*****

"Hey, English."

Wesley looks up from his book as Gunn enters the office and smiles.

"Hey."

"Got something for you."

Puzzled, Wesley takes the folded piece of parchment Gunn hands him.

"What is it?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Gunn drops into a chair opposite Wesley.

"Don't know, couldn't read it. The gang found it on the ground after they were attacked by a demon. It knocked them down and disappeared before they could take a look. Big, strong and aggressive is all they said."

Scanning the text after carefully unfolding the parchment, Wesley frowns. A poem? Gunn brought him a poem? Well, he can't actually be sure until he finds a translation, but the way the eight short sentences are arranged it gives every impression of being a poem.

"Think you can translate it? It might tell us what that demon was."

Gunn's serious voice matches his facial expression and Wesley can't bring himself to tell him that he thinks it's just a poem.

"I will have to look it up."

A sudden scream startles them both. Wesley grabs the desk, moving to get up, but Gunn motions him to stay.

"Don't get up, Wes, I got it," Gunn assures him as he hurries off.

Grabbing the bottle of aspirin out of the drawer, Wesley calls after him, throwing it at him when Gunn turns. Gunn catches it and disappears into the small room.

Leaning back in his chair, Wesley looks at the doorway, waiting for Gunn and Cordelia to emerge, wondering what her vision will bring them this time. He absentmindedly fingers the parchment while in his mind he makes a list of demons he knows are in to poetry. Crossing off a few whose language he's familiar with, he still ends up with a substantial list. Of course he realises there are probably a lot more he never even heard of. While his mind is working over time, his eyes are still on the doorway, and when Gunn and Cordelia finally reappear he immediately focuses his attention on them. Even though Cordelia produces a slight smile when she sits down at the desk with him, Wesley can see the pain in her eyes. Sometimes it seems to him as if her headaches get worse with each vision. He returns the smile, reaching over, giving her hand a quick squeeze.

When Gunn clears his throat Wesley turns to him. He seems very keen, eager even, and before Wesley can ask what the vision was about Gunn blurts it out.

"Cordelia's vision could have something to do with that demon the gang ran into ..."

"I didn't really get much though," Cordelia interrupts, "Just a place. Smelly, old and dark, but no demons in sight."

Gunn simply waves her comment off.

"So, once Angel gets here we'll check this place out and ask around about that demon."

Nodding Wesley grabs his cane and gets up. He flinches and leans on the desk for support.

"And I'll see if I can find out what language this writing is in."

Determined to ignore their concerned looks, he starts helping them gather the weapons they might need. When he asks Cordelia if she's feeling alright he gets a strange look and a laugh.

"You tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine," is all she says before she turns to follow Gunn outside, to put the bags in his truck, nearly running into ... "Angel!"

Wesley turns instantly, he just can't help himself, but he holds back the smile that threatens to appear. Curtly greeting Angel, he walks back to the desk, busying himself with rearranging stuff that doesn't really need any rearranging.

"You're just in time. Grab this, I'll fill you in on the way. Good luck with the research, Wesley."

Wesley looks up to thank Cordelia, but she's already out the door, leaving a fazed Angel standing in the doorway, holding the bag she gave him. Barely able to tear his eyes away, Wesley hopes his expression is neutral enough for him to fake indifference.

"Go on," he urges, "Shouldn't keep them waiting."

The way Angel turns around and shrugs his shoulders, the way he flashes him a smile and walks out the door, it all seems like slow motion to Wesley. A slow motion that he replays in his head, frame by frame, until the images dissolve into something else. Something that hits him, hard. Something he really doesn't want to think of now. He slams his fist on the desk in frustration and picks up the parchment, hoping it will take his mind off things.

Iviyceia ujam figo, nego fonis,
pezuris liim, ym kuoz wri neduj
Meduj juo okoz dnis droom,
Byk juiro zeduj boffir.
Iviyceiaro poyvowan vroyjaroz a myjaro,
bojdwe ji amborzjy kia brozyl ym zirris.
Nimwe kiro ombaro sennem
senn jui kia jilirris rogoyn

Once again Wesley reads the text he thinks may be a poem, softly repeating parts of it, over and over again.

"Nego fonis ... pezuris liim ... poyvowan ... kiro ombaro sennem"

The language and rhythm seem so familiar to him, but he just can't remember where he's seen it before. Leaning heavily on his cane, he turns towards the bookcase and scans the books. Now and then he takes one out, browses through it and, with the list in his head acting as a guide, either puts it back, or dumps it on the desk behind him.

"kiro ombaro sennem."

It's not a common language, he knows that much, nor one he's come across recently.

"But it's got to be in here somewhere," he mumbles to himself as he sits down again, wincing at the sharp twinge of pain it causes.

'Actually, it's kind of funny. I recently got a gut wound myself ... kind of antique-sword ... Went deep,' Angel's words echo through his mind, his hands turning into fists as he tries to suppress the urge to throw something.

"Yeah, really funny! Only yours healed a lot quicker than mine will," he hisses through clenched teeth. It doesn't matter how hard he tries to convince himself that Angel was only trying to make conversation, it still hurts. He had no right to compare them. Shaking off his thoughts of Angel, he forces himself to calm down and concentrate on the job at hand.

"Back to the books ... Iviyceia, Iviyceiaro, Juo, juiro, jui, kia, kiro ... There aren't that many languages that use conjugations like this."

Carefully laying the parchment aside he opens the first book.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is near midnight when Angel parks his car in front of the office.

After Gunn told him he would drive Cordelia home, Angel offered to pick Wesley up and drop him off at home. He saw a gleam of suspicion in Gunn's eyes, and even though Angel knows he brought it on himself, it still stung. Turning away from Gunn, ignoring his protests, his eyes met Cordelia's. He expected for her to echo Gunn's protests, mirror his mistrust, but instead Cordelia just looked at him, puzzled. Or was it inquisitive? He didn't really know which it was, but it did look like she was dwelling on something. Finally Cordelia simply wished him "sweet dreams", grabbed Gunn and dragged him off to his truck.

"And don't forget to lock up!" Angel heard Cordelia call out to him as he got into his car.

Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, he started the engine and drove off.

"So ... here I am," he states to himself when he finally gets out of his car. Locking it, he looks towards the office; the lights are still on. Angel smiles. Dutiful, devoted Wesley, never stopping until everything is solved. Had he really expected something else?

Leaning back against his car, Angel thinks about the past few weeks.

They had not been ready for him to walk back into their lives like that, but at least they had been willing to give it a try. He is still trying, struggling, every day, to regain even a little of their trust. It is hard work, but he knows they are worth it, more than worth it, and it seems to be paying off. Gunn just plainly treated him as part of the inventory at first, but he seems to be slowly accepting him being around again. Cordelia, on the other hand, found a perverse satisfaction in making him grovel and giving him pesky little chores, just to see how far she could go. Or maybe it was about how far he would go. Either way she got her money's worth, because he did whatever she wanted, and without complaining even once. Making coffee, filing things, running errands; oh yeah, he did it all. Though, like Gunn, Cordelia seems to be mellowing, acting more like her usual self around him, and treating him less like an errand boy. Well ... at least he doesn't have to make coffee anymore.

And then there is Wesley.

Sighing Angel pushes himself away from the car.

Barely inside, Angel stops dead in his tracks, blinking at the sight before him.

"Wesley?"

He shivers, the hair on the back of his neck rising, when he sees Wesley's body slumped in the chair behind the desk, his head resting on an opened book with even more books scattered around him.

"No!"

Rushing to Wesley's side, Angel suddenly becomes aware of Wesley's steady heartbeat and he forces himself to calm down, to clear his head. Why didn't he notice it before?

He would have, if he'd paid more attention to it, but he didn't. All he could see was a picture in his mind of Wesley lying in a hospital bed.

But he's only sleeping.

A feeling of relief settles over Angel and he drops down in a chair next to the desk, weary, but calmer now.

Only sleeping.

His eyes roam over Wesley's face; he looks so innocent.

He used to think he had Wesley all figured out, but lately he isn't so sure anymore. Wesley has grown, emotionally, it seems. He comes across as more assertive, more self-assured than he used to be, and it suits him. But Angel 's been sensing something off about Wesley, and it bothers him that he can't put a finger on what it is.

Oh God, Wes, where did I go wrong?

It isn't really a question. It went wrong when he fired them, pushed them away, telling himself he was trying to protect them, telling himself he didn't need their help. Maybe things might have been different if he had ...

Angel shakes his head, it's no use going through that ... again.

He watches, mesmerized, how Wesley, in his sleep, lifts his hand to put his glasses on straight, and Angel can't help smiling when he notices they're only sagging further down his nose. As in a trance he moves forward and removes them, barely realizing what he's doing, but catching himself just in time, just before his hand caresses Wesley's cheek. Jerking his hand back, he sighs, staring intently at Wesley's face, concentrating on his heartbeat. An image of Wesley smiling at him enters his mind. A smile that could make him forget, almost everything.

What happened to that smile, Wes. What made you lose it?

Oh, sure, he sees him smile often enough. He smiles at Cordelia; sometimes affectionately like a brother would, and sometimes with obvious amusement. He smiles when he and Gunn are fooling around, or doing that handshake thing. He even smiles at the clients, but he doesn't smile at him, not anymore. At times he does, almost, but as soon as Angel looks his way the smile just fades away.

Why, Wes, why? I just want to see you smile again.

He tears his eyes away from Wesley, picking up the piece of parchment and the notepad lying in front of him. So, this is the text he was working on?

He studies the strange language, grinning when he reads the notes Wesley has written down.

A poem? Gunn will be so disappointed by that.

His body freezes up as he reads on and realises that Wesley has managed to translate most of it.

"Thlekarian!"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Opening his eyes, Wesley almost jumps, immediately wincing in pain, when he sees Angel sitting in front of him. He pushes himself against the back of his chair, his hands clenching the desk, eyeing Angel suspiciously. Is he still dreaming? Or ... Looking around he realises he is still in the office, so he is not dreaming. Good, he thinks, slowly willing himself to relax and letting out a breath he didn't even realise he was holding.

"Angel!"

"Sorry," Angel says, "I didn't mean to wake you, but ..."

"What are you doing here?" Wesley interrupts him. Noticing his glasses lying on the desk, he puts them on. Angel's expression is unreadable, and Wesley hopes his own is as well.

"I came to give you a lift home, actually, but you were sleeping. I noticed your notepad and decided to see what you found out about that demon and the parchment."

"What was the yelling about then? You were pretty loud for someone not wanting to wake me up."

"Thlekarians."

It takes a moment to sink in, but when Wesley realises what Angel is talking about, he perks up.

"You know of them?"

Angel nods.

"Yeah, we came across some Thlekarians once, barely managed to escape They are like Kamikaze pilots. When they start something they won't stop until they have killed their target. They're killers for hire, ruthless killers. A school bus full of children is no excuse for them to let their target go."

Wesley's still sleepy eyes are wide open now, horror clearly written on his face.

"But the poem ..."

Angel holds the notepad up and reads Wesley's translation aloud:

"Iviyceia hunt above, but live below,
worship the moon, and shy away from light.

At night their green eyes glow,
by day they are robbed of sight.

Iviyceia are peaceful creatures by nature,
gifted to understand your dreams and sorrow.

But only if you are willing to endure,
will they reveal your tomorrow."

"Oh, this is a poem alright, no doubt about it. Thlekarians may be ruthless killers, but they do have style. This poem is a killing contract."

"Ki-killing contract?"

Angel nods

"It is their way."

Wesley blinks his eyes, still trying to process what Angel said. He takes the pad from Angel and reads through his translation a couple of times. Finally he just shakes his head and looks at Angel, wondering how something so beautiful can be something so cruel.

"And I thought they were just a breed of poets. I translated a poem of theirs before, years ago, and the passages I found with dictionaries of the Thlekarian language were mostly in books about demonic poetry. None of them mentioned anything about ruthless killers for hire."

He takes a breath, looking over the translation once more.

"I haven't translated the first word yet. I couldn't find it anywhere. It wasn't hard to find out that the conjugation of that same word in the second verse means 'are'. So the word itself might well be the name of the ones they're after. I started going through all the books again after I found the translation, trying to search for a peaceful demon with green eyes and gifts like reading dreams, but ... I fell asleep."

Wesley knows he's blushing, but he tries to ignore it and looks at Angel.

"I don't suppose you know anything about a demon like that, do you?"

"No, I don't think so."

Wesley picks the opened book up and starts leafing through it.

"If those Thlekarians are as dangerous as you say they are, I'd better stop wasting time and get on with it then."

"You care for some help, Wes?"

There it is again, that strange feeling that creeps upon him every time Angel says his name like that.

Wesley closes his eyes for a moment, trying to ignore it, pleading quietly for Angel to stop doing it.

"Wes? Are you okay? I can take you home if you're too tired, you can always take some books with you."

Stop it, Wesley screams inside, don't say my name like that, say anything, just not that. He swallows and clears his throat.

"Yes, I'm alright," he says, but doesn't look up. He reads a passage about Empath demons, wondering if they can read dreams as well, glad to have an excuse for not having to look at Angel.

"And, yes, you can help, if you want to, now that you're here anyway."

Actually, he would rather go home and take the books with him, but he doesn't want to have to invite Angel in, doesn't want him to know he revoked the invitation. He certainly doesn't want to have to explain to him why he revoked it, not even Cordelia or Gunn know he did.

Turning the page he realises there isn't any more information about Empath demons, so he browses on. On to the next one.

The rustling of paper tells him that Angel is now leafing through a book as well, and his mind wanders off again. He remembers the last time he saw Angel reading a book. Wesley doesn't know what the book was, but it must have been good, because the tip of Angel's tongue was peeking out of his mouth, and he didn't even seem to notice Wesley walking by a couple of times. Not that Wesley wanted him to notice, because then Angel would have caught him staring. But that was before ...

He barely has a chance these days, nor does he try, it only makes him think of ...

Shaking his head, Wesley puts the book away and picks up another one. Being home, alone, suddenly doesn't sound that bad.

"I may have found something here, but it's not very clear." Angel's voice rips Wesley back to reality and he looks up.

"What did you find?"

Angel turns his book around, showing Wesley a picture of something resembling an Elf.

"Like I said, it's not very clear. No name, nothing about being sightless or sun-shy, but it does mention dream reading. Not really helpful, is it?"

"On the contrary, very helpful, indeed." Wesley says, sifting through the books on the desk, picking out a rather thick one. "The Myths and Magic of Elves. Amazing, isn't it? It's something between a children's tale book and a guide to Elves. Most people would lay it aside as rubbish, but it holds more truths than one would expect."

Wesley had actually bought it at a car boot sale when he was about fifteen, because he had been fascinated with Elves at the time. It has been years since he last read it.

"I always thought that Elves were just Elves, but there are so many different kinds," he explains to Angel while he's looking for the right page, "Right, here is a name index, let's see if it mentions Iviyceia. There is always a chance that the Thlekarians didn't bother to translate the name."

Wesley checks the names. Three of them start with an I, but there is nothing about Iviyceia. Shaking his head in disappointment, he sighs and starts going through the book from the beginning, page by page.

"It was worth a try."

"It was, but I guess the Thlekarians do translate everything."

Wesley startles as he realises that Angel's voice comes from behind him.

"Would you try not to give me a heart attack, please, Angel," he says, holding a hand to his chest and taking a couple of deep breaths.

"Sorry, I didn't ..."

"I know, you didn't mean it. Next time, just warn me."

Wesley focuses his attention to the book again, studying every drawing intensely, holding the book a little to the side, so Angel can look over his shoulder. Even though having Angel standing close behind him is distracting him, Wesley manages to keep his mind on the Elves, and they sift through the book pretty quickly. Wesley is disappointed when they get close to the end of the book. He really thought he would find it in here.

"Don't worry, Wesley, we're not done yet."

Strangely, Wesley feels reassured by Angel's words, and he turns another page, and another, and another and ...

"Hold on, turn back one."

He does as Angel tells him. It doesn't look like the Elf they were looking for, or does it?

He pulls the other book closer. The sketches are different in that one, a bit rough, but, yes, it could be the same Elf.

"I think you may have found it, according to this it's called Ocvaziou. This is just a drawing though, I'll have to go back to the name index to find out if there is more."

There is, and it doesn't take Wesley long to find the right page. He reads the information out to Angel: "It says here that Ocvaziou are barely 4 feet high, with only eight fingers. They are peaceful, friendly creatures, until provoked. They can read dreams and see someone's sorrow, like the poem says. Their eyes are green, but they can only see in the dark. There is nothing about the endure part though, nor does it mention what they hunt."

Wesley stops reading and looks up at Angel.

"Why would the Thlekarians want to kill them? Or should we try and find out who hired them?"

Angel shakes his head.

"We won't find an answer to either question, Wesley. Thlekarians are not known to talk much. Going after Thlekarians is dangerous enough, but if we can find a weak spot in one of those books, we might have a chance. We will have to find the Ocvaziou though, warn them, have them lay low, maybe even move. But there is just no chance of finding out who wants the Ocvaziou dead."

Wesley nods, quickly scanning the rest of the page.

"Let's see, they live in groups, and they do live below, but don't like sewers. Can we even be sure they are here, in L.A.?"

"The Thlekarian that attacked Gunn's gang seems to think so, it wouldn't be this aggressive if it didn't think it was close to the target."

Stifling a yawn, Wesley puts the book about the Ocvaziou aside and reaches for one of the others. Just as he gets hold of it, Angel grabs it and holds it away from him. He also picks up "The Myths and Magic of Elves".

"You should rest, so I'm taking you home, now!"

It is clear to Wesley that Angel won't take no for an answer. So he grabs his cane and gets up, too tired to even object when Angel helps him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Noticing the way Wesley clenches his fists when he turns a corner a bit too fast, Angel slows the car down and takes his time driving Wesley to his flat, trying to avoid any obstacle in the road that may cause him further pain. It is quiet in the car, but Angel doesn't mind, he wouldn't know what to say anyway, and he certainly doesn't want to make the same mistake he made last time.

'I recently got a gut wound myself,' he remembers himself saying, and he shakes his head. Real smart move, that. He just wanted to express his sympathy, to keep some kind of conversation going, to explain what happened to him, but it all came out wrong. Won't happen this time, no, this time he'll just keep his mouth shut. He does check his mirrors a lot more than usual though, well aware that it's just an excuse to be able to look at Wesley. To watch how Wesley cleans his glasses, how his slender fingers leaf through the book lying on his knees, and how the expression on his face changes as he reads. Suddenly Wesley closes his book and looks his way, and Angel stops his eyes jumping from mirror to mirror and concentrates on the road again.

"You have not yet told me how the investigation went tonight."

"Huh? Err ... I guess I got distracted when we started researching the Ocvaziou."

" Did you find the place from Cordelia's vision then?"

"Yeah, we did. Turned out to be nothing, though. The demon may have been there, but it's smart, didn't leave a thing."

"Nothing at all?" Wesley actually sounds surprised.

"No, but we may have been too early. Gunn wants to go back tomorrow morning."

"You are not letting him go back there alone, are you?"

Angel shakes his head, and makes a mental note to call Gunn when he gets back to the Hyperion.

"Not if it's really a Thlekarian. As long as we don't know how to attack or kill it, we won't stand a chance."

Glancing sideways, Angel sees Wesley nod, a pensive look on his face. Assuming that Wesley is already thinking of where to look for information on the Thlekarians, Angel focuses his attention back to the traffic once more. Once a watcher, always a watcher, he thinks amused. No matter how different Wesley has become from the man he was, his watcher instincts will always be there. Angel wonders if Wesley realises how much he has changed, no, not changed, grown. And how Angel has come to respect him.

"I think I have a book or two at the Hyperion that might mention Thlekarians, so I'll check those later. And we can check the demon database on the computer tomorrow, but I don't think it'll come up with anything. The things I know about them are from personal experience only and all the information you found is from books on demonic poetry."

"If we can't find anything useful, I could give Giles a call," Wesley suggests, "Although I doubt very much that he and Buffy have come across a Thlekarian, he might be able to find the information we need."

"Yeah, he might."

As long as he doesn't send us Buffy, Angel adds in silence. That is one thing he could really do without right now.

Reaching Wesley's apartment, Angel parks the car near the entrance, making sure he has a good view of Wesley's window. A quick nod and a curt "goodnight", is all they exchange before Wesley opens the car door. And when Wesley once again winces in pain as he gets out of the car, all Angel can do to stop himself from getting out and helping him is grit his teeth and clutch the steering wheel. He watches Wesley enter the building, but not before he can see Wesley standing at the window of his fully lit room does he put his car in gear and drive off.

"Sweet dreams, Wes."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

After waving goodbye to Gunn and Cordelia, Wesley turns to the Host and orders another drink. As usual Gunn offered to give Wesley a lift home, but he declined. He has felt this tension between his friends for a while now and decided they need some time to themselves. So, here he is, listening to some Kailiff demon singing even worse than Angel, dreading to go home, alone, to his empty flat.

Angel.

The name drifts through his mind like a stormy cloud. Will he ever get past this? Will he ever not long to hear him say his name that way? Will he ever not long for those cool arms to be wrapped around him? He sighs and downs his drink, trying to flush away the thoughts of Angel.

"On your own, Wes?"

A shiver runs down his spine and he closes his eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath and turning his head in the direction the voice came from.

"Angel."

He barely manages to keep his voice from shaking, though he hopes it really didn't sound that high.

"Where are Gunn and Cordy?"

Wesley watches as Angel orders a drink, watches him move, just plain watches him ...

He asked me something, what was it? Oh, yes ... Gunn and Cordelia. Trying to avoid staring at Angel he clears his throat.

"On their way to Cordelia's, I should think."

He turns away from Angel and focuses his attention to the Kailiff demon still screeching away on stage.

"So, what are you doing here, alone?"

"I didn't feel like going home yet," he answers without thinking, "Although that Kailiff is making me wish I was."

The sound of Angel's laughter drowns out every other sound, and Wesley can't help smiling.

"You should laugh more, it really suits you."

His mouth slams shut when he realises he just said it out loud. Feeling a blush creeping to his cheeks, he is glad that, from a stage point of view, Angel is seated behind him. Keeping his eyes on the stage, where a Vampiress is now singing, and surprisingly well too, Wesley chides himself for slipping like that.

"Wes?"

Why does his name sound so different, so soft and sweet, when he says it?

"Yes?" he replies, still refusing to look at him.

"I asked you if you want another drink."

Wesley thinks about it for a minute. How many has he had already? He doesn't feel he has had that many, yet, but he'd rather not take any chance, not with Angel being so close.

"Thank you, but no ... Angel."

All of a sudden he feels a cool hand resting on the small of his back, sending tiny sparkles through his veins. All sound seems to be blocked out as he basks in the feeling.

"You want me to drive you home then?"

Angel's voice is much closer now and Wesley is ripped back to reality in an instant.

"Why?"

Why what? What is he asking anyway? Does he really want to know the answer?

Wesley shivers when the hand on his back moves up a little. He feels Angel shifting even closer and he holds his breath, willing his heart not to pound so loud.

"Because I know you want me to."

He does, oh, how he does, so desperately, so completely, so ... but he can't, he can't. This is Angel, "souled" Angel, "in love with Buffy" Angel. He can't give in, he shouldn't give in ... but he does. He simply lets Angel lead him outside, lets him drive him home, lets him follow him into his flat. He just lets him, but he doesn't dare raise his eyes, scared to find out it's just a dream.

Is this really happening?

But none of that matters when those cool lips finally claim his, and he feels his world turning upside down. This is all he never thought he could have, and everything he ever wanted. Why question it, at all?

Cool fingers create a burning trail on his chest, and he barely registers that his shirt is being undone. The same cool fingers send shivers up his spine as they trace it up and down ... and up ... and down ...

Is he moving? Or is the room spinning around him? No, it's him, but how? Where?

His legs hit something and he tumbles backwards, his arms gripping Angel tight. But he still falls, dragging Angel with him and tangled together they fall onto something ... soft?

Oh ... OH!

When it dawns on him that they have landed on his bed, his mind starts protesting again.

He should say no, he should ... this is ... wrong, it is ... this ... but it feels so good.

All you ever wanted, his mind echoes. Why question it?

Wesley's mind becomes one big blur. Losing all control over his body, reacting to every touch, and responding to every kiss, he gives in, totally and completely, to his desire.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something's wrong!

Wesley opens his eyes and tries to sit up, but something is wrong.

Why can't he move?

"Good, you're awake. I was getting a bit bored watching you sleep."

The voice sounds harsh and cold and Wesley shuts his eyes again, tight. He doesn't want to see.

"Oh, come on, Wesley. It was fun while it lasted, but now it's time for some real fun."

Something cold is scraping his thigh, but Wesley still keeps his eyes shut.

"No, no, no, no," he chants to himself, "this isn't real, this can't be real."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Wesley. You didn't really think nothing would happen, did you? Were you really so in heat that you simply forgot about that pesky little curse? You did, you forgot, didn't you?"

"No, he ... I ... he doesn't ..."

"Doesn't what, Wesley? Doesn't love you? Of course he does."

Wesley's heart skips a beat, and he fights to keep his eyes closed. He can't bear to look at him, can't bear to see what he did. Tears well up as thoughts and images of Angel kissing him, undressing him, touching him, whispering sweet words to him, surface and linger in his mind. Desperately, he tries to hold on to them, tries to block out everything else, and all through this he keeps repeating the same thing: "I'm sorry, Angel. I'm so sorry."

All of a sudden a sharp pain rips through his body and he cries out, Angelus ' raucous laughter ringing in his ears.

As soon as the pain seems to ebb away, it is followed by another one, and another, and another, and Wesley bites his lip, trying not to cry out again. The smell of his own blood fills the room. He feels bile rising in his throat, and he wonders how long he will be able to take this before passing out. When the pain finally stops, his whole body tenses up, waiting in terror for what might be next.

"He thought you were sweet. And ... mmm ... you are ... so sweet."

A hand grabs his chin, moving his head sideways, baring his neck, and Wesley struggles to get free from this invisible bond holding him still, but his body doesn't seem to understand what he wants.

"Don't worry, Wesley, I'm not turning you ... or maybe I will, but not before I've had some fun first."

Wesley feels the fangs scrape his neck, break the skin, sinking deeper and deeper into him, and when the pain finally becomes too much ... he screams.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Wesley screams as he wakes up, his eyes wide open in horror, his body shivering violently and his heart pounding.

"No, no, no, no, no, no!"

He clutches his pillow, closes his eyes again, and lets his tears flow freely.

"No, not again. No, no, no, no!"

He doesn't deserve this, does he? Why? Why does this keep happening to him?

"It's just a dream, just a dream," he tries to convince himself, even though he knows it won't calm him down. He has had this dream almost every night since Angel came back to them, and it hits him hard, every single time. When his body finally stops shivering, and his heart settles down a bit, Wesley carefully gets out of bed, dragging his duvet with him. It almost seems like a ritual now. From him sinking down into his chair, duvet draped around him, to looking outside, watching the moon and the stars, until he slowly drifts back to sleep again. A short, but hopefully deep and dreamless sleep.

*****