Bitter Irony
Irony is a funny thing, a perversion of fate which some would argue cannot be fought. Did that mean that all this was supposed to happen? That all those bitter ironies were just fates way of saying 'fuck you'? Wesley sometimes wondered this, but most of the time he pretended not to care. What was the point in mulling over these things? If there was one thing having his throat cut had taught him it was to live for the now, not dwell on the past or try to look to the future. If fact, looking to the future was what had almost got him killed in the first place. How was he supposed to know that the damn prophecy was a fake?
Now he was back to being what he'd so long tried to fight. An outsider. He'd never been accepted as Buffy's Watcher in Sunnydale, he'd never been part of the gang. Then he'd found the acceptance he'd yearned for in LA; he'd become part of the team, a key player in the fight against evil. Then of course fate had to intervene, stab him in the back, twist the knife and rub salt into the wound. He was back to where he'd been in the beginning. Rejected by his friends, cast out and alone.
And it was all the fault of the boy who now lay in his bed.
This was where the irony came in. Wesley had been coming home from the hospital when he'd been almost knocked off his feet by the boy, looking like Peter Pan dressed in animal skins.
"Watch where you're going!" He snapped climbing to his feet and glaring at the youth who had barged into him. But the boy merely stared, not at him but at the scar on his throat where Justine had nearly ended his life.
"Did you get that in a battle?" The boy asked, awe and wonder in his eyes. "Are you a warrior?"
Wesley couldn't help but give a bitter laugh at that. A warrior? More like a coward.
"Who are you running from?" He finally asked, realising he was being stared at.
"A monster."
Wesley had been quick to offer the boy sanctuary in his home. Whether it was out of compassion or initial lust he could never be sure. The boy was certainly beautiful, the wild look adding to his natural beauty.
He'd accepted Wesley's offer of course, seeming to be fascinated by him.
"What's your name?" Wesley asked as they headed back towards his apartment.
"Steven."
Steven. Of course he hadn't realised who it was. Why should he? He was out of the loop now; he didn't know what was happening.
"So tell me about this monster." Wesley asked, handing the boy a plate of food and a glass of water, watching as he wolfed it down. "Maybe I can help you kill it."
"He's a vampire." Steven replied between mouthfuls. "I know how to kill him."
"Does he have a name?"
"Angel."
That in itself wasn't a total surprise. Angel had a lot of enemies in the city. But what possible grudge could this boy have against him?
"He's my father."
Those three words had changed it all. 'Steven' was no longer an innocent in Wesley's eyes, he was the source of his misery. Connor had cost him everything and now he was sat here in Wesley's home, eating Wesley's food from Wesley's plate. Irony is a real bitch.
At first Wesley didn't know what to do, so he sat and listened as Connor told him the whole story. About Angel and Darla, life in Quor'torth with Holtz and how he now wanted to kill the vampire that had fathered him. Of course he had no idea of Wesley's involvement, no idea how different his life would have been if Wesley had left him in his crib that night.
"I hate him." Connor spat disdainfully
That made two of them. Wesley couldn't be sure when he'd come to hate Angel. It was some time after he'd tried to suffocate him in his hospital bed. Angel didn't care that Wesley had nearly died, didn't care that when he'd taken Connor it was to protect him. None of that mattered and despite everything Angel himself had done in the past, he'd clearly learnt nothing about forgiveness.
A small voice began to whisper to him.
Revenge.
"Would you like to stay here the night?"
Revenge.
"You can have my bed if you like."
Revenge.
It hadn't taken much to convince him. Connor didn't have anywhere else to go and the offer of a warm bed and shelter for the night was too good to pass up. Wesley had soon got him settled and had paused for a second before sliding in beside him.
"It's alright." He reassured when he felt Connor tense. "Just seems a shame for me to scrunch up on the couch when there's all this room."
Connor remained silent for a moment before nodding and the two of them lay there in silence.
Finally Wesley reached over and began to stroke Connor's arm, testing the waters to see how easy this was going to be.
"What are you doing?" Connor asked after a moment, his breathing quickening ever so slightly.
"It's been so long since I've had someone share my bed with me." Wesley said softly, not moving his hand from Connor's arm.
As he thought he would Connor bolted, or attempted to. Wesley was quicker, rolling on top of the boy and pinning him down.
"Come now, you have to give me something in exchange for my hospitality."
As Connor continued to struggle Wesley clipped him across the jaw, hard enough to stun him but not hard enough to knock him out. If Connor was unconscious it would defeat the point of this little exercise. He wanted Connor to feel the same loss that he felt. To know that something had been taken from him that could never be given back.
He quickly turned him onto his stomach and pulled out a set of handcuffs from his bedside table, leftover from the days when he and Virginia had shared a bed. He threaded the cuffs between two of the bars on the head of the bed and then fastened them around Connor's wrists.
"I don't suppose you know what it's like." Wesley said to the semi-conscious boy as he removed his pants. "To feel loss."
He pulled down the loose sweats that he'd leant Connor in place of the animal skins he's been wearing. Connor let out a small whimper, indicating that he was now more or less fully conscious. Kneeling on the bed beside him Wesley stroked the smooth skin on Connor's back before moving further south and slipping one of his fingers into the tight hole of his ass. To his credit Connor didn't cry out.
"I see you're trying to be brave." Another finger entered. "You know, you're a lot more like Angel than you think."
"I'm not like him." Connor choked, still not crying, determined not to let Wesley win.
When a third finger still got no reaction Wesley pulled back and turned his attention to his now painful erection, which clearly needed seeing to.
As he thrust himself deep inside Connor, the boy finally broke. Tears of pain, shame and disgust rolled down his cheeks and splashed onto the pillow.
Wesley continued his assault of the boy, the sound of his sobbing merely arousing him further. Finally he came with a roar and rolled away from Connor, his entire penis coated with blood from the boy's torn hole.
Defeated, Connor continued to weep softly while Wesley climbed to his feet and headed to the bathroom to shower. When he returned he unlocked the cuffs, knowing Connor would be too sore and emotionally weak to even think about fighting him.
So now all Wesley had to do was wait. It would only be a matter of time before Angel found out what had happened. Then the hunt would begin. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide forever, Angel would find him and finish what he'd tried to do in the hospital.
Part of him longed for it. Longed for this life to be over, part of it had been wishing it since Justine had almost ended it. What sort of life did he have now anyway? No purpose.
He'd run of course, the primal instinct for survival was still awake inside him. But Angel was good; he'd find him eventually.
Maybe then he could have peace.