It seems like a clean break is best. Rather than getting settled into the hotel with the others and then taking off, Xander simply accompanies Wesley to his apartment at the end of their shopping expedition.

Just like that, he's staying with Wesley.

He'd have expected the place to be fussier, but it's almost got a Zen thing happening. Cordelia's room at the Hyperion had more of her in it than Wesley's place has of him.

"...And the bath." Wesley opens the door to the medicine chest. "You can put your shaving things here."

He certainly can. There are three shelves in the cabinet, two of them completely bare. Xander reaches into the plastic bag from the drugstore and arranges most of his purchases on the bottom shelf.

His things. What a weird thing to say. Nothing he's brought into Wesley's apartment has been in his possession for more than three hours. There'll be more coming later. Xander still isn't sure what a bespoke suit is, but the ones he's getting are going to be custom tailored. The whole thing seems almost like a dream.

As he closes the cabinet door, he's suddenly confronted with the sight of himself in the mirror. Jesus, it's a wonder Wesley would be seen with him at the tony clothing stores where Wolfram & Hart has their accounts. His hair is unkempt, a little greasy, and he's in need of a shave. At least they showered. (They. Showered.)

And the eyepatch. He hasn't had time to really look at himself since Caleb fucked him up. There's been too much planning, fighting, running -- too much raw fear. Time to assess the damage has been a luxury he only now can afford. He stands transfixed at the sight of his ruined face.

Well, if his old man were alive, that isn't all he'd consider ruined. "Taking it up the ass now, are you," Xander imagines him saying. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised."

Xander's surprised. He can't say whether or not he liked it. He came, with Wesley's dick up his ass and hand on his cock. You'd think that would make things clear-cut, but it doesn't.

"I set out some cheese, but I expect we'll want to order --" Wesley comes to a halt in the doorway as he sees Xander staring at himself. He stands stock-still for a long moment.

Neither man speaks.

Finally Wesley breaks the silence. "How long ago did it happen?"

He still won't look anywhere but the mirror. "I'm not even sure. A week? Two weeks? There was so much going on, it all kind of slid together. Plus there were pain pills." He wishes he had some now.

"Come have something to eat," Wesley says.

Xander follows him into the living room, but what he has is something to drink. There is lube in the plastic drugstore bag, but Wesley's very fine Scotch is the lubricant he needs to give himself up to Wesley's attentions. To allow him to lose himself.

He has a lot to learn, and Wesley has the infinite patience to teach him.

This is the first time in his life this has ever been true. Willow came closest, perhaps, tutoring him in math, but ultimately that took more patience than she possessed. The most instruction he ever had from Giles was "Oh, do be quiet" or "Do sit down." From his old man, it was "Get me a beer," and a smack upside the head if he didn't bring it fast enough.

The amazing thing is, he teaches Xander about his own body. He's known that old line about people only using about ten percent of the capacity of their brains, but Xander is convinced this is true of his body as well. How can he have walked around inside it for 22 years without knowing anything about it at all?

He'd never known, for example, that just teeth and tongue on nipples could send him into a screaming orgasm. He knows now because of the night Wesley refused to spend his energies elsewhere, his hands encircling Xander's wrists so he couldn't cheat.

He knows now that just having his wrists restrained this way makes his prick stand at attention, and having them hauled up over his head as his lover presses his weight against him can send him over the edge. He's learned that he doesn't have to apologize when he comes this way.

He discovers that the phrase "such a good boy," uttered at just the right moment, can make him come, can make tears spring to his eye.

He loses track of how many days he spends at his lessons, seeing no one but Wesley and the occasional delivery boy bearing Chinese food or curry.

Xander learns how erotic food can be, particularly when he's tied to the bed and blindfolded, fed by hand. This is perhaps the lesson it's taken longest to assimilate. The blindfold, a simple silk scarf, sent him into a frenzy of panic the first time it was introduced. As he does so well, Wesley talked him through it, session after session, until Xander finally can let his vision be obscured without his heart thundering in his chest. Every gain he makes brings him special treats from Wesley; his trust is always rewarded.

It's after one of these sessions with the scarf and some fresh peaches that Wesley removes himself from the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. Xander is still blindfolded, his arms tethered to the bedposts, his legs splayed out and tied -- this part just introduced today. After a long moment, tension begins curling in Xander's belly as he waits.

Wesley re-enters, bending over him to fuss with the blindfold. "I've brought you something special." The scarf slips away just as he turns toward the door and says, "Come."

And Faith walks into the room.

Panic grips him, his arms and legs jerking against his bonds as he shouts, "Fuck!"

Her face darkens. "Jesus, Wes! What are you playing at?" She whirls and strides from the room, and Xander is dimly aware of the apartment door slamming.

Then Wesley is straddling his hips, sliding his hands under the briefs Xander now wears at his request, bending forward to lick peach juice from the hollow of Xander's throat. Xander thrashes angrily beneath him, until Wesley murmurs, "I would never let any harm come to you." And suddenly he's convulsing and bucking under Wesley's weight, cursing him and crying as his orgasm rolls like thunder, long and shattering.

Wesley also has patience for the dreams that fracture their sleep. They're not always about Caleb, but most of them are. Those are full of sensation: the earthy smell of wine, the prissy little smile that malignant fuck wore as he forced his thumb into Xander's eye. Unbelievable pressure followed by unbelievable pain.

He wakes shouting, fighting the covers, sometimes hitting out at Wesley, who restrains him until he stops struggling. Wesley strokes his hair and murmurs soothingly, and after a time leads him into the kitchen where he makes tea. Wesley's ritualized movements, his long, graceful hands hovering over the teapot, calm him more than the scent and taste and warmth of the tea.

Twice Xander wakes to find himself cowering in the corner of the bedroom, clearly having scrabbled there on hands and knees. He hates this weakness in himself, hates himself more when he begs Wesley to cover him, to pin him to the ground so he doesn't spin away. It's not gentleness he wants then, but something that hurts, a body to struggle against. He insists on curses and venom, Wesley's voice turned harsh and cold. It comes naturally to Wesley, as if the words are an echo of his own past.

When they're both spent, he presses kisses to Xander's shoulder, then rises to make tea. On these nights he doesn't reach for the Queen's Jubilee keepsake tin, but another box on a high shelf. His movements are the same as his hands measure the leaves, swirl boiling water in teapot and cups to warm them, but the aroma of the tea as it brews is abrasive to Xander's sinuses, bitter to the taste. Once he's drunk it down, he falls into a deep sleep that doesn't relinquish its grip until late the next afternoon.

Xander ghosts around the apartment, unsure what to do with himself. For the first time, Wesley has left him alone for more than a ten-minute run to the Korean grocery on the corner, disappearing for the better part of the day. When he returns, they'll go out together, pick up the tailored suits. Then they'll head to a place where Wolfram & Hart doesn't have an account, where Xander will have his nipple pierced. It's one of the rewards Wesley is lavishing on him for last night's performance.

Not just his wild capitulation after Faith's surprise appearance, but for everything that came after. His willingness to ride out the panic that swept over him again when Wesley left the bonds in place, gentled by soft touches and quiet words. His submission to the inquisition that followed, as Wesley asked him to recount everything about his two encounters with Faith, questioning him without pity, arousing him relentlessly with his touch, his words. So skillfully Wesley kept him at the edge, bringing him within a breath of release, always retreating. He probed and cross-examined Xander, battering at him with his steely-soft repetitions of Faith's name until all meaning was stripped from the sound. Then he loosened Xander's bonds, fleetingly brushed his fingertips over his belly before stepping away from the bed. "I'm asking you to wait," Wesley said. "I'm asking you to be good and wait for me." He shut off the light and left the room, leaving him alone in complete darkness (how had Xander never noticed there was not even the soft glow of a clock in this room?) and utter silence. A sharp ache throbbed through his balls, but worse was the scraped-out feeling of Wesley's absence. He waited.

Wesley's return, after a length of time Xander couldn't estimate, was reward enough. Release this time was a hurricane, uprooting him, upending him. When he thought he'd come to the end, panting and quivering on Wesley's bed, he found he was only at the eye of the storm. When it finally passed, he lay gasping and sobbing as Wesley told him how well he'd done, how he's everything Wesley had hoped for.

Now Xander drifts into the bedroom, thinking how strange it is to be alone for the first time after so many changes have been wrought in him. He feels himself being remade, molecules shifted around, something new created from the shards of something broken. He feels, for the first time in a very long while, happy. Peaceful.

There are two small closets in the bedroom, this building a relic of the era when people didn't own so damn much stuff. Wesley has said they'll clean out the one he uses for storage, but they've been too busy at Xander's lessons to begin. He wouldn't presume to move anything, but he'll take a look, set his carpenter's mind to calculating out what sort of storage configuration they'll need. As he swings the door open, his breath catches. There's a sizable cage in the closet. Xander knows enough about construction to know this is a serious object, meant to withstand a lot.

He can't quite put a name to the emotion that tightens his belly.

But he has no problem recognizing the stirring of his cock.

It twitches again as the sound of the doorbell makes him start.

Xander closes the door (Bluebeard's closet) and pads to the front door in his bare feet. He swings it open without checking the peephole. "What, are your hands full --?"

But it's not Wesley standing in the hallway. Xander's smile fades. "Buffy. I wasn't expecting to see you."

"I should have come a lot sooner. Can I come in?"

He glances at the window. Still daylight, but he follows his training. "I don't know, can you?" He turns and walks to the middle of the living room, the door still wide open.

She follows him into the room, closing the front door. "Xander, I want you to come with me to the Hyperion."

He laughs, a sharp, humorless sound. "Faith didn't waste any time, did she?"

"Why does it matter that it's Faith who told me? It's pretty clear that you need to come home."

"I wouldn't have thought I'd have to remind you that home is a big fucking hole in the ground." Xander pours a tumbler full of Scotch. "Can I get you something?"

"No. And you know what I mean. You need to be with your friends. You're grieving. You're shell-shocked. That's all perfectly natural, but you have to know you're not thinking clearly."

He realizes the glass of Scotch isn't the best supporting evidence for what he's about to say, and sets it on the coffee table. "True. I'm grieving. I'm shell-shocked. And at the same time, I'm fine." He gestures to himself, all loose linen trousers and Egyptian cotton sweater, serene as a New Age television guru. "Things haven't been this clear for years."

"What's clear? That Wes is using you?" She sees that this has hit its mark and presses on. "What you guys do between the sheets, hey, it's none of my business."

"We're agreed on that, then."

"But what he did last night, that really crossed a line."

But there are no lines between him and Wesley. That's just it. "It's between us, Buffy. Just leave it there."

She shakes her head. "No. He drew Faith into it, and that makes it something else."

"Faith can handle it. She's dished out worse."

"I can't believe you'd say that."

Xander shrugs. "I've got some things to do before Wesley gets back. If you don't mind."

"Know what she said? That he's made you his bitch."

He smiles. "Nice to know you trust Faith to be the arbiter of my mental health. Thanks for the check-up. Now get out and don't come here again."

"Xander --"

He holds her gaze, makes his voice as cold as Wesley does the nights his dreams send him cowering. "I meant what I said. Get the fuck out."

The briefest of hesitations, and then she's gone.

Xander leaves the Scotch on the coffee table and instead goes into the kitchen and reaches for the Jubilee tin. He's watched Wesley perform this operation so many times that, without having made special note of each step, he finds himself falling into the same rhythm, making each movement without having to think about it.

Things have been thrown off-balance. Today was meant to be the day of his reintroduction to the world, yes, but on the terms Wesley and he had set out. Instead the world has come crashing through Wesley's door. Not just the world, but the past, along with his old self, his old role. Fine for him to be Buffy's bitch for all those years. But for him to walk away from her on his own, to find something that's private and meaningful, that rocks him with its power -- that's the sign to her that something's terribly wrong.

Wesley's bitch. She's wrong. Everything that has passed between them has been negotiated, sometimes in words, most often not. He is not the only one being remade. Xander is acutely aware of the same shifts going on in Wesley, the rearrangement of molecules. To know that this Wesley is being created for him -- the thought makes his cock stir once more, brings an almost pleasant echo of last night's ache in his balls.

He pours his tea, lightens it with warmed milk to the exact shade Wesley makes it. He cradles his hands around the cup, breathing in steam and scent. Funny how such a small thing brings comfort. More than that, it fills him up. Everything in this apartment is Wesley in some way, and it all fills him, makes him whole. Nothing so much as the aroma of tea, the touch and smell of ancient books.

Giles.

No. These things mean Wesley now. The past he's shoved out the door in Buffy's wake. God bless, have a nice life, and don't let the screen door hit you in the ass on your way out.

He hears the key in the lock and leaps to his feet to greet Wesley, who favors him with a smile and a kiss. "Do I smell tea?"

"It's just made." Pressure builds in Xander's chest, and he stands dumbly in Wesley's path.

"What is it?"

It's Wesley's place to be keeper of any secrets, not his. "Buffy was here."

"Ah. She wanted to bring you back into the fold."

"Fold me back into an old life that doesn't fit anymore." He tells Wesley the whole short, sorry episode, words tumbling from him.

"How do you feel now?"

"Absolutely certain. About what I'm doing. About you." He moves toward Wesley, his skin buzzing with the longing to touch him.

Wesley holds up a hand. "You're not merely saying what you think I want to hear --?"

"No. Of course not." Surely Wesley can hear the certainty in his voice. Xander reaches for him.

"Xander." The soft voice stops his hand short of its target. "I know how much you want this. You trust that I do too?"

Trust is what his lessons have been all about. "Of course I do."

"Then let's wait until it's time. We have errands first. I want you to think about this --" His hand brushes fleetingly down Xander's hip -- "to think about me --" he kisses Xander, offering a flick of tongue before withdrawing -- "all the time we're out. Think of me and nothing else. No touching until we're back home. Do you understand?"

He closes his eyes.

"It's a lot to ask," Wesley admits, "but I know you. I would never ask anything that's beyond you."

There are moments Xander thinks Wesley is wrong about this. Their appointment to retrieve the suits is agonizing for him. The tailor shows no awareness of how the fluttering of his hands around his body disconcerts Xander. He gets a great deal of practice not noticing things, no doubt, if Wolfram & Hart are his primary clients. He probably gets demons in here with five dicks.

When they leave the tailor's, Xander nearly flinches at the sound of a bus roaring by. It's almost too much to be out in the world again after his time in retreat (he doesn't ask how long, Wesley doesn't tell). His skin feels hypersensitive, his senses assaulted by so much color and sound. Xander longs to get in the car and tear ass to the place Wesley has arranged for the piercing. But Wesley merely unlocks the trunk, stowing the garment bags carefully inside. "Oh, we don't have to be there for quite some time. Why don't we stop for a latte first?"

Time stretches. Wesley ushers Xander to an overstuffed chair at the coffee bar then establishes himself in a chair facing off to his left, as if they're strangers.

Xander can't see him -- he knows that's the point -- but he hears every soft murmur. He describes things they've done together, things they haven't yet tried. "Tell me something you like, Xander."

Words are a blunt instrument in his hands, not the finely-calibrated tools they are in Wesley's. He stammers a response, making a joke of it. "You can never go wrong with a blow job."

"That's more a label than a description, wouldn't you say? Perhaps you could give me more guidance."

There's a girl on the couch across from him pounding away on a laptop keyboard. She seems engrossed in what she's writing, but Xander feels his throat close at the thought of speaking.

"For example: teeth, yes or no?" Wesley's voice is dispassionate, as if he's asking what Xander takes in his tea. (Except he's never asked, has he?)

Xander clears his throat violently. "Not so much with the teeth. Just -- just a little, um, scraping. Really lightly. Underside. Close to the finish." He lets out a breath. Thank god that's over.

"That's a good beginning. What would you like me to do with my hands, Xander?"

It's hard to get words out past the knot in his throat. But there's never any question that he'll comply. "You could, um, you could fondle my balls."

Laptop girl looks up, and Xander thinks he's going to have a heart attack.

Wesley persists. "How do you like them touched?"

Turns out she's staring off into the distance trying to think of something to write. Xander knows just how she feels. "I like it light. Like breath across your skin, you know?" A soft, coffee scented sigh wafts across the side of his neck, and Xander nearly jumps out of his skin. Not from being startled, but the sudden erotic power of it. "Oh Jesus. Don't do that here."

Amusement in his voice. "Keep going, and I'll stop."

"Slow, light strokes at first." He tips his head back against the cushioned chair, closing his eyes. "Then picking up the rhythm. Never too abrasive. Then when things are building at the end, cup them very gently in your palm."

"And my other hand?"

Forgetting the girl nearby, Xander groans softly. Wesley never lets up, does he? "Stroke my thigh. At the finish, grab a handful of ass. Kind of hard, don't be shy."

There's a pause, then Wesley says, "Is this the most extravagant thing you can think to ask for?"

Looking down at his hands, Xander feels his face reddening. "It would be enough."

"I had forgotten, after all these years," Wesley says, "how whole-heartedly you give yourself to the people who matter to you. How brave you are in that way."

He means to protest, but a feeling spears through him that makes speech impossible. It's so strong that it breaks the hold of the sexual buzz, just enough that he thinks he can function.

Wesley signals that they can go, and Xander breathes an unsteady sigh. He walks with Wesley past the row of tony shops, shoulders so close but never touching. One window brings him to a halt, and he calls after Wesley, who's walking on.

He stammers as Wesley returns to his side, suddenly uncertain of himself. Pointing at something on display, he makes a tentative suggestion.

His initiative pleases Wesley. On their way out of the store he relents, rewarding Xander with one searing kiss in the recessed doorway, stoking his sexual urgency once more to an unbearable hum.

Xander tries to keep it subverted by coming up with names for the piercing parlor they're going to. Poke 'n' Run. Holes R Us. It's hard to come up with good material when all his blood has been redirected to his dick. On the drive down, Wesley does his best to keep it there, renewing his stream of consciousness discourse on the subject of fucking. Those English, they certainly are the go-to guys for how the language should sound. No one says fuck like an Englishman, or at least no one says it like Wesley. With each repetition, there's an answering throb in Xander's groin.

Lowering his window, he gulps in cool night air. He's not sure it helps. "Hey," he blurts. "Did you know there's a cage in your storage closet?"

Xander doesn't quite know what reaction he'd been looking for, but the one he gets isn't what he expected. There's a vagueness that comes over Wesley as he says, "Oh, yes. I've been meaning to dismantle that."

"Whoa there," Xander jokes. "Not so fast."

"There was a case ... " He doesn't elaborate.

"So what kind of nasty did you keep in there?" The cage looks to be big enough for a large dog, or maybe a person, if he crouched.

"Oh, I never had to use it," Wesley says.

Xander eyes him, trying to figure this out. It's the only time he's ever seen Wesley less than laser sharp. He doesn't have long to study him before Wesley pulls the car to the curb. "This is it," he announces.

Wesley doesn't give him a moment's peace. In the waiting area he stands too close as Xander examines the tattoo flash on the walls, his breath fluttering against the back of his neck. When Xander's name is called, Wesley follows, standing behind the woman with the piercing gun. He holds Xander's gaze, holds him at a high sexual pitch, and when she shoots the tiny stainless steel bolt through his nipple, Xander shouts. But there's nothing like release, and won't be, until they set foot inside Wesley's apartment.

As Xander fumbles the keys in the touchy front entrance locks, Wesley's breath is hot in his ear. "Which do you want first? Do you want to fuck my mouth, or shall I fuck you in your arse?"

He's so intoxicated he doesn't know, he can't even think.

"Perhaps this will help you decide." He opens the bag from the boutique near the coffee bar and twists the lid off the jar inside. Swiping two fingers across the white cream inside, he lifts them to Xander's nostrils.

Xander moans. The spicy oriental perfume is overpowering in the tiny building foyer. It's the same cold cream Cordelia had in her room at the Hyperion. When he'd spotted it in the boutique window, he'd asked Wesley to buy it. "But isn't lube more comfortable for you?" Wesley had asked. "Just for sometimes," Xander had replied. "It smells like our first time." And that had earned him the kiss in the doorway.

When the inner door releases, he allows Wesley to precede him into the small lobby, acutely aware of the new piercing under the crisp cotton shirt and expensive jacket. "In the ass," Xander finally answers as he trails on his heels.

A couple comes out of the apartment two doors down, exchanging greetings with Wesley. He and Xander step aside, pausing to let them by.

"I'm sorry," Wesley says to Xander as the pair passes them, "I didn't catch what you said."

Again, there's not a moment's doubt how Xander will respond -- he's been well schooled. He doesn't even glance at the couple before he says, "I want you to fuck me in the ass."

Once they're over the threshold, as Wesley promised, all restraints are off Xander's behavior. He seizes Wesley by the back of the neck and draws him in for a kiss, all heat and hunger and need. Wesley moans, and the thought that he desires Xander in return sends a physical response shuddering through him. Wesley's already drawn him a picture in words, back in the car. Xander, with his expensive new suit pants puddled around his ankles, bent over the sofa. Wesley lifting the shirt-tail over his bare arse, something he's pictured since Xander was measured for his new clothes. "Is that something you'd like?" Wesley had wanted to know. Xander's in such a state he'd like anything that would deliver him from the heavy ache in his belly and testicles, from the rawness of his nerve endings. "Please," he finds himself whispering now. His fingers splayed on either side of Wesley's head, he tries to erase the last several hours of torment with kisses, but it's futile. "Please. Please, Wesley, I'll be good."

Wesley backs him against the sofa, hands roaming along his shoulders, his arms, up his neck. He seizes Xander's face in his hands, and this is where things go wrong. His thumb strays too close to the eyepatch, and when Xander comes to himself again, he's taken Wesley down. He kneels over him, one knee actually in his back, a fist wound in his hair, the other hand twisting Wesley's arm behind his back. "Fucker, I'll kill you! I'll kill you, you fucker."

"Xander." Wesley's voice is pitched low, urgent yet placating. "Xander it's me. I'm Wesley. You're safe. You're all right."

Some part of him thinks it's funny, hearing a guy who's got his face ground against the hardwood floor assuring his attacker that he's safe. He laughs, a little hysterically. Forgets to let up. There's a nifty scissors thing Wesley does with his legs, throwing Xander off balance, tumbling off his back. Then the laughter gives way to sobs, as Wesley leans over him, stroking and petting, crooning that he's all right, he's safe.

Trust. They are still sprawled on the living room floor as Xander recovers himself, actually allowing Wesley to stroke the side of his face by the eyepatch. He brushes his fingers so lightly. Like breath across the skin. "May I see?" Wesley asks after a long while.

It's another long while before Xander can answer, and he's wondering if that means he's failing some crucial test. "Yes," he finally says, so low he can barely hear it himself. Xander insists on removing the patch himself, and he finds himself holding his breath.

For an interminable stretch of time Wesley takes him in. He shows no flicker of disgust or pity. He feathers his fingers slightly closer to the sunken ruin of Xander's eye. (Crater, Xander thinks. Just like Sunnydale.)

"Don't," he says, and this is one time Wesley doesn't press on past his resistance. Xander covers his eye again, gets the band situated around his head.

"Would you consider --" Wesley pauses and Xander's attention pricks up. The tone of this unfinished question, like the one that preceded it, is altogether different from the things he usually asks. Asking with Wesley is most often a command sheathed in velvet. I'm asking you to be good and wait for me.

It's a thing Xander's come to rely on, more than he'd realized until this moment. A dizzying sense of vertigo sweeps over him, too much like the feeling of standing at the edge of the crater that swallowed his home. "What?" he asks, only because he's expected to. This suddenly feels like any number of wrenching interactions with the people in his life before Wesley.

"Would you prefer to leave off the eyepatch sometimes, when we're here alone?" It's an honest question, something he doesn't presume to command.

Xander's breath comes shallow and fast. "Don't ask that. Goddammit, don't ask." He doesn't know if Wesley understands this last entreaty. It will destroy everything if he has to explain, tear down the complex web of unspoken negotiation between them. He starts to scramble away from Wesley, looking to exit this conversation before everything's wrecked.

Before he can get to his feet, Wesley takes him by the wrist. He waits, holding his breath, as Wesley makes a swift assessment of what's just happened and searches for his footing to step back from the brink. "Stand up. There." No velvet now. Just steel. "Drop your trousers."

He stands just where he's shown, facing away from Wesley. His hands shake as he fumbles with his belt. He's still not certain whether this will be all right. The pants puddle around his ankles. Wesley walks up, bends him over the sofa and flips the fine cloth of his shirt up over his back.

The hard slap to his ass startles the hell out of him. Wesley turns and strolls lazily into the bedroom, rummaging through the bedside table for the lube. The cream they bought -- which Xander had suggested with tonight in mind -- sits on the foyer table with Wesley's keys. The search seems to take a long time, but Xander waits, not moving, not speaking. His ass stings, the air currents in the room feeling almost chill against the reddened skin.

At last Wesley returns, handing Xander the lube without a word. He's startled -- this is something Wesley's always done -- but he recovers himself after another stinging slap and he does what's required. Wesley's cool hands seize him by the hips, and with no words at all, he eases his way in. It doesn't stay easy, Wesley taking him in long, deep thrusts, no sound between them but the sawing of breath, the wet slap of flesh against flesh and soft grunts that turn harsher as they continue.

Maybe there's been some part of him that believed he's already come hard in every knee-quaking way that Wesley can make him come.

That part of him welcomes the opportunity for another lesson.

It seems like there's a reset button up Xander's ass, because when he wakes the next morning, it's next to the Wesley he's used to. They spend the day in bed, Xander's delayed reward for the night Faith walked in on him tied to the bedposts, as well as his performance during their adventure in the shops and coffee bars of L.A.

Wesley focuses his energy above the waist. "I'm afraid I used you quite hard last night."

For a moment Xander's afraid this is an apology, which irritates the fuck out of him. But as Wesley begins enumerating the ways in which he's afraid he went too far, Xander catches on to the fact that this litany is meant to arouse the both of them. Xander acknowledges perhaps things got a little rough, describing in detail the activities they engaged in that accounted for the soreness of his ass, the fingerprint bruises at his hipbones. Though Wesley's back to his loquacious self, it's no longer a monologue; Xander is beginning to assimilate this lesson too. Wesley's contrite accounts of his recklessness intertwine with Xander's reluctant admissions that perhaps he is a little abraded, and all the while Wesley lavishes his attentions on Xander's unpierced nipple, sucking, nipping, pinching. The intensity of their talk and the nipple work builds to a fever pitch, both men's breath growing rough and quick. But it's when Wesley blows a long, gentle stream of air over the new piercing -- far too tender yet to touch -- that Xander bucks and cries out beneath him.

Wesley diverts his attempts to reciprocate, reminding him that this is his reward for doing so well at his lessons. Nothing has to be earned, but is freely given, Wesley's praise flowing over him like water. He explores parts of Xander's body that he never knew had sexual purposes, sucking gently at the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger until Xander shudders with release. There are other novelties, and old favorites, and a new tea that somehow renews him whenever his energies flag, and finally things end with his arms hauled up over his head, his wrists crossed together and pinned to the mattress while Wesley makes him come using nothing but words. It's only then that Wesley sits back on his heels and brings himself off.

They lie together afterward, Xander stretched out on his stomach, Wesley on his side, stroking his hand over Xander's butt. It's pleasurable and, when he rubs a bit harder, it's sensitive, just this side of pain, exquisitely tender after the hard slaps of last night. The soreness of those muscles awakens the raw sensitivity of his ass. Xander makes a small noise, but Wesley makes no adjustment. It is this that signals to him that they are to resume their rightful places, a thought that fills him with secret relief. Burrowing his face into the crook of his arm, Xander lets himself contemplate the questions he had when he first came here.

Taking it up the ass now, are you. Yeah. Not so much with the giving. And yeah, he's decided that he does like it. For the pure wild sensation, yes, but in a strange way it makes him feel protected, sheltered. Even when it's rough, it's by consent, whether spoken or not.

I suck cock, too, he imagines telling his old man, and I've had mine sucked. (Wesley takes good notes -- no detail of Xander's perfect blowjob has been neglected.) He likes all of this, too. But he still doesn't know if it makes the answers to those early questions any more clear-cut. What are you, boy, some kind of faggot? That's just the thing. He doesn't feel gay, he doesn't feel straight. Not that he's confused. He knows what he is.

He's Wesley's.

As if he reads this thought as it flashes across Xander's mind (and Xander would not be surprised in the slightest if he can), Wesley switches back to feathery strokes across his butt. "Tomorrow's your first day at Wolfram & Hart," he says matter-of-factly.

What the fuck? I'm not a lawyer. But he holds his tongue, waiting for Wesley to explain -- or not.

"You're to begin as a trainee in the real estate department, doing work on behalf of the firm itself, not its clients. Eventually you'll be evaluating properties the firm is considering acquiring."

"Wow. That's -- I hope I can do a good job."

"I have every confidence in you." Feathery switches to pressure and the flicker of a throb before he goes back to feathery. "At any rate, tomorrow is just a formality. Paperwork, introductions, the tour. To get you on the books. In the afternoon, I've set you up with one of their specialists. He's a top man in his field. He'll take a look at that eye, see what can be done about it."

"Oh. Right. Listen, I got stacks of pamphlets from the hospital when this happened, and basically the deal is, it's too soon. There's a lot of swelling yet, and they have to make sure the socket has a chance to heal."

"Let me be the one to worry about that." His hand splays over the mound of Xander's ass, his fingertips applying just a breath of pressure.

A ghost of pain, followed by Xander's prick stirring. The sudden fullness at his groin makes him flash on his discovery of the cage, though he doesn't know why. He's swept with the sudden urge to mention it again, make it vivid in Wesley's mind the way it lingers in his. But he knows it's not his place. He shifts on his side to give Wesley a glimpse of his body's hunger, careful not to overstep his bounds by making an advance. There are times when that's allowed, but they are at Wesley's discretion.

To Xander's relief, Wesley reaches for him, and he willingly loses himself in seeing to Wesley's pleasure.

Another step in his reintroduction to the world: one moment Xander has Wesley at his side, and the next he's not there. Xander hasn't even finished gawking at the lobby of Wolfram & Hart before a small contingent of suits converge on him and Wesley. Hands are shaken, introductions are made, and Xander is swept off on his rounds of paperwork and merely-a-formality interviews.

Following them, he resists feeling intimidated, reminding himself that he is a suit too, and a damn fine one. A bespoke suit. He's finally asked what that meant, learned it's the British term for a custom-made suit. That's him. He's been cut from a cloth that suits Wesley, tailored to be an exact fit to the slightest detail.

He fills out forms with his work history, realizing that every record to substantiate his life is in the bottom of a giant sinkhole. The sleek woman from HR smiles at the mention of Sunnydale, assures him it won't be a problem. He talks, fills out forms, gets his tour of the premises, which ends the last place he'd have expected, considering he's the new guy and fairly low on the totem pole.

The corner office.

"Mr. Angel," the HR woman says. "I've brought the new hire, as you asked. Xander Harris."

Unbelievable that he could have forgotten. Wolfram & Hart. Angel. But there he stands, behind a desk as big as a battleship. Wesley sits in the chair in front of the desk, not as a supplicant or underling, but as an intimate who's dropped in for a chat.

Both men rise, and Angel clasps his hand. Their vigorous, who's-the-alpha-male handshake, more than any of the others, causes the fine weave of his shirt to slide across the new piercing. Xander struggles to keep his face carefully blank.

Angel waves at the chair next to Wesley's, perching himself on the edge of the desk in that captain-of-industry way. Xander settles himself next to Wesley, trying to match his nonchalance.

"I have to confess, when Wes told me you had an interest in working with us, I had mixed feelings." Angel seems to be waiting for Xander to jump in with a rejoinder, but he doesn't interrupt with either snark or a defense. He's learned his place.

"I mean," Angel continued, "what with our history." Again, he seems to leave an opening, but Xander holds his tongue. "But I know I couldn't ask for a better soldier."

"I agree," Wesley says. "Xander has surrendered himself wholly to the mission. He's proven again and again to be open to training, willing to assume any role that he's asked."

Xander shifts slightly in his chair, just enough to create the soft rustle of fabric over the piercing. "You're too generous," he tells Wesley.

Angel shakes his head. "Wes can be tough when it comes to staff concerns. You haven't seen it. If he tells me you're a good man for us, there's no need for me to question it. Welcome aboard." Another firm handshake. Whisper of fabric across inflamed tissue. He wishes it were Wesley's palm gliding (grinding) there, wishes he had Wesley's mouth on his.

"Thanks," Xander says. "I appreciate having a place here. I'll do everything I can to make Wesley glad he brought me in."

There's a little more glad-handing, and then Angel's on to the next order of business. Xander finds himself in the hallway with Wesley, who bestows a smile on him. "You handled yourself beautifully, Xander." Wesley uses his name so sparingly that hearing it from his lips creates a flutter low in his belly, on top of the arousal caused by his skillfully double-edged language.

Xander ducks his head, suddenly feeling beyond clumsy with words.

"I'm sure there'll be many more opportunities for you to display your skills. You'll have to undergo a probationary period, of course, but with proper supervision and guidance, you can't help but rise." There's a constant stream of staff in the hallway, all striding purposefully, creating air currents that swirl around them. He feels as buffeted here as he had in the street the other night. Wesley pulls his hand from his pants pocket, dangles a key from a gold W&H keyring. "The executive washroom," he says. "You're much too junior to receive a key, of course, but a little trespassing and risk can have rewards."

Wesley locks the two of them in a stall, where Xander has his first performance review.

The eye specialist is not exactly what he expected. There's a whole arsenal of machines, which he uses to measure, probe, image and a host of other invasive and non-invasive tests. Most of the time Xander's quivering on the edge of fear, unnerved to have so much activity going on around his damaged eye. Wesley stays with him throughout the entire process, providing a stream of reassurances when needed, remaining silent when Xander needs that more.

How the hell has Wesley come to read him so well? He considers this during the most nerve-wracking exam, anything to get himself out of his body. Often he's had the sensation of Wesley sifting through his psyche. Always gently, nothing remotely like ransacking. More like letting sand trickle through his fingers, keeping a sharp eye always for treasures. When he finds them, he turns them over and studies them from all sides, appreciating their fineness. Even in bits that Xander considers scraps or misshapen junk, Wesley finds a kind of beauty. There have been times in his life he'd have been frightened of this focused attention, but there are things he's come to understand. He can relax into this, make it a safe haven.

He used to think a haven was a place where nothing could touch you, but he realizes now how naive this was. How much more safety there is in being thoroughly known. Needing to keep nothing back.

Except. There is this one small thing.

The cage in Wesley's closet. He doesn't think of it that often, but it rises up in his thoughts now and again, usually when he's aroused, often while he's sleepy as well.

It's not that he's hiding these thoughts from Wesley. He's holding them back -- there's a difference. He's saving them as a kind of treat. A present. There's so little he can give Wesley -- nothing, really, that he can surprise him with, except for this. When the time is right, he'll offer this up, perhaps wrapped in a suggestion for something they might do together. Some night when he senses Wesley's in a mood where Xander's initiative would especially please him.

The plan gives Xander something to focus his attention on, to keep the examination panic at bay.

Finally the tests are finished, and the specialist starts talking about scheduling. The nurse hands Xander a thick sheaf of paper full of disclaimers and warnings of potential side effects. His eye throbs in sympathetic reaction to all the probing, so he glosses quickly down the sheets, catching maybe a phrase or two per page. None of them means anything to him. It's just cover-your-ass worst case scenario stuff anyway. This guy's employed by lawyers, after all. It can't actually be that dangerous to get a prosthesis. Xander turns to the last page and scrawls his name.

They schedule him for tomorrow (Angel's pull -- gotta love it) and the nurse hands him a sheet of instructions. Wesley teases the paper from his fingers. "I'll make certain he complies," he says blandly.

Xander's silent on the way home, his head throbbing from the stresses of the appointment. As Xander works the key into the ancient lock, Wesley gently massages Xander's scalp at the base of his skull. "I know it's bad," he says quietly. "I'll make some tea when we get inside; it'll help."

"Was I okay?" Xander asks. "At Wolfram & Hart?"

"I think Angel was very impressed with you. Your self-possession."

Maybe it looks like self-possession. But if anyone possesses him, it's Wesley. "It was because you were in the room," he tells Wesley.

"And were you thinking of me the whole time?"

"Shit, Wesley. How could I not? The things that you said --"

"And do you think of me when I'm not in the room with you?" A languid hand brushes the inside of Xander's thigh.

"Yes."

"Do you think about pleasing me?"

Taking a shaky breath, he fumbles at the inner door. "Always."

"I want you to run a hot bath. As hot as you can stand. Get in and wait for me. I'll bring your tea to you there." The door creaks open and they step inside the building.

And find Willow waiting in the lobby, on the wooden bench by the mailboxes.

"Will, what are you doing here?"

She rises. "Xander. Wesley. I came to talk to you about something, Xander."

He stiffens. "About Buffy. This isn't a great time, I've got a splitting headache."

"It's all right," Wesley says. "I can walk to the Thai place, bring back dinner." The plan had been to order in once they got home.

Xander hesitates, really not feeling like doing this. Wesley presses the apartment keys back into his hand. "I'll be back soon. The usual?"

"Sure, great." He's distracted, not even fully aware of the question he's just answered.

Wesley brushes a knuckle lightly over the newly-pierced nipple. "Think of me," he whispers in Xander's ear, then he's gone.

He might as well have said, Get rid of her. Xander unlocks the apartment door and lets her in without a word.

"Xander, are you all right? You look ... kind of faraway."

He wishes. The next room will be far enough, as long as Wesley is there too. Xander thinks of his long, graceful hands, so different from his own. "Like I said, I've got a bad headache." Those hands, clamped around Xander's wrists as his silky voice teases out secrets, sexual thoughts, fragments of his past. "Let's skip the inquiries about my health, all right? This is the intervention by installment plan, I get that. Get it over with."

There's a flicker of expression, but she quickly squelches it. "Yeah, okay. I think what you're doing is dangerous. Cutting yourself off from your friends, getting mixed up with Wolfram & Hart."

"Angel's mixed up with them. Isn't he the champion of innocents or something like that? And he's got the freaking corner office. So tell Buffy, no worries."

"She's plenty worried about Angel going there, believe me. But listen, we're talking about you. I know you've been through a lot. First Anya, then Giles dying practically in your lap. Not to mention --"

"Don't -- mention it." She has no right to do this, push her way into his psyche like this. He tries to focus on Wesley. The look on his face as he'd leaned back against the tile wall of the executive washroom. Watching Xander reach into his own expensive trousers, displaying himself at Wesley's direction. (Once a Watcher, always a Watcher.) Xander can't hold the thought for long, not with Willow battering at his defenses, demanding his attention.

"So why Wesley? I don't think you even noticed him, back in the day. And I didn't think you noticed guys at all."

Why Wesley?

His hands.

His voice.

His sure guidance, making everything so clear after a lifetime of the murky. He's given Xander the breathtaking freedom of knowing what's expected of him. Paradox: look it up in the dictionary.

Has he mentioned Wesley's cock?

His own stirs in response to the thought.

"Will? Could you just go now?"

"Xander, I owe this to you. You came to me when I went off the rails, and you wouldn't let go of me. You saved me."

He grinds the palm of his hand against his forehead. "In case you haven't noticed, Willow, I'm not ending the fucking world. There's not a goddamn thing I need to be saved from. So kindly piss off." Piss off. How very British that sounds, he distantly notices. How very Wesley.

The world-ending remark, that's what saves him. Willow's eyes fill with tears and she finally leaves. Not before another fairly extensive speech, but it's lost to the thundering pain in his head. Once she's gone he stumbles into the bathroom and starts the hot water, but before he can even get the stopper in the drain, pain spears through his head that makes what came before feel like nothing.

When Wesley returns bearing cartons of Thai food, Xander's on elbows and knees on the tile floor, uttering a thin, high moan that never seems to stop.

Xander would never have believed it, but Wesley's tea has the promised effect. The headache disappears, but halfway through the pad Thai he and Wesley are eating naked on the bed, Xander sinks into sleep.

It's a night of strange dreams, threaded through with Wesley's voice. He dreams about slow, languorous sex, about someone fitting some weird black mask over his mouth and nose. Willow's influence: there's chanting in the dream, though it's a male voice, not hers. He's glad when he finally descends into blackness that's velvety and bottomless.

Takes a long time to shake the blackness, and when he finally drags himself into wakefulness, he finds he's blindfolded. His wrists are bound -- down close to his side, not stretched out or up. His prick, which was already at half mast with the morning, finds both these facts particularly interesting.

"Wesley?"

"I'm right here. Xander, I want you to remain perfectly still until I tell you otherwise."

This is much less interesting. "Why? Why am I blindfolded?"

"Are you questioning me?"

"Why can't I move?" The need to move jitters through him, makes him half crazy.

"Because I've asked you not to." He pauses, doesn't sense surrender, and his voice grows a notch cooler. "Perhaps I should leave you on your own for a bit, let you do some thinking on how things stand between us."

"No no no no, I'm fine with us, fine with keeping still, just don't leave me alone when I can't see." He can't help the note of panic which creeps into his voice. The room smells strange, and there's a deep ambient hum he's never noticed in Wesley's building.

Wesley switches tracks then, murmuring comforting words, resting his hand on Xander's forearm.

The contact only makes him hungry for more, for friction and movement and -- "Shit. I'm supposed to be at the eye specialist. What time is it?"

"Everything's been taken care of."

"But --"

Wesley's voice turns cold and his hand withdraws. "Have I ever failed to take care of your needs?"

"No. Wesley, I didn't mean that at all. It's just -- I slept so hard, I'm afraid of missing my appointment."

"Perhaps we should work more on trust. I'd thought we were past the need, but sometimes there's erosion."

This is a lesson. Xander should surrender to it, not fight it. Hasn't Wesley always proven that he knows what's best? Still this grogginess, the feeling of strangeness that he can't quite banish make him resist. "I trust you, I do." But the note of fear makes this ring false, even to him. Relax relax relax. Trust him. Once he submits, then Wesley will soothe him, say the words that erase panic. But if he can't let go of his worries, it does him no good that Wesley's already willingly taken them on. This is the lesson. He sees it, but he can't grasp it. It was always this way in school. No matter how hard he tried, there was always a wall he'd crash into, a lesson he could never get beyond. Back then he never let himself think it mattered. But now -- "I'm sorry, Wesley. I'm trying. I'll try harder."

There's the rustle of movement by the bed. "You're overtired." Wesley's voice comes from above him now, and his hand comes to rest on the top of Xander's head. "What you need now is quiet. I'm going to leave you for a while --"

"Please, Wesley. No."

"I'll be gone for exactly ten minutes. You'll be asleep by the time I return, but I will be right here next to you, and I'll be here when you wake. You can do this for me."

"Please don't."

"I expect you to obey me in all things, Xander. I have complete faith in you."

Funny how the word faith seems to trigger his total surrender. He lets his wrists relax into their restraints, stills his body's urge for pointless movement. Lets the velvet darkness of the blindfold surround him like warm waters, pleasurable and inviting.

He lets go.

It becomes clear when Xander wakes that some part of him has not learned to trust completely. He'd thought once the lesson was over he'd be released, rewarded. But when he wakes, he is still in darkness, still bound. So now he knows the lesson is a more complex one than any he's learned.

"Wesley?" He feels a stab of shame at the way his voice breaks.

"I'm here, just as I promised. You're doing fine, but you really should sleep as much as you can." He strokes the side of Xander's face.

"I don't understand this."

"You don't need to. Just trust. Sleep now."

He drifts again. Wakes to more of the same. He's trapped in the slow learners class. "Wesley?"

"I'm still here, Xander."

"Yeah, me too." He tries to breathe into this, show some faith. Surrender, it seems, is an ongoing work. But there's something he has to take care of first. "I'm not trying to screw with your program, but I really have to piss. Can you let me up for just a couple of minutes?"

"Lie still."

He hears Wesley moving around the room -- footsteps on a tile floor, not hardwood, and Xander's heart does a slow flip. Where is he? Something cold and metal touches his bare thigh, and he cries out, jerking away.

"You must remain still," Wesley orders.

"What's that?"

"It's a urinal." Wesley lifts up the lightweight cloth that just barely reaches down to his jewels, and helps him get situated. This is more trust than Xander wants to have in anybody, to tell the truth. He wants to refuse this, but knows he can't do so without losing the whole package, everything he's built so gradually with Wesley. Everything he's become. He capitulates.

A few minutes later, Xander feels an air current on his face, and senses another presence. Jesus, if he's brought Faith here again --

But the voice he hears, though female, is unfamiliar. "Any change?"

"He's awake again. And this." He feels Wesley reaching across the bed, hears something being passed hand to hand, the click of a ring on metal.

"Hallelujah, his kidneys have finally gotten with the program. I'll tell Doctor." Another draft, and he thinks he's alone with Wesley.

"What's happening, where am I?"

"You've already seen the specialist. It's over. That's why you must be as still and calm as you can."

Easy for him to say. "So these are bandages? Why'd they cover both my eyes?"

"The eyes naturally track together. To keep the muscles of the one immobile, they have to cover the other, that's all. It won't be much longer. You must trust me, Xander." Wesley closes his hand around one of Xander's, putting the other on Xander's forearm.

Xander's breath jerks harshly. The ground has shifted beneath his feet. Everything he'd thought was true -- however imperfectly he understood it -- was not how things were at all.

"Trust me."

"I'm trying." It's not good enough. Xander's not good enough.

The nurse returns with someone else, and there are murmurs that can't penetrate the fear that encases him. Finally he feels someone fiddling with the IV line taped to the back of his hand, and in a moment he feels a syrupy warmth spreading through his muscles.

The bottomless blackness comes again, and he surrenders himself to it.

The next awakening, without expectation, is easier. His eyes are still bandaged, his wrists still bound. Wesley still sits at his bedside, responding when Xander calls his name.

"Are we alone?"

"We are," Wesley assures him. "I'm removing the restraints now. Dr. Ricemiller will be by this afternoon to check on your progress. I think he's planning to release you today."

Release. Supposedly a good thing. It feels like a precipice to him, though, as if he stands at the edge of a dizzying plummet into nothing. Surely Wesley will cut him loose after his dismal failure. There comes a time when you stop wasting your breath on a hopeless student. "That's great," he forces himself to say.

"You're nervous," Wesley says. "That's perfectly natural. I assure you, Dr. Ricemiller is the best man in the world at what he does. He wouldn't be with Wolfram & Hart otherwise."

Privately, Xander's been wondering. All the pamphlets he got from Sunnydale General made it sound like this was something that could be done in an office visit. Why did this guy have him knocked out and then put under complete bed rest?

"Is there something else troubling you?"

"Where do you want me to go? After they let me out."

There's a pause. "I thought it was understood you'd come with me."

Is he playing with Xander now? "I wasn't sure you'd want me." Xander runs his tongue over his lips, which are cracked in the dry clinic air.

He hears the sharp slipslide of ice cubes shifting against each other, then there's the startling sensation of cold against his lips.

"Take it," Wesley says, and Xander opens his mouth to accept the piece of ice. "Why would you think that?"

"Because I couldn't do it. Trust you enough. I'm not what you want, Wesley. I know I'm a disappointment."

Wesley slips another ice cube between his lips. "You don't know how fine you are." Ice cold fingers brush across his lips, somehow filling him with heat. "You're remarkable, Xander. The forcefulness of your surrender has been such a gift." He strokes his other hand down the left side of Xander's face. "In a short while you'll see how much you mean to me. You'll see."

His ice-chilled fingers slip under the hospital gown, find his nipple, making Xander gasp. Just as Wesley's lips, which seem feverishly warm to Xander, begin to explore his, the door opens and a procession files into the room. Dr. Ricemiller holds forth to his medical students for a while, then there's chanting. Xander tries to be culturally sensitive and all -- probably a particularly good career move at Wolfram & Hart -- but the low, multi-tonal thing seriously creeps him out.

He feels Wesley's touch on his shoulder as he murmurs a few words of encouragement -- a simple healing spell, you're doing just fine -- and then retreats.

Finally the specialist has a nurse unwind the bandages down to a certain point before he brings her to a halt. "All right, Alexander," the doctor says, "I'm going to uncover your left eye first. I want you to tell me how many fingers you see."

Now he's really feeling some doubts about this guy. If he doesn't know a prosthetic isn't going to --

"Three," he says numbly.

"Very good," Dr. Ricemiller murmurs. The rest of the bandages come off, and there's a handful of simple tests to determine that yes, the new eye is working beautifully.

The new eye.

They give him a hand mirror, and he searches his face, now both familiar and unfamiliar. He looks just the same as before Caleb.

In a short while you'll see how much you'll mean to me. You'll see.

Jesus.

What the fuck has Wesley done?

Wesley's been shoved aside by the crowd of interns and residents making rounds with Ricemiller, jockeying for position to see who can ask the most ass-kissing question to get on the specialist's good side. Xander catches his eye, and Wesley smiles.

Xander's skin tingles. He did it for me.

There's such power in this simple fact that he stops caring about the questions. Doesn't give a shit about consequences. The future doesn't concern him. He's not frightened, not uncertain.

All he needs is to know who and what he is.

He's Wesley's.