Black Shoe Diaries
by Hth
 
	"You would have made a great shoe salesman." 
	Wesley looked not at all amused, but his hands kept moving with 
industrious efficiency, winding the laces around rivets and through 
rings, occasionally tightening the leather around Angel's foot with a 
quick, no-nonsense jerk. 
	"The service here is appalling. We should complain to the 
management." 
	"They're ready to close. And don't feel too bad... I'd find you 
convincing as a *rogue* shoe salesman. You, the bike, some 
espadrilles, the open road...." 
	"Stand up." 
	Angel obeyed, his duster raising a cloud of the dust for which it 
was presumably named. They'dhad a long night already, and who realized 
that dealing with an agoraphobic demon would involve quite so much 
crawling through attics and behind walls? It just didn't have that 
heroic panache to it, and since both of them were suffering from 
crushed dignity, Angel had figured, what the hell? Shopping was just 
another word for nothing left to lose. 
	Frowning at his feet, Angeltried the shoes out, left and then 
right, extending his foot, flexing it,twisting it back and forth on the 
linoleum to experiment withthe traction. "Comfortable." 
	"Glad to hear it. Takethem off and let's pay." 
	"But...do you think they're really...me?" 
	He got that semi-defensive*are you having me on?* look that 
Wesley did so well. 
	"They're thesame shoes you always wear, or like enough." 
	"No, they're... different. Taller. I'm sure. They look 
different." 
	"Angel, it's in your head. They look like the same black leather 
ankle boots you've been wearing for the past two years. What's more, 
they're perfectly sensible investigating shoes, they match everything 
you own, and the mall is closing, so stop being such a ponce and buy 
the bloody shoes." 
	Either the tour of Los Angeles'least habitable basements or an 
evening of shopping in the Valley had obviously pushed Wesley's back to 
the wall. It wasn't too often that Angel got the full benefit of the 
Wesley Wyndham-Price Steely Survivor With Hidden Reserves glare, 
complete with the action-hero set of his jaw. Not nearly often enough; 
he'd fallen for Wesley's dry wit and the surprising bite and spark to 
his creative intellect, but it was that intensity that fired Angel's 
blood. It looked especially sexy while Wesley was on his knees, and 
Angel took a moment to appreciate the visual impact of Wesley's 
frustration. 
	Comprehension began to dawn in his colleague's eyes; Angel was 
about to lose the element of surprise. "You're sure?" 
	"I clearly recall saying so." His snippiness was falling a little 
flat, probably because of the way Angel had him by the eyes, locked in 
and in and in to that look. 
	"I want you to be *sure.*I want you to look at them." He moved 
slowly, letting bewilderment make its natural evolution to dumb 
amazement on Wesley's face. 
	Angel settled the boot squarely on Wesley's chest and gave him a 
little test push. Just to see how far Wesley would bend. 
	SteelySurvivor!Wesley was ancient history. He yielded with 
amazing readiness, letting Angel bow him back further and further with 
the weight of his leg...HaplessErrand-Boy!Wesleyonce again, only Angel 
doubted that any order the Watcher's Council ever gave him had put that 
sweetly shocked, vulnerable, and bemused look on his face. 
	There would probably be a print on Wesley's pristine white 
pullover, albeit a faint one, since the shoe was fresh from the box and 
not caked with California filth both organic and inorganic like his old 
pair. 
	Printing...Wesley. Marking him. Angel knew that tension at the 
bridge of his nose, the roof of his mouth -- the storm gathering. The 
desire to mark -- smell-- own -- hold -- hurt. 
	It was moments like these that Angel wished he were still a 
praying man. 
	There was a startlingly loud sound, a coin slipping out of 
Wesley's pocket, striking the tile, rolling away unnoticed by its 
owner. Dammit, this was a department store; where was everybody? Why 
wasn't anyone showing up to stop this? 
	"Cruel to be kind, Angel?" His voice was neither resentful nor 
sympathetic. He was the researcher,a bit jaded by forbidden knowledge, 
but mostly just -- curious. 
	Angel eased his foot forward until the square toe hovered just 
below the hollow of Wesley's throat. The human probably couldn't 
clearly see him now, lying back almost flat as he was -- wouldn't know 
if Angel's -- face -- shifted -- right -- now-- 
	"Do you trust me, Wesley?" 
	"More than you trust yourself." Almost unbearably gentle, but 
with the jarring, breaking sound of anything true. 
	"That's not a yes." 
	"No. It's not." 
	Angel turned away. Against his closed eyelids and his softening, 
humanoid face, he could feel the falsity of the fluorescent lighting. 
	"Angel." Wesley's hand touched his shoulder briefly, then 
retreated. "Come on, Angel. Let's pay for the shoes." 
	"I don't want them." Childish. Angel didn't care. 
	"You do, too." That line of conversation left them nowhere to go. 
Assuming they'd had muchof anywhere to go all along. 
	Wesley's hand on his side startled him a bit, but unlike humans, 
vampires had no jump-retreat reflex when surprised. He just stood 
there, unresponsive and alien, even when he felt Wesley's nose and 
mouth against his other shoulder. "You're a good man, Angel." 
	"You may be 0 for 2 on that." 
	"Don't you trust me?" 
	"More than I trust myself." Angel smiled a little, but not 
because he found any of this amusing. Well, maybe a little amusing. 
	"Let's go home."