Wes dropped heavily onto his unmade bed, his limbs heavy. His day had stretched into night, then early morning. He'd gotten used to those sorts of hours when he first joined Angel Investigations, but despite this he was exhausted. But, he thought wryly, he usually didn't give a pint or two of his blood to Angel.
Angel was back, alive after months trapped on the ocean floor. Safe. But it was his fault; it was all his fault. He was the one who'd fallen for the false prophecy, he was the one who'd taken Connor, he was the one who failed Angel and damned his son to a life of twisted confusion and darkness. He'd tried to play the hero, save the day, but instead he'd failed them all. He hadn't saved Angel; no, what he'd done was pick up some of the pieces of the mess he'd made.
Wes shrugged out of his jacket and toed off his shoes. He lay down and pulled the covers over his body. As exhaustion ate away at his awareness, he raised his arm and touched the healing cut. A tight arc of pleasure shot down into his groin as he thought of Angel's mouth sucking at his flesh, his saliva healing the wound even as blunt teeth worried it. Granted, it wasn't the circumstances Wes had always dreamed of, fantasized of, but there it was.
He liked to think that he'd shed his naive, arrogant self like a snake skin, rubbed it away until his embarrassing past was just a memory. And truth be told, whenever he looked into the mirror, Wes saw nothing of the man whose face still graced his passport. He liked to think he was nothing like the prig he'd once been, and for the most part, he wasn't. But there were still reminders, glimpses of who he'd been. And they were always their strongest around Angel.
From the moment he'd first seen him, Wes had been in awe of the tall stranger, attracted to him. He'd been so ashamed when he'd found out that Angel was a vampire, and not just any vampire, but Angelus. It was wrong, so wrong that Wesley's attraction had only gotten stronger upon learning the truth. He was a Watcher, he should have had better control than to lust after a vampire. But telling himself this did nothing to alter his dreams and fantasies.
Over the years, his crush on the vampire had faded to small glimmers of desire and brief moments of appreciation for Angel's form. He'd always know that Angel didn't desire him, that he wasn't someone the vampire would find attractive. And it was fine; since early childhood, Wesley had known that he wasn't the sort others would dream of or pine after. He was no one's fantasy lover, just a stuffy, insecure Watcher wrapped in the skin of a scarred demon hunter.
But as he touched his cut in the fading dark of early morning, he knew that he would give every drop of blood in his veins if it would make Angel desire him.