Author’s Notes:
1) Connor hasn’t happened, but Spike did get his soul.
2) Stigmata - bodily marks or pains resembling the wounds of the crucified Christ and sometimes accompanying religious ecstasy.
3) This fic has themes ‘borrowed’ from TS Eliot’s ‘Murder in the Cathedral’ - I’m not plagiarizing, just ... utilizing ;)
4) Inspired by and written for Troggi - thanks for the evil bunny, sweet cheeks. Happy Birthday!! ;)
5) Mind-set courtesy of Coldplay - ‘In My Place’, and kick-ass beta courtesy of Buddy (who ensured Angel wasn’t indefinitely detained!) and Elfie - Thanks guys!
Summary: Wesley teeters on the brink.
Author's Site: Elusive Soul.
"Now is my way clear, now is the meaning plain:
Temptation shall not come in this kind again,"
‘Murder in the Cathedral’ - TS Eliot
He loved the smell of gun oil in the morning. Smelt like ...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Sorry I’m late - something... came up.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Of course, it’s my job to know. I’m an ex-Watcher, remember? Sit down; I’ll get you a drink. You look like you could use one.”
“I could, as it happens. It’s been one of those nights.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not right now, ok? Tomorrow. Maybe.”
“Drink this. It’ll help you relax.”
“Thanks. Aren’t you having one?”
“I’d rather not. So. What did he want this time?”
Silence. And a heavy sigh.
“Let’s not do this. Not now - I’m tired and frankly I’m all talked out. Let’s just have our drinks...”
“Your drink.”
“OK, *my* drink. I just want to have *my* drink and go to bed.”
“As you wish.”
“No. Please, don’t say it like that.”
“Say what like what?”
“You know. ‘As you wish’, like I was your fucking master or something.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Christ Wesley, I don’t need this tonight. I don’t need this any night. I‘m tired. Please, let‘s just go to bed.”
Angel rose wearily, disrobed in silence and then slid between the smooth Egyptian cotton sheets of his king-size bed with an exhausted groan.
Wesley watched him. Devoured the sight of smooth skin molded so perfectly to sculptured muscle. Enjoyed the simple grace with which the vampire undressed. Closed his eyes and allowed his senses to be flooded with the familiar musky scent that clung lovingly and faithfully to Angel’s naked flesh. Recoiled from the faint but loathed smell of cigarettes that had leeched itself onto Angel’s clothing. Cigarette smells that would have alerted Wesley, had he not already known, to the fact that Angel’s bastard childe was back in town.
Anger made his inner voice whimper like a petulant child. Angel’s silence made his heart ache with jealousy and fear. All of his insecurities and notions of self-loathing (thank you so much for your bountiful gifts, Father) squirmed beneath his skin like maggots. But they couldn’t be maggots, really. Maggots devoured decaying flesh, making way for the new. The rot inside Wesley only ever expanded - it never receded. He doubted that it ever would.
Angel’s eyes were upon him now, questioning. Wesley thought that perhaps he detected a glimmer of guilt in the vampire‘s perplexed gaze. Then again, maybe not. Angel had turned guilt an art form, and Wesley wasn’t sure that there was any room in that maelstrom for his lover to trouble himself about his pathetic, constant need for reassurance.
“You coming to bed?”
“Yes. Yes. I’m just... I’ll be right with you.”
He went through the motions with his ablutions, mechanically cleansing. Preparing himself for the inevitability of being topped, because Angel rarely ever capitulated. He paused then, surprised - blindsided by the jolt of resentment, the sharp sting of anger that the inevitability invoked.
He had dreams. Fantasies in which he watched the swell and flex of Angel’s taut muscles as he drove into him, the vampire’s strong back and shoulders rippling as his body was furrowed and ploughed by his lover. The image of such strength and beauty beneath him, being taken by him, controlled by him, was breathtaking. Intoxicating.
Angel never faced him, in these dreams. Always he was on his knees, backside presented for use, his face hidden in pillows which captured his whimpers and moans, and frankly that was just the way that Wesley liked it. He had no wish to gaze deeply into Angel’s eyes, because then he would see himself reflected there, and oh *god* the very last thing that Wesley wanted to see mid-coitus was his own face, because wasn’t he just the image of his own father? And who needed to be reminded by dear Pater what a useless, waste of a man he was, whilst taking his lover? Who needed to be reminded that really, he was unworthy of topping such a magnificent beast as this Angel of his? Wesley lived with this understanding every fucking day of his life, so no. He needed no reminding.
He wondered then, if Angel had ever let his childe take him. Had he ever lay on his back, legs wrapped around the blonde bastard’s slim hips as Spike growled and rutted above him? Had he ever cried out in abandon, ever pulled his own legs wider apart to give greater access, ever given himself completely and utterly and without reserve to Spike?
Once, just once, Angel had allowed Wesley to take him. It had been his birthday and he’d spent an excruciating ten minutes on the telephone, speaking to his father. It wasn’t a call that he had received, but one that he’d made. He doubted his father had even remembered that it was his birthday, let alone cared. No, he’d be too busy worrying himself with things of greater importance than his inadequate son - matters of the Council, matters of his brothers’ successful and enviable lives. Matters other than those of a failed Watcher and monumental disappointment.
It had been, in Wesley‘s mind, a pity fuck. A gesture from a dominant master to his sub which gave the gift of capitulation just once, not as an act of love, but rather one of kindness. And that fucking choked him on so many levels, that all pleasure that the act should have conferred on him turned instead to humiliation and pain. His mind was unable to accept the fact that maybe - just maybe, it had been a conscious act of love on the vampire’s part. Denial had replaced reality in much of Wesley’s thought processes. Denial was, on the whole, easier to live with.
Afterwards, he’d wanted to kill Angel. Of course, he never did. Angel was his dark god, after all. His redeemer and his damnation. His hope and his despair. A symbol of all that he loved and all that he hated. Wesley martyred his body beneath the beast night after night in the name of love - relinquished all for the modicum of comfort that Angel’s body gave him, for the perceived semblance of love given that fed the craving within him. He bore his stigmata on the inside, where it bled constantly, and the ache from it made him want to weep until he drowned in his own tears.
There were nights, lying awake in the darkness, that he’d visualized himself actually doing it. Overcoming Angel in some fashion and then staking or beheading him. He tried to imagine how it would feel, not only the act of murder, but also the aftermath. Would he be euphoric, or instead driven to the depths of despair? He suspected some measure of both.
Once, he’d actually straddled Angel and held a stake above his un-beating heart as the vampire slept soundly beneath him. One part of him had screamed for release from this man, this monster, and this self-defeating love. The other, for Angel to awake and embrace him and heal the wounds that he carried deep within him. But Angel had slept on, and Wesley had found himself unable to make an end of him. And so he had sat there, shaking with terror and impotence and a rage that was as much sorrow as anger, and wept silently. His stigmata bled on.
“Wes?”
He flinched then, jolted from his musings.
“Wes? Are you ok in there?”
Wesley ran his hands through his hair and gravely studied the face in the mirror before him. He noticed a few fine lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year before, the odd gray hair that promised to bring more of its friends to the party at a later date. Funny, he didn’t look all that different now from when he’d first came to L.A, although there was a hardness around his mouth and a cold, hard glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there previously.
Naivety had taken a flying leap into the wide blue yonder shortly after Wesley had arrived in the City of Angels. Any lingering innocence and pureness was quickly swallowed and devoured by the nature of his life and employment in this city, and the nature of his relationship with a vampire. But inside, he was still the insecure, lonely man that he always had been. The knife-edge that he felt he walked seemed a little keener with every passing week and it seemed only a matter of time before it sliced him into a million pieces. He wondered if Angel could or indeed would be able to save him when that time came.
“Wesley?”
A whisper of a breath on the back of his neck telling him that Angel stood behind him. He couldn’t see him in the mirror, of course - a vampire casts no reflection. But he could feel him and smell him.
“I’m sorry, Angel. Got caught up in my own thoughts, I’ll be right with you.”
“Are you sure you’re ok? Hey, I’m sorry if I was a bit ...”
Wesley felt strong, cool arms encircle his waist and he couldn’t help but lean back and into the embrace. He saw himself in the mirror, seeming to tilt sideways and still remain standing - he smiled.
“It’s all right, I understand - I was worried about you, that’s all. It just seems that whenever Spike shows up, trouble isn’t too far behind him.”
And as always, the flinch. Whenever his childe’s name was mentioned, Angel never failed to flinch or grimace. It was ironic in a way - because Wesley knew that he had the same effect on his own father. Mind you, he wasn’t an undead, homicidal killing-machine. He’d often mused that perhaps dear old daddy would have respected him more if he had been.
Cool lips nuzzled his throat and Angel’s voice purred in his ear.
“Don’t worry about Spike. I’ve a feeling that his trouble-causing days are over.”
And then the lips and the arms were gone as Angel walked back into the bedroom, and Wesley could feel the vampire detach himself, pull himself back into his brooding thoughts as he pondered his childe’s latest personal disaster.
A last sigh and Wesley followed him, slipping into their bed and lying on his back staring at the ceiling. He felt Angel beside him, tense, waiting.
“I wish you wouldn’t shut me out, Angel. I’m here to help. We’re supposed to be...”
And god, could he ever stop sighing? It seemed that every thought and every word was balanced precariously on a sigh, these days.
Angel turned quickly onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow.
“We’re not *supposed* to be anything, Wes. We *are* lovers. I’m your lover - not your master, not the boss of you. Your lover. Why can’t you see that?”
“I can. I do.”
“No you don’t. You see me as this... this... I dunno, this controlling monster. Which I am. A monster. Except I'm not a controlling monster. Am I? Is that how you see me?"
“Of course not.”
“There was a pause.”
“What? Nonsense, I was just...”
“Just now. There was a definite pause. God Wes, is that what I am to you? Controlling? Ok, I know I’m not the world’s greatest ‘giver’, but I’m trying to be better. It’s just... Oh, you know... A thing. A Master vampire thing - the whole torturing-you-into-compliance gig I used to have going. But I’m trying to get over that and hey look - no torturing!”
Silence.
“I’m trying to be better. Am I not being better? Or maybe *some* torturing - we could go that way if you wanted? I kinda miss it sometimes, you know? The screaming, the sex-toys, the screaming...”
Despite himself, Wesley chuckled.
“Like your singing in the shower of an evening isn’t torture enough.”
“Hey!”
And suddenly, Angel was on top of him. Cool lips met his gently and strong arms enfolded him and oh sweet Jesus it hurt so much inside. He should be yearning, he should be melting into Angel’s touch, and he was. Yearning. But the wounds within him were so raw and the agony so unrelenting that instead of melting, he sobbed. Just once. But once was enough.
The sudden grief and pain in Angel’s eyes startled him. God, he was losing his grip and it frightened him. More control relinquished.
“Wes. God, Wes...”
“I’m sorry. I’m ok. I’m all right.”
“No you’re not. You’re very far from ‘all right’. It’s Spike, isn’t it? You’re worried about tonight. About Spike.”
“I smelt him.”
Angel’s brow furrowed. “Smelt him?”
“His damn cigarettes. I smelt them all over your clothes. Your hair. Your skin.”
“And you thought... Oh no. No. Never. I would never do that. Not to him. Not to you.”
“To *him*? I don’t care about him! I care about me! About us!”
“Of course. No, that’s not what I meant. It’s... complicated.”
“Too complicated for me to understand, I suppose. Another Master vampire thing?”
“NO! No. It’s just... Spike. He needed me tonight and I...”
“I needed you. I need you every night.”
“He has a soul.”
And there it was. Another kick in the fucking guts. Another shitty little fact to further undermine the crumbling foundations of Wesley Windham-Pryce. A soul. The bastard childe had a soul. Wesley, on the other hand, had lost his a long time ago - that‘s if he‘d ever truly had one. He had no idea why he had lost it, only that he had. It had been torn from him; one small piece at a time until it was just... gone. He strongly suspected, however, that it rested in a small jar that sat resplendent on his father’s study-table.
Now Spike had something that he had not. Spike had the advantage, the upper hand. After all, why would Angel want a soulless, useless, shell-of-a-man like him, when he could have his favorite childe, soul and all? Who better to help him fight on the side of Good?
That the Powers That Be had allowed Wesley into Angel’s life at all never ceased to amaze him. Perhaps they thought that he evened out the balance a little - it wouldn’t do for the Champion to have things too easy. To be tempted by someone such as him would do little for Angel’s redemption - but maybe that’s what he was - the last temptation?
“A soul. I don’t understand. How in the name of god did that thing get a soul?”
And no, he didn’t just imagine the sudden flash of anger in Angel’s eyes, but he chose to ignore it. He could do that if he wanted to, couldn’t he? Ignore? Deny? Maybe, thought Wesley, he’d created an art form of his own.
“Africa. He went to Africa, went through the Trials and won it back. Now it’s killing him. Not the soul, the guilt. The guilt is killing him. And I’m the only one who can help him, Wesley - which is a hell of a coincidence, seeing as how I’m the guy who took it from him in the first place. I taketh away and now I giveth. That’s pretty damn ironic.”
“Ironic. Yes.”
“You understand, though? How I’m the only one who can help him.”
“Quite. I suppose it’s fitting, in a way. So what happens now? Is he coming here? Are you leaving? What?”
“Leaving?” Angel smiled and tenderly stroked his cheek. He stared deeply into Wesley’s eyes. “I’m not going anywhere; I’m staying right here. With you. I belong here, with you.”
“And Spike?”
“Spike belongs in Sunnydale. Buffy needs him there. Wes... He’s not a part of my life anymore. Hell, I’m not even on his Christmas list - you know how he feels about me.”
“Do I?”
“Well, I would have thought the whole thing with the Gem of Amarra and the red-hot pokers and the screaming would kinda give you a clue.”
Angel leaned closer and lightly brushed Wesley’s lips with his. “Enough about Spike. Enough about everything. I’m tired and I’m achy and I’m kinda hoping maybe some kind, wonderful person will give me a back-rub.”
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::
A change of position and some minutes later, Wesley sat astride Angel, massaging oil into stiff shoulders, his strong hands kneading the knots of tension away and making Angel groan in enjoyment and relief. The vampire squirmed a little beneath him, a sure sign that the massage was definitely perking up more than Angel’s mood.
If Angel was surprised when Wesley suddenly snapped a pair of handcuffs over his wrists and attached them to the bedpost, he did a great job of not showing it. Wesley looked infinitely more shocked. He was sweating lightly and his hands trembled - not just with the exertion of the massage.
Beneath him, Angel chuckled.
“Urmmmm... you do know that I can break out of these things just about any time I want to?”
Wesley didn’t miss the underlying warning, mild though it was. Angel wasn’t accustomed to being fettered - it wasn’t something that he initiated, unless Wesley was the one being restrained.
“Possibly. But you have to ask yourself, Angel... Do you really want to?”
There was silence beneath him.
“I mean... Who knows, you might even enjoy it, someone else being in charge for a change. Someone else being in control.”
Wesley was sweating profusely now, and more than a little shocked at his own actions. He hadn’t thought about restraining Angel, it had just sort of happened. The handcuffs had been in their usual place, under Angel’s pillow - although they weren’t used on him. That privilege belonged to Wesley alone. But Wesley was calm - surprisingly unruffled. He felt cool. Collected. He felt in control, and the feeling was exhilarating. Not to mention sexy as hell.
Angel’s voice was quiet, deceptively calm, but Wesley could nearly feel the inner turmoil as the vampire tried to decide whether or not to continue humoring his human lover. Angel might have his soul back, but beneath his skin he was still a demon - a Master vampire - and Master vampires didn’t take well to being fettered like pets. There was a hard edge to Angel’s normally smooth voice and it went straight to Wesley’s crotch making him harder than he’d ever been before.
“Is that what you want? To be in control?” Angel tried to twist his body around to face his lover, but Wesley leaned heavily on him, preventing him from moving.
“Don’t move, Angel. Stay just like that. I want to touch you. I want to look at you. I want to know what‘s it‘s like, being you. I want to see through your eyes. Taste with your lips. Touch with your hands.”
Slowly Wesley slid down Angel’s body, relishing the feel of cool, smooth flesh against his. The vampire’s lower body temperature tempered the searing heat that boiled just under the surface of Wesley’s skin and it soothed him - calmed him.
When his face was flush with Angel’s throat he whispered. “And I want you to know what it is to be me.”
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::
He thought that the expanse of flesh beneath his tongue would never end - that it would flow unerringly for miles. It was like peach skin - the smooth hide covering shoulder muscles that were taut and stretched and trembling. Then swelling over buttocks and hips to dip again into the shallow valleys of thigh and inner-knee that felt downy as silky hairs tickled his lips and teased his tongue.
Downwards to the wrinkled soles of Angel’s feet and the smoother pad of his largest toe, which, with its smooth underbelly and bulging tip, felt like a miniature penis in his mouth. He sucked it gently, teased it with his teeth and reveled in being able to make the beautiful creature beneath him whimper and beg.
His teeth and lips made the journey back, pausing momentarily as Wesley firmly nudged the vampire’s legs wider apart. Then the tongue returned, tickling a path from buttock to perineum before plunging wetly into Angel’s anus.
Beneath him, Angel gasped and cried out and Wesley couldn’t help but wonder why the vampire had never given himself up to this before. After all, the pleasure to be had from receiving was considerable. But then again it was a matter of control, was it not? And for Wesley, having no control, not ever, had left him feeling detached and inanimate. This act of taking made him feel more alive than he ever had before, and made his past capitulations seem all the more agonizing and emasculating.
He wondered now if there could ever be a way back for him after this night.
Wesley paused in his ministrations, tongue aching and lungs begging for oxygen. Angel moaned quietly.
“Oh god... Is this what it’s like? Is this what it’s like to be you? Jesus Wes, a guy could get used to this.”
The statement hit him like a slap in the face. No. This wasn’t what it was like, not at all. Because Angel sounded confident. Assured. In control. And when Wesley was fettered below him, he felt none of those things. Anger sent little jolts of electricity rocketing through his veins and his tongue suddenly tasted of ashes. He gritted his teeth hard enough to make his jaw cramp and closed his eyes, fighting back the acidic bile that threatened to make him vomit.
Reaching up, Wesley grabbed a handful of his lover’s hair and pulled back his head, pushing himself upward along Angel’s body with his free hand. The vampire hissed in pain as Wesley increased the tension on his scalp and he leaned forward, bringing his lips close to Angel’s ear.
“Are you sure you want to know, Angel? Are you sure you want to know what it is to be me?”
Another hard yank coaxed a groan of pain from his partner. Wesley could nearly feel the sudden anger radiate from Angel, but surprisingly he didn’t try to break his restraints - rather he lay perfectly still beneath Wesley.
“Why don’t you show me?” Angel hissed.
He thought he might lose it, then. Something dark and howling and ravenous broke free inside him and he could hardly see he was so blinded with sensation and lust and burning, insane desire. He let go of Angel’s head and leant over the end of the bed. Reaching underneath, his trembling hand found what it was looking for, and he pulled the small box up and onto the bed.
“What are you doing?”
Angel’s voice sounded strained and Wesley wondered for a second how Angelus must have been feeling right about now. He found he didn’t much give a shit. Opening the box, he removed a cloth bundle which he unwrapped unhurriedly to reveal a gun, gleaming and slick with oil.
“What do you think it is?” Wesley pushed the box to one side and straddled Angel again. Then he traced a large figure of eight on the vampires back with the barrel of the gun.
Angel flinched. “Jesus Wes, is that a gun?”
Wesley lips twisted in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Top marks. What gave it away? The chill of the barrel? Or maybe, it was the smell of the oil? What was it, Angel?”
He was gratified to feel the vampire quiver beneath him and he knew that Angel was more aroused than afraid.
“The smell. It was the smell.”
“Ah, I see.” Wesley trailed the barrel slowly along the curvature of Angel’s spine and over the swell of his buttocks. Then leisurely along the thigh to the back of the knee before pausing and raising it to eye level. He inspected the gun slowly, opening the chamber and peering inside. He flicked it closed and stared at it intently for a moment, before spinning the chamber. Reaching over into the box he retrieved a can of oil which he liberally sprayed over the barrel of the gun.
“Do you know what type of gun this is, Angel? I’ll tell you, shall I? It’s a .44 Magnum, beautiful piece of workmanship.”
He trailed the barrel of the gun in lazy circles around Angel’s buttocks leaving a shiny trail of oil. Then slowly he slid the barrel between Angel’s legs, lightly brushing his perineum with the tip. His lover arched upwards with a growl.
“It belonged to my father - I took it with me when I left England and it’s the only thing of his that I’ve ever possessed. He didn’t give it to me, not exactly. Actually, I rather doubt he even knows it’s missing. But then, he never could appreciate the truly fine things in life. He never gave real, honest beauty its due. I’ve always found that very... sad.”
Wesley’s brow furrowed in concentration and he pressed the blunt tip of the gun against Angel’s anus, slowly working the barrel inside him. Millimeter by millimeter.
Angel hissed, his broad shoulders flexing as he strained against his fetters. His back arched into Wesley’s touch and small droplets of oil leaked from the barrel as Wesley rotated the gun in Angel’s ass, stretching him.
“And this, Angel, is a truly beautiful weapon. It’s got an 8 and 3/8’’ long barrel - did you know that? It used to have a frontal sight, but I’ve filed that down - it detracted from its sleek lines, I found. Nevertheless, it’s still quite an impressive piece. It’s rumored to be the most powerful handgun in the world - this thing could down an elephant. I’ve often wondered how it would fare against the more hardy of the demon species.”
He worked the gun deeper now, thrusting and then revolving the barrel inside Angel. He licked his lips, watching the cold steel disappear into the vampire’s pale flesh; flesh that was quivering and slick with the oil leaking from Angel’s hole as the gun plunged ever deeper. When Angel howled, Wesley knew he’d gotten the angle of his thrusts just right.
“So Angel, do you like being me? Do you like being fucked with something hard and cold? Do you like staring death in the face, never knowing if the gun will go off, never knowing if the bullet will pierce your heart and make an end of you? Do you like walking on a knife-edge?”
Angel could only moan.
Wesley was panting so hard now that he could hardly speak. His free hand was busy in his lap, stroking his cock in time with the thrusts of the gun inside his lover. Angel was whimpering, begging for release - muscles trembling as he pulled back on the handcuffs and bore down on the gun. Wesley could smell blood. Blood that flowed from deep welts on Angel’s wrists as the cuffs dug deeply into his flesh. Wesley wondered how much longer the restraints would hold him, and prayed for just another few moments.
Holding the gun steady, Wesley pulled back the hammer with his thumb and locked it into position. Beneath him Angel cried out as he recognized the sound of the weapon being cocked. Releasing his own cock, Wesley reached around and took Angel’s in his fist, wanking him hard as he drove the gun into the vampire’s anus.
He knew Angel was close now and he tightened his grip on his cock, his other hand thrusting wildly, fucking Angel hard. He felt Angel stiffen beneath him with the onset of his orgasm and at that moment Wesley pulled the trigger. There was an audible click as the hammer struck home and the thud reverberated throughout Angel’s body, a perfect accompaniment to the vampire‘s cries of pleasure as he pulsed cool ropes of semen over Wesley's hand as he came.
Pulling the gun from Angel’s body, Wesley took its place, mounting him and ramming his cock into the vampire’s oil-slicked entrance. He rode him hard, his fingernails tattooing half-moons in Angel’s hips as he drove his cock into him again and again, fucking him viciously. His orgasm was so intense that he thought he might pass out and he called out Angel’s name, tears drenching his cheeks as he rode out the spasms and then collapsed heavily onto his back.
Angel’s knees finally gave out and the two men fell in an exhausted heap onto the bed, the gun sliding over the edge and landing with a loud clatter on the floor. Wesley lay dazed, his body unable, unwilling to move. But Angel squirmed beneath him, and with a sickening crunch he wrenched the handcuffs from the remains of the ruined bedstead, tiny wooden splinters showering his dark hair like confetti.
“See?“ He chuckled “Could have gotten out of them any time I wanted.“
He sat up and slid Wesley from his back onto the bed, and leant over, shaking the splinters from his hair.
“Woah... it’s gettin’ kinda dangerous here, all these splinters and all. Hey, you want to take this things off me?” Angel rattled the cuffs, little droplets of blood splattering the bedcover like scarlet tears. He didn’t seem to notice.
Wearily, wordlessly Wesley complied. Then he lay down and Angel gathered him in his arms.
“Jesus... Jesus, Wes. That was... That was incredible. Fucking incredible.”
Wesley lay in his arms, sweat soaking every inch of his body. He felt... powerful. Brutal. He felt in control.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, it was very good, wasn’t it?”
Angel’s lips searched for his. “You were very good” he whispered, before gently freeing himself from Wesley’s embrace and getting out of bed. “I’ll be right back, I just gotta get something to eat - try and replace all those calories we just burnt off. Can I get you something?”
Wesley smiled and shook his head. “Please. A glass of water, I’m parched. And hurry it up, will you?”
Angel grinned back and then chuckled. “Hey, be thankful that thing wasn’t loaded, otherwise you’d have to get it yourself. Not to mention all the vampire brains you’d be scraping off of the carpet.”
When the door slid closed, Wesley arose quickly and retrieved the gun from the floor. His smile was gone now and he felt as if ice had replaced his blood and was chilling its way towards his heart.
He flicked open the chamber and tipped the gun to one side, catching the lone bullet as it fell from the gun.
“Yes” he murmured. “Thank your lucky stars.”
And the knife-edge he walked became a razor.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He loved the smell of gun oil in the morning. Smelt like ... Angel.
THE END