DIY by Hth. "Good, you're back. Did you get the lubricant?" "You know, I remember when you would ask me that and you weren't talking about WD-40." Angel smiles obediently. "I'll make it up to you. Thanks for running to the store." "Don't worry about making it up to me. I'll take a rain check; I'll be less exhausted -- say -- Valentine's Day, 2004. Watch, watch, now. There's acid in there." "Okay." "*Muriatic* acid." Again, with a ribbon of annoyance winding through. "Okay." "Angel, they had to get it from the back, because they can't stock it on the shelves anymore. Gaseous seepage from the sealed containers was eating away at the shelves, and the metal containers of other products on the shelves." "Well, for God's sake, Wes, what do we need it for? Building our own Dyketa demon?" "Efflorescence." "You hate it when people call you efflorescent." Wesley makes a face, and gingerly takes the Home Depot bag back out of Angel's arms. "Those white, coral-looking growths on the basement walls. It's a moisture problem, and we can't seal the foundations down there until we clear off the efflorescence." "You're very...*handy* all of a sudden." "You pay me to research. Duly, I research." "Good look on you. Smart...sexy." "It's...ah...essentially just an industrial-grade hydrochloric acid, not dissimilar to stomach acid, except in its--" Angel laughs. "May I ask why you're lurking?" "Just...wondering how you were doing." Wesley kneels up and wipes the back of his work glove across his forehead, pushing his glasses clumsily down to the tip of his nose. "Fine." "Sure you don't need a break? It looks like you've been busy." "I just arrived, actually. Nobody wanted to pull up all the bad linoleum, so Gunn and I agreed to a division of labor. He cut it into strips and tore it up, and I'm hacking at the adhesive underneath." "Sounds like the easier job." "Sounds like, does it? Well, it isn't. My back is bloody killing me already." "So how'd you get stuck--" "Scrabble. I don't want to talk about it." "He beat you at *Scrabble*?" "Angel, what did I just say?" "Sorry." Pause. "So...how are you with that?" "I'm doing fine, although you *could* help, if you--" "No, I mean, losing to Gunn." "It could've happened to anybody. I had two z's and a w." "Yeah, but...still. It doesn't bother you at all that he's younger than you, sexier than you, *and* has a surprisingly good vocabulary?" "*Sex*i--? Angel! He is *not*!" "Well. In a different way. He's...earthier. More aggressive. It's animal magnetism. Dangerous, with a heart of gold -- classic, really. And you're handsome, but...British." "Are you *bored*? Is that why you're standing around tormenting me? Because I can think of any number of things you could be doing right now. There are tubs to be caulked, the new thermostats haven't been installed, someone has to return the wallpaper steamer to the rental place; it's almost dark, so you've no excuses." "Let me finish my coffee. I'm not awake yet." "Awake enough to be a bother. And I will have you know that a *number* of very sexy men are British. Jude Law. Hugh Grant. The entire Fiennes family. Sean Connery." "Celts don't count. Nobody named ÎConnery' counts -- ÎMcGregor,' either, in case that's where you're going next." "Thank you, Michael Collins. Get a putty knife and help me." Angel kneels and lays his hands on his lover's back. Wesley can feel the muscles of Angel's thighs against his buttocks, and as he leans forward, his hands roaming Wesley's shoulder blades and his shoulders and down his arms, the weight of Angel's erection presses harder and harder against his tailbone. A larger hand pries the knife out of Wesley's, and he is much, much too hazed over by the promise of pleasure to fight. "Can I have this one?" Angel whispers, and his breath ruffles Wesley's hair. "You can have...whatever you like. It's your hotel...." "I figured out what that sound is." Wesley groans and tries to bury his head under a pillow. Angel grabs it away from him and stacks it back with the others. The bed creaks as it takes on Angel's weight again. "I said, I figured...." "So tell me! What use is REM sleep, anyway?" "Grouchy. It's mice." "Mice? Are they eating breakfast cereal, or is somebody stepping on them?" "They're eating the foam insulation in the walls." "Ugh, what a *horrible* thought. They're in the *walls*?" "They're probably everywhere. It's amazing we haven't seen more of them than we have." "I'll call an exterminator later today." "All right. Let's not say anything to Cordelia, though. I don't think she'll take it very well." "*I'm* not taking it very well, but that didn't slow you down any." "I thought you'd want to know. You've been complaining that the crunching sound is keeping you awake." "And knowing that there are filthy, disease-carrying vermin munching away on our insulation right on the other side of that wallpaper is supposed to help me sleep? Was that your theory?" "They're just mice, Wesley. We'll set some traps." "This whole *place* is a trap." "No one's forcing you to sleep here. You have your own place." Silence. "Wes. I didn't mean it like--" "Didn't you." "I just...meant that you didn't *have* to stay. If you hate it so much. You *can.* Of course." "Of course. *Thank* you." "Wes. I'm sorry I woke you up. Just...go back to sleep, all right?" There is a brief struggle for the better share of the blankets, and then stillness, resembling sleep. Without warning, Wesley pushes himself up to kiss Angel's mouth, harsh and needy. "I do have to stay, you idiot. Do you think I can leave you here? In this place?" "I knew you hated it." "Of course I hate it! We steam and we tear and we clean and we replace everything we can get our hands on, and you can still feel the...the misery. The bloody *regret.* It's in every brick and tile and board, Angel -- all the people who took the wrong path and came to the wrong end. That's why you love it so much, isn't it? It's not enough to be in love with pain; now you have to saturate yourself with it, too." "I'm not in love with pain." "Well, you're not in love with me, either!" Gently, Angel pulls him down, and Wesley rests his head on Angel's chest. Angel's fingertips trace back and forth across his lover's shoulder. "I'm just trying to make it right. Even a building deserves a little forgiveness." "I don't want to forgive it. I want to burn it to the ground. This place is *dangerous,* Angel. What it represents.... The worst of all possible worlds. I'm scared that you'll take it all into yourself. The loneliness. The grief. I spend my every waking moment trying to give you something to live for, and this place is *fighting* me." "There's nothing here, Wesley. It's just an old building." "The hell it is. And I'm *not* leaving the two of you alone together." Angel chuckles softly. "Okay. Be my chaperone." "What do you think I've *been* this past year? If *someone* doesn't keep an eye on your infatuation with ruin and trauma, then you could lose a great deal more than your reputation." "You blow everything out of proportion. You know that, don't you?" "Don't tell me to care less about this. I can't care less. I don't want to." "Shh. Just sleep, *a chuisle.* Go back to sleep." "The mortar is disintegrating." "It's old." "Cracks in the joints." "We'll grout." "We can't *grout.* Surface grouting will only widen the joints. It'll look awful." "I don't care how it looks, Wes. I just want to deal with the damp walls and the plaster damage." "Oh, *you* don't care. Well, bully for you, Angel, but *you* are not the one on the telephone every day to the State Historic Society trying to convince them that the lime content in our Portland cement is consistent with what was originally used in the masonry!" "It's my hotel. If I want to grout--" "You don't want to grout. You want to repoint." "Take out *all* the mortar in the joints and replace it *completely*?" "Completely. Angel, if they think we aren't doing this the right way, they'll get an injunction, and we won't be able to do *any* of the restoration work without representatives from the state consulting. It'll take for bloody ever, and involve that many more outside parties. You don't even like letting the *electricians* in." "I didn't like *that* electrician. I didn't like what he said to Cordy." "He's a construction worker, Angel. His union probably requires him to behave that way." "I just want us to handle this ourselves. I know, I know we can't completely. But...as much as possible." "Then we'll handle it. But we have to do it the right way. Please, Angel, for *once.* Take my advice. This one time, once since the day I met you, I need you to do as I ask. Every other time, Angel, we do things your way. I'm asking you. As your...friend. I'm asking you to let go." "You think I don't trust you?" "I think...that giving everyone orders gives you a false sense of control over your--" "That's ridiculous." "--environment, and that you feel vulnerable when you're not maintaining--" "I'm some kind of tyrant now? That's--" "--the illusion that everything within your sphere of influence happens because you will it so." "--what you think of me?" "Angel. You know what I think of you. But you are not alone in this world, or even in this bloody hotel, and I've grown unbelievably tired of watching you behave as though you were. *Let me handle the mortar joints.*" Silence. "All right. Have it your way." "Thank you, I think I will." "Careful." "Go away." "I'm just telling you--" "You're always *just telling* me something; you're worse than Cordelia. I can do this." "I know, but the thing about the pop rivet gun--" "Angel! Oh, *fucking* hell. Now look at it." "Yeah, that happens when you press too hard with the--" "No, it happens when I have you backseat-driving while I'm trying to put the storm windows in." "Just let me show you--" "No! I hardly think I need you to show me how to screw. Or, rather, I mean -- never mind, you *know* what I mean. Bugger *off,* for God's sake! Damn, it's threaded all wrong; I think the whole screw is distorted." Angel stands behind him, chest brushing Wesley's back without breath to move him closer or away. The way he looms makes the shaking start in Wesley's hand, and it vibrates slowly out to the rest of his body, ribs and stomach and knees. Angel, as usual, is everywhere; he presses other things, like light and air and space and time, out so that they cannot touch Wesley. So that there is never anything but Angel. "Here. Let me help." "I don't need your fucking help." The shaking has seeped into his voice now, which cracks with strain. Angel's arms close slowly around his, moving more gently and more carefully than any touch Wesley Wyndham-Price ever knew before he met this man. His strong hands curve around Wesley's hands, holding the rivet gun, and now he can't help but be guided by Angel's every move. Wesley's eyes are burning. "You press like *this.* Easy. Don't get carried away. Too much force, and everything just gets completely twisted up." "Easy...." "Right. Take your time. You can't just batter your way in." "I just want...to be finished with it. We're over our budget, we're outside our schedule, and we don't seem any closer to finishing than we were a month ago." "It takes how long it takes." "I want...." He is crying, and only Angel's sure touch keeps the rivet gun from falling to the floor. "I know. We'll get there." "Angel. What are you doing up here?" "Checking out the gutters." "In the pouring rain?" "I haven't been able to figure out where the damage is. It should be easier to find in the rain. You go back to bed." "I brought coffee." "You didn't. You *did.* Wes, you're a saint." They stand on the roof of the Hyperion. It's pouring rain, and as soon as Wesley can manage to fill the thermos lid, the coffee is splattered and watered down; half of it has ended up on Angel's coat, another quarter on the elbow of Wesley's sweatshirt. "Can you see it?" "What, the gutter blockage?" "Yes." "I'm not really looking." "Then tell me again what we're doing up here?" "I...I don't know. Wesley, I really do not have the foggiest clue why I'm up here. Do you know why you are?" "Yes." "Because...I am?" "Yes." Angel tries to shelter him from the wind and the rain with his coat and with his own body. He's only mildly successful. "This place was a nightmare; it ruined lives, and it stole them. I'm going to make it right, Wes. I'm going to make it a good place to stay." "Oh, Angel. You make so many demands on yourself." "I don't think you make enough on me." "I'm not here to punish you." "I don't deserve you. If you knew--" "Angel, hush. Hush. I know everything I want to know." "I don't want to need your help." He laughs into Angel's chest. "You think I don't know that? Angel, I don't want to need yours, either. And yet, here we are." "You don't...need me. You're already human. You're the most human man I know." "You make that sound like a compliment." "Isn't it?" "Perhaps. Angel, come inside. I'm freezing to death, and I don't want to leave you out here by yourself." Tonight, Angel offers no argument. Wesley leads him in by the hand, and latches the door behind them to keep out the cold. End Author's note: Literally, "*a chuisle*" means something like "o my pulse," but in practical terms, it's just one of many, many ways to say "darlin'" in Irish Gaelic. I'm not sure whether or not Wesley speaks any Gaelic. In case you're reading this out loud to your bedridden mother, it's pronounced "uh KHWISH-luh."