[Angel]: Five Things Wesley Almost Said to Angel (And One That Angel Almost Said to Him)
Title: Five Things Wesley Almost Said to Angel (And One That Angel Almost Said to Him)
Fandom: Angel
Summary: What it says on the tin. Over the course of seasons 2-5, spoilers through Not Fade Away. Melancholy.
Notes: I actually really like this one.
One. “You need to say something,” Cordelia had hissed at him. “Man to man. Make some tea and - you know, talk. This is getting ridiculous.” That was what she’d said, and Wesley could hear the worry under it. Hear the worry, and sympathize with it. Both for their boss, and for themselves.
Staring at the tea now, though, he was beginning to feel rather self-conscious. Angel drank tea, but Wesley didn’t know if he liked it. And besides, it was nearly noon and the vampire had yet to make an appearance. And he didn’t have any idea how Angel would react to attempts to discuss his obsession with his sire.
He didn’t think it would be well, though.
Wesley heard a soft tread on the stairs and looked up, quickly. Angel was there, rubbing his eyes with one hand. It fell after a moment, and then he stared at Wesley as though he’d never seen him before.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Wesley asked, and Angel blinked once, and then said, “Sure, fine.” He sounded dead tired, and he looked…thin. The worry for himself diminished some, the worry for Angel rose a few notches. He respected the vampire. More, considered him a friend. Angel needed this from him.
“Sit down,” he suggested, indicating a chair and pouring two cups of tea, pushing one across the small coffee table in the hotel lobby. Angel gave him another strange look as he took the cup and sipped at it.
“Is something bothering you, Wesley?”
Damn. And there went his hopes of conducting the conversation gently around to the topic. “Actually,” Wesley said. “Yes, there is…”
Angel set down the cup and rubbed his eyes again. Exhausted, that was the word. “What is it?” he asked, heavily. “Is there a new case? Something come up?”
“Well,” Wesley started to say. Of sorts, he thought. Cordelia and I are concerned that your growing obsession with Darla is leading to mental instability and that you may soon crack. It was only in his own head, and Wesley winced. He forced a smile.
“Actually,” he said. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll take care of it.”
Coward! Wesley’s inner voice castigated him. Angel looked grateful, and smiled, barely. It didn’t look like much.
“Good,” he said. “Thanks, Wes.” He set the tea cup down and moved away, and Wesley mused that Cordelia was going to be beyond annoyed with him. Then again, it’s not as though her attempts had gotten very far either.
They’ll just have to work out another way.
---
Two. Buffy Summers, the Slayer, was dead.
Oh, there was Faith, of course, he knew that. But Faith was in jail, working out her own problems, and Buffy was the first, the original.
And more than that as well.
Angel hadn’t said a word since he and Willow had spoken, briefly, Willow telling the story tearfully and Angel stone-faced, saying only ‘thank you’ before retreating. And now he was here, in the office where Wesley was pretending to organize files. For the first time Wesley could remember, the vampire looked old.
“Wes,” he said, and there was a hoarse edge on his voice. “I…I wanted to ask if I could have some time.”
“Of course,” Wesley started to say, but Angel interrupted to clarify, “Away from here.” Wesley blinked, surprised.
“Where…”
“I don’t know. Not yet.” His eyes met Wesley’s, and the former Watcher’s chest hurt. Good god, he thought. Despair was just a word, most of the time, but for a moment he thought he was looking at its incarnation. The moment passed, though, and it was just pain and sorrow. Angel didn’t talk about Buffy. Neither did Cordelia, and so neither did he, not after the incident with Faith. But she was still there, Wesley realized. Still buried deep in Angel’s heart, a reason.
He’d gathered, after all, that it had been only because of Buffy that Angel had begun this mission in the first place, though it had evolved into something more.
“-of course,” he managed, realizing that Angel was still waiting. “If you…if you think…” He discovered that he didn’t really want Angel out of his sight, not really. Not just now. Nonetheless, he knew trying to keep him would be fruitless.
“Most of my things are already packed,” Angel said. “I think…I mean to leave tomorrow night, as soon as it’s dark. Tibet, maybe. Sri Lanka.”
You can stay here, Wesley thought. Stay with us, grieve with us, let us help you.
“Take care,” he said, instead.
“You’ll hold down things here?” Angel said, but it wasn’t really a question, like he knew, trusted that they could keep it together.
I’m sorry, Wesley thought. I don’t know that I can even understand what she meant to you. But she’d be proud, I know it, of what you’ve done here. Of the fact that you found your way back to where you’re supposed to be.
“We’ll keep watch,” he said, instead.
“Thank you,” Angel said, softly.
“You’re welcome,” Wesley said, instead of what he thought, which was, come back safely. Please.
---
Three. Wesley stared at the text with a dawning feeling of horror. The Father Will Kill the Son. He’d double checked it, triple checked it, looked for alternate interpretations, but there was nothing. He had it right. He was sure, and cursed his certainty.
Anyone could have seen how Angel doted on his son. How much he adored the baby, the almost unnervingly pure joy that touched his expression when he saw him. The love, the pride…
It couldn’t possibly be true. It was some kind of twist, some kind of misinterpretation, like the Shanshu. A metaphorical death, maybe. Something.
He needed to talk to Angel about this.
Shuffling his papers together, Wesley started decisively out of the office and found Angel sitting on one of the couches, feeding Connor and murmuring something under his breath that sounded like nothing but nonsense. Wesley steeled himself just as Angel glanced up.
“Hey, Wes - any progress on the prophecies?”
“Yes, actually,” he said. “Some.” Angel stood up, shifting Connor easily. He already looked like such a natural, like the baby in his arms was nothing but the most normal thing in the universe, just another father and his best beloved child.
“Really? Show me,” Angel said, and Wesley hesitated. Connor relinquished the bottle and Angel set it aside, suddenly distracted, cooing to the baby in what sounded like Gaelic.
The lines in Angel’s brow seemed to have faded. The expression around his mouth was lighter. Angel was happy or as close as he could get. He couldn’t. He couldn’t face him with a piece of paper and accuse him of a future that might not even come to pass. Prophecies could fail. Translators even more so.
Angel, I think you might kill your son, he imagined saying, and couldn’t do it. Not now. Not yet. Not until he was sure.
“Well?” Angel said, and Wesley shook his head.
“It’s not complete yet,” he hedged. “I’m not quite done with the translating. I think it had better wait. I only meant to say I’d made progress.”
“Oh,” Angel said, and only seemed minorly disappointed. “Uncle Wes is very busy,” he said, to Connor. “He’s going to work out everything for you. Right?” Angel was smiling at him, just a little, expression trusting and grateful.
Wesley forced a smile of his own. The Father Will Kill the Son. He’d gotten something wrong, surely. (And even thinking it, suddenly, felt like the worst kind of betrayal.) “That’s right,” he said. “I’ll work out everything.”
Once he was sure, then he would come to Angel. Only then. Only when he was certain. If it turned out there was something…then they could talk it over, reasonably. Once he was sure.
---
Four. He found Angel in the kitchen with a bottle of hard liquor and a half empty container of hand soap. As he watched, Angel took a swig of the liquor and set it back down too gently. “Wes,” he said, something strange and neutral in his voice.
“Angel,” Wesley said, carefully. It had been a while since he’d seen Angelus, and this time…far worse than the last, than that giddy, half-drunk incarnation. And Lilah. There was Lilah.
But it had been his idea.
“What’s the soap?” he asked, finally. Angel didn’t look ‘round.
“The taste of blood takes an awfully long time to go away on its own,” he said, still in that offhand way. “Helped it along a bit.”
Wesley swallowed. Lilah’s blood, he thought, first, and then realized, more likely Faith’s. “Ah,” he said. “I see.”
Angel pulled his hand from the bottle and laid it flat on the table. “We learned nothing from this,” he said, in a leaden voice. “And lost the book in the process that had our only information on the Beast’s master.”
Wesley thought to wonder, for a moment, what it was like. What it felt like to have a soul pulled out of you, what it felt like to have it put back in. What Angel might remember that maybe he would rather not. He felt a touch of tired, slightly unwilling sympathy.
“Do you remember everything?” he asked, before thinking to identify it as an insensitive question. Angel shrugged.
“Not everything yet. It gets clearer every hour.”
“Oh,” Wesley said, and then started to ask, “Do you,”
“Yes,” Angel said, his voice still that suspicious dull monotone. “I remember Lilah.”
Wesley hesitated, and amended his question. “I was going to ask if you wanted to talk about it.”
Angel made a sound that Wesley supposed might be a scoff. “No. And I doubt you want to hear.” The vampire gulped the last of the bottle, stood up, went to the fridge, reached around the blood, and took another.
“I’m sorry,” Wesley said, carefully. Angel did not use a bottle opener to take the top off, he noticed.
“I agreed to it,” Angel said. His inflection did not change at all. It was beginning to make shivers crawl down Wesley’s spine. “And it isn’t your fault that things went wrong.”
The Watcher in him wanted to ask so many questions. About everything, not even having to do with this damned case. “Do you want me to warm some blood for you?” he said instead. Angel turned his head very slightly and his eyes seemed cold, dead - not like Angelus, no, but something else - and said, “I won’t need any for a while.”
Wesley thought about that for a moment, and felt sick. The corner of Angel’s mouth twisted up in anything but a smile. “I told you you didn’t want to hear,” he said, quietly, and returned to the bottle. Wesley looked at the soap, imagined Angel desperately scrubbing his mouth out, and felt a pang. He tried to think of something to say, some kind of …something. Reassurance?
We need you. Angel knew that. It was necessary. They hadn’t really gained anything. At least the Beast is dead.
Ultimately, he said nothing. Thinking too much of Lilah, headless.
“Next time,” Angel said abruptly, “If there is a next time, just kill me, all right?”
And then he was gone, before Wesley could summon any kind of response.
---
Five. You did well.
It was what he wanted to say. Angel was struggling, he could see that. Between Spike and this place, it didn’t really surprise him that the vampire seemed…worn down. He got a sense of futility, as though Angel no longer quite believed in what they were doing. Maybe in anything.
He remembered when the Groosalug had joined them for a time. Seems to me, here is a guy who can do everything I can - and a few things I can't. He had to wonder.
It seemed like something was always coming up, though. Some job, some business, something else they needed to talk about that was more important. No time to just talk anymore.
Angel was busy, or he was busy, and time just kept slipping by.
Somewhere, Wesley wondered if that wasn’t the point. If that wasn’t exactly what they were trying to do, keep them all apart, from working as a team as they had once.
But here they were tonight, facing each other, just the two of them in the office. Angel was riffling through papers, his expression pensive and distant. It seemed to take him several moments to realize that Wesley hadn’t drifted off with the others.
“Something up?”
Wesley hesitated. It burst out of him, though. “Do you still believe in the Shanshu prophecy?”
Angel blinked. Just once, and then his expression went back to neutral, but he seemed surprised. “…what does that,” he started to say.
“I was just wondering.”
“I don’t know,” Angel said, after a long pause. “Maybe. Not really. -don’t look at me like that.”
Wesley composed his features quickly, wondering what exactly he’d been looking like. “Why not?” He asked, finally.
Angel considered Wesley. “Where is this coming from?”
“Curiosity,” Wesley said, innocently. Angel stood up and went over to the windows. There was no sunlight but the curtains were always open anyway. Wesley wondered if Angel truly enjoyed the luxury, or if the novelty had worn off by now.
“Too far away,” Angel said, finally, “And hardly even definite. If you want the truth, I expect I’ll probably die before the Powers decide I’ve done enough.” His smile was thin and dry. “And if that doesn’t make me sound like a pessimist…”
Wesley imagined he could feel his heart sink. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“Is that all?” Angel asked, maybe a little curtly, and Wesley wondered if he had touched a nerve. “I was going out.”
You did well, Wesley thought. You did a lot, and still are, though sometimes it doesn’t seem like it. I admire your ability to continue. “Yes,” he said. “That’s all.”
---
One. He hadn’t said it, had he?
He’d been thinking it, meaning to say it. He’d said something inane, instead, something pointless, meaningless. “Good luck” or “Come back alive.” Not what he’d meant to say at all.
The rain was coming down.
“I forgive you,” he’d meant to say. Come so close to saying. Had meant to say, over the year, except that Wesley wouldn’t have understood what he was forgiving, not until recently. And now that he did understand, Angel had never told him that he was forgiven.
He’d sent him to die without ever saying that. Maybe he’d thought there would be another chance. Maybe he’d hoped there would be.
Angel hefted the broadsword and shifted his grip. They were coming closer. It was all coming down.
And Wesley wasn’t here. The only one still with him from those early days. Gone now. And he’d never said…
Never said so many things. Too many things, really. Things he should have said more often. You’re a good man. I’m proud to work with you at my side.
You’re forgiven.
No forgiveness now. For any of them.
And in ten minutes, most likely, no survivors.
I should have said it, Angel thought. I should have told him before he left.
The rain kept falling.
Fandom: Angel
Summary: What it says on the tin. Over the course of seasons 2-5, spoilers through Not Fade Away. Melancholy.
Notes: I actually really like this one.
One. “You need to say something,” Cordelia had hissed at him. “Man to man. Make some tea and - you know, talk. This is getting ridiculous.” That was what she’d said, and Wesley could hear the worry under it. Hear the worry, and sympathize with it. Both for their boss, and for themselves.
Staring at the tea now, though, he was beginning to feel rather self-conscious. Angel drank tea, but Wesley didn’t know if he liked it. And besides, it was nearly noon and the vampire had yet to make an appearance. And he didn’t have any idea how Angel would react to attempts to discuss his obsession with his sire.
He didn’t think it would be well, though.
Wesley heard a soft tread on the stairs and looked up, quickly. Angel was there, rubbing his eyes with one hand. It fell after a moment, and then he stared at Wesley as though he’d never seen him before.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Wesley asked, and Angel blinked once, and then said, “Sure, fine.” He sounded dead tired, and he looked…thin. The worry for himself diminished some, the worry for Angel rose a few notches. He respected the vampire. More, considered him a friend. Angel needed this from him.
“Sit down,” he suggested, indicating a chair and pouring two cups of tea, pushing one across the small coffee table in the hotel lobby. Angel gave him another strange look as he took the cup and sipped at it.
“Is something bothering you, Wesley?”
Damn. And there went his hopes of conducting the conversation gently around to the topic. “Actually,” Wesley said. “Yes, there is…”
Angel set down the cup and rubbed his eyes again. Exhausted, that was the word. “What is it?” he asked, heavily. “Is there a new case? Something come up?”
“Well,” Wesley started to say. Of sorts, he thought. Cordelia and I are concerned that your growing obsession with Darla is leading to mental instability and that you may soon crack. It was only in his own head, and Wesley winced. He forced a smile.
“Actually,” he said. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll take care of it.”
Coward! Wesley’s inner voice castigated him. Angel looked grateful, and smiled, barely. It didn’t look like much.
“Good,” he said. “Thanks, Wes.” He set the tea cup down and moved away, and Wesley mused that Cordelia was going to be beyond annoyed with him. Then again, it’s not as though her attempts had gotten very far either.
They’ll just have to work out another way.
---
Two. Buffy Summers, the Slayer, was dead.
Oh, there was Faith, of course, he knew that. But Faith was in jail, working out her own problems, and Buffy was the first, the original.
And more than that as well.
Angel hadn’t said a word since he and Willow had spoken, briefly, Willow telling the story tearfully and Angel stone-faced, saying only ‘thank you’ before retreating. And now he was here, in the office where Wesley was pretending to organize files. For the first time Wesley could remember, the vampire looked old.
“Wes,” he said, and there was a hoarse edge on his voice. “I…I wanted to ask if I could have some time.”
“Of course,” Wesley started to say, but Angel interrupted to clarify, “Away from here.” Wesley blinked, surprised.
“Where…”
“I don’t know. Not yet.” His eyes met Wesley’s, and the former Watcher’s chest hurt. Good god, he thought. Despair was just a word, most of the time, but for a moment he thought he was looking at its incarnation. The moment passed, though, and it was just pain and sorrow. Angel didn’t talk about Buffy. Neither did Cordelia, and so neither did he, not after the incident with Faith. But she was still there, Wesley realized. Still buried deep in Angel’s heart, a reason.
He’d gathered, after all, that it had been only because of Buffy that Angel had begun this mission in the first place, though it had evolved into something more.
“-of course,” he managed, realizing that Angel was still waiting. “If you…if you think…” He discovered that he didn’t really want Angel out of his sight, not really. Not just now. Nonetheless, he knew trying to keep him would be fruitless.
“Most of my things are already packed,” Angel said. “I think…I mean to leave tomorrow night, as soon as it’s dark. Tibet, maybe. Sri Lanka.”
You can stay here, Wesley thought. Stay with us, grieve with us, let us help you.
“Take care,” he said, instead.
“You’ll hold down things here?” Angel said, but it wasn’t really a question, like he knew, trusted that they could keep it together.
I’m sorry, Wesley thought. I don’t know that I can even understand what she meant to you. But she’d be proud, I know it, of what you’ve done here. Of the fact that you found your way back to where you’re supposed to be.
“We’ll keep watch,” he said, instead.
“Thank you,” Angel said, softly.
“You’re welcome,” Wesley said, instead of what he thought, which was, come back safely. Please.
---
Three. Wesley stared at the text with a dawning feeling of horror. The Father Will Kill the Son. He’d double checked it, triple checked it, looked for alternate interpretations, but there was nothing. He had it right. He was sure, and cursed his certainty.
Anyone could have seen how Angel doted on his son. How much he adored the baby, the almost unnervingly pure joy that touched his expression when he saw him. The love, the pride…
It couldn’t possibly be true. It was some kind of twist, some kind of misinterpretation, like the Shanshu. A metaphorical death, maybe. Something.
He needed to talk to Angel about this.
Shuffling his papers together, Wesley started decisively out of the office and found Angel sitting on one of the couches, feeding Connor and murmuring something under his breath that sounded like nothing but nonsense. Wesley steeled himself just as Angel glanced up.
“Hey, Wes - any progress on the prophecies?”
“Yes, actually,” he said. “Some.” Angel stood up, shifting Connor easily. He already looked like such a natural, like the baby in his arms was nothing but the most normal thing in the universe, just another father and his best beloved child.
“Really? Show me,” Angel said, and Wesley hesitated. Connor relinquished the bottle and Angel set it aside, suddenly distracted, cooing to the baby in what sounded like Gaelic.
The lines in Angel’s brow seemed to have faded. The expression around his mouth was lighter. Angel was happy or as close as he could get. He couldn’t. He couldn’t face him with a piece of paper and accuse him of a future that might not even come to pass. Prophecies could fail. Translators even more so.
Angel, I think you might kill your son, he imagined saying, and couldn’t do it. Not now. Not yet. Not until he was sure.
“Well?” Angel said, and Wesley shook his head.
“It’s not complete yet,” he hedged. “I’m not quite done with the translating. I think it had better wait. I only meant to say I’d made progress.”
“Oh,” Angel said, and only seemed minorly disappointed. “Uncle Wes is very busy,” he said, to Connor. “He’s going to work out everything for you. Right?” Angel was smiling at him, just a little, expression trusting and grateful.
Wesley forced a smile of his own. The Father Will Kill the Son. He’d gotten something wrong, surely. (And even thinking it, suddenly, felt like the worst kind of betrayal.) “That’s right,” he said. “I’ll work out everything.”
Once he was sure, then he would come to Angel. Only then. Only when he was certain. If it turned out there was something…then they could talk it over, reasonably. Once he was sure.
---
Four. He found Angel in the kitchen with a bottle of hard liquor and a half empty container of hand soap. As he watched, Angel took a swig of the liquor and set it back down too gently. “Wes,” he said, something strange and neutral in his voice.
“Angel,” Wesley said, carefully. It had been a while since he’d seen Angelus, and this time…far worse than the last, than that giddy, half-drunk incarnation. And Lilah. There was Lilah.
But it had been his idea.
“What’s the soap?” he asked, finally. Angel didn’t look ‘round.
“The taste of blood takes an awfully long time to go away on its own,” he said, still in that offhand way. “Helped it along a bit.”
Wesley swallowed. Lilah’s blood, he thought, first, and then realized, more likely Faith’s. “Ah,” he said. “I see.”
Angel pulled his hand from the bottle and laid it flat on the table. “We learned nothing from this,” he said, in a leaden voice. “And lost the book in the process that had our only information on the Beast’s master.”
Wesley thought to wonder, for a moment, what it was like. What it felt like to have a soul pulled out of you, what it felt like to have it put back in. What Angel might remember that maybe he would rather not. He felt a touch of tired, slightly unwilling sympathy.
“Do you remember everything?” he asked, before thinking to identify it as an insensitive question. Angel shrugged.
“Not everything yet. It gets clearer every hour.”
“Oh,” Wesley said, and then started to ask, “Do you,”
“Yes,” Angel said, his voice still that suspicious dull monotone. “I remember Lilah.”
Wesley hesitated, and amended his question. “I was going to ask if you wanted to talk about it.”
Angel made a sound that Wesley supposed might be a scoff. “No. And I doubt you want to hear.” The vampire gulped the last of the bottle, stood up, went to the fridge, reached around the blood, and took another.
“I’m sorry,” Wesley said, carefully. Angel did not use a bottle opener to take the top off, he noticed.
“I agreed to it,” Angel said. His inflection did not change at all. It was beginning to make shivers crawl down Wesley’s spine. “And it isn’t your fault that things went wrong.”
The Watcher in him wanted to ask so many questions. About everything, not even having to do with this damned case. “Do you want me to warm some blood for you?” he said instead. Angel turned his head very slightly and his eyes seemed cold, dead - not like Angelus, no, but something else - and said, “I won’t need any for a while.”
Wesley thought about that for a moment, and felt sick. The corner of Angel’s mouth twisted up in anything but a smile. “I told you you didn’t want to hear,” he said, quietly, and returned to the bottle. Wesley looked at the soap, imagined Angel desperately scrubbing his mouth out, and felt a pang. He tried to think of something to say, some kind of …something. Reassurance?
We need you. Angel knew that. It was necessary. They hadn’t really gained anything. At least the Beast is dead.
Ultimately, he said nothing. Thinking too much of Lilah, headless.
“Next time,” Angel said abruptly, “If there is a next time, just kill me, all right?”
And then he was gone, before Wesley could summon any kind of response.
---
Five. You did well.
It was what he wanted to say. Angel was struggling, he could see that. Between Spike and this place, it didn’t really surprise him that the vampire seemed…worn down. He got a sense of futility, as though Angel no longer quite believed in what they were doing. Maybe in anything.
He remembered when the Groosalug had joined them for a time. Seems to me, here is a guy who can do everything I can - and a few things I can't. He had to wonder.
It seemed like something was always coming up, though. Some job, some business, something else they needed to talk about that was more important. No time to just talk anymore.
Angel was busy, or he was busy, and time just kept slipping by.
Somewhere, Wesley wondered if that wasn’t the point. If that wasn’t exactly what they were trying to do, keep them all apart, from working as a team as they had once.
But here they were tonight, facing each other, just the two of them in the office. Angel was riffling through papers, his expression pensive and distant. It seemed to take him several moments to realize that Wesley hadn’t drifted off with the others.
“Something up?”
Wesley hesitated. It burst out of him, though. “Do you still believe in the Shanshu prophecy?”
Angel blinked. Just once, and then his expression went back to neutral, but he seemed surprised. “…what does that,” he started to say.
“I was just wondering.”
“I don’t know,” Angel said, after a long pause. “Maybe. Not really. -don’t look at me like that.”
Wesley composed his features quickly, wondering what exactly he’d been looking like. “Why not?” He asked, finally.
Angel considered Wesley. “Where is this coming from?”
“Curiosity,” Wesley said, innocently. Angel stood up and went over to the windows. There was no sunlight but the curtains were always open anyway. Wesley wondered if Angel truly enjoyed the luxury, or if the novelty had worn off by now.
“Too far away,” Angel said, finally, “And hardly even definite. If you want the truth, I expect I’ll probably die before the Powers decide I’ve done enough.” His smile was thin and dry. “And if that doesn’t make me sound like a pessimist…”
Wesley imagined he could feel his heart sink. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“Is that all?” Angel asked, maybe a little curtly, and Wesley wondered if he had touched a nerve. “I was going out.”
You did well, Wesley thought. You did a lot, and still are, though sometimes it doesn’t seem like it. I admire your ability to continue. “Yes,” he said. “That’s all.”
---
One. He hadn’t said it, had he?
He’d been thinking it, meaning to say it. He’d said something inane, instead, something pointless, meaningless. “Good luck” or “Come back alive.” Not what he’d meant to say at all.
The rain was coming down.
“I forgive you,” he’d meant to say. Come so close to saying. Had meant to say, over the year, except that Wesley wouldn’t have understood what he was forgiving, not until recently. And now that he did understand, Angel had never told him that he was forgiven.
He’d sent him to die without ever saying that. Maybe he’d thought there would be another chance. Maybe he’d hoped there would be.
Angel hefted the broadsword and shifted his grip. They were coming closer. It was all coming down.
And Wesley wasn’t here. The only one still with him from those early days. Gone now. And he’d never said…
Never said so many things. Too many things, really. Things he should have said more often. You’re a good man. I’m proud to work with you at my side.
You’re forgiven.
No forgiveness now. For any of them.
And in ten minutes, most likely, no survivors.
I should have said it, Angel thought. I should have told him before he left.
The rain kept falling.