*****

Sweat. Dirt. Blood. Indescribable demon gunk. This is our conquest, a violent victory, and we're both battered and bruised and filthy beyond recognition. This is that moment at the end of the battle where you raise your head and realize it's over. We've won this one, and there's nothing more natural than turning to your comrade-in-arms to savor the moment. I've been here a thousand times, and I'm glad he's the one with me, who helped me do this - like old times. So I turn to him, and there it is - that grin, all grisly triumph, and it's flickering across his face. Just for an instant, before he realizes, remembers who he almost shared that smile with.

I can see the realization slam into him, feel that almost-connection shut as he winces instead and wipes his weapon on what's left of a chair. As he bends to his task, I see the cut, seeping slowly into the grime we're both covered in. Sluggish, no danger of him bleeding to death or anything, barely oozing, making an interesting pattern around the scar. On his neck.

I stare at it, both fascinated and repulsed. Remembering the feel of his muscles twitching under that pillow as I held it down. Held *him* down, and.Wesley sees me staring.

"Wes, I'm." I'm frozen. Because the look in his eyes is not one of horror. Or disgust. It's a hard look, one I can't turn away from; like being pinned under a headmaster's stern glance. I have what I think is the good grace to turn away, but he's moving towards me now, speaking softly.

"You're what, Angel? Hungry?" That last word ground out like something hurtful, and it is.I feel it. Too close.too close. And he's dipping his fingers into the strange, wet design etched into his skin. He's not looking at me anymore, and I'm thankful for that until he speaks again.

"Hmmm.Just a small cut, but it adds something to the overall artwork that Justine graced me with, don't you think?" His fingers tapping together as he stares intently at the drying fluid, and I can't help but stare with him. "But you know," his glance flickers up and holds mine hotly, "I think I've bled enough for you already."

He's advancing on me; moving more slowly as he gets closer, and while there are a hundred different reasons why I should back away, change the subject, jump off the damned building.I don't.

".suffered for you, been cut open, cut myself open, but there's only so much blood." He's speaking in a low tone, in a voice calm and deadly, and while I didn't catch all the words, I feel the gut punch behind them.

I try again.

"Wes, I'm sorry."

Short, bitter laugh that's full of bile. "You're sorry? I can't imagine what for, Angel. Wasn't it only the other day you were forgiving me? Granting me absolution in your own... simple way... 'We're okay again', I believe it was?"

Volumes of anger in his voice; hatred for himself, for me, for everything that's happened. He's bloated with loathing - it seeps out in his breath and his blood, covers his skin, and I'm transfixed by it, comforted by it, because it's actually kind of nice not to be the only one.

Like a predator, he senses the change in me and a hard, hard smiles cuts across his face. I don't like that smile, and I'm not sure I know this man. There's a heat coming off him that's not.natural. Well, not natural to Wesley, and I realize it's not a smile, it's him baring his teeth at me, and that really should have been a tip-off.

With more strength than I remember him having he hauls off and punches me. Hard, in the stomach. I stagger back and hit the wall, stunned and staring at him since it doesn't look like he's going to try for a repeat. I'd hate to have to hurt him.again.

He's shaking his hand, looking at his bruised knuckles and then back at me. This look I know - this is the scientist, the thinker. the lines on his forehead creasing as he peers over some ancient tome, right before he cracks the code and explains to all of us what was right under our noses. Considering the circumstances, I'm not relieved.

I'd rather Wesley considered this battle over and walk away. But he's not. He's moving towards me again, and I can smell that bitter intensity that I'm beginning to associate with this new man. Can feel the heat leaching off his breath as he leans in to me.

"I don't want your forgiveness, Angel." Slow easy curl of his lips, and if I'd had a reflection two hundred years ago, I'd know that was *my* smirk.

I'm wired from the fight, I'm confused by Wesley's maniacal mood, and I'm a lousy judge of character, because nothing - not Darla, not the gypsy curse, not Sunnydale, not Hell, not even Wolfram-and-fucking-Hart prepares me for what comes out of whatever is wearing Wesley's mouth.

Because it's his tongue.

Rasping on my neck. Full body shiver because it feels *so* fucking good, and angry and raw. I grab his shoulders and push him away. I'm still the good guy. The Champion. Right?

I didn't push far enough because now there's a hand on my crotch. Fuck. Wesley's hand grabbing, Wesley's face glowing with a savage triumph, Wesley's lips sneering, and he says it again.

"I don't want your forgiveness."

Oh god, those words are awful, and I'll hear them in my nightmares, but it doesn't stop me from pushing into that punishing hand. He takes this as a kind of permission and moves that incredible heat back into me. On me.

He's breathing hard now, and I suck in a breath of my own as he lifts his hand and brutally drags short nails over my imprisoned erection. He gives no quarter, no room for thought, just wedges one leg between my thighs, never letting up. My head rolls back against the wall, and I feel like some lewd martyr until he roughly grabs my hand and places it between his legs.

Maybe I can blame this on the heat of the battle later, but in this moment I know my lust for what it is and I curl my fingers and grab what I can through the cloth. Not enough, not for him, not for me, and I win a grunt of appreciation as I bring my other hand over and unbutton, unzip, reach in.and he's there. Hot and heavy, full of blood, and thrusting in my palm.

I'm humping against his hip like some sort of animal and staring at his cock in my fist, as hard and ready as my own. Why is he giving this to me? Then I register the finger-like claws digging into my shoulder, and I drag my gaze up to his. His eyes, cutting through this haze of lust. Then I know what he knows - he isn't giving me anything. He's taking.

Fine. Take it.

Letting him bend my head to his panting mouth, and this is not like a kiss. This is war. This is what I want, what I never let myself have - the demon at play. Painful the way he sucks at my tongue, dragging his teeth along the length. Agonizing, the vicious jabs of his hips, the way he throws his weight against me and pulls back - never giving me enough friction, dealing out exactly the right amount of damage and I'm soaking the front of my pants the same way his cock is slicking my fist.

Raise my head and snarl, try to pay him back with a twist of my wrist as I press a thumb into his weeping slit, but he simply laughs and closes his mouth on the first thing available.my nipple, through my once-favorite shirt. One hand moving down to clutch my hip as he nuzzles, nips and fuck - bites hard. Oh god.oh god.who knew that Wesley's mouth could do these things, that Wesley's teeth wanted to savage my skin? Past the point of pain, right where I need to be and I come, pulsing in my pants against the heel of his hand.

The smell of him is hot in my nostrils, sweat and come and, god help me, blood. His hand, freed from the violent pressure against me is wet and warm as it slides against my neck, and he pulls me down. This time pressing in, thrusting his tongue into my mouth with the same rhythm as the hardness fucking my fist. It's dirty and fierce, and I'm sucking on that wet muscle with desperation and it's about to get worse as he grabs my hair and shoves me into that oozing wound.

"Bite." An order ground out between bruised lips that I will not obey. You're not getting *that* out of me, Wes.

Instead I lick, merely a taste, and the man's life is exploding across my senses. You never told me, Wes, I never knew. This newfound ignorance making me angry, and I jack him more roughly.

"Bastard - you bastard!" But he's too far gone and his hips are moving erratically, letting me jerk him as I like. "Bite - ah!"

An animal grunt, surprisingly not-British at all, as he spills over my fingers, wet flesh surging in my grasp. Slow shudder as I move more slowly, letting him wind down. My arms fall around him and his hand lies on my neck for one moment. A single imperfect moment of what might have been, of almost - tenderness.and it's gone.

He's moving away, taking that bitter heat with him, his shaking lessening as he tucks himself away. He presses his hand to the tongue-cleaned cut at his neck and there's a spark in his eyes of *something* that threatens to incinerate me as he says conversationally, "I'll have to get this seen to."

And just as suddenly as he wasn't, he's Wesley again. Only not. While I'm trapped here and uncomfortable and feeling things I'd rather not be feeling. So I say what I'm supposed to, "Do you need some help?"

Laughter on the tip of his tongue and he doesn't bother to sugar-coat his reply. I wonder if he's been saving up for this one. "While I appreciate the offer, I suspect that Lilah will be waiting for me. She'll handle the first aid... I understand she has a white nurse's uniform."

We're back in our corners now, like a couple of prizefighters after the bell's rung. He's taken what he wanted, and I've offered what I could, but his blood is still humming through me, still teasing me. This is not how this is supposed to end, I'm sure of it, and I open my mouth to say this, but his voice stops me cold.

"Angel."

Without looking at me, he walks over to his axe, grimaces at the gore coating it, and picks it up. As he reaches the splintered doorway he turns.

"I don't forgive you."

~fin~