"Wes, dear, I'm going to have to study your technique sometime," Greg said. "I'm still trying to get Michael to understand me when I'm giving him the 'we have to leave now before you embarrass me further' expression -- much less *respond* to it properly."

Angel looked over at Michael. "Do you get the feeling they're talking about us?"

"Nah. I don't think so." He shook his head as he put the tire in the trunk and slammed the lid down. "I didn't hear anything that made me sound like a badly-trained puppy. Did you?"

Angel shook his head quickly. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. And there was nothing that made me sound like a...um..."

"Well-trained one?" Wesley offered.

Angel looked nonplused for a moment. He glanced helplessly at Michael. "See, this is where I don't know if I'm supposed to argue about not being a puppy, or feel flattered because Wes thinks I'm well-trained."

"You're asking me? He's your boyfriend."

"Yeah, and I've lived with him for years. And I still don't know. I was hoping you knew where they sold the manuals."

"Do I look like I own a manual?" Michael gestured towards Greg.

"Have I just been insulted?" Greg asked Wesley. "Or is he admitting his faults?"

"How long have you been sleeping with him?" Wesley asked.

"Oh...since La Traviata. Three months? We met at the opening night party."

"La Traviata?" Wesley thought back. "I didn't see that. I heard it was good. Better than--"

"This wasn't our fault," Michael put in. "The director fucked it up for us. Said the name of that damned Scottish play backstage, and wouldn't perform the counter-curse."

Angel blinked for a second, then the light dawned. "Oh, you mean Mac--"

Wesley was, fortunately, quick enough to cover his mouth, since from the moment Angel had started furrowing his brow, Wesley had been making his way across to him, knowing what was coming. "Angel?" Wesley asked, his hand still over his lover's mouth.

"Mrrphm."

"What are you going to say when I remove my hand?"

"Mepgh?"

"No, you're not going to say that. Why aren't you going to say that?"

"Mephh...iff ffuffuh fuuferfiiffa."

"What did he say?" Greg asked, not hiding his amusement at the sight of Wesley restraining a vampire who, while they might be of similar height, weighed at least seventy pounds more than him, not to mention, well, being a vampire.

"He said it's just a superstition. Angel, there are those who think vampires are just a superstition. That doesn't make them any less..."

"Mmmppuffuff?"

"Dorky was the word I was looking for. but dangerous will do. Now, what are you going to say when I remove my hand from your mouth?"

"Faaphoo, ee ee oo gerff groorfe?"

"Very good." Wesley slid his hand away from Angel's lips.

"Thank you," Angel said to Michael and Greg. "We need to get going."

Greg seemed to be holding back laughter. Wesley didn't know why he was bothering, unless it was the way Michael was frowning at the delight with which Greg was watching Angel and Wesley.

"Thank you for your help," Wesley told them, as well. He pulled Angel back towards the car, letting Michael and Greg leave without further adieu -- then he saw Angel's trousers leg. "I told you so," he remarked.

"Huh? What?" Angel looked down at his legs. Wesley pointed at the smear of dirt and grease along the right thigh. Angel looked, peered harder, then finally reached down and touched his trousers. "Oh! Hell, I can barely see it. No one will notice."

"I noticed."

"No one besides a fastidious laundry-fetishist will notice."

"And where did you say we were having dinner?" Wesley reminded him. Half the clientele, as well as wait-staff, would qualify as-- "Excuse me?"

It continued to amaze Wesley, after all these years, how a man as large and generally imposing as Angel, could get that completely panicked look in his eyes, and be reduced in an instant to a frantically backpedaling five year old trying to convince his mother that it hadn't been him who'd stolen the freshly baked pie from the windowsill. "Not that there's...anything wrong with being a laundry fetishist. I mean, I like clean clothes as much as the next guy..."

"Which must be why you work so hard to get them absolutely filthy," Wesley responded dryly. "Perhaps we should go to the restaurant now? If you're not overstuffed from the foot, that is."

"No, I think I managed to stop swallowing when I hit my ankle."

"Why don't we go to dinner, and attempt to salvage some of what we actually *planned* for this evening, shall we?"

"That sounds like a great idea. Wait -- I know one thing I planned." Angel stepped forward and gave Wesley a kiss. "How did that go?"

Wesley smiled. "It went -- actually, I'm not quite sure. Perhaps you'd better--" Angel kissed him again. When he stopped, they were both smiling. "Let's go to dinner."

******

The lights were blazing in the lobby when they walked in the front doors of the Hyperion. Cordelia frowned and put her hands on her hips. "You're early," she said to Angel. "You're pissy," she said to Wesley. Before either of them could answer, she added, "But no red goo this time. Which is good. Unless you went to the jello wrestling place instead of the opera. In which case, bad, because, no red goo."

"There was no goo," Angel said.

"Well, that's good, then." She looked at his unhappy expression, which Wesley was trying his best not to notice, since he wasn't, really wasn't, trying to make Angel feel miserable. "Um, or not? Did the goo place get infested with slug demons?"

"Huh?"

"Well, no goo, and Wesley's pissy, so maybe you wanted goo and there wasn't any. And coming home early from dates tends to involve slug demons, around here, so..."

"There were no slug demons," Angel said tiredly.

"I'm not pissy," Wesley added after a moment. She folded her arms, and raised one eyebrow. She said nothing. "I'm *not*," Wesley insisted. "I'm merely hungry."

"Weren't you two going to Maison Jacques?"

"Yes." Wesley didn't want to elaborate. Didn't want to think about it -- he just wanted to go upstairs and fix a sandwich.

"And..?"

"And dinner didn't work out so hot," Angel told her. He tried to take a step towards the stairs, hand on Wesley's arm to pull him along after, so they could escape Cordelia.

She took a step sideways and asked, "Why not?"

"Where would you like us to start? The point where we arrived 45 minutes early and there was no room to wait at the bar, or where they finally admitted they'd lost our reservation, or the point where we got thrown out after Angel tried to bribe the maitre'd into giving us a table?"

"It was a perfectly good bribe," Angel said quietly.

"It was a twenty dollar bill, Angel."

Cordelia blinked. "At Maison Jacques? You offered him a *cash* bribe?"

"What was I supposed to offer him -- a credit card?"

"Phillipe takes everything but American Express. Angel, you go there all the time -- how could you not know this?""

"I've never gotten my reservation lost before, that's how!" He wasn't quite growling at Cordelia. He wouldn't quite *dare* growl at Cordelia. But it was coming awfully close.

She gave him a hard look for a moment, then turned to Wesley. "I can see why you're pissy."

"I'm not pissy."

Angel sighed. "Oh, go ahead and be pissy. Nothing about this date has gone right -- you've got every right to be pissy." He looked down, then chuckled ruefully. "Hell, he probably only kicked us out because I've got a grease-spot on my pants."

Wesley felt the contrary need to not blame things on Angel -- even though the more he was accused of being pissy, the more accurate it became. "Don't be silly. No one would notice it who wasn't looking for it. Except a laundry fetishist."

Cordelia smiled apologetically. "Oh, that grease spot. I wasn't going to say anything. Wesley's right. Nobody would notice."

Angel looked startled, and Wesley smiled. "Are you going to say it?" he inquired, when Angel just stood there.

"Are you kidding? I want to be alive...er, undead, to snuggle you tonight. Unless *that* goes wrong, too." Angel sighed. "Gunn's gonna said he told me so."

"Gunn? He's not here. You should be safe."

They both stared at Cordelia. "Where is he?" Wesley asked. "If he's gone out demon hunting, I'll...I'll get really pissy."

Cordelia just shrugged. "He didn't say. All I know is, no visions. So it wasn't me. And now that you two are safely home -- more or less -- I'm going. *Some* of us have real plans."

Wesley weighed the desire to get upstairs, fall on the sofa, and have Angel bring him a cup of tea and a turkey sandwich, against the temptation to ask Cordelia what those plans might be. Tea and sandwiches won. "Have a good time, then," he began, tugging on Angel's arm again.

"You have plans?" he heard Angel saying, a second before Angel actually said it.

"Pardon him," Wesley interjected, before Cordelia could say...whatever it was she was about to say, or hit Angel with the nearest blunt object. "He left his sense of self-preservation in the car, along with the parking ticket he got while we were waiting in the restaurant."

"There was no hydrant," Angel muttered. "None. I *looked* before I parked."

Cordelia's eyes narrowed, and for a moment Wesley thought she was going to smack Angel anyway, for being surprised that she had plans. But finally she shook her head, and grabbed her purse. "Right. I'm outta here. Good luck with... not being pissy."

Wesley scowled at her, and scowled harder when she stuck her tongue out at him. Then he decided that ignoring her quite fiercely would be another workable option, and did so. He got Angel walking towards the stairs, again, and distracted him by saying, "If Gunn has got himself into trouble, *you* are going after him."

Angel got himself turned around so he was walking forward, and looked at Wesley. Finally he said, "Cordy's right. You *are* pissy." Before Wesley could do more than open his mouth to explain just how pissy he was *not*, Angel continued, "How about I make you dinner?"

"Tea and a turkey sandwich?"

"I was thinking....wine, a salad... pasta. Candles...."

"You're going to feed me candles?" Wesley teased, as his stomach growled.

"Candles on the table -- maybe scattered around the room. All the other lights off, you dressed only in a silk robe...."

Wesley started up the stairs ahead of him. "Turkey sandwiches would be quicker," he said, only a quarter seriously.

"Me dressed only in a silk robe..."

"Then again, pasta is more filling."

They managed to make it up to the suite before Wesley's stomach got the chance to grumble more than three or four times. When they got inside, Angel folded his jacket over the arm of the sofa, and went straight to the kitchenette, without even pausing. Wesley watched with a bit of amusement and a lot of hunger, as he began to root through the cupboards.

After a moment, Angel looked up from his singleminded activity, at Wesley, standing in the doorway. "What?"

"You're not even going to take off your tie?"

"Wha-- you want me to put on the robe before I start *cooking*?"

Wesley frowned, ever so slightly. "Unless you're worried about the boiling water...hitting something." He glanced downwards.

"Or the oil, while I'm making the sauce from scratch." Angel didn't appear to be swayable. "I'll change, when it's time to serve."

Wesley sighed. Not too dramatically -- he didn't actually want Angel to damage anything while he was cooking, even if he did heal fast. He went over to the table, and sat down to wait.

Angel cleared his throat. "You could change now. If you wanted."

"Could I?" Wesley asked, amused.

Angel gave him a puppy-dog face. The very one he'd been denying to have any part of, earlier. "Well, only if you wanted."

"But I want to watch you cook."

Angel looked like he might try the puppyface again, then just shrugged, nodding. "It's your date."

That didn't sound right somehow, though Wesley couldn't quite put a finger on it. He watched Angel pull ingredients from the cupboard in front of him, and spices from the rack, and wondered why he had such a problem with the phrase. On the surface, it was Angel trying very hard to be a gentleman, and save an evening that had gone from bad to worse, through really no fault of his own.

Wesley reached for the saltshaker in front of him, and studied it absently. It was wrapped in a piece of black leather, and the lid had fangs painted on it. The full set had been Xander's idea of a Christmas gift, and contained a pepper shaker with a toy axe glued to the side, and a cinnamon shaker with tiny spectacles.

The saltshaker had been the key to fixing last week's disastrous date with Gunn -- couldn't it be that simple now, to ease the sandpapery irritability which was hiding under the surface of every other sentence he and Angel spoke to each other? "It's your date, as well," he said finally, still looking at Angel the Undead Saltshaker.

"Huh?" Angel glanced over, briefly, before turning his attention to the cutting board and knife he'd just grabbed.

Wesley shook his head. "Never mind." He sat there for a few more moments, watching as Angel began checking the tomatoes for signs of spoilage. Normally it was cause for amusement -- teasing Angel into biting the tomato with his fangs.

Then he got up and wandered into the living area. He sat down on the couch, facing the television, and idly picked up the program guide. It would be half an hour before dinner was ready -- perhaps there was something mindless on. He'd flipped through the pages, just finding the right day, when he realized Angel was walking over.

"Wes? Um -- you want the salad now? I know you must be starving."

"Yes, that would -- " Angel was holding out a plate. Fork. Bowl of salad in the other hand. Just the one plate. "Actually, I'd rather wait for you."

Angel got that other puppy look -- the one where he didn't quite know what he'd done wrong, but he knew there was something. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you eat all alone; I just thought you'd be hungry now, and might not want to wait."

"I know -- thank you. I just--" Wesley sighed, and took the plate from Angel's hand. "I suppose it'll wilt, if one of us doesn't eat it now." Angel tonged tossed salad onto the plate, still looking apologetic. Wesley sighed. "It's all right. I'm sure I just need to eat. I'll be...less pissy."

Angel gave him half a smile, set the bowl of salad on the coffee table, and headed back towards the kitchen. "Did you want some wine?"

Wesley shook his head. "No, just a glass of water, please." At least his waiter was dressed the part, he told himself.

Angel nodded, and quickly came back with a tall glass of water. He smiled as he set it down, then stepped back and looked everything over as if to make sure Wesley was perfectly well taken care of.

"That will be all," Wesley told him in a formal tone.

After a second, Angel blinked, then grinned. "Are you sure I can't get you a dessert list, while you're waiting for your entree?"

"We have dessert?"

"I think there's a cherry cheesecake in the freezer."

Wesley suppressed a smile. "That would appear to be the dessert list, then."

Angel looked concerned for a moment. "I could go out and get something else if you want. Or just down to the hotel kitchen -- there's probably ice cream."

"In Spike and Xander's freezer?"

"Er. Um. No, I guess there isn't any ice cream to *eat*." Angel frowned -- then brightened. "I bet Cordelia has some."

"And stealing *her* ice cream is better, how?"

Angel fidgeted. "She doesn't know how to cast spells?"

"Cherry cheesecake will be fine, Angel."

"Right. Good -- um, do you want it know? While I cook? I could bring you a slice--"

"After will be fine," Wesley interrupted.

"Okay. Good. Great. I'll go...cook." Angel disappeared into the kitchen, though not before Wesley saw the brief, confused expression on his face.

Was it something he could even explain? That he didn't *want* a waiter, though that might be a perfectly enjoyable game some other time. He almost didn't even want food, though he truly was hungry. He might be willing to ignore that, though, in favour of Angel simply coming out here, sitting down, and watching television with him, while they waited for a pizza to arrive.

But Angel wanted to give him a perfect date. Or, the best that could be salvaged of one. Wesley shook his head, and reached for the remote. Five minutes later he'd gone past all the sports channels including the one which actually showed cricket matches and billiards competitions, skipped over the 'women's networks', and was skimming the news channels. Nothing caught his eye, but with nearly 300 channels, he knew that merely surfing through them once would take until dinner was ready.

"Damn," he heard from the kitchen.

Wesley stood up and walked over. "What's wrong?"

"There's no pasta," Angel said. "I've got the sauce simmering and there's no pasta. How can we have no pasta?" Angel began rummaging through the cabinets. "No pasta...maybe pita bread, make a mini pizza. Or...rice? Anything? who went shopping last?"

"Charles," Wesley answered.

Angel shook his head. "Nothing. We have sauce. Pasta sauce and no pasta. Look -- I can run down to the shop on the corner, and see if they have anything."

"Angel..." Wesley began.

"Or... I could make soup out of it, I guess."

"Soup? Out of pasta sauce?"

"Well, it's kind of like gazpacho..."

"Angel, it isn't necessary." Not to mention the thought of cold pasta sauce soup being unspeakably disgusting, no matter how much cilantro Angel might find to sprinkle on it.

"Well, maybe Spike and Xander have something I can steal. They owe me that much, at least."

He started towards the suite door -- and Wesley couldn't decide if he wanted to let him go or not. He didn't particularly care if they had pasta, or salad, cherry cheesecake and toast. He just wanted -- "Angel."

Angel stopped at the door, and turned around. "Yeah?"

"Please. Just...come sit with me."

Angel paused for a moment, looking... not confused, exactly. Just unsure. Then he followed Wesley to the couch and sat beside him. Stared at the wilting salad, which Wesley realized, though not with much surprise, that he hadn't touched at all. Angel picked up the fork, and played with it, saying nothing. Much like he himself had played with the saltshaker, it occurred to Wesley-- something to do with his fingers. Finally Angel sighed. "This didn't go so well, huh."

"It was...not boring," Wesley stated. He picked up Angel's hand, then tugged Angel's arm around his shoulders. Angel gave him a perplexed look, but complied.

"What's--"

"That's better," Wesley said. He settled in against Angel, glancing at the television and not caring at all what was showing.

"Do you want me to...call for someone to deliver dinner?" Angel asked hesitantly.

Wesley shook his head. "This is what I want."

Angel said nothing, but Wesley could feel him not understanding. Could feel his body as Wesley leaned against it, still stiff and uncomfortable. They sat, for a while. For as long as Wesley was able to pretend --or pretend he could pretend -- that this was going to work.

"Angel..."

"My date...kinda sucked." His voice was soft. Oddly resigned.

The wording made Wesley blink, though. Then after thinking about the evening, it didn't. Of course Angel's date had sucked. He'd been trying so hard to make it good for Wesley, he wouldn't have had the chance to enjoy it even if everything had gone as planned. "I'm sorry."

*****
Part 4:

Angel looked up at him. "Huh? You're sorry?"

"That you didn't enjoy the evening."

Angel shook his head, looking stricken. "No -- that's not what I meant. I mean... my date -- the one I planned, sucked. You didn't get to enjoy the opera, you didn't get to go to the club, didn't get to have dinner at Maison Jacques.... Heck, you didn't get to have dinner at all."

"Neither did you," Wesley said quietly. "You didn't enjoy the opera any more than I did -- less, since you had that child kicking your chair. You didn't go to the club, you didn't get to -- well, have a glass of wine at Maison Jacques, since all their dishes are so garlic-heavy."

"But it wasn't--"

"For you. Yes, Angel, I understand." Wesley sat up a bit, and turned to look at him. "But it should have been. As much about you, as me. *Our* date. Time for you and I to be together. Not...your turn at the dating game competition."

Angel frowned. "But -- I wasn't trying, I mean, it didn't matter if I enjoyed...." As he trailed off, his confused look melted into the cute one that meant he was waiting for Wesley to scold him.

Wesley shook his head. "I didn't mean to make you think you had to...to...score more points than Gunn, provide a better round of events. Angel -- I want to *be* with you. I want to...be with you, without Gunn around, so that you and I can...find some ground between us. We need to fix what's gone wrong between us and that's not going to happen just because you buy me the biggest prize."

Angel still had that look, though it was drooping, a bit, into the one that came after he *had* been scolded. And this wasn't supposed to be a scolding. Wesley wasn't supposed to be...trying to teach his lovers how to love him. It shouldn't -- couldn't -- work that way.

"I wasn't--" He stopped. "Okay, maybe I was competing with Gunn, a little."

"A little?"

"Okay, a lot. But that wasn't the point. I wasn't worried about *that* -- it was just fun." He certainly didn't *sound* as though it had been fun for him -- Wesley was tempted to ask which parts of the date he'd found fun, but didn't. It would only make things worse.

"If you weren't worried about competing with Charles, then what exactly *were* you worried about, Angel? You have been all night. You still are."

Angel looked away, and answered softly, "I want you to be...happy. I wanted you to enjoy the date so you'd know...how important you are to me."

Wesley tried to think of a way to explain what he was trying to say. He realized that this was possibly mostly -- if not entirely -- his fault, making Angel think he had to go to such extremes, to get his message through. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I never meant to let you think...you had to say it so loudly for me to hear."

Angel shook his head again. "No, I-- Wes, something made you feel like we don't do enough to.. make you feel equal. Make you feel special. Something. I'm still trying to get my head around it, but I can see where you're right."

Wesley leaned against him, again. Kept a close hold on his hand where it rested on Wesley's shoulder. "Angel, it's not a matter of you doing enough. I'm sorry, if I made you feel that it was. If perhaps I even felt that it was, somehow. That's not the case."

"Then...what *is* the case? Help me out here, Wes. I just want you to be happy. Here. With us -- with me."

"I know. I-- wish I knew the answer. I just know -- this date sucked. It most definitely was not the sort of date either of us wanted. But -- I don't *care*. I don't care how the date went, because...it was our date." He didn't have to look at Angel's face, to see the confusion telling him he wasn't making sense. "We could have sat here all evening, eating pizza and watching old movies in our socks and underwear, and it would have been just as good."

"Possibly better," Angel said, sounding amused.

Wesley shook his head. "No. Well, yes, perhaps. But that's not the point. It really doesn't matter how good a time we had doing...things."

Angel raised an eyebrow at him. "Wes, I don't think I've ever had a bad time doing...things...with you."

Wesley stabbed him lightly on the thigh with the nearby salad fork. "Thank you, but that's not what I meant. It doesn't matter what we did, or even if it was horrible, because it was you and me. Being together. "

"Um. Okay." Angel's agreement came readily, though it sounded like he had no clue what he was agreeing with.

Wesley sighed. He took Angel's hand in his, and held it for a moment. Looked at it, touched each of Angel's fingers one at a time with his own. Finally he asked, "Angel? What would you like to do this evening?"

There was no immediate answer. When he looked up, he could see the confusion -- and panic -- on Angel's face. "Whatever you wanna do, Wes," was Angel's reply, stammered as soon as Wesley had caught his eye.

"Why?" Wesley asked.

"Why? Wha.. because whatever you want is good with me." Wesley sighed again, and Angel's eyes widened with immediate concern. "Okay, obviously the wrong answer..."

"Angel, am I really that high-maintenance?"

"What? No..I mean, yeah, but I kinda like it, you know? We enjoy taking care of you." Angel spoke with apparent sincerity, though he still looked worried. "Wes, what's *wrong*?" Angel finally asked with frustration.

Wesley tried to think of how to explain. A thought occurred, and he realized it might work. "Angel...where would you like to go on our next date? By rights, the next two dates are yours, and Gunn's -- not mine."

"Huh?"

"I've had my two dates. Now it's Gunn's turn, and yours. Where would you like to go? What do you want to do?"

Angel looked like... well, rather the way he had the time Wesley *had* grown a second head. Except now Wesley's depth-perception wasn't quite so good. "I..."

"A hint -- the correct answer is not, in fact, whatever you want to do, Wesley."

"Um. So. You're asking me what *I* want to do." Angel made it sound as though it weren't a totally absurd echo of exactly what Wesley had just said.

"Yes."

"Um. Do you want to see--"

"No. What do *you* want to do, Angel?"

"Well there's no point in me saying I wanna do something that you don't want to do," Angel replied, sounding a little grumpy.

"What if I suggested we do something that you don't want to do?" Wesley countered.

Angel shrugged. "I don't mind. I--" And Wesley could literally see light dawning. Angel half-smiled at him. "Would this be one of those 'treat me the way I treat you' things? Because I read all about that in one of Cordelia's magazines."

"Not Xander's?"

"No. I don't read Xander's magazine. But I would read about other things in Xander's magazine, if I did read Xander's magazine. We could do some of those things on our next date, if you..." Angel stopped himself. "Well, I'd probably like to do some of those things. If I knew what they were."

Wesley clamped his lips together on a smile, though he didn't think he succeeded in not showing it. "I could always do some research for you, if you like. Purely for the sake of you enjoying the date, of course. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Angel nodded. "Right. Well, we could do that. For my date. Research. Study up. Um. Practice...things."

He looked so eager that Wesley almost hated to laugh at him. He settled for grinning, and was rewarded with a wide smile from his lover. Unfortunately they still hadn't settled everything. he realized that, instead, they'd manage to get side-tracked into sex -- talking about it, if not having it, rather than addressing the issues. There was still one thing he had to make Angel understand, and Wesley still felt just as confused about how to do so, as he had before.

"What's wrong?" Angel asked, after a few moments.

"We've established that it doesn't matter what we do, on a date. Which of us wants to do whatever it is we're doing."

Angel nodded, looking concerned once more.

"So -- and I'm going to say this badly, so just bear with me -- why does it matter what we do? As long as it's just you and I doing it?"

Rather than Angel spending all his time and energy trying to give Wesley a few hours diversion and entertainment, serving him up a date as though on a tray -- all he wanted was *Angel*. All he wanted was for Angel to want *him*. Wanted him here, on the couch, talking about things neither of them could quite express, instead of flitting about trying to make sure every particle of dinner was absolutely to Wesley's liking.

"Are you saying you don't *want* to do the dating thing? I kinda thought that was part of the whole trying to work on the problems deal."

"We were dating as a way of being together. Just you and I." He waited, patiently, because he could see Angel thinking about that one. Angel's lips even moved -- Wesley was tempted to kiss them, while Angel was thinking things over. That would distract him, though, and they'd have to start the entire conversation all over, so Wesley refrained.

"You're gonna be mad at me if I don't figure this out, right?" Angel asked tentatively.

"No, Angel. It's not a riddle." Wesley shook his head. "I told you I was going to phrase it badly. It does matter what we do -- but only in that it's *us* doing it. Not you spending so much time trying to make whatever it is -- even an evening at home with pasta and a salad -- enjoyable for me, that you're not *with* me."

"But I am with you," Angel protested.

"Yes. Now. Angel...I want to be with you because I *love* you. More, because I like you. I want to talk with you, spend time doing things with you -- and I don't mean that as just a euphemism for sex. I *like* you. I...want to know if you like me, too."

Angel looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Is this where we get out the talking stick, and I go all schmoopy and start sharing? Not that I can't do that -- I'm just making sure we're in the same self-help class."

Wesley shook his head, not entirely annoyed with Angel's humour. "Angel -- would you rather be in the kitchen cooking? Or out here with me?"

Angel narrowed his eyes. "Depends. What are we gonna be talking about?"

"It doesn't matter."

Angel blinked. So slowly that Wesley could almost hear the muscles in his eyelids squeak. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes."

"We could talk about Charleton Heston movies."

"Yes."

"Or how much better the pubs used to be in the 1700's, before they invented ferns."

"Yes. Though ferns have existed longer than humans have."

"Or I could sing "Weekend in New England."

"Yes. Once. Then I would have to kill you. But yes."

"Um. So -- we could...do anything? Talk about anything? Didn't we already decide that?"

"Not exactly." Wesley sighed, and leaned against Angel who immediately shifted to accept him, wrapping one arm around him. It was an unconscious gesture, Wesley realized. It was exactly what he'd been after. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you, too," Angel replied, sounding even more confused.

This was better than anything, he knew. Because it was Angel. Wesley smiled, and told Angel. "I want you to rather be here with me talking about cricket, than be anywhere else at all. Because it's here with me."

"Oh. Why didn't you just say so?"

"In order to torment you, because I enjoy watching you make that face where you try to figure out what it is that you've done wrong this time."

"There's a face? I make a face?" Angel put a hand to his face, pretending to catalog his own expression.

"You're not making it now. Honestly, Angel, do you understand what I'm saying? Because I still don't know if I've phrased it properly."

"You're saying that it's more important that I sit in here with you while you starve, than fuss over what to make you for dinner."

Wesley thumped him on the leg.

"Hey!" Angel laughed. "That is what you said. But that's not all you meant. You want to be together. Rather than not. You want us to want to be together, rather than not. Because otherwise we might as well not be together."

"I'm not sure whether you have a perfect grasp on the situation, or you've just started channeling Xander. Either way, it's rather frightening."

"You want me to stop trying to please you because I'm afraid of losing you, and just be *with* you, instead."

"That sounds less like Xander," Wesley allowed. Then the middle part of Angel's statement hit him, and he looked -- really looked at Angel. "You're... afraid of losing me?" He knew that was at the crux of the matter. That this was all about building -- re-building -- their relationships. But he realized he hadn't been thinking of it in those terms. Not in terms of *Angel* being afraid of losing *him*.

Angel was looking surprised. "That's what this is for, isn't it? Make you happy, so you won't go?"

Wesley sat in silence, for a second. He could feel himself stiffening in Angel's arms, feel Angel reacting by not reacting, trying not to pull away, trying not to hold him closer than he wanted. Trying to do everything just perfectly. "Angel, no." He forced himself to relax, if only so Angel would. "No."

Angel didn't move for the space of several seconds. Wesley wasn't sure why -- if he were too confused to know what to do, or simply thought that by holding him, Angel could make Wesley explain. But then he let go and tried to move away -- Wesley grabbed his arm, and didn't let him go.

"Wes, I-- I don't understand."

"Angel..." Wes almost sighed, and then shook his head. "You really, truly, don't get it, do you? It's not about making me happy. How am I supposed to be happy, if you aren't? If Gunn isn't? It's about making *us* happy."

"But if you're here, I'm happy," Angel replied.

Wesley frowned at him, not sure if this was yet another sign that Angel truly didn't understand. Slowly, though, he realized -- it wasn't. Angel meant it. "You were happy, before I went to England? There wasn't anything wrong?"

Angel shrugged. "I'm not saying it was *perfect*. But -- yeah, I was happy. I had you, I had Gunn. Still have you both - so I'm still happy."

"And you enjoyed this evening?" Wesley asked, still skeptical.

Angel shrugged again. "It wasn't what I had hoped would happen. But -- nobody died, nobody ended up painted pink. Spike and Xander didn't put in an appearance. No one called me 'Morton'. So, yeah. I enjoyed myself."

"Angel, you have a very bizarre definition of enjoying yourself." Wesley paused. "Morton?"

"Wes, for at least a hundred years, I wasn't *allowed* to enjoy myself. Even if I didn't quite know it for a lot of that time. So, yeah, maybe my priorities are a little screwy."

"*Morton*?" Wesley repeated.

Angel glared at him. "If I hear *one* person who lives in this hotel, or works here, or...who knows me, call me Morton, I'm coming right back to you and...and punishing you. Somehow."

Wesley smiled. "You really enjoyed yourself tonight?"

"Yes, I really enjoyed myself tonight," Angel repeated, patiently. "Except for worrying about *you*, because...you didn't seem to be." Angel hugged him, and placed a kiss on his temple. "I wanted you to enjoy yourself, too."

With a sigh, Wesley allowed himself to be cuddled. Perhaps he'd been assuming things he oughtn't have been. Perhaps...perhaps it didn't matter. Because Angel *had* been doing exactly what Wesley had been insisting he do. Enjoying his time with Wesley, no matter what it was they were doing.

Maybe *he* was the one who needed to relax. "I'm sorry. Morton."

Angel's arm tightened around Wesley -- mostly because Angel was sneaking a hand down to pinch Wesley on the thigh. "That list of people included you, too, you know." The other hand reached up and gently traced the curve of Wesley's ear. "There's nothing to be sorry about. Except for saying that name."

Wesley tried very hard not to squinch up his neck and tilt his head towards the fingers tickling his ear. "Ah. In that case, I'm not sorry. Morton."

"You're just begging to be punished, aren't you?" Angel said lightly, looking down at him. Wesley gave Angel a very mild variation of an innocent look. Angel scowled. "I thought we were Talking."

"We are. We were. I think...I should let it drop, for now, and enjoy my evening. With you."

Angel kept looking at him suspiciously, but after a moment, he nodded. "So, we're good?"

"Possibly. Possibly...less not good than I feared." He watched as Angel tried to figure out what that meant. He could see Angel counting the negatives.

"I think that's good. It might be good. Unless --" Angel stopped. "I should shut up now, right?"

"Certainly not. You should tell me why you don't like to be called Morton."

"I think I should shut up, now." Angel nodded to himself, and shut up.

Wesley waited, until he realized Angel really wasn't going to tell him. Not without coercion, at least. "I could turn you into a newt."

"Then I really wouldn't tell you." Ah. Of course -- a slight flaw in his threat.

Wesley considered. "I could tell Spike that you want to spend the weekend with him, bonding in some father-son activity."

"It's the name I used when I worked at Morrie's," Angel said.

Wesley cocked his head -- which of course brought his ear completely into contact with Angel's teasing fingers. They slid along the rim, and down the side of his neck, and Wesley wasn't at all successful in not squinching, this time. "Why...Stop that. Why does it matter what -- no, don't *really* stop that, honestly Angel. Why should it matter what name you worked under at Morrie's? We all know about it now."

Angel's fingers had stilled temporarily, but were now lazily sliding over the pulse point on the side of his throat. Over and over again. Wesley was finding it increasingly difficult to think clearly.

"Why does it -- Angel, I can't think when you do that." Angel's fingers were moving in some sort of pattern. Not one Wesley could discern, but he could *almost* feel it, almost predict where his fingers were going and it was driving him mad. Well, mad in a good way.

"So?" Angel asked, and his voice was very soft, and his mouth very close to Wesley's ear.

"So, thinking is... " Wesley shivered. Felt it run all the way from the top of his head, down his spine. Out to his arms. Down to the tips of his toes.

"What?"

"Nice. It's...nice."

"What's nice?" Angel bit down gently on his earlobe.

"Ahgh. Something..." Wesley found it difficult to remember what the question had been, let alone form an answer. "Nice?"

"It's nice," Angel repeated. He kept moving his fingers, slowly, as lightly as only a vampire could with the sensitivity of his touch.

Wesley nodded, then stopped as it made those fingers jump. He held still, and inhaled deeply. Shivered, feeling every nerve ending in his body tingling as though Angel were ghosting his fingers everywhere, instead of just on his neck.

"Can I kiss you right here?" Angel asked, pressing his fingers briefly on a spot just above Wesley's jugular.

Wesley smiled. "No, of course not, don't be absurd."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, if you're silly enough to think you have to *ask*..." Someone else had control of his mouth. This wasn't the first time this had happened, and probably wouldn't be the last, Wesley reflected. Someone had taken over his mouth and was able to carry on flirting with Angel when all Wesley could manage was a tiny urrgh. He wished whoever it was luck, since they'd just messed about with the extremely one-track mind of a horny alpha vampire. Such things usually led to punishment of one sort or another. "Morton..." he added after a second.

Today, punishment seemed to consist of being bitten -- not vampire style, but bitten all the same -- on the neck. Wesley yelped, and stiffened, pressing himself into Angel's arms. He felt Angel grinning at him and thought about giving him a stern look, but that would have requiring moving away from Angel's mouth. So he didn't.

He simply closed his eyes and decided to give in to the strange man on the sofa with the bizarre ideas of having a good time, who seemed intent on ravishing him. So, perhaps not so bizarre after all. He would make more sense in the morning, Wesley decided.

Now was for throwing his head back to give open access to his throat, and feeling Angel's mouth there, teeth scraping his skin, and hearing him say--

"Hey, you kids! What'd I tell you about necking on the couch? When I'm not there to supervise? They got a special room in hell for people like you."

That wasn't something Angel seemed likely to say at all. Plus, he still had his lips on Wesley's neck. Not to mention it had sounded more like Gunn, who wasn't home. Wesley tried to look over, and found Angel's mouth still firmly attached to his neck, and decided he didn't care if it were Gunn, a demon with the ability to mimic voices who was here to kill them, or Spike with a tape recorder on 'playback'.

*****