He started counting from the meeting in the dark corridor of the hotel. Sunnydale, well that didn’t matter. A different Wesley, a different - no. Angel, perhaps, hadn’t changed. It didn’t matter; he’d changed enough for both of them.

So he counted, and they added up, until his mind was full of them and they drove him to a climax faster and faster each time just from whispering the number over and over as his hands squeezed and stroked, hard and ruthless.

Such an odd thing to do; he knew it was, would have once felt superior, felt pity, felt contempt, for someone so pathetic as to know, exactly, precisely ...

He woke, frightened and panicking, the stink of the demon who’d come so close to killing him that night, acrid and bitter in the air, clinging to his body and hair. He thought someone soothed him back to sleep, a voice whispered his name as a cool hand brushed his hair back from his flushed, hot face.

He enjoyed the dream that followed, with the hands hard on his body, touching him, taking him deep into the hot darkness.....until morning came and he realised it had just been a dream and he’d lost count.

He got to work only a few minutes late and was at his desk when Angel came towards him, mug in hand, yawning and grinning sleepily.

“Morning, Wes. Close call last night, huh?”

And as he passed, he brushed his hand against Wesley’s shoulder in a casual greeting.

One.



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