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The sounds of rutting and grunting can probably be heard on the first floor of the Hyperion, but neither of them cares very much. Wesley dimly considers that these aren't the sort of sounds Fred needs to hear when she's already so skittish, but he can't be bothered to silence himself. They should have done this at his flat, but Angel's hotel room is just so accessible.

Two hundred years of sexual experience is beneficial, although Wesley suspects that Angel is a decidedly vanilla lover compared to what Angelus would probably be like.

He stiffens, momentarily shocked out of the moment. He never wants to know what Angelus would be like as a lover. Not really. He has to remember that.

Angel's hand clamps down on his bare shoulder. Wesley slides his hand up Angel's back and scratches over what he suspects is Angel's tattoo. He wants to really examine the tat, but has never been given the chance. This isn't about lovingly tracing the contours of the other's body.

Angel grunts with each thrust, sometimes almost saying a name that sounds like "Buffy," other times "Cordy," but it's never clear enough to be one, the other, or anything else. Wesley expects he imagines the consonants more than anything else; reminders of the women Angel would rather be fucking.

Angel's fingers dig in at Wesley's hip and it hurts—actually too much—and Wesley opens his mouth to say that, but stops before words form. He makes a sound of pain and twists his lips into a snarl, jerking his hips back to show his displeasure. The grip on his hip loosens.

Angel's mouth finds Wesley's skin—human teeth that only graze, never bite. Wesley bares his teeth and deeply bites into Angel's arm.

It's then that Angel comes.

They thrust through Angel's orgasm until Wesley comes minutes later.

They pant, louder than seems necessary; the heavy breaths take the place of cooing words of love, devotion, and promises of the future.

Angel's lips close on Wesley's shoulder, more a brushing of skin against skin than a kiss. They don't kiss, they never kiss; kissing is too personal.

Angel pushes away, stands, and heads to the bathroom. He doesn't once look at Wesley.

Wesley rolls over and pulls on his glasses. The top sheet is on the floor, the bottom sheet half pulled off the mattress, the mattress sliding away from the headboard. The pillows have been used for leverage and lie scattered and misshapen from abuse.

He can't imagine having to clean up after them.

He wipes himself off on the used sheets and dresses, slowly fitting each button through its buttonhole, slowly rebuilding himself after the orgasm.

It's quiet and he wonders if Fred is asleep, if she can sleep through that.

Angel is still in the bathroom when Wesley leaves.

He doesn't shut Angel's door; his feet fall quietly on the stairs. At three in the morning the Hyperion is cold and dark, wrapping around Wesley like a dead embrace.

They'll speak again in the morning, after it's been quiet for so long that neither of them can stand it. Then they'll politely tell each other good morning while Wesley makes the coffee and Angel atones for his sins and they act like good friends rather than strangers.