I never met him. I feel like I know everything there is to know about him, and I've seen countless pictures, even a videotape…but I never met him. He died shortly, inconveniently, just before I came to work for Angel Investigations. Cordelia and Angel were both still broken up over his tragic, heroic demise.
At first, I felt as if I were an outsider in the group. As if I were, per se, his replacement. But I soon learned, after hearing them talk about him, remember him…that he was not the kind of man that could be replaced. I made my own niche, and simply was forced to wish I had met the man who came before me.
I sit in the office, watching Cordelia's home video of him. Again. I can't decide what it is about him that has me so captivated. Is it Irish lilt that just makes a tiny shiver run down the length of my spine, settling deep in the small of my back? Or possibly those bright green eyes, looking like they hold all the secrets of the universe? I'll never learn those secrets, at least not from him.
Our rats are low.
"Wes?" A voice from the doorway. I quickly turn the video off, but I know he's already seen what I was watching.
"Yes, Angel?"
"What are you doing?"
"I was curious," I say, knowing that the excuse is just as hollow to his ears as it is to mine.
"You've seen that video before, Wesley. There's not a lot to be curious about."
His tone is much too controlled, neutral. I know that Angel doesn't like to be reminded of him. The pain, the guilt of the loss, is still so much for him to bear, even after all this time. I think Angel loved him too. I don't know if his feelings linger, genuinely at least, but I know they were there once upon a time. It's in the way he avoids the subject altogether.
"Indeed," I say simply, not even attempting to explain myself. I've done nothing wrong. I haven't been told not to view the video. I glory in the days that Cordelia becomes nostalgic and puts the video on herself, and watches it continuously. I have an excuse to watch, then. I know she loved him too.
A sorry sight, we three are. All in love with a dead man. Cordelia, as always, has recovered, and begun searching for love in new places. She's happy, and healthy, and going on with her mission. She has a piece of him in her head, a piece none of us can hope to ever have. She's nearly died for them, but the visions are a portion of him and they're worth it.
Angel looks at me for a moment, and we both hold the gaze. He's reading me, and I'm challenging him to ask another question. He doesn't say another word, but after a short time, he turns around and leaves again. I wonder if he's figured me out, and suddenly I don't care. I know how stupid it is to have fallen for a man I'll never have. Could never have. I'm so tired of hiding it that I don't care whether he knows and looks down upon me for my feelings. I don't need his pity, nor do I need his distain. Neither is coveted. I can question my sanity without his help, thank you very much. I'm perfectly capable.
Finally, I leave the office. I head to my own apartment, to sleep, and dream of a lean, warm lover. His fingers ghost over my skin, caressing me until I'm mindless, as we bring each other pleasure until that final, culpable moment. Everything swims through my head, until finally we both reach the precipice of the experience, launching me into full wakefulness. I rub at my tired eyes, wishing I could go back to sleep, back into that dream world where everything is the way I want it to be, rather than into the real world, where everything is cold and lonely. And the man I love is dead.
The next morning, I walk back to work, to spend the day wondering what he'd think about different developments, what time he'd come into work, what he'd wear. I wonder about all the different facial expressions he might make, and if his eyes would express his deepest thoughts or hold them in mystery. I'm afraid to ask Cordelia if his eyes were expressive, because I don't think she would have noticed. I'm afraid to ask Angel because I know he'll just give me that look, that pitying look. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with him knowing anymore. Yesterday it didn't matter…because I was tired…and lonely. Today, I'm still lonely, and still a little tired, but I'm thinking more clearly. He knows so much, and I wonder if he's going to try to talk to me about it. I don't actually want to talk about it. I don't suppose it would be so bad if I were to talk about it with somebody else, but I just can't with Angel.
The reasons for this are varied and complex. Angel was so close to Doyle. Angel is much older, and seemingly wiser than I. Angel loved him too. All of these things just make it wrong to talk about him. Granted, it would be an exercise in bonding, but…I don't think I could open myself up that way. I don't want to admit that I'm in love with a dead man.
So I continue to go through my day alone, wishing for a dead man to live again so that I might meet him. Cordelia has a vision just before nightfall, and after my token research, Angel and I leave the office to fight the G'aryk. Not a particularly vicious demon in most cases, but this one apparently had been infected with some human disease, not native to its own species, and is experiencing a violent dementia.
The G'aryk, a 4.5-foot demon with slimy gray skin and poisonous venom, is preparing to attack a fast-food establishment when we catch it in an alley. The demon, normally docile, is fast and ferocious in its madness. It attacks Angel with relish, and Angel revels in the voraciousness with which his opponent challenges him. However, Angel's footing slips once, on some rotting garbage in the alley, and he goes down with a heavy thud. The G'aryk, in its mindless rage, heads straight for me, claws swinging, mouth frothing. Low growls interrupted by harsh squeals of pain and displeasure erupt from its maw, and I back up quickly, readying my axe for the impending fight. Finally, it comes closer, too close, and I swing, just as it spews its frothy venom at me, burning my skin painfully. It won't cause any permanent damage, I know, but it burns like acid and causes me to scream in pain. Angel jumps up, and jumps on the demon's back, probably cutting himself on the razor sharp spines of the G'aryk's backbone. Angel lets out a pained grunt as he snaps the demon's neck, and lets its oozing body slither to the asphalt. I am holding my arm in a handkerchief I'd had in my pocket, trying to soothe the fire on my skin, but not having much success.
"Let's get back and see what we can do about that burn," Angel says quietly, and I look up at him. His stomach is bleeding, undoubtedly from the G'aryk's spines.
"And perhaps your own wounds," I grit out between clenched teeth. He lifts the left side of his mouth in a half-smirk, and nods curtly.
"That, too." We make our way to his car, and he drives us back to the office to see if Cordelia is there to tend to our wounds. She is not, so we head down to Angel's flat to do it ourselves.
As I am soaking my left arm in a basin of cool water, relishing the soothing chill of the liquid while sitting at Angel's kitchen table, Angel goes into his bedroom change his shirt and see how deeply the G'aryk's spines scored his flesh. When he leaves the room, my minds turn back to the man I love.
What would the slight Irishman have done in the battle? How would he yield his weapon? Would he have used an axe, like me, or a broadsword like Angel? Or would he use a blunt object of some kind? Would his demon side have given him extra strength, or would he have to have transformed into his Brachen form to have the demon's strength?
I sigh deeply. The man is always lingering near the top of my thoughts. I don't know why it is that I fell in love with him. Perhaps the real reason is that I can never be rejected if I never have the chance to ask if he feels the same. He's dead, so he can't not love me back. Angel comes back into the kitchen and pulls a bag of pig's blood from the freezer. I watch him as he pours it into a mug and heats it in the microwave. Angel, too, has dark hair and an Irish background. He's a demon within the body of a man. So many similarities, and I wonder if perhaps I'm projecting my feelings onto a dead man so that I don't have to face the fact that I'm attracted to a vampire. The thought flits away as fast as it came, and I know it's untrue. Angel has so many qualities that I admire, but I'm not really attracted to him, beyond the physical. And I admitted that to myself long ago.
"You're staring," Angel says quietly, not turning around to face me.
"I'm sorry. I was just thinking. You know how my mind likes to wander," I say a little sheepishly, embarrassed.
I'm not sorry. I wonder why not. I was caught, and I wish I hadn't been, but I was just staring at my employer, and I'm not sorry. Perhaps because…he's the only link I have to the dead man I love? Would that be enough? Would it be enough for him?
Angel rinses his now-empty mug and places it in the sink, finally turning to face me.
"Do you want a beer?" he asks. I smile graciously and accept, and watch as he pulls two bottles from the refrigerator. He uncaps them and hands me one. We sit in uncomfortable silence, making small talk here and there, but mostly just sitting and drinking our beer. Once we've finished the first, Angel stands to get two more, and we drink those. After the fourth, I start to wish I'd eaten something before we'd headed out to fight the G'aryk, as I am beginning to feel light- headed.
"Is everything all right, Wesley?" Angel asks me suddenly, his eyes boring into my soul, trying to read me again.
"Everything's fine, Angel. Why would you think it wasn't?" My voice is surprisingly steady, and I'm proud of that. I didn't waver at all. It sounded convincing, even to me.
"You've been…distant, this last month. Like you've got something heavy on your mind." His words are vague, but I think we both know what he's talking about.
"Really, Angel, I…" I trail off as he interrupts me.
"I know what's happening, Wes. I know about…him."
"You don't know anything, Angel." This is said a little more coldly. I don't want to have this discussion. Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to leave, to get out of here before the words come into the open.
"Don't I?" Angel sighs. "Wes, you never even met him."
I glare stonily at him, wanting him to be quiet. I'm not going to answer him.
"Wesley…he was a wonderful man. But he's dead. You never met him, and you never will. Your feelings…whatever they are, you can't…he's dead, Wes."
"I'm well aware of your former employee's state of being, and I assure you that it is not a problem, as there are no feelings to speak of." The lie leaves an acrid sting in my mouth, and I feel more guilt than I ever have the second the words pass my lips. IF I could take them back… But I can't. Pity.
"Wesley, don't shut me out here. I'm your friend. I want to help you. I can't…there's a piece of him in me, and there's…somehow, there's a part of him in you. And you're my friend. I can't…I know how much it hurts you, every day, and I want to make that stop." This is perhaps the longest speech I've heard Angel utter.
"Well, I thank you for your concern, Angel, but I assure you, I'm fine. Now, if you don't mind, it's getting a bit late, and I think I shall head home, put some salve on this arm, and get some rest. I suggest you do the same." I stand to leave, and suddenly he's in front of me, his mouth on mine, his hands clutching at my upper arms hard, yet carefully avoiding the burn from the G'aryk. Our tongues slide together swiftly, lips and teeth clashing in sudden passion.
He pulls away just as suddenly, leaving us both breathless.
"Angel?" I ask, confused, aroused, and a little guilty. Why do I feel guilty? I can't cheat on a dead man I've never met.
"Wesley," his voice is low, filled with a pain I know too well, and a lust I know better.
"I think you've had one too many beers," I say quietly, dropping my eyes for a moment.
"It's not the beer," he says, his voice low and predatory.
"Angel, we can't," I say after a moment of holding his gaze. "The curse." As much as I want Angel right now, to use, to forget, to be used by, I know that the risk isn't worth it, Angelus must never resurface, and I fear that if Angel were to experience true happiness again, Cordelia's and my own life would be in grave danger.
"It won't happen." I give him a pointed look. "Wesley…I want this, but…it won't be perfect happiness."
I stare at him for a few moments, strangely unhurt by his admission. "Why not?" I finally ask, more curious than anything.
"Because you're not him." The words are spoken so softly, that I almost don't hear them. However, I do, and I continue to hold Angel's gaze for long moments, sorting through things in my mind.
I may be in love with a dead man, but I have here the chance to make love to the man who loved him before me. Angel touched him, spoke to him, confided in him and was confided in by him. Angel knew him, watched him, loved him and wanted him. Do I want that part of him? Is it worth any regrets there may be in the morning?
"Wes…" he says again, hissing almost imperceptibly on the last consonant of my name. It's worth it.
I step forward and press my lips to his again, my arms wrapping around his torso. He lets out a growl and clutches at me, pulling me toward the vicinity of his bedroom.
My mind is floating. Angel's lips mesh with mine in a frenzy, our tongues dueling for dominance. Hands roam, and clothing disappears almost magically, until we are a writhing mass of flesh and limbs, panting and glistening with perspiration. Low moans form both of us as nipples and pulse points are licked, sucked, nibbled, teased. Deep in the pit of my stomach, I'm burning, tingling for this.
My hands caress what seems like miles of hard, pale skin. Angel jerks under my touch when I hit a particularly sensitive spot, and I shiver when he reciprocates. Finally his hands find my engorged length, and I gasp as he wraps it in his grip. I let out a groan when he begins to move his hand, unable to stop myself from pressing my hips up against him.
Finally, he stops, and kisses me again. Before I know what's happening, he has a small tube of some lubricant, and is pouring it into his hand. I turn over onto my stomach, bringing my knees under me so that my hips are raised slightly. It seems too intimate to do this face-to-face, and I can't pretend I'm fucking a dead man instead of an undead man. His fingers probe at my entrance, slick with the gel, and he pushes two fingers in, thrusting them gently, stretching me, preparing me.
He presses a light kiss to the small of my back, and places the head of his penis against the tiny opening. But he doesn't slide in, despite my obvious pleading.
"Such a lovely ass, lad. Can't wait to get meself into ye,"Angel whispers in my ear, using the thick Irish brogue of his heritage. My cock twitches, my balls tingle, my eyes roll back in my head, and I'm on the verge of coming, just from that accent. That Irish lilt that pushes me over the edge into insanity. He pushes in quickly, and I scream now, my release bursting forth and staining Angel's silk sheets in the most intense orgasm I've ever experienced in my life. He grunts as my channel grasps at him, rhythmically tightening and releasing in my orgasm, and after only a few thrusts, I feel him spill himself into me.
We lay there a moment, him draped over me, panting. Finally, Angel pulls himself out of my body with a quiet groan, and lies down beside me. He pulls me over to lay on his chest, petting my hair as I struggle to catch my breath. But this is the intimate tenderness of a friend, not the caress of true love, which comforts me somehow. I don't want Angel's love.
After a few moments of resting, Angel finally speaks.
"I loved him too, you know," he says.
"I know."
"I made love with him once."
I look up at Angel in shock. Is it true? "You did?" I gasp. "When?"
"About a week before he died." Angel's voice is soft, with little emotion. How can he not have emotion, talking about making love to that man?
I say nothing, still a little shocked. But happy. Angel slept with him. And I slept with Angel. I'm that much nearer to him now. That one measure…I'm one step closer.