Angel was shaking his head. "I don't mean tell us when you need to be told we love you, or shown, or read to, or stripped naked in the lobby, or -- no, Spike, if you put up any cameras I will remove your liver. Repeatedly." Angel sighed. "What I mean is tell us that you need to not tell us. If you'd ever said that you didn't like telling us what you wanted...we might not have done exactly what you wanted. But we would have done *something*. Because we *do* love you. Otherwise we would never have bothered, even when Spike locked us all in the roof access stairwell."

Wesley was beginning to feel a right bloody heel. He looked away, thinking that perhaps it was a wonder either of them had *any* patience for him. "I rather thought at the time that you just did it out of politeness. Since he'd teleported you straight out of bed, and me out of the shower, and it would hardly have been fair for you not to invite me to participate..."

It had served him right, really, for giving Spike the spell in the first place. A one-time only cantrip that was *supposed* to be used to transport Xander's car back from the mechanic's, without anyone having to drive him over to pick it up. Instead, there were suddenly three naked bodies in a locked space the size of a large broom cupboard. One of them soaked with water, two with sweat, and-- things had happened. Things that had eventually resulted in Wesley collaring Spike and demanding an explanation for pushing him into the middle of someone else's relationship. Things that had eventually led to them all standing in this room, looking at each other as if they didn't know where to proceed from here.

"Politeness? *Politeness*?! What the hell kinda manners do they *teach* over in England, anyway?" Charles looked at him. "Man, if we'd wanted to be polite to you we'd have just *stopped*. Or let you keep pretending you couldn't see or hear a damn thing."

"Or broken the door down," Angel said, then stopped and looked guilty.

Looked guiltier when Wesley and Charles turned to him. "You could have broken the door down?" Wesley asked. Angel shrugged.

"You said it had been barred shut or something," Charles reminded him.

"I lied?" Angel was trying to look cute. On him, it just looked scary.

Charles looked as if he were about to do something terrible to Angel's hair-- then let his face break into a small grin. Angel returned it, and once again, Wesley saw that connection that the two of them had. Felt frustrated that he didn't know how to tell them that it bothered him. Not the connection; that was wonderful. Just the fact that he didn't seem to share it.

Gunn saw it, saw something, on his face, and the smile disappeared. "See, there it is again. You're not telling us what's going on in there."

"It sounds so stupid," he replied. But he continued, even as both Charles and Angel opened their mouths to assert otherwise. "You two have something you share...it's so *easy* for you. And I'm always left out here, watching. Wondering what it must be like to be part of it...."

"You're not *supposed* to be wondering," Charles countered, sounding frustrated. "You're supposed to know. Because you *are*."

There wasn't anything more he could say to that, though. Wesley didn't bother trying. They knew what was wrong, and now if they chose, they could do something about it. Other than stand here and tell him he was the moron who'd let it happen.

"Wesley, come here," Angel said softly. Wesley opened his mouth to refuse, and realized that it had not been a request. He hadn't been asked, he'd been told. He wasn't required to do what Angel told him to do, of course, but it was something. It was Angel doing something, Wesley wasn't sure what. He stepped out from behind the bar, moving to stand between them. Looking back and forth from one face to another.

"What..." he began to ask, and Angel put a finger over his lips. The finger remained in place for a moment, then rubbed very slightly over his mouth. Angel was looking at him with a dark, but very warm, expression. Then Angel was gathering him in his arms and pulling him close in an embrace.

He let himself be wrapped around Angel's body, as Angel pressed his face against Wesley's neck. He tensed for a moment, wondering what he would do -- then relaxed as lips kissed him softly. "I love you," he heard. Then he caught an outcry in his throat, as he felt two sharp points slip into his skin.

The pain was nothing, compared to the shock. Never. Never in all the time the three of them had been together, had Angel done this. A nibble of human teeth at his throat, ear, anywhere on his body that could be nibbled. Fangs gently grazing his shoulder, never breaking the skin. Never this, though. Never what he had seen Angel do with Gunn, any number of times.

He had never been quite aware enough to resent not sharing in it, at those times. He could become lost in sex, and sometimes Wesley wondered if his lovers took advantage of that. Used it to placate him, distract him, send him off to that lovely warm place he was in right now, where there was only him and sharp teeth in his skin, dark eyes in Gunn's face across from him, almost as hypnotized as Wesley felt right now. Except those teeth were in *him* now. Not in Charles' neck. Not worrying over Wesley's body in safer places. Buried in his neck, and he was only aware that Angel had even drunk when he finally pulled away, licking at the slight wounds. Wesley couldn't speak, which was fortunate for he had no idea what he would have said.

Grateful as well that two sets of arms were wrapped around him, keeping him from falling. Angel was just watching him, no sign of worry, just watching. Calmly, assuredly, as though Angel didn't care if Wesley had minded. He shivered. Then he smiled, just a little. "Ow," he said softly. Angel's eyelids flickered, Gunn simply stared at him, but there was a snort of laughter from the hallway outside the door.

It was rather ragged laughter, though, and after a moment, Spike shouted out, "Oi! If you lot're gonna shag in the bar, can I watch?" A trio of 'No's echoed back at him. "Aw, please?"

"Spike, leave." Angel didn't even look over at him. Still staring at Wesley, in a rather oddly calm and intense way.

Surprisingly, Spike didn't argue. He muttered, then kicked at the doorjamb, acting all round like a five year old who'd been told he had to go to bed. But he did go, and even shut the door behind him. Wesley checked the bar for Skippy, or any other of his levitating cohorts. There didn't appear to be any cameras.

"Are we clear?" Charles asked.

"Unless Spike has managed to rig up an invisibility spell for his cameras." He found it unlikely, since every invisibility spell for nonliving objects he had ever come across required the caster to have a pure and noble intent. Or a power source the size of Birmingham. Neither of which Spike possessed. He knew how hard it was to prove to the spell one had pure and noble motives -- he himself had only managed to cast the spell a dozen times in his life and he certainly had better motives than Spike... though that wasn't a difficult thing to do.

"Good." Charles moved in closer to him, and he felt the press of the man's body behind him. Warmth, and the hard lines of bone and muscle laid against his own body, contrasted with the sharp, burning cold of the vampire's gaze before him. It occurred to Wesley that he might have been safer before his lovers were unleashed to devour him whole. He shivered again. "I like that. Do that again," Charles said. Again, not a request, and Wesley didn't need to think about whether he wanted to follow the command-- the mere sound elicited another involuntary series of movements from his body.

"You..." he started to say, but Angel's finger was on his lips again.

"Not this time, Wesley. This time you don't have to tell us what to do."

He shut his mouth, and checked his nod -- standing still, instead, and tried to *remain* standing long enough. He shivered again, and Charles' arms tightened around him, and Wesley felt the man start nuzzling his neck. Right where Angel had bitten him. He couldn't stop the whimper, or the way his head lolled to the opposite side. Lips, warm- --hot, really-- where Angel's had not been, pressed against the tender flesh, mixing pain with a pleasure so strange and intense that Wesley couldn't be sure, for a moment, who had him by the throat, and whose eyes he was staring into. Especially when Gunn's broad, flat teeth grazed the skin once, then bit.

It was a claiming. He knew enough about vampire lore to recognize the meaning of biting and sealing, of drinking only enough to have the loved one's blood within, not enough to harm. To feel Gunn repeating the process, the vampire hunter, all living warm male flesh, repeating an action, a ceremony, that belonged to the race he had made his enemy for years-- it was disconcerting. Or would have been, if Wesley had any coherent thoughts from which to be disconcerted. As it was, the feeling just intensified the half-hallucination that both of his lovers were one and the same, or had switched places when he wasn't looking.

In this instance, he knew, it didn't matter which was whom, and who was holding him, who was watching, who was claiming. Because they both were, and his own body was rapidly descending into a formless pool of boneless goo. He wasn't even certain he was up to being ravished, which normally was the highlight of his days. This time, he was worried that he might not survive the experience. Already his nerve endings were misfiring, because it *seemed* as though fingers were ghosting along his face, and his arms, and his chest, yet he couldn't see that Angel was moving and Charles was still holding onto him.

He, or someone else in proximity to his brain, whimpered again. His own fingers were clutching at air, then there were hands taking his, and he was being pulled forward into Angel's embrace.

"You belong to *us*, Wesley." The words were whispered against his skull, echoing around inside his head. "But I think you know that. Think you're *afraid* of that part."

Charles was behind him, pressing against him, hard beneath the jeans he must have thrown on in a hurry, because they were all he was wearing. "'Cause you can't get it through your thick English skull that we belong to you, too," his other lover finished. The two of them could even finish each other's sentences... "Stop it," Gunn ordered. "Damn it, I can hear the little wheels turnin' in your head. Yeah, Angel and I are alike in a lot of ways. It's nice."

"But sometimes it's like making love to yourself," Angel finished. Lips cool against Wesley's forehead, now. "You bring us out of ourselves. Make us real."

He shook his head, not at all certain he was following this. Not understanding, or perhaps not really hearing it. Not hearing anything over the buzz in his ears and the tingle along his skin where Charles and Angel touched him. "What...no," he tried to say something, despite the attempted refusal of his mind to give him any words that didn't begin with 'yes' and 'more'.

There was a pause in what they were doing, and he found his lovers looking at him, waiting. Still touching, but their fingers had slowed so that he could predict where they were going, and try to ignore the sensations.

"I'm not afraid of you owning me," he said, surprising himself with the clarity of his tone.

"No?" Who had asked? Did it matter?

"I want that. Knew it coming in. Angel's a vampire, Charles is about the most alpha alpha-male I've ever met; you're just lucky you fell in love, or you'd have killed each other, sooner or later." He was amazed to hear anything approaching complete sentences being spoken in his own voice, and half suspected that Spike had perfected that invisibility spell after all. Or learned to throw Wes' voice from the eighth floor, which was also possible. Since he could already throw it from the next room, which was something Wesley had to remember not to let on he knew about. Especially to Angel.

"For someone who's saying he *wanted* to be owned," Charles said -- he knew because Angel was kissing Wes, at the moment, "You're an awful bossy piece of work."

When Wesley had his mouth back, and his lips, and then his tongue again, he said quietly, "I was afraid I was...just the toy you'd bring out and use, and forget about between times."

Gunn rubbed large hands over Wesley's shoulders, and squeezed. "I *told* you that we belong to you, too. So, okay, you don't like having to tell us what you want. Need. We'll work on that. But why do you think we *do* it, when you do tell us? For the sex? Man, sex with you is *great*," and he illustrated this with a little grind of his hips against Wesley's backside, "But I wouldn't read 'The Pokey Little Puppy' out loud for sex with *anybody*. "

Angel looked up at him, amused. "Not even me?"

"Not on your unlife. Velveteen Rabbit, maybe."

Wesley could feel them smiling at each other, through his fading haze. It was beginning to sound as though his fears had been groundless. Silly. A finger ran up his neck, seizing his attention once more. He found Angel looking at him. "I think you're thinking too much, again," Angel said, and leant in to prevent Wesley from saying anything else.

Charles leant down to stop him from thinking too much, as well. So he let them. Let them move against him, cool and warm. Surrendered himself to the touch of skin on skin. Pulse points. He'd never known how many pulse points he had until Angel had discovered and sucked on every one. *Every* one. Never known, either, the contrast between human skin against his own, and vampire skin. If human skin was sometimes compared to silk, it was a half-hearted comparison at best. Angel's flesh against his own was indistinguishable from the shirt he was wearing, except that Angel *moved* against him.

The heat of Charles' skin, the cool of Angel's. Lips, teeth, fingers. He got lost in it, as he'd so often done. Drowning in sensation. Being distracted and soothed from whatever silly worry he'd got into a snit about. He tried to regain the thread of what they'd been saying. Wanted to find out if he believed them, or if dealing with his moods had simply made them very, very good at handling them.

He was thumped on the back of the head. "Do we have to say it *again?" The words were sharp, but the tone was just soft.

"I...I'm not sure," he admitted quietly. Honestly, the answer was yes. But he was not supposed to be saying anything, wasn't he?

A sigh, or a growl, of frustration, though not necessarily with him, he realized. Just with the whole silly situation. If he told them what he needed, he'd be telling them. If he didn't, if he got lost, he might be giving up at what seemed to be a Moment between the three of them. Allowing them to comfort him. Silence or sound, and neither one seemed exactly right. He could understand Angel's frustration. Confusion. It mirrored his own.

Gunn said it again. "We belong to you." Then he said it with his hands, wrapped around Wesley's chest. Gently stroking through his shirt.

"You belong to us," Angel said, slipping his own hands below Charles' and stroking as well. Arousing, but not distracting. Not making his brain shut down. Rubbing, as though one would soothe a tired, injured lover who had spent far too many hours slaying evil. Which he had done so many times, and always shrugged off offers in return, because said lovers were always half-asleep and unable to move in their own right. For some reason, sitting over his desk for hours never seem to warrant asking for same.

Perhaps they were right, and he *should* have asked. They must have felt him relax, or read the decision and understanding he'd come to -- perhaps they could read minds, after all -- because the caresses changed. And his trousers were being dropped to his knees.

Really? In the bar? How semi-public, how like a certain couple we know, how will we get the stains off the bartop... He started to say something, one of those things, then stopped. Let the silence carry him. Let his lovers tell him, for a change. Two sets of hands were running down his hips, his thighs, gripping tightly, taking turns moving back up and down again.

"What d'you think?" Charles asked, but he wasn't asking Wesley.

"I think...on his back. On the table. Legs up and held down." Wesley wasn't certain that enacting it would be necessary -- he was two seconds short of coming already.

"Really? Not over the bar?"

Wesley jerked a bit between them. Random firing of neurons, racing down his spine to the nerves in his leg muscles.

"Nice, but then he could only see one of us."

"Oh, yeah, like the way you're thinking." Charles sounded impressed; Wesley was simply glad one of them was able to think at all. Someone was bending down, now, and removing his shoes and trousers. A finger slid down his buttock and he was afraid their lovely plan would be for naught. Then he was being picked up and put on the table on his back and his legs were lifted. Angel was standing between his legs, Charles was right at Angel's side. They were both looking at him as if he were their first meal in years.

Another finger, whose, he didn't know, touched the length of his cock. He gasped. "I'm going to come before you start, if you do that," and who was controlling his voice, then? He shouldn't have been able to speak at all.

Angel leant forward, a bit. "Doesn't matter. This is about what *we* want."

Wesley retained just enough control over his own nervous system to nod, before he felt a hand softly stroking his inner thigh, and his head fell backwards.

It was a bloody good thing, because he heard Charles growl, "*I* wanna fuck him," and Wesley lost all control.

*****

Wesley walked slowly up the stairs. This time he wasn't wandering blindly, in a fit of rage and confusion, but enjoying the chance to think. Breathe. Separate from his lovers for a moment, while they-- and he had to laugh-- cleaned up downstairs. Without having been asked. Walking slowly because it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other, and not collapse into a heap of just-fucked-to-insensibility jelly.

Walking slowly because he *had*, in fact, just been fucked to insensibility, and there *were* after-effects. Walking at all because he had no particular desire to listen to Spike's evil Muzak in the lift. Where he'd found a station that played all horror-movie themes, all the time, Wesley didn't want to know.

What he did know was that somewhere above him, was a hot shower to be had. The promise of standing under the spray of hot water, then crawling into bed, was all that was dragging him onward. Perhaps he'd even take a quick shower to get clean, then grab his underwater breathing spelled cord, and take his nap in the hot tub. His brain cells threatened to go on strike as that thought occurred, and Wesley was hard pressed to remember why he couldn't just teleport himself to his room.

He stopped on the stairstep to consider it, and saw Spike carefully making his way down the stairs. Extremely carefully. The vampire was stepping down a few steps, wincing, then smiling, then repeating the whole procedure. When Wesley breathed in, Spike looked up, and the expression on his face changed-- to a familiar smug, superior smirk.

"Well now. Don't *we* look well-shagged." Spike's eyes took in Wesley's disheveled hair, rumpled clothes, and general air of post-debauchery. Sniffed, and grinned even wider. "Love's in the air, is it?"

Wesley opened his mouth to reply, something suitably dour and unamused. He stopped when he realized there was nothing he could say about it that wouldn't just make Spike look more smug.

As he was doing now. "Don't hesitate to call me, whenever you need my services. 'Spike, Love Doctor' -- though I'd have suggested they use the library. Acoustics really are better--" Then Spike wasn't saying anything. Rather, if he was, Wesley couldn't hear him. He doubted Spike was saying anything, other than "glub, glub", after being teleported into the pool. Smiling a bit smugly himself, Wesley continued up the stairs.

the end