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In the course of a man’s life, there are times when he must make the difficult choices no one else will.
“I don’t care how bad it gets, I am not bumping uglies with Angelus,” Gunn says, pointing a finger to the ground to emphasize his point. “And I’m not letting you do it either.”
“Charles, there is no other way. Angel — his body — he’s going to die if no one...” Fred waffles, chewing her lip. “You know.”
“Has sex with him, yes,” Wesley finishes for her. He shuts the tome he’s been poring through, joining his former friends in the lobby. He’s forgotten how much he’s missed having access to the Hyperion’s full library again. In the aftermath of an unforgivable betrayal, it’s rather difficult to find the time to clear out one’s desk.
“We have under two hours before his condition becomes irreversibly terminal,” he continues, checking his watch. “Possibly less.”
“I should be the one to do it,” Fred says. “I mean, who else is there? Cordelia’s gone who-knows-where. Sunnydale’s too far away. I agreed to the plan to remove Angel’s soul, and I should take responsibility—”
“No,” Wesley says firmly. “You can’t.”
“I can’t ?” Fred repeats, incredulous.
“Wes is right,” Gunn agrees. “This isn’t your fault, and it’s not your job to fix this.”
“I don’t think the hex cares about whose job it is, Charles. We have a problem, and someone has to do it with him, or else—”
“Preferably someone who’s capable of saying the word ‘sex’ aloud—”
“I know what sex is, Wesley,” Fred fumes, turning on him. “And I’m sorry for trying to be delicate about Angel’s situation. He may not be your friend anymore, but he’s still mine.”
Wesley winces. It’s been months, yet each reminder of his betrayal feels as fresh as the first night he spent in the hospital. Sometimes he thinks he’s over it, then he sees a leather coat just the right length or smells the same burnt coffee they’d drink during late nights at the original office, and the wound opens up all over again. Self-consciously, he presses the palm of his hand against his throat.
“I’m sorry, Fred,” he says. “I apologize.”
Fred’s shoulders sag. “No,” she sighs, rubbing her temples. “I’m sorry for snapping at you like that. It’s been a hard few months. Can we just… get this over with?”
Wesley nods. Fred’s always been too compassionate for her own good. That she’s so willing to fall on the sword is all the more reason why she shouldn’t do it. Such a task should fall on someone who’s already hit rock bottom. Someone who has nothing left to lose.
“Very well,” Wesley says, clearing his throat. No matter how many times he does it, there’s an itch there he can’t scratch. “The components required for the ritual are simple enough. A short incantation, some incense, and a willing participant—”
“You can’t seriously be considering…” Gunn butts in.
“I’m not,” Wesley says, looking up at him. He straightens his posture the way he was taught to in the Watchers Academy. Shoulders back, chin held high. “Or rather, I am. I’ve already considered it.”
Fred and Gunn exchange glances as it dawns on them at the same time, horrified looks falling over their faces. Wesley has to steel himself, look them in the eye without actually looking at them. Gunn’s expression, he knows he can handle. But not Fred’s; he’s too much of a coward.
“No—”
“You can’t—!”
“I absolutely can,” Wesley says. “Gunn is correct. This isn’t your fault, Fred. If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine. I was the one who came up with the plan to remove Angel’s soul, and I should be the one to bear this responsibility. I swore that his soul would be returned safely, and I have no intention of reneging on that promise.”
“Wes...” Gunn says. He’s probably the only one who could understand. Sometimes a man has to do what he must. Gunn rests a hand on his shoulder, and it’s probably the friendliest interaction they’ve had in a long while. At a certain point, Wesley had begun to fear that he’d hallucinated the entirety of their friendship.
“Wesley, you know we can’t ask you to do this,” Fred says softly, her eyes full of concern. Because despite everything, she still cares about him — him, the man who sold Connor, who exorcised Angel’s soul, who got them into this mess. If there was ever any question on the matter, he knows now for certain that she’ll never love him. He knows he’ll never be deserving of it.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m making the choice.”
—
The preparations for the ritual go quickly. Fred helps him perform the necessary incantations and draw the right circles, tries to talk him out of it in between waving smoldering incense around his body. But he’s already made up his mind, and she quickly picks up that there’s no talking him out of it.
Preparing for the more physical aspects of the ritual goes faster, though it feels excruciatingly longer. Gunn awkwardly provides him with a bottle of lubricant and condoms, mustering all the grace of a parent unexpectedly compelled to give their teen the Talk.
“Be careful, okay? Take it slow. And if you ever feel like backing out—”
“Thank you, Gunn,” Wesley says. He needs to shut down this conversation before it starts. He gingerly pockets the items, trying not to think too hard about where they’ve come from. “Believe it or not, I have done this before.”
“Right,” Gunn says. “Could’ve fooled me.” Wesley’s prepared to take the insult lying down, but then he sees a fraction of a smirk lingering on Gunn’s lips. It’s an apology, maybe, or a thank you? Perhaps both, or neither. Perhaps it’s simply a moment of understanding, the recognition that every team needs someone willing to take the bullet when it comes. Today it’s Wesley’s turn, but everyone’s chance comes around eventually.
Wesley flips over the condom in his hand and examines the package. It’s unlikely he’ll need it, given the circumstances. The ancient texts don’t mention anything about barrier protection during ritual sex, but Wesley’s not inclined to take chances.
“And you’re sure you don’t have any in a bigger size?” he finally asks, trying to lighten the mood.
That gets Gunn to crack a smile — a grim, beleaguered one, but a smile nonetheless. “Ha ha. Very funny, English.”
—
Angelus is waiting for him when he descends down the staircase. Wesley’s got a stake in one hand and an axe in the other, though hopefully he won’t be needing either.
“Drew the short end of the stick, did we?” Angelus asks. He doesn’t move from his seat in a corner of the cell. A pair of manacles hold his hands behind the back of a floor-bolted chair, wrenching his shoulders back behind him, and a second pair cuffs his ankles to the chair’s metal legs. Angel personally picked restraints he knew would hold. If it weren’t for the obvious protrusion in his trousers, Wesley thinks it would be difficult to tell he were under the effects of a sex spell.
“Or, let me guess, you were practically salivating at the chance to jump into bed with your old pal,” Angelus says, condescension dripping from every syllable. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. Or, no — I guess he’s seen the way you look at him.”
It’s strange to see another man wearing a former friend’s face, no matter how estranged. Wesley’s reminded of the time Coredelia dragged them to the wax museum down on Hollywood, during that period she insisted they do all the typical tourist activities in LA. Each celebrity’s face had been lovingly recreated down to the wrinkles and pores, wax bodies dressed impeccably, each strand of hair styled like the original’s. Yet there was something uncanny about them, and no matter how hard he tried, Wesley couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something distinctly unalive about the statues’ eyes. He has the same feeling now, though he knows there’s nothing materially different about Angel and Angelus. It’s still the same flesh and bone, all the same muscles and organs.
“You haven’t seen anything,” Wesley says crisply, looking away as he shrugs off his outer layer. He’s not interested in indulging a demon determined to prey on all his worst fears. He neatly folds his jacket in half, resting it on one of the hotel chairs they dragged downstairs for those keeping watch. He’s only here to do his job and save Angel. Nothing more, nothing less.
Angelus tilts his head back to examine him better through the bars, a predator sizing up its prey.
“You know, I always thought you were quite pretty,” Angelus says as Wesley unlocks the door. “Anyone ever told you that? I mean, I’m sure you heard it all the time at the Watchers Academy, what with being Head Boy and all...”
“I’m not doing this for you,” Wesley says curtly. “I’m doing this for Angel.”
He sets the axe down by the door to the cage, pockets the stake, and rolls up his sleeves. Angelus smiles at him lazily, rolling his hips in a provocative gesture as Wesley approaches.
“Of course you are. I mean, it’d be pretty wrong if you were doing it for anyone else. But then again, I’ve heard you’ve developed a taste for the wrong,” Angelus says, licking his lips.
“You don’t know anything about me—”
With a sudden burst of energy, Angelus lunges at him. Wesley’s hand goes for his stake.
It’s a false start. The chains rattle and catch the vampire before he can make it a few inches from the chair. It doesn’t stop Wesley from flinching, humiliatingly enough. But the chains hold, and there’s no sign of them giving any time soon. Angelus only laughs.
Straightening his shoulders, Wesley puts away the stake and walks over to where Angelus sits. It was one thing to have agreed to this in theory. It’s yet another to be standing in front of the flesh-and-blood man, his knees spread invitingly and a knowing smirk plastered across Angel’s face. It’s disgusting, he thinks. It’s a mockery of the man he knows and loves.
“Like what you see?” Angelus taunts.
Wesley doesn’t respond. He lays a hand over Angelus’ chest, feeling for a heartbeat that isn’t there. His skin is still cold under the fabric of his shirt, the muscle firm under his hand. He can feel Angelus’ eyes trained on his face, watching his expression like a predator. Searching for the first sign of weakness to exploit.
Wesley reminds himself that the body in front of him is like any other demon’s, no different from any other creature he’s dissected and studied. There’s nothing special about a corpse, even one that can walk and talk and wear a good man’s face. He tells himself this as he undoes Angelus’ belt and pulls the strap free from the buckle. When the backs of his fingers brush against the front of Angelus’ jeans, it’s impossible to miss the bulge under the denim.
“Don’t be shy, Wes,” Angelus purrs. “It doesn’t bite.”
Angelus grins like this whole ordeal is nothing but a mildly amusing diversion for him, like Wesley himself is a brand-new toy to play with before discarding. As though this could mean anything other to him than the saving of a friend’s life. Wesley has to force himself to take a deep breath. Dithering about won’t make this nightmare end any sooner. He reminds himself why he’s here and who he’s doing this for. Wrestling his emotions beneath a mask, he kneels to the cool floor of the prison, undoes the zipper of Angelus’ fly, and pulls down the waistband of his boxers.
“Like what you see?”
Wesley doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He tugs the elastic the rest of the way behind the half-erect cock, tucks it under its balls. In a purely clinical sense, it’s impressive: smooth, thick, and with neatly trimmed hair curling around its base. The foreskin around the head begins to unfurl as it hardens, precum beading at its tip. Angelus certainly doesn’t seem shy about showing off. He shimmies his hips to get comfortable in his chair; or, at least, as much as he can with his hands tied behind his back.
He grins like a wolf as he stares at Wesley expectantly, waiting to be serviced.
“Come on, Wes. Give us a kiss.” Angelus cocks his head as he studies Wesley’s face, hips canting slightly towards him.
Wesley wonders what game Angelus is playing at. But then again, maybe it’s not a game. A test, perhaps? Wesley fears that if he hesitates too long, he’ll have failed it.
“Not today, I’m afraid,” he says neutrally, opening the bottle of lubricant. “But I’ll try to make this fast. For both our sakes.” He squeezes out the lube onto his palm and, without further preamble, takes Angelus in hand.
Angelus moans, or maybe he laughs. Wesley can’t tell. Angelus’ cock is cold, but it’s heavy and rapidly filling out under his touch. In many ways, it’s not unlike the times Wesley’s touched himself. He can almost tune out the words coming out of Angelus’ mouth and focus on the task in front of him, as though he were being tasked with a new, unfamiliar research assignment. A stroke like this. A thumb over the tip like that. Observe, reflect, and adjust.
“Oh, Wesley,” Angelus moans mockingly. “You’re so good at this.”
“Hush,” he says stiffly. “The sooner we get this over with, the better it’ll be for the both of us.” Wesley tightens his grip as he picks up speed, and he’s rewarded with another pulse of precum from the tip of Angelus’ cock. He’s fully hard now, the soft skin around his erection sliding easily under the calluses of Wesley’s hand. His knuckles brush against Angelus’ shirt as the pad of his thumb works over his slit.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Angelus says, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. “Keep going, Wes. Just like that.”
Wesley doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think about how much Angelus’ voice sounds like Angel, doesn’t wonder if Angel would make the same kinds of noises in bed. None of that matters right now. The person he’s kneeling in front of is Angelus. The person he’s stroking, lube and precum slipping around his fingers, is Angelus. The person he’s doing this for is Angel.
That Angel would never want Wesley to do this for him is irrelevant.
“Tell me when you’re close,” Wesley mutters, adjusting his position on the ground. He doesn’t have to look to know that Angelus has caught sight of Wesley’s own erection, pressing uncomfortably against the seam of his trousers. The sooner they get this over with, the better. According to what little literature there is on the subject, the effects of this particular hex tended to make its bearers more sensitive to stimulation than usual. Most humans only last a few minutes, if that. Still, no matter how Wesley strokes and twists him, Angelus’ cock only grows stiffer and darker with no signs of finishing. Wesley fidgets uncomfortably in his jeans, trying to find a better angle to relieve the pressure on his crotch.
“Someone’s got a high opinion of his own skills,” Angelus says. He sighs contentedly as he lets Wesley stroke him off, leisurely tilting his head against his shoulder. “Two-hundred-year-old vampire, remember? Gonna need a little more than a bar bathroom handie.”
“The texts—”
“Come on, Wes. Don’t play stupid. We both know what those old books mean when they say ‘sex,’ don’t we?” Angelus says. The condescension in his voice is obvious, so thick it makes Wesley want to ball it up and shove it back down Angelus’ throat.
“Translations leave room for interpretation,” Wesley says, feeling snippy. He doesn’t mean to reveal that glimmer of frustration, but it’s out before he can stop it. Angelus is already waiting to pounce.
“Oh, right. So something like, ‘the father will kill the son’ — that could have a lot of meanings, couldn’t it?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Wesley growls. Letting go of Angelus, he leans back and gets to his feet. The vampire’s hard cock falls against his stomach with a wet slap, ruddy and leaking. In an act of defiance, Wesley wipes his soiled hand against the hem of Angelus’ shirt. The vampire laughs.
“Wouldn’t I?” he asks.
Wesley turns his back to him as he pulls off his boots, lining them up neatly by his weapons. Angelus is right — ancient writings tend to have rather limited perspectives on sex. Wesley knew as much going into this, and he was prepared for the possibility. His shirt comes off next, then his belt. He slides out of his trousers and boxers and stacks them in a careful pile over his shoes. He’s embarrassingly hard, precum already leaking from his erection.
“Everything that’s in Angel is in me,” Angelus says, shamelessly eying Wesley’s crotch from his seat. He leans back, thrusting his hips forward to give Wesley a better view. “I know everything he knows. I know everything he felt, every terrible thought he’s ever had about you...”
“You’re not Angel,” Wesley says. There’s no good way to do this, no good position that’s anything short of humiliating. He settles for grabbing an extra chair, pulls it into the cage with him, and balances his hips on the edge of the seat. With some more lube spread on his fingers, he begins to circle his hole, slicking himself up to take a finger.
“Oh, fuck, Wes. If I’d known sooner you had this side in you...” Angelus grins, baring his teeth. His voice is more strained than usual — the hex must be affecting him more than he’s letting on. “Well, if I’d known you were so eager to spread your legs for me, I wouldn’t have bothered with Cordy.”
“Don’t—” Wesley says in warning. His hole is a tight fight for even a single finger, and he has to force himself to relax. He doesn’t want to touch his cock yet, doesn’t want to experience anything like pleasure while he’s dealing with Angelus. It takes him a few deep, intentional breaths, but eventually he’s able to slide in the first, then second finger, feeling the muscle around him slowly loosen to accommodate the new intrusion.
Angelus’ smile falters, but his gaze doesn't budge. The erection resting against his stomach hasn’t flagged since Wesley last touched it. There’s a hunger in Angelus’ eyes that he’s never seen before, distinct from a vampire’s typical desires to feed or kill. It’s certainly not a look he’s ever seen on Angel’s face. Not like this.
“You’re tight,” Angelus observes. His hips twitch in his seat. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before. If I get to be the first cock you take, Wes, I might just come right here.”
Wesley closes his eyes. He scissors his fingers to stretch himself out, imagining he’s in any situation other than this one: in his apartment, on his bed, a lover between his legs. A third, cool finger toys at his entrance, trying to press its way in. It’s not Angel watching him, he reminds himself. It’s Angelus.
“C’mon,” Angelus says, voice husky. “Unlock me just a little, Wes, and I’ll make sure you’re nice and ready to take me. You know I could make this good for you. You’re not even a little curious what two centuries of experience feels like?” His tongue darts out from between his teeth, as though emphasizing his point. Wesley gasps as his third finger finally, painfully breaches him. He’s achingly hard at this point, cock desperate to be touched.
Rather than indulge his baser instincts, Wesley takes a moment to catch his breath. He anchors himself, forces himself to relax around his fingers. He experimentally curls them inside, getting used to the feeling of having something inside him. When he’s finally satisfied that his slick fingers can easily slide in and out of the rim of his hole, he slips them out. Wiping down his wet hand on his thigh, he picks up a stake and staggers over to Angelus.
“Don’t try anything,” he warns. “If I sense you’re going to harm me, I won’t hesitate to stake you.”
Angelus smirks. “If you were going to dust this body, you’d have done it a long time ago.” He looks meaningfully up at him as he pushes his hips forward. “Now, is it my turn again?”
Wesley doesn’t respond. He roughly pulls down Angelus’ trousers to his thighs, straddles him between his legs, and takes him in hand. He guides the slippery cockhead to his entrance, feels the blunt tip pressing against his stretched ring of muscle.
“I think you’re enjoying yourself a little too much, Wes. What would the others think if they could see you now? Gunn, Cordy… Fred —”
Wesley cuts him short by sinking down on top of Angelus’ cock. It’s a tight fit, even with the preparation beforehand. He catches around the thickest part of Angelus’ shaft, hole flexing uncomfortably as it adjusts to the stretch.
“Hah,” Angelus pants. “Told you it’d be tight. It’s not too late to take me up on my offer, you know.”
“Be quiet,” Wesley says, sinking deeper onto Angelus’ cock. When it butts against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him, he nearly cries out in shock from the pleasure. His own neglected cock twitches as Angelus bottoms out inside him, their hips colliding on the floor-bolted chair.
“You sure that’s what you want? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like this dirty talk is getting you off,” Angelus says, punctuating the remark with a shallow thrust. Wesley grunts. One hand goes to Angelus’ chest to keep his balance.
“Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised. Not when you were sleeping with that lawyer—”
“How did you—?” Wesley groans as Angelus rocks under him, the movement stimulating his cock where it drags across Angelus’ clothed stomach.
“I could smell her all over you,” Angelus growls. “Good, obedient, little Wesley Wyndam-Price. I always knew there was a dark side to you. A part of you that likes evil. Likes it a little too much, from the looks of it.”
“Shut up.”
“I was right, wasn’t I? You jumped at the first chance to get fucked by me. Not to save Angel, though,” Angelus says. He tries to buck his hips to thrust into him, but the chains keep him tightly held. “It’s me you want. You need me to punish you.”
“Shut up ,” Wesley snarls. He fucks Angelus at a ruthless speed, refusing to let the other man set the pace. Every drag of Angelus’ cock against his prostate is agony, every ounce of pleasure a punishment. He rucks up Angelus’ shirt and screws the tip of the stake against where his heart would be, the wood digging into flesh hard enough to draw blood. Angelus only chuckles. Wesley rides him faster, free hand clutching at Angelus’ throat, thumb digging into the meat below his jaw. Hard enough to bruise if he were human; more than likely to cause a human to pass out. But he won’t, because Angelus isn’t human.
Angelus pants unabashedly in pleasure. Wesley leans forward so that his cock is caught between his own stomach and Angelus’, each roll of his hips smearing his precum between them. Angelus curses and mutters patronizing affection into his ears — “Yeah, just like that, Wes, come on” — and Wesley’s certain now that Angelus is nothing like Angel, because Angel would never be enjoying this so much. Angel wouldn’t ask him to do this, would never ask Wesley to subject himself to this kind of degradation. Would never want Wesley to do this.
Angel would never forgive him for this.
Wesley feels the sweat dripping down his brow as he fucks himself on Angel’s cock. Each frantic thrust sends new sparks of pleasure up his spine, and all he can think about is the lack of friction on his own hard prick. Both his hands are full, and he makes the decision to let the stake clatter to the ground. With one hand digging into the column of Angelus’ throat, Wesley fists himself in the other, gasping at the stimulation.
The chair beneath them creaks plaintively as Angelus’ hips buck to meet his own. He can hear the way his growl deepens as he chases his orgasm, the way the chains rattle in the empty basement. Wesley tightens the grip on his throat, forces Angelus’ head back so he can get a better look at his face. Angelus is close. He’s going to spill inside him. He feels Angelus tense under him, moaning as he’s caught under the squeeze of Wesley’s hand as he rides him. Then his hips stutter, pressing flush against him, and there’s the sensation of something cool filling him up, and still Wesley doesn’t stop, keeps fucking himself on Angelus’ cock, he’s so close —
“Wes?”
Angel looks up at him, eyes swimming with confusion and betrayal. Wesley gasps as he comes right then, hand working himself as his release shoots across the vampire’s chest and face. Angel winces as a streak of cum narrowly misses his eye.
“I—” Wesley stutters, breathing heavily. He stumbles backwards, feeling the slide of Angel’s cock as it exits him. The basement is cold, but the shame that floods his stomach is freezing. He sees himself through Angel’s eyes — naked, flushed with sex, cum leaking from his arsehole — and he thinks he wants to hurl.
“Wesley, what happened? Did we...?” Angel implores through agonized eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Wesley manages, faltering. “I had to — to save you —” He didn’t expect to be thanked at the end of this. He knew that this act wouldn’t save their relationship; that, if anything, it would be the final nail in its long-buried coffin. There was no way Angel could look at him after this. But if he could do something to save Angel, do this last thing for him…
“I got you, didn’t I?”
Angelus smirks at him from his seat, legs spread and softening cock resting in the divot of his hips. His shirt and face are covered in Wesley’s cum; he licks it off his lips playfully, waggling his eyebrows as he does so.
Wesley’s face hardens. He feels the walls come up around him once again as he collects himself, gathers his clothes, and begins to dress. He’s done what had to be done. Once Angel’s gotten his soul back, Wesley will finally get out of his hair, once and for all.
“You know he won’t forgive you,” Angelus says.
Wesley pauses in the middle of buttoning up his shirt. He considers abandoning Angelus here in his disheveled state, though he ultimately decides against it. Not so much for the soulless vampire’s sake or even for the usual occupant of his body, but for Fred and Gunn. Wesley couldn’t stand it if they saw Angelus in this state. If they saw what Wesley had done.
“I didn’t do this for forgiveness,” Wesley says. Fully dressed, he walks over to Angelus and begins to pull off his soiled shirt. When it catches around the vampire’s shackled arms, he tears the rest of it off, using the fabric to mop up the cum drying on Angelus’ face and on his own hands. None too delicately, he replaces Angelus’ cock in his trousers, zips his fly, and re-fastens his belt.
“No, of course not. You did it for a chance — ah, watch the goods —” Angelus hisses, “to show him just how sorry you are. Because Angel would never let you near him. Not the way I do.” He tilts his head, as though considering this. “But then again, I don’t have much of a choice, do I? Must be convenient to be able to make me into a monster. Gives you an excuse to bring out the chains,” he says, pressing the tip of his tongue out between his smiling teeth.
“There’s nothing you can say to me that I haven’t already said to myself,” Wesley says bluntly. If this is Angelus’ idea of pillow talk, he’s not interested. Nothing Angelus can say will change the reality of his situation. Angel isn’t his friend any longer, and he hasn’t been for a while. There’s nothing he can do to change that. Wesley knows that. He just needs Angel to know that, too.
Silently, Wesley collects his axe and dropped stake, balls up Angelus’ torn, dirtied shirt to incinerate later, and reaches out a hand to push open the cage door.
“I forgive you, Wesley.”
Wesley hesitates. Against his better judgment, he turns back to look at his captive. Angelus watches him with a smug grin on his face, settling into his seat like a big cat freshly fed from a kill. Like he’s got Wesley all figured out; as though he could possibly understand what he and Angel had. The vampire in the chair has all of Angel’s face and voice and body, but he’s nothing like the man.
“I know,” he says. Because it doesn’t matter. There’s no one in this cage he wants forgiveness from.
Turning, Wesley closes the door behind him and locks it shut.