Wesley had moved to a new apartment soon after they had joined Wolfram & Hart. He had said that he needed more room for his books and a garage to house his new car and motorcycle, but Angel had always wondered if he was bothered by the ghosts of memories he couldn't quite recall about his old place.

Gunn and Fred had helped him move, but Angel had never been there. Somehow they had never gotten around to the much-discussed housewarming party. Fred had discussed it a lot, anyway; Wesley had seemed torn between self-consciousness and flustered pleasure at the idea, as he always did when too much attention was being called to him.

Angel found himself wishing that he had given Wesley more attention, if only to have made those bright blue eyes light up with happiness more often. Then, there might have been a party. Other things might have turned out differently, too.

Watching from the hallway as Gunn went searching for first aid supplies, Spike went searching for alcohol, and Illyria went searching for god-knows-what, Angel was surprised by how comfortable Wesley's living room looked. Dark leather chairs, a claret-colored oriental rug on the floor, and well-used books and weapons lining the walls. Had Wesley chosen the colors? Had he picked out the elegant brass lamps framing the couch? No, the books and weapons were his, but he must have hired a decorator for the rest; he'd never shown much interest in the material.

Still, it was a rich and nuanced space, just like Wesley, and Angel could imagine long nights of talking and laughing there, just like old times. Maybe even better, now that they'd gone through so much and come out the other side. There were bonds between them stronger than friendship, more powerful than the blood and tears both had spilled. Even though they had been tested too many times, they had grown together into a relationship beyond any Angel had ever known.

So as much as he wanted to lower his battered body into one of those deep chairs and as much as Wesley's familiar scent was calling to him with the promise of comfort and companionship, Angel couldn't quite make himself cross the threshold. He couldn't, because once he did it would be painfully, devastatingly clear that, though he had never been to Wesley's apartment, he no longer needed an invitation to enter.

He'd rather stand, propping himself up against the wall and staining the hall carpet with blood and ichor, than face that undeniable truth.

~end~