword down onto the Klatsen's skull just as Wes swung around and raised his shotgun to fire. Wes' people, caught completely by surprise, were standing around looking like idiots. Without taking his eyes off the bloody body, Wes sent his men packing with a few harsh words.

"Letting the boss get killed is no way to show initiative, guys," Angel called to them as they hastily retreated from the alley and Wes' ire.

Wesley held up his hand. "Please, Angel, I can handle my own personnel issues." He kicked the lifeless demon body out of the way – Klatsens, unfortunately do not disintegrate - and started to walk toward the street.

"Hey, I just saved your life. Wouldn't hate a little gratitude," he said, knowing he wouldn't get any, but wanting to see if he could wind Wes up a little.

"Thank you," Wesley said formally and walked away. He climbed into his SUV and after giving Angel a long, indecipherable look, drove off.

After the taillights of Wes' car had faded away, Angel was distracted by a familiar scent lingering in the air. Blood. More specifically, Wesley's blood. He must have gotten nicked in the fight. His eyes closed and he nearly moaned, focusing on the coppery smell that was already beginning to dissipate. There it was – traces of Wesley that were so much a part of him that they'd seeped into his blood – expensive scotch, leather bindings on old books, ink, and just a whiff of gun oil. And arousal.

Well, well. So Wes still wanted Angel despite everything that had gone on between them. Not that it mattered at this point. Angel was going to take him, body and blood. Wes knew how dangerous it was to let a vampire get a taste of his blood. Just one taste was all it took for the craving for more to take hold. He'd been too far gone that night to really savor it, but that didn't mean that he'd forgotten how it tasted. Rich, dark, thick. He remembered grabbing the long, slender arm, pressing it tighter to his mouth and wishing it had been Wes' throat. He had imagined what it would be like – his fangs breaking through the tender skin, just below the scar that bore out his betrayal.

That red-headed bitch, the one who had slit Wesley's throat, had been there. As out of it as he had been, he could still hear her heart hammering in her chest, afraid. His Wes wasn't afraid, though. He never had been.

Next time would be different. Angel would take it slow. Really taste it. What he'd been given that night hadn't been enough. He wanted more.
 
It was time for this game to end.

Angel set off in the direction of Wesley's apartment. When he reached it, he stood in front of the building for the better part of an hour, trying to figure out how to get Wes to let him in when a window opened and Wes stuck his head out.

"Are you going to stand out there all night?," he asked, clearly exasperated. Then he pulled his head back in and slammed the window shut.

It couldn't be that easy, could it? Surely Wesley was messing with him. Angel would get to the door only to find Wesley on the other side of the invisible barrier, looking at him with pity because only Angel could be such an idiot.

But no, the doorway was standing open when Angel approached the apartment. Wes was leaning back against the frame with his arms crossed and an impassive look on his face. Neither man said anything for a time until Angel grew impatient with the staring contest.

"Are you going to invite me in or are we going to stand in the hallway staring at each other until dawn? Cause, you know nobody loves that kind of thing more than I do, but it's not what I had in mind tonight."

 "Really?" Wes lifted one eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

Angel didn't bother to answer. Wes wasn't dumb, after all. With a small smile, Wes stepped aside and ushered Angel into his home. "I never revoked your invitation, you know."

Scratch that. Maybe he was dumb. "Do you have a death wish or something?"

"Why? Do you intend to finish what you started at the hospital?" Wes sounded as if he were genuinely curious and not at all concerned that Angel might have come to do just that.

"If I'd really wanted to kill you that day, I could have snapped your neck before anyone knew what was happening." It was true. In spite of Wesley had done, Angel had never intended to kill him, just terrorize him. Make him look over his shoulder everywhere he went, wondering when Angel was going to come finish the job. Except it obviously hadn't worked.

"Yes," Wes drawled. "Why didn't you?"

Angel shut the front door and leaned against it, not liking where the conversation was going, but he had to know, "Did you want me to?"

"At the time? Yes." He looked at Angel steadily. "And for some time after," he admitted, eyes darting to the drawer where Angel knew he stored his pistols. "But," he said, a touch more heartily than the subject matter warranted, "that's over now. Besides, if I really had a death wish, I have plenty of weapons around that would do the job quite nicely, and I know the correct angle needed to ensure that it's done properly."

Angel said lightly, "Researched it, did ya?"

Angel was more disturbed by the thought of Wes researching the correct way to blow his head off than he wanted to admit. He should hate the guy. He had every right to hate him, but he couldn't forget that he had once loved him. To be totally honest, he'd never really stopped.

Wes shrugged. "That is what I do. "

"Well, don't do that." Angel waved his hand at Wes' confused look. "You know, kill yourself."

"I'm not planning to," the 'now' left unspoken. "I'd prefer to drink myself to death anyway. It takes longer, but there's less chance that I'd end up haunting this place. I don't fancy being called 'Phantom Wesley' for eternity." A humorless chuckle punctuated his observation.

Angel pushed away from the door and took a few steps forward. "Wes, please – " He really didn't want to hear any more of this.

Backing just out of Angel's reach, Wes said tightly, "Oh, for god's sake, Angel, why do you even care?"

"I told you, we're good."

"I see. " Eyes turned a steely gray, Wes pivoted and walked out of the living room.

Teeth clenched, Angel decided not to point out just how those two words said in that tone of voice never failed to raise his hackles. It was the tone Wesley used when he wanted to convey just how much of an idiot he thought Angel was. He didn't use it with anyone else.

This was not going the way he'd planned. Moments ago, he'd been concerned for Wesley, now the man had him irritated and defensive. This wouldn't work at all. Angel silently followed Wesley into the dining room where Wes was fishing something out of a cabinet. Ah, scotch. Of course. In light of Wesley's earlier comment, he wondered just how much the man was drinking these days. A lot, he guessed.

When Wes turned around with the bottle and two glasses, Angel was right there in his face. Blue eyes widened momentarily, then the hardness he'd been wearing lately slammed into place, but not before Angel could detect just a hint of fear.

"What is that you 'see', Wes?" When Wes didn't answer, Angel grabbed his shirt in his fist and shook him, then hauled him close so that their bodies were touching. The glasses fell from Wes' hand, shattering on the floor, but the bottle remained in his other hand. Angel grabbed it and threw it behind him, not even looking when he heard it smash against the wall. "Answer me!"

Wesley looked pissed, either because of the lost bottle of scotch, the liquor dripping down his wall and puddling on his carpet or from being manhandled, Angel didn't know and didn't care. All he cared about right now was the hard flesh pressing against his leg. The demon in him wanted Wes' fear, but Angel decided he liked him angry, especially if anger was going to make him that hard.

Body taut with tension, Wes spat out, "You think you can say 'We're good,' and all is forgiven? Regardless of whether you were really trying to kill me or not, you did smother me when I was helpless to even call out. Gunn turned his back on me and even Fred took advantage of my inability to speak to harangue me. And Cordelia can't even be bothered to see me at all. None of you come around unless you want something from me. I'm trying to make a clean break, but you all keep coming to me for help. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Well, for one thing, you keep stealing my clients."

Wesley smirked and some of the tension left his body. "I think you'll find that some of them were my clients."

With a slight nod, Angel conceded the point. As the head of Angel Investigations, Wes had done a good job of bringing in more clients. It would be natural for some of them to follow him to his new business.

"Know what I find interesting, Wes?" The expectant look indicated that Wes was curious in spite of his anger. "All during your little speech, you didn't once try to get away."

"No sense wasting energy with futile attempts at escape, is there?" His reddened face belied the off-hand words.

"Still, it isn't like you to not try. That, and you're still hard."

Wesley closed his eyes and sighed wearily. "God, Angel, what do you want from me now?"

Angel thought that was pretty obvious. He answered the question with a thrust of his hips so that Wes could feel how hard he was.

"I want you," Angel whispered, reaching down to cup the bulge in the front of Wes' jeans. He smiled at the gasp the caress drew from Wes, who still made no move to get away. "Want to taste you again."

Angel smiled when Wes' heartbeat quickened. Anyone else would be terrified at the notion, but not his Wes. "That little bit I got on the boat wasn't nearly enough. You want it too; I know you do. Been smelling it on you for years. You have any idea how crazy that makes me? When I can smell how much you want me?"

With one hand, he grabbed Wesley's hair and tilted his head to expose the mark from Justine's blade on his throat. At the touch of Angel's lips to the long line of wounded flesh, Wesley stiffened and finally tried to jerk away, but Angel merely tightened his grip and leaned against his body, immobilizing him. He frowned at Wesley's flagging erection and sounds of distress as Angel continued to gently explore the scarred flesh with his lips and tongue. He knew from experience how sensitive scars could be and if Wes would just calm down, he'd figure it out, too.

It took a little time, but Angel didn't let up, running his tongue over and over the raised line, nipping at it with flat teeth. Soon Wes' shivers of anxiety turned into shivers of pleasure, and he started thrusting his renewed erection against Angel's thigh. That's my boy, Angel thought and gave the scar one last long lick, then started maneuvering Wes toward the dining table. He swept the dozen or so books that had found a home there off onto the floor.

Wesley looked like he was gearing up to lecture Angel on the proper way to take care of old books, but Angel wasn't going to let him even start, issuing a preemptive "Shut up."

"But –" Wes started to protest, but Angel silenced him by crushing their mouths together, gratified when Wes moaned and opened his mouth to let Angel in. At the same time, he pushed Wes' legs apart, moving in between them, tongue diving between parted lips. Wes' mouth tasted bitter and smoky like the scotch and beer he'd drank earlier. His blood would taste that way, Angel knew, and he could barely resist sinking his fangs into Wes right then.

Not sure how much longer he could hold back, he ended the frantic kissing and pulled at Wes' clothing, removing them as fast as he could. When he had the other man naked, he pushed him back on the table and admired the view – the muscular chest, the flat abs, and the long trail of dark hair leading to his erect cock, tip slightly wet with pre-come.

"Somebody's been working out," he said, trailing his hand down Wes' chest, pausing to pinch his right nipple. "Looks good on you." Pinching his right nipple caused such nice squirming that Angel decided to see what touching the left one would do. Hmm, same reaction. What would happen if he sucked them?

Oh yes, more squirming along with panting, whispered curses and a hand holding his head in place.

"You know," Wes said, wrapping his legs around Angel's waist and thrusting lazily against the rough fabric of his pants, "I have a perfectly good bed in the other room."

Lifting his head against Wes' attempts to keep it where it was, he said, "Smells like Lilah in there." Actually, the odor of evil bitch lawyer pretty much permeated Wes' apartment. He should really have the place fumigated.  At another time, he'd even suggest it. But right now, he really couldn't wait any longer. This was going to be short and sweet as it was. He ran a finger up the underside of Wesley's cock and palmed the wet head. "Got anything slick?"

"Kitchen, " Wes gasped. "Olive oil, on the counter by the stove."

"Don't move." Angel retrieved the bottle from the kitchen and returned to find Wes had planted his feet on the table and was slowly stroking himself from root to tip. It was a pretty sight, to be sure, and Angel watched those long fingers move up and down the hard, slick flesh before remembering that he had told Wes not to move. And by 'don't move,' he meant don't move anything.

Slapping the offending hand away, Angel growled, "What part of 'don't move' didn't you understand?"

Not giving him a chance to respond, Angel placed sloppy kisses up the inside of Wes' left thigh, wanting badly to bite into the femoral artery and let Wes' blood flow unstaunched into his mouth. He ignored the urge and moved on, tongue sliding behind the tight balls down to gently flick at Wes' opening.

Wes cried out and grabbed hold of Angel's hair, holding him in place again. Angel smiled against the soft skin and darted his tongue faster and faster across the sensitive flesh. If he had more time, he could spend hours tongue fucking Wesley. It would be interesting to see if he could make Wes scream with pleasure, but his cock was aching and he couldn't wait any longer.

He straightened up and quickly undid the fly of his pants, then poured the olive oil onto his hand. "You're not a virgin, are you?" he asked even though he already knew the answer.

One arched eyebrow accompanied a dryly spoken, "Hardly." And damned if that haughty, raspy English accent didn't make Angel even harder, which is what he'd been hoping for.

"Good." Because he couldn't go slow. He pushed two slick fingers inside of Wes and stretched him - probably not enough - before he slicked himself up. In one quick motion, he slid his hands under Wes' ass and pulled him onto his cock.

"Sorry, sorry," he whispered when Wes winced. He paused for a moment, letting Wes adjust. When Wes nodded that he was ready, Angel took him fast and hard, Wes' hands gripping the edge of the table to keep from being shoved off of it. He egged Angel on with demands of "Harder, damn you," the last of his British reserve gone. So hot and so tight, and man, so good. Angel felt his own features change and his fangs slip out. 

Pulling out nearly all the way, then slamming back in, he held himself against Wes' prostate and just pulsed against it, knowing Wes was close. Wrapping his arms around Wes' back, Angel hauled him up and sank his fangs into his throat just below the scar. Wes howled as he came, tilting his head to give Angel better access. Angel barely registered Wes' acquiescence or his own orgasm. He was lost in the taste of Wes' blood – thick and heady. Moaning against Wes' neck while Wes shook in his arms. It was way better than he remembered. So good that he was tempted to keep drinking, to take it all. With some difficulty, he forced himself to stop. He pulled his fangs out, licking at the wound to stem the flow of blood and lowered Wes's spent body back to the table.

A thin stream of blood still trickled from the wound Angel had made. Angel chased it with his tongue, then stood and tucked himself back in his pants with a sigh of regret and zipped up.

Stunned, glassy eyed and panting, Wes groaned softly and reached out a hand.

Smiling, Angel helped Wesley sit up. Wes kept his forward momentum and leaned into Angel kissing him languorously.

He pulled back and gave Angel a long look, asking a question that Angel didn't know how to answer and thankfully wouldn't have to. Dawn was coming soon and they could both feel it.

"You should leave, Angel."

Wesley's building had no sewer access and if he didn't leave soon, he'd be stuck there all day. A not unpleasant prospect for him, but dangerous for Wes because Angel still wanted him. Could still taste his blood in his mouth. He reached out and touched the puncture wounds on Wes' neck then turned and walked to the door. He opened it, and looked back at Wes, who was still naked, beautiful, and looking at him expectantly.

"Revoke my invitation," Angel said.

He walked out of the building and into the lightening sky, knowing he'd be back the next night.