If looks could kill. And if Angel weren't already dead? Then the vampire would have dropped dead on the floor then and there. Thus was the look Wesley gave in the direction of voice upon hearing it. The look turned positively glacial to the extend that it would have the polar-bears on the Arctic running form the cold. Saying that Wesley was still angry at what had happened the other night? That would be a severe understatement.
This was why he was going on that vacation. Having to go through loosing Fred not once, but twice? That was horrible enough. Having to raise his son on his own? Rather a crushing challenge. But having his friends *not* trust him and do... what *had* they been expecting him to do? Hand over his own son to some baby killing enemy? Just as they had been so certain that he had voluntarily handed over Connor all those years ago?
That is what hurt the most. It was an old pain he thought he'd gotten over. A pain he had though was in the past. But as usual, no past ever really stays in the past. The open wound hadn't healed as much as he had claimed to himself. But having it ripped open by the people he trusted and loved. That had been an eye-opener.
"Would it matter," Wesley spoke loudly, the cold tone of his voice matching the glacial look he gave the door-opening, "if I said I do mind? Because its been made clear that anything I say or do bears little meaning to those I thought it did." He? Bitter? Oh heavens no. At least he had resisted crawling into a bottle this time. But only for the sake of his son. His entire life now was only for the sake of his son.
Max, who was sleeping peacefully in his crib. Wesley's eyes darted toward the boy, a small smile briefly flitting over his otherwise angry looking face. Schooling said face into a blank position, he sighed, tossed his pen down and glared at the door again.
Ouch. He had known things wouldn't be pretty, but he still wasn't exactly prepared for that charming little welcome.
He visibly winced from the doorway, half shaking his head as he tried to figure out how to answer that, if it even would matter one way or the other. Or if he should even try. "It would," he decided, "But it wouldn't make me leave, either. Sorry." There was a part of him that wanted to just step back, let the door close, and leave. It would have certainly been the easiest thing to do, anyway.
In Angel's many years of unliving, though, he had a nasty habit of choosing the road less traveled. The one with all the dead ends, and twists, and turns, and falling rocks. If anything was going to make him change his course, it seemed silly that it would be this little bump.
And so, he stayed. He even opened the door the rest of the way, and took a step forward, but didn't come in any further than that. "I just wanted to talk."
"Then what is the point of asking," Wesley observed bitterly. Even more so when Angel hardly even acknowledged that he'd been stabbing Wesley in the back. With his distrust, with his lack of confidence in his own best friend. They all had acted as if Wesley had gone mental while there had been no signs of it.
And only because they had heard a whisper in the wind about a child, a prophecy and Wesley. But instead of asking they came in accusing. No, he was bloody well not likely going to forget that soon. Unless they tampered with his memory again. Which they had better not or all hell was seriously going to break loose.
"Talk," Wesley said, his tone of voice monotone as he kept his eyes on his work. Not looking at Angel because he knew his eyes always gave him away. Not wanting his best friend to see the *hurt* reflected in them. He even had to close them when Angel mentioned he had come to apologize.
"How lovely," Wesley muttered, pointing his pen at a table across from him. "The knife from my back is over there. You'll probably need it again, so please take it with you when you go."
Hoo boy. Angel never liked when Wesley was feeling like this, but to be the apparent cause of it all? That was really...something. He didn't like it. He wanted to fix it, but the more time he stood here, the more he was thinking he'd have a greater chance of learning how to fly.
Angel partly shook his head, and forced out a minute dry laugh, at the utter hopelessness of the situation, as he found the courage to actually walk the rest of the way into the icy office, and came to stand somewhere in front of Wesley's desk.
At least there wasn't anything he could possibly say that would make the guy more upset at this point. That was something. Probably...the only something.
Despite how desperately he was trying to cling to anything positive, that weak plan went flying right out the window when Wesley pointed to the imaginary, and still dripping, knife. "Okay, stop. Stop right there," Angel's brows lowered, but he tried to keep his voice neutral, as he stared back at Wesley, who couldn't even look at him anymore. "How did we betray you? What were we supposed to think? You find a prophecy that's so bad you take your kid with you in the middle of the night, and we're not going to worry about it? We didn't know what to think, or what was going on, so we paniced. And that's... that's it."
How did... Did Angel just actually *ask* how they had betrayed Wesley? By coming in here, storming into his office and assuming right away that he was going to *harm* his own son?
His own bloody son? His child? His flesh and blood? The only thing - living memory - he had left of Fred?! Did Angel just actually ask that?
Wesley saw red for a few seconds. He actually had to lay his pen down, breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. In. Out. Calm down. Angel had foot in mouth disease, he hadn't meant it like that. But the more Angel kept talking, the angier Wesley got. All over again.
It hurt. To hear the *distrust* in the vampire's voice.
"I did *not* sneak out in the middle of the night. It was, in fact, quite early. It as *not* unheard of that I take *my* son with me to work. I was working with Mr. Giles on translating a prophecy that *I* had only gotten a few hours earlier. I talked to Lorne, I talked to Giles. Excuse *me* if I go to the most likely sources *first* who may be able to help me, instead of wasting time by creating a world wide unneeded *panic* by running to the big hero."
Oh yes, he was pissed. The calm tone of his voice betrayed it, but Angel by now should know him well enough to know. "But instead of think 'Oh my, Wesley may need help', you *all* assumed the worse and stormed in here to take away my son, Angel. How do you think that make *me* feel. After all that we went through, to realise that all of you *still* assume the worse of me."
The last words were whispered as Wesley tried not to hear the breaking of his voice. Because, damn, that had hurt the most. After all these years. After *dying* for the good fight. They still did not trust him? But he was not to feel betrayed?
Good god, what was *he* supposed to think?
"I'm sorry, Angel, but..." He made a defeated motion with his hand which could have meant just about anything, but pretty much indicated the helplessness he felt right then and there.
This was why he was going on that vacation. Having to go through loosing Fred not once, but twice? That was horrible enough. Having to raise his son on his own? Rather a crushing challenge. But having his friends *not* trust him and do... what *had* they been expecting him to do? Hand over his own son to some baby killing enemy? Just as they had been so certain that he had voluntarily handed over Connor all those years ago?
That is what hurt the most. It was an old pain he thought he'd gotten over. A pain he had though was in the past. But as usual, no past ever really stays in the past. The open wound hadn't healed as much as he had claimed to himself. But having it ripped open by the people he trusted and loved. That had been an eye-opener.
"Would it matter," Wesley spoke loudly, the cold tone of his voice matching the glacial look he gave the door-opening, "if I said I do mind? Because its been made clear that anything I say or do bears little meaning to those I thought it did." He? Bitter? Oh heavens no. At least he had resisted crawling into a bottle this time. But only for the sake of his son. His entire life now was only for the sake of his son.
Max, who was sleeping peacefully in his crib. Wesley's eyes darted toward the boy, a small smile briefly flitting over his otherwise angry looking face. Schooling said face into a blank position, he sighed, tossed his pen down and glared at the door again.
"What is it you want, Angel."
Reply
He visibly winced from the doorway, half shaking his head as he tried to figure out how to answer that, if it even would matter one way or the other. Or if he should even try. "It would," he decided, "But it wouldn't make me leave, either. Sorry." There was a part of him that wanted to just step back, let the door close, and leave. It would have certainly been the easiest thing to do, anyway.
In Angel's many years of unliving, though, he had a nasty habit of choosing the road less traveled. The one with all the dead ends, and twists, and turns, and falling rocks. If anything was going to make him change his course, it seemed silly that it would be this little bump.
And so, he stayed. He even opened the door the rest of the way, and took a step forward, but didn't come in any further than that. "I just wanted to talk."
"To apologize," he clarified after a beat.
Reply
And only because they had heard a whisper in the wind about a child, a prophecy and Wesley. But instead of asking they came in accusing. No, he was bloody well not likely going to forget that soon. Unless they tampered with his memory again. Which they had better not or all hell was seriously going to break loose.
"Talk," Wesley said, his tone of voice monotone as he kept his eyes on his work. Not looking at Angel because he knew his eyes always gave him away. Not wanting his best friend to see the *hurt* reflected in them. He even had to close them when Angel mentioned he had come to apologize.
"How lovely," Wesley muttered, pointing his pen at a table across from him. "The knife from my back is over there. You'll probably need it again, so please take it with you when you go."
Reply
Angel partly shook his head, and forced out a minute dry laugh, at the utter hopelessness of the situation, as he found the courage to actually walk the rest of the way into the icy office, and came to stand somewhere in front of Wesley's desk.
At least there wasn't anything he could possibly say that would make the guy more upset at this point. That was something. Probably...the only something.
Despite how desperately he was trying to cling to anything positive, that weak plan went flying right out the window when Wesley pointed to the imaginary, and still dripping, knife. "Okay, stop. Stop right there," Angel's brows lowered, but he tried to keep his voice neutral, as he stared back at Wesley, who couldn't even look at him anymore. "How did we betray you? What were we supposed to think? You find a prophecy that's so bad you take your kid with you in the middle of the night, and we're not going to worry about it? We didn't know what to think, or what was going on, so we paniced. And that's... that's it."
Reply
His own bloody son? His child? His flesh and blood? The only thing - living memory - he had left of Fred?! Did Angel just actually ask that?
Wesley saw red for a few seconds. He actually had to lay his pen down, breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. In. Out. Calm down. Angel had foot in mouth disease, he hadn't meant it like that. But the more Angel kept talking, the angier Wesley got. All over again.
It hurt. To hear the *distrust* in the vampire's voice.
"I did *not* sneak out in the middle of the night. It was, in fact, quite early. It as *not* unheard of that I take *my* son with me to work. I was working with Mr. Giles on translating a prophecy that *I* had only gotten a few hours earlier. I talked to Lorne, I talked to Giles. Excuse *me* if I go to the most likely sources *first* who may be able to help me, instead of wasting time by creating a world wide unneeded *panic* by running to the big hero."
Oh yes, he was pissed. The calm tone of his voice betrayed it, but Angel by now should know him well enough to know. "But instead of think 'Oh my, Wesley may need help', you *all* assumed the worse and stormed in here to take away my son, Angel. How do you think that make *me* feel. After all that we went through, to realise that all of you *still* assume the worse of me."
The last words were whispered as Wesley tried not to hear the breaking of his voice. Because, damn, that had hurt the most. After all these years. After *dying* for the good fight. They still did not trust him? But he was not to feel betrayed?
Good god, what was *he* supposed to think?
"I'm sorry, Angel, but..." He made a defeated motion with his hand which could have meant just about anything, but pretty much indicated the helplessness he felt right then and there.
Reply
Leave a comment