How To Kill Your Boyfriend In One Hard Lesson Chapter 13, an angel fanfic

Disclaimer: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…

Summary: Occurs after Brother, Unfortunately Mine. Rating 18 for sexual references. The sibling theme is not entirely played out …

HOW TO KILL YOUR (PSYCHO) BOYFRIEND IN ONE HARD LESSON

Chapter 13 – And Any Other Duties…

"Come in, Wes." Angel remained staring out the window, his hands in his pockets as he contemplated the situation, having caught his second-in-command's scent and heard his familiar heartbeat as the Englishman approached.

Stepping inside, Wesley came to stand beside him and Angel inhaled Wesley's unique sandalwood-with-lemon, overlaid by Fred's odour (albeit much fainter since Illyria's occupancy of the body), which actually made the man smell better. "What've you got?"

"Stefan is really Staavuz, a member of the Gulff-Osok sub-species. They're as easy to kill as humans, as long as you know that their 'vital organs' are one in each upper thigh – roughly equivalent to a human heart or liver - and one in their heads."

"He's got a rap sheet?" Angel questioned.

"Reams. Usual mid-level-thuggery and murder-for-hire the Gulffosouog set go in for." Wesley responded, keeping silent about the conclusions he had come to regarding Stefan's motives for coming after Dawn since he as yet had nothing other his gut instinct to go on; he added, "And yes, Stefan's had 'relationship issues' before. Doesn't handle rejection well."

"Who does?" Angel muttered. "Spike and Gru have taken Dawn to the Rosita Museum, they've got that big Spanish Links exhibition on today. Hopefully Stefan or some goon of his will spot her and he'll walk into our welcoming crossfire."

"She'll be all right, Angel." Wesley tried to reassure his friend.

"Yeah, I know. Just remembering…stuff." Angel's tone was wistful.

"Your drink's getting cold." Wesley decided to take the bull by the horns.

"Later." Angel glanced dismissively at the #1 Boss mug on his desk, returning his gaze to the file on Staavuz/Stefan that Wesley had brought in.

So much for subtle; taking a step back, Wesley unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt, taking care as the material rubbed against his nipples, still slightly sore from Fred's play of the night before. Inclining his head slightly on the right, he ordered, "Spike drinks on the right side, so you go left."

Angel recoiled a few steps, his tone becoming hard. "I said I'd drink it later, Wesley."

Lifting his head back up straight again, Wesley folded his arms. "How much later? Tomorrow? Next week? The fact that you've gone from drinking three mugs a day to barely one since you found out it's mine is just an amazing coincidence?"

"Yeah, life's full of them." Angel let a bit of the lion's growl seep into his tone.

Wesley ignored it. "Bullshit. Make up your mind, Angel. You're in major pouting mode because Spike gets to sink his teeth into my neck, literally, while you have my haemoglobin microwaved in a mug, yet you barely deign to sip my apparently inferior red-cells."

"They're not inferior." snapped Angel angrily, trying to back away from Wesley and throwing the file on his desk as an outlet for his desire to hit the Englishman.

"You're sure acting like it. What's the problem with my blood, Angel?"

"There is no problem, that is the problem!"

"In something approximating actual sense?"

Angel was tired.

Tired of trying to fathom the Machiavellian conundrum of Wolfram & Hart. Tired of worrying that Lindsey MacDonald was bang on the nail both about The Apocalypse already being here and Team Angel being on the wrong side. He was tired of fighting a war in so many directions he had lost count. Tired of always having to make a choice between grey and greyer. Tired of having to make sure his back was covered against the good guys as well as the bad. Tired of losing his friends, like Doyle, then Cordelia and now Fred, to fates worse than death.

He was tired of veering between hope that Buffy would come to LA and hope that she wouldn't, after Andrew Wells revelation that the Scooby Gang no longer trusted him. He was tired of constantly hearing in his head, like a song on permanent loop, the words thrown at him and Wesley by Andrew before the young Watcher had snatched Dana Parvati from their grasp: " Who do you think my orders came from? Newsflash! Nobody in our camp trusts you anymore…nobody. You work for Wolfram & Hart. Don't fool yourself…we're noton the same side.'"

And Angel was damn tired of Harmony bringing him that damn mug of blood three times every day and being unable to drink it because every time he raised it to his lips, he got a Technicolor image of Spike biting deep into Wesley's neck. He was, in short, royally pissed off, and not in the mood for snotty Englishmen.

Moving forward with the preternatural speed of his kind, he was inwardly pleased when Wesley tensed slightly. "You think I don't want your blood, Wes? Wrong. I want it too much." He leaned in close, locking his dark eyes with Wesley's. The smoky eyes held his own gaze blandly, and Angel allowed his teeth to show slightly as he went on, "Every human being's blood is unique, did you know that? Like their DNA or their fingerprints. Some people are sweet like candy, some are tart sour apple; some are spicy; some are bland. A human being can actually survive massive blood loss with surprising ease, Wes'. In fact that's why blood clinics happily take up to two pints at a time, because humans have the marvellous ability to replace a couple of lost pints of blood within hours, so haven't you ever wondered why a vampire just doesn't pick some schmuck and keep them alive indefinitely as their own personal little grocery store?" Angel was so close that he and Wesley were almost chest-to-chest as he whispered the question in Wesley's ear.

"Enlighten me." Wesley invited in that prissy, clipped English accent of his, exuding that British sang froid that drove you nuts.

"Because we crave. If the blood tastes really good, you get so that you don't want anyone else's, so if your pet gets dead, hello, anorexia vampire-osa." Angel snarled. "I've got the taste of you now, Wesley. You're a good vintage. You taste like dark honey taken straight from the hive, like that bitter-dark continental chocolate, like really old cognac." Angel fastened his attention on the pulse jumping in Wesley's neck, recalling how Wesley had fed him from his arm when he had rescued Angel from the ocean floor, how Angel had wanted with all his being to drag Wesley's throat to his mouth and feast on that rich, powerful bounty. "You've got a bit of spice, too, just the right hint of fire. I like them feisty, Wes, you should know that." He deliberately smiled in an attempt to intimidate.

"That's why you insisted Spike feed on me here." Wesley countered coolly, "It wasn't because you were afraid he'd lose control, but because you're afraid you will."

"Walk away, Wes. Be content with whatever kind of thrill letting Spike feed gives you. I'm out of your league."

"Oh, get over yourself." Wesley's lips curled as he finally stepped back from Angel's deliberate crowding of his personal space, but not because he was duly chastened. "This tortured-hero refrain is really getting old. The only reason I feed the pair of you is because it's my job; I'm sidekick-in-chief. It's my responsibility to get the Champion to his Apocalypse on time and being able to guarantee nobody manages to poison you just makes things a bit easier. If Spike can stop himself from draining me, you certainly can, but that's not why you insist on this public chest-beating." Wesley lowered his tone to a bass profundo, sounding like an Italian mobster in a bad B-Movie, "'I daren't feed on people, because I'm Angel - I'm so baaaad I might not be able to stop.'" Turning on his heel as Angel's jaw dropped, Wesley walked away, tossing over his shoulder derisively, "Save the tortured self-flagellation for Buffy, Angel. It might make her wet between the legs, but it's not my thing -"

Having subconsciously automatically calculated to within a millimetre the distance between himself and his prey, Angel jumped forward, yanking on Wesley's arm and spinning him back around, the Englishman hissing as the action caused the material of his shirt to drag across his nipples, but he had only time to clench his fists before Angel gripped his hair and forced back his head to expose the left side of his throat, the vampire using his other hand to grip Wesley's left forearm and force it down.

Unable to maintain his centre of gravity, Wesley was forced to grab tight hold of the nearest solid form - the back of Angel's jacket - with his right hand to keep from falling over. For a fraction of a second Angel's lowering head paused, but then his nostrils were full of the rival scent of his grandson, and he could sense the magically healed bite marks the other vampire left.

He wasn't gentle as he bit down, holding the Englishman still. The arterial blood carried warmth no microwave could match, a texture and richness that made him growl in delight. Angel did not gorge, but instead carefully lessened the flow to a trickle, sipping the nectar with a leisurely pleasure that both knew was punishment. Wesley remained perfectly still with the ease of practice. The only time Spike had inadvertently hurt him was when he had moved more sharply than he intended and the blond vampire had reacted instinctively to pin his prey. Very carefully Wesley flexed his hand, unclenching his fingers from the material of Angel's jacket and making small rubbing motions on Angel's back like a parent comforting a distressed child.

That dissipated Angel's anger at the man. Tender action towards someone who is within an inch of ripping your throat out takes a great deal of compassion. Releasing his grip, Angel took a step back, panting slightly with the intoxicating after-effects of Wesley's blood, his eyes fixed on the wound as Wesley simply hitched his collar up and buttoned his shirt, Angel battling the desire to feed again. He could, Wesley wasn't strong enough to fight him.

Seeing the tidal wave of guilt rising in Angel's eyes, Wesley said casually, "I'll call in every day, about two o'clock, and you can feed."

Angel reared back as if Wesley had punched him in the jaw. "No! Look, I'm sorry…"

"Angel. Deep. Six. The. Guilt." Wesley enunciated snappishly. "No more sackcloth and ashes, you've already cornered the market in brooding remorse."

"What I did doesn't bother you?" Angel shot back.

"Considering how much I was goading you, I can't claim any high ground, here." Wesley pointed out. "Let's not forget who decided to walk up to the starving grizzly and whack it in the face."

"Thanks…I'm not that broody." Angel protested.

Wesley gave him a who-are-you-kidding? look.

Angel tried again, "Wesley, I'm trying to achieve redemption here. Feeding –"

"Is what you have to do, so the Powers That Be will just have to deal." Wesley instructed his friend - and any listening-in astral plane inhabitants. "People don't hate the lion because it kills the gazelle. It has no choice, it's what it has to do to survive. You and Spike weren't doomed because you need to feed off people. What got you condemned was that you tortured and murdered innocents – that was evil."

"You're trying to say that a vampire who fed on people without hurting them or killing anyone wouldn't be classed as evil by the PTBs?" Angel scoffed.

"I am saying it. Such a vampire would be a lion, hunting gazelle. Birds fly, fish swim, vampires need to ingest mammalian blood, preferably human, to survive. End of discussion. Get over it and get on with it." Wesley grimaced. "Speaking of which, we have twenty minutes maximum before Dear Dawn and her two knights in dented armour get here for this afternoon's council of war. Snap out of it and snap to it, Boss."

Continued in Chapter 14…