Fallen Angel - Chapter One & Two
Title: Fallen Angel
Pairing: Angel/Wesley...eventually
Rating: This chapter retains a PG rating...what follows will not
Setting: Part way through season 3, alternate universe type of thing (wherein I would take a different road than Joss...because last I checked, I wasn't Joss....)
Disclaimer: If wishes came true, Angel and Wesley would live in my closet, and I would play with them mightily...but alas...they do not
Feedback: gladly accepted...
Summary: Angel's slide into darkness takes a nasty turn, even as Wesley discovers its cause, and Angel disappears after torturing Wesley. A year later, Angel is back, and this time Wesley is a changed man. Wesley goes out hunting, aiming to finally fulfill the destiny his father demanded of him, only what he finds is neither the vampire he befriended, nor his evil alter ego, but a broken hero, his mind torn apart by torture far worse than anything he ever dished out.
*cross posted to AO3*
The dark warehouse had once housed a booming import/export business, but the owner had died horribly when an antique urn had turned out to house the essence of a Phalark demon. It had taken the team days to contain it and slay it. By the time they had, the damage had been done and the building had lain idle ever since.
Well, not quite. There had been the incident that had left him with the scars on his arms and the less than perfect nose. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce took a deep breath of the sharp salt air and steadied his resolve. He was a changed man since that night. Torture at the hands of a man he had once admired had burned away the last of the bumbling incompetence he had inherited from a lifetime of berating and verbal abuse.
It wasn’t quite nightfall. A vague orange glow hung low over the horizon, even as banks of dark, ominous clouds gathered above him. He stood for a long time looking into the open maw of the door, then closed the car door. The cross bow was cocked and ready, the stake in his pocket felt heavy but he had come with a mission. Tonight it would finally end.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Years ago the Watcher’s Council had sent him to kill Angel. He had found himself working for him instead. They became friends, and no one would ever believe all that they went through over the course of the time they spent together. It had been Wesley’s first rebellion, his first taste of freedom. A year ago the Council had tried to woo him back, and he had fought them for his friend’s soul.
He hadn’t been fast enough, strong enough. Angel was gone, first into the darkness of his demon self, then into the darkness of the Los Angeles night, and they couldn’t find him. For a year they had searched, but nothing. Nothing until Anna had told him this morning that Angel was back and where to find him. Now it fell to him to do what he couldn’t do when he’d first come to LA.
His boots crunched on the scattered debris as he moved into the warehouse. Lightening flashed across the sky and he jumped, chiding himself for his foolishness and adjusting his grip on the crossbow.
The rain was thunderous as the heavens opened and spilled its cargo on the tin roof of the building. Wesley stepped cautiously, remembering the hole that he had twisted his ankle in the last time. Holes in the roof let in the torrent from outside, while thunder shook the ground. Memories hung in the dark corners and threatened to strip him of his strength. He could almost feel the spikes, white hot and smoking, as Angel pushed them into his skin.
Wesley stopped walking and closed his eyes, shaking his head to rid it of the memory. It wouldn’t do to give in to those thoughts. It would only cause him to stumble again. Angel was here, he could feel him, though he wasn’t certain if it was the memory he felt or the actual presence of the vampire.
His footsteps echoes on the wet floor of the mostly empty building. Large pieces of abandoned equipment loomed in the shadows like prehistoric monsters awaiting the right resurrection spell to bring them to life. Rain dripped in from the ruined roof above and the smell of the ocean was strong.
A movement off to his right caught his eye and he turned. There, behind those broken pallets. Wesley moved, lowering the flashlight to let his eyes adjust. Angel would only be drawn by the light and Wesley couldn’t give him any advantages this time. His trust in Angel had hampered him then, his belief that Angel could best the magic that had been surreptitiously thrust upon him mistaken. Angel had used that to trap him.
An old office with broken windows and no door came into view, hovering in the darkness. Wesley thought he heard something moving as he stepped closer, raising the crossbow. As he stepped across the threshold into the office, he stopped, caught staring at his prey.
It was certainly Angel, but the vampire was a mere shadow of his former self. Gaunt to the point of pain, he sat in the dirty water pouring in through the open roof above him, his arms wrapped around his rag-covered legs. Long hair hung down to hide his face as he rocked back and forth in the deluge.
Wesley held the crossbow leveled at him for a long moment before he realized that Angel scarcely knew he was there. He had come thinking he was ready for anything. Anger, rage, snarky banter, fight and flight, these Wesley had come ready for. He had known Angel and Angelus, the good and the bad, the moody, the evil. Never this. It gave him pause. He could never be ready for this.
Hesitantly he lowered the crossbow and took a step forward. “Angel?”
His head shot up, his face showing fear and pain as his eyes opened wide, then he turned away, burying his head in his knees. “No, no, no, no.”
This was not what Wesley had expected. He cleared his throat and lifted the flashlight, shining it at Angel’s feet. The vampire retreated, pulling his limbs out of the light and shrieking. Wesley took another hesitant step forward, and Angel’s body jerked at the sound of his shoes on the debris strewn floor. That familiar face turned toward him briefly with a choked sound Wesley couldn’t interpret. His resolve was swiftly retreating as Angel’s despair washed over him.
Wesley tried raising the flashlight to get a better look at the vampire, but Angel withdrew again, his body shaking as he huddled into a ball well out of arm’s reach. A part of Wesley was warning him this was a ruse, but as he watched the man who had been his friend, he knew it wasn’t. Gently, Wesley set the crossbow on the floor, carefully turning it away from Angel. He stepped closer again, but regretted it when Angel cringed and rolled further into himself.
“Angel?” he said again, this time dropping his voice to a soft tone. Angel shook, his long hair dripping with the rain coming in around him. Hesitantly Wesley took one last step, then hunched down. “Angel?”
This time he was rewarded with Angel’s face again, rising up from the protective circle of his arms. His face was gaunt, dirty, streaked with rain or tears and for a long moment he looked at Wesley with little comprehension.
This was so far from what Wesley had expected. He didn’t know what to do or how to respond to this. He had come wanting to hurt Angel, but someone, or something, had clearly beaten him to that. Keeping his eyes on the cowering vampire, Wesley fumbled in his coat pocket for his phone, then held it undecided in his hand. He should call Cordelia and Gunn to help him, but they didn’t know…he hadn’t told them he was coming to do this. He had wanted to just end it quietly, with as little fuss as possible.
Cordelia wouldn’t understand. She’d been hurt by Angel’s betrayal, maybe more than Wesley, though in different ways. Gunn would come in with stakes drawn and keeping him from killing Angel would be difficult. Wesley shook his head. Maybe he should stake Angel himself. That was why he’d come after all. Damn he hated how he reverted so easily to the indecisive twit he had been before. He took a deep breath and steadied himself.
“W-w-wesley?” Angel’s voice, higher pitched and weaker than Wesley could ever remember hearing it, cut through his thoughts and sent them scattering into the wind. His whisper was filled with pain, guilt, sorrow…an ache that made Wesley reach out to him instinctively.
Angel’s eyes caught on the stake protruding from Wesley’s pocket as he squatted in front of him and he pulled away, scrambling back to the wall behind him. Wesley shook his head and pulled the stake from his pocket, setting it on the floor, followed by the flashlight. Warning thoughts yelled at him to stay armed, that unarmed he was no match for the vampire, but he pushed forward, stepping lightly into the darker shadows, showing his empty hands to Angel.
“No more stake. Not today,” he said softly, sinking slowly to one knee just an arm’s reach from Angel. He could see the shoulders shaking, could just make out the sound of sobs. “Angel?”
He chanced a hand out to touch him, and felt the vampire stiffen. “I won’t hurt you.” He shifted so that he was sitting, thinking he might be less threatening that way. He had no idea what had happened, and as much as he had cause to hate Angel, the sight of him in this condition tugged at every affection he had ever harbored for him as a friend. “Angel?”
“You should.”
The words were muffled by the arms and legs that hid Angel’s face and wrapped in between shuddering sobs. As softly as he could manage, Wesley asked, “Should what Angel?”
Angel’s face came up. He wouldn’t look at Wesley. “Hurt.” Wesley could see the tears now. It struck him in the gut. He had seen Angel angry, in pain, lonely, beat up, even frightened, but he had never seen Angel broken. “Hurt me.” Wesley could see it in the dark eyes, the Angel that he had known was shattered. Something inside Wesley melted as Angel collapsed back on himself.
The touch on Angel’s hand became a hand, slowly rubbing the wet, cold sleeve of Angel’s dirty shirt…that became another hand, slowly doing the same on his back…that became an arm, slowly circling the vampire’s shaking form and drawing him close into the warmth of his chest.
This seemed to bring back the sobbing, and for a time they sat, Wesley’s arms wrapped around Angel’s shaking, sobbing form, the rain slowly drenching them both. When the sobbing had at last stilled and Angel seemed to have calmed, Wesley put a hand on his cheek and drew his face up where he could see into the dark eyes. What he saw there shook him, but to his credit, he didn’t let it show. Now wasn’t the time for sissies. “We should get someplace dry,” he said softly. “Can you stand?”
Angel didn’t respond, didn’t move, but neither did he regress to sobbing and cringing as Wesley got his own feet underneath him and pulled Angel up with him. “Good,” Wesley murmured, in part to hide his astonishment at the lightness of Angel’s body.
It was a trick getting the uncooperative, but still not protesting vampire up the stairs and into Wesley’s apartment, much less stripped out of his wet, filthy clothes and settled into the bed, but he managed. He wasn’t sure what else to do though. Angel seemed to melt into the pillows and sleep. Wesley nodded, though to who or about what, he wasn’t sure.
With a heavy sigh, he left the bedroom, closing the door behind him and heading off for a hot shower to shake off the chill that had settled into his bones. He stood beneath the steaming water until it started to cool, then wrapped himself in a warm towel. In the bedroom he tried to dress without waking Angel, his eyes catching on the scar on his chest where the metal spike had been lodged in a rib. It had been the blow that nearly killed him, the one that sparked his survival instinct and left him lying in hospital for weeks. Over his shoulder, he could see Angel in the mirror, and in his mind’s eye he could see him as he was that night.
Wesley hung his head and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and searching for the balance that would let him move on. After a long moment, he pulled a t-shirt on to hide the scars and left the bedroom to call his friends, and make some coffee.
Two hours later, just past sun up, Gunn and Cordelia were in his living room. Their anger was tangible, and Wesley wouldn’t deny them their right to it.
“This is the vampire that tortured you, Wesley!” Cordelia said, her hands flying around her. “Remember, with the whole torture thing? You nearly died.”
“I remember.” Wesley said softly. How could he make them understand when they hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard the pain in his voice, seen the terror in his eyes.
“And that was with his soul.” Gunn added. “You should have told us he was back.”
Wesley nodded. “You are right, Charles. I did only find out yesterday morning. But, I should have told you what I was about. I apologize.”
“Damn straight I’m right. We should stake him now before he wakes up to figure it out.”
Wesley stepped between Gunn and the bedroom door. “This is my house, Charles. Angel is my guest, for the moment. There will be no staking of my guests in my house.”
“This is wrong. Just wrong. He’s going to wake up and remember what he was doing when he left and then with the killing and the torture. I did mention the torture, right?” Cordelia’s words were harsh, but the belied the fear and uncertainty Wesley could see in her eyes. Angel had used her to get to Wesley, had forced her to watch him slowly abuse Wesley’s body with dreadful promises to play with her when he was done with Wesley.
Wesley wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he’d called them. They of course had a right to know, and every right to their anger and fear. “Cordelia, I-if you had seen him-“
“I’d have staked him where he stood.” Gunn said, crossing his arms.
“He wasn’t exactly standing.” Wesley responded. “He was…huddled…he was crying, shaking…he didn’t know who I was at first…he wanted me to hurt him.”
“Sounding pretty good to me.”
“Charles, please. He was so…broken…” Wesley adjusted his glasses, then took them off to clean the lenses for about the fourth time in the last half hour.
“So don’t hurt him. Just stake his sorry ass and get it over with.”
“Not until we know what happened.”
“What?” Both Gunn and Cordy turned to Wesley in unison.
“Something clearly happened. I explained about the spell, why this wasn’t entirely his fault. I tried, I mean, before-I tried to counter it. It didn’t work, or didn’t seem to. When he left us he was not himself, nor is he the Angel we have known now. He really is broken…and I can’t-not until I know.”
Cordy let out an explosive breath and grabbed her purse. “Fine, play demon nursemaid. I’m going shopping, since we apparently aren’t working today. But if he kills you, don’t expect me to not say I told you so.”
Before Wesley could say another word, she was gone, leaving the door open behind her. Gunn seemed undecided about leaving or staying. Finally, he jutted his chin toward the bedroom door. “Can I see him?”
“What do you expect to see, Charles?”
“I don’t know, whatever it is you’re seeing?”
“Go home Gunn. Take care of Fred and the baby. I’ll call you when he’s ready for visitors.”
Gunn nodded slowly. “Call me if he gets out of hand. And don’t hesitate to stake him.”
Wesley smiled slightly and nodded as he walked Gunn to the door. “Yes Charles.”
“Keep that stake handy.”
“I will, I promise.”
Wesley sighed as he closed the door behind him. The stake Charles had referred to was still in his hand. He shook his head and tossed it on the couch. He hadn’t slept, or eaten. He hadn’t yet figured out what to do with Angel, or what his actions would mean in the long run. No, that wasn’t right, he’d thought about it, but all he could see when he did was that look on Angel’s face, the anguish in his eyes…and the knowledge that whatever Angel had been through was his fault.
This wasn’t the confident, if brooding, demon he had always known. There was no playful banter to erect a façade to hide the guilty conscience over lifetimes of evil, no bravado and witty repartee to ease the fear in his companions, no silent, solid action to end the conversation. There was only the raw brokenness of a former hero, held together by the skin that by all rights should have been dust centuries before.
Wesley ran a hand over his face, and across the stubble that reminded him he hadn’t shaved. He wasn’t dressed properly either, having pulled on the first clothes that had come from his hand as he rummaged the dresser, trying not to wake his patient. His bare feet seemed odd too, staring up at him from the beige carpet.
So much had changed in the time Angel had been gone. The three piece suits and highly polished shoes had given way to a more casual business dress code that more often than not included denim and leather and boots. The indecision had been replaced with strength, the doubt with confidence, the weak, simpering Watcher he had been when he first met Angel had become a leader, a man in charge of a growing agency that was really beginning to make a difference in the city’s underworld. Even the Watcher’s council had begun to take notice.
The Watcher’s Council. Wesley cursed and looked up at the clock. His father’s plane was likely already on its final approach. It was already after eight. Wesley had to be at the office when he arrived. If he didn’t-no, Wesley wouldn’t let that happen. His father simply could not be allowed into the apartment, not with Angel in his bed. In his bed. His father would never understand that. The implications alone…
Cursing more, Wesley let himself back into the bedroom and fumbled around in the closet without turning on the light. His eyes darted over the vague form of Angel beneath the comforter on the bed. He couldn’t just leave him-but what choice did he have? Wesley cussed more, pulling pressed pants from a hanger. He hated falling into his old indecisive nature.
He heard movement and turned. Angel’s eyes were on him, watching his movements. “Angel-I-“ Wesley didn’t know what else to say, so he stopped and pulled on the primly pressed pants. He moved closer to the bed as he buttoned them. Angel moved away from him, but only a little. Wesley took it as a good sign and sat gingerly on the bed, as far from Angel as he could be. “It’s all right Angel No one is going to hurt you here.”
Angel’s tormented eyes met his only briefly, then turned away. He seemed to dissolve into the bed sheets. “I have to go out for a little while. To the office. You’ll be safe here.” Wesley rose to continue dressing. Angel made some noise, painful, mournful. It brought Wesley back to the side of the bed. “I’ll bring some blood home for you. You will be safe, I promise.”
He couldn’t tell if Angel believed him, if he’d even heard him. Already he was falling back into the unconscious state he’d been in since Wesley had gotten him into the bed. For a long moment, Wesley hovered there uncertain; afraid to leave Angel alone, afraid to have Angel in his home, afraid that he was reverting to old habits just when his father had taken notice of the new ones. With a quick exhale, Wesley let it all go, shrugging into a jacket that he knew his father wouldn’t approve of and slipping his feet into his boots. A glance at the clock as he grabbed his keys said he might just make it to the office before his father, if he ran every red light between his apartment and the office.
Chapter Two
Wesley had carefully constructed his office and his appearance to a fine balance between the things that his father would disapprove of and respect. His office looked the part of any of the upper Watcher Council’s gentlemen, dark wood paneling, accented by bookshelves and artifacts from around the world. The desk had been one of Cordelia’s finds, bought at an estate sale for less than a hundred dollars and refurbished to an impressive finish.
The effect would likely be lost on his father, but Wesley relished the notion that this time it would be his turn on the other side of that desk. He had conceded to a dress shirt this morning, but no tie and the dress slacks were blue, not black as his father preferred. The jacket was not a suit jacket, but a sports jacket, and that would not be lost on his father.
Wesley knew his father had beat him when he saw the limo in front of the office. He pulled into his parking spot and gathered himself, taking a moment to breathe and grab his courage in both hands before getting out. Roger Wyndham-Price was just taking a seat on the lobby couch when Wesley swept into the room, glancing at his father, then ignoring him to go directly to his secretary. “Good morning, Anna.”
He took the stack of messages she handed to him, very aware that the other man had returned to standing, and was waiting to be acknowledged. “Good morning, Sir.” Anna responded, smiling discretely to encourage him. “I trust all went well last evening?”
Wesley nodded tightly. He didn’t want to think about that now, but it had been her information that had led him to Angel. “Hold my calls, Anna. Gunn and Cordelia won’t be in today, they’re taking personal days. Reschedule my one o’clock to tomorrow.”
“Your nine o’clock is here,” she said, all professional, despite the smirk that told Wesley that he knew she was taking her cue from his behavior.
Wesley winked at her and turned finally to face his father. After a long pause, Wesley held out his hand, half expecting his father to refuse it. The hesitation was only brief, but his father’s hand was as cold as he remembered.
“Good morning. I trust your flight was good?” Wesley didn’t wait for his father to answer, turning back to Anna. “Anna, could you send a thank you note to the boys down at the station please? We want to encourage their future help if we can. Oh, and re-order that Berzi oil. I got a phone call yesterday from Lorne with word that there may be a new nest of Muraki’s over on Loveridge.”
The older man cleared his throat and Wesley turned to smile at him. “Yes, shall we visit in my office, Father?” Wesley moved at a brisk pace, opening his office and moving quickly to his desk. Anna had recently been in the room, a steaming cup of coffee sat beside his collection of daily papers. Wesley removed his jacket and sat, instantly picking up the coffee to sip at while he gestured for his father to sit down. Almost before the elder Wyndham-Price had sat, Anna appeared with a tea service. Wesley could tell from the scent that it was a choice his father would approve of.
Somehow managing to be unobtrusive and yet obvious at once, Anna poured tea and handed it to the visiting Watcher, already prepared as he would like it. Wesley hid a smile behind his coffee cup as his father stared after her. Days like this it really paid to have a psychic for a secretary.
“So, Father…what brings you to California?” Wesley asked when the silence had grown long and heavy. He held his outer façade of calm, despite the erratic desires pummeling through his brain. Years of this man berating him and belittling him had made Wesley into a cowed man, trained to do as he was told without question, forced to believe he was incompetent and good for nothing.
But Wesley was no longer a man to be cowed that easily. Too much had happened in the years he had spent away from home. He had survived it all, better than that in fact. He had thrived.
“Your mother sends her greetings.” His father finally responded, his eyes darting around the room, glancing disdainfully over the diploma, the commendations and other obvious signs of his son’s success. “And the council as well.”
Wesley nodded. He was so not in the mood for idle banter, particularly with a partner who was so poor at it. He cut directly into it. “So, you’re here at their bidding?” He knew the choice of words would prickle Roger.
Indeed, Roger’s eyes snapped sharply back to Wesley, then continued their perusal of his office. “They seem to think that there is a point to your flailing about here. Despite my misgivings, they are interested in the work you are doing, you and your little band of ruffians.”
Wesley refused to let himself be riled. “Those ruffians are my friends, Father, and together they have averted major disaster more times than the Watcher Council can count.”
Roger shrugged. “Be that as it may, they have no training, no finesse. They don’t follow orders, they-“ Roger caught himself and shook his head. “Still, there are results to consider, and you do seem to have finally rid us of that cocky little vampire you used to work for.”
Wesley smiled, but it held little mirth. “That cocky little vampire was also my friend, at least until your council friends messed with his head.” His father looked surprised, and Wesley relished it. “Yes, father. I figured out what you did. It was, after all, a spell I crafted, did you honestly think that I wouldn’t?”
Roger seemed angered, and he bristled. “What does it matter? You finally did what you were sent here to do and Angelus is no more.”
Wesley took a sip from his coffee. He might have preferred tea on any other day, but it was one more thing that would disturb his father. He let the pause hang on the air for a moment before he spoke again. “Actually, we don’t know that. He disappeared. As far as we know, he’s still alive, actually.”
This seemed to give the older man pause. Wesley watched a battle raging in his father’s eyes, and watched the side of the man who was his father triumph over the part of him that was a Watcher. “You, boy, are far too trusting in that…thing. What good is a soul when there is a demon living in it? That spell only revealed his true self.”
Wesley finally turned to look at his father full on. His eyes were like cold steel as he made sure his father saw them. “When that soul has led its owner to throw himself between this world and every threatening apocalypse for the last ten years, saved more lives than I can count and vanquished more evil than the entire Watcher’s council combined has ever even known existed, I’d say the good in that soul is pretty damn amazing, sir. That spell was designed to remove the natural inhibitions that keep us bound to our conscience. What you did was remove his ability to be himself.”
Roger had gone white in the face and Wesley’s heart was racing. He had never spoken to the man this way before. “I was 16 when I crafted it, and even then I realized that it would not make me free, only a different kind of prisoner.”
“Prisoner?” Roger was clearly furious, and stood. “You were hardly a prisoner, boy.”
Wesley smiled again. Seeing his father like this somehow released him of the anger. “You will never understand, sir. I won’t bother explaining it.”
“I don’t know why I bothered.” Roger said, adjusting his coat and moving toward the door. He paused and glanced around the room, then back to his son, his face a mask of contempt. “You can dress it up all you like boy, but I know you. Your secretary knows where to find me when you’re ready to converse like a gentleman. The council has an offer to discuss. I suggest you dress appropriately when you come to see me.”
Wesley watched him go, exhaling slowly. He was sweating, and his hands were shaking, but he had to admit to enjoying the discomfort he had just given his father. He wondered if he would even make it to the car before he was on the phone to England.
When he was certain his father had cleared the lobby, Wesley buzzed for Anna. Almost before he had finished speaking her name, she was at his door. Wesley smiled at her. “Thank you Anna. That went rather well.”
She came to stand near him. “Thank you sir, I’m glad.”
Anna was a young woman, petite, pale, with gold hair that just dusted her shoulders. She wore a white business suit today, in fact, Wesley wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her wear anything but white. He had hired her when the agency had started to turn around and Cordelia couldn’t handle the office alone anymore. She’d already proven to be a value in lending the office a professional demeanor, and her skills with potions and other magic had stunned Wesley early on.
“I think we’ll let him stew for a few days. We have more pressing matters.”
“I take it that Cordelia was less than pleased with Angel’s return?”
Wesley sat back, cradling his coffee cup. “Yes.”
“How is he?” she asked, concern coloring her voice.
Wesley looked up at her. The day before when she’d told him that Angel had returned, she hadn’t said anything about his condition. “I’m reading you, sir. You’re worried, concerned for his safety. Yesterday you left here to kill him. I assume that means he is…unwell.”
He nodded. “He is very unwell, Anna. I don’t know what is capable of doing this to a person like Angel. But, I aim to find out.” He put down the coffee cup and sat up. “Cancel everything for the next few days. Have Gunn take the meeting with Mr. Perlin tomorrow afternoon. I need you to order some groceries to be delivered to the apartment. Include a generous supply of pig’s blood.” He drank deeply from his cup, then put it down. “Assume the council will try to learn what is going on. Treat all new clients with suspicion. Use the family emergency excuse.”
Anna scribbled notes on her pad and disappeared, only to reappear a few minutes later with a small stack of books. “You might need these, sir,” she said when he looked at her in question. “Don’t know why, just seems like the right ones to take.” She smiled and it made Wesley respond in kind. He’d stopped questioning moments like this months before.
“Thank you Anna.” When she was gone again, Wesley gathered those books and several others, then slipped out the back way to his car. Knowing the groceries would take a while, he made a quick stop at the butcher’s shop near his apartment complex for a pint of blood, then juggled his box of books, briefcase and the blood up the stairs to the apartment.
All in all he had only been gone a few hours. With any luck, Angel had spent the time sleeping. Wesley set the briefcase down and dug in his pocket for his key, and more importantly, the hematite keychain that was the key to the magical protection he had triggered before leaving.
Wesley pushed the door open, with his free hand, and pushed the briefcase in with his foot. The apartment was quiet, somehow quieter than when he knew there was no one in it. He freed the keys from the knob and put them on the table by the door. Gingerly, he set the box of books on the floor, retrieving the stake that Gunn had left him.
Slowly, almost afraid of what he might find, Wesley moved to his bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, and he peered into the dark depths of the room, trying to make out Angel’s form on the bed. “Angel?” His voice was soft, and he imagined the jump, the unnatural fear the voice had caused the night before. “I’m home.”
Once into the bedroom Wesley could see that Angel wasn’t in the bed. It took a moment for that to register. Wesley turned on the overhead light. The bed was a disaster, the sheets torn, the comforter ripped in half. “Angel?” He moved further into the room, looking around the bed and behind the door for any sign of the vampire. He stood there holding the Styrofoam container of blood and a stake and waited…listened.
Softly, not sounds really, more guttural emanations drew Wesley toward the closet. He parted the clothes and found Angel, huddled into himself, rocking in a disconcerting not-rhythm, his lips moving without real sounds coming from them. His eyes were vacant-no, that wasn’t the right word, they were looking at something Wesley couldn’t see, something Wesley never wanted to see, because somehow he knew that Angel was looking at the face of whatever had done this to him.
That, more than anything, cut into Wesley. He had wanted to hate him, to hurt him, and ultimately to stake him for everything he had said and done, for leaving and letting them all believe he had turned again, this time of his own free will. But, to actually see Angel broken hurt him in ways he had never anticipated. Wesley paused to turn and throw the stake into the next room, before moving closer.
Angel didn’t even know he was there as Wesley set the pint of blood on the night stand and came to squat in front of Angel. It took Wesley’s hand on his arm to pull Angel even slightly out of himself. Wesley found himself making comforting “shh-shh” noises, or what he hoped was comforting “shh-shh” noises as he gently rubbed at Angel’s arms.
It took a while for Angel to settle enough for Wesley to try to get him to stand, and even then, it was only a step or two out of the closet before Angel was collapsing on himself again. With a patience usually reserved for the very elderly, or the very ill, Wesley sank to the floor with him, doggedly trying to keep Angel from withdrawing from him again. They ended up with Angel half in Wesley’s lap, up against the bed.
When it seemed Angel’s shaking had subsided, Wesley tried to turn Angel’s face toward him, but Angel pulled away. Trying not to let his frustration show, Wesley reached up for the container on the nightstand. He opened it slowly, lest he spill any of it, then moved it closer to Angel’s face.
It was fairly obvious that Angel hadn’t fed in some time. The strong, muscular body that had protected innocents and dispatched demons was gone, his skin slack, his face drawn, his eyes sunken. Wesley waved the cup under his nose, trying to draw some reaction. When there was none, Wesley brought it right up to Angel’s mouth. Wesley shifted a little to get Angel’s head against his shoulder, tilted just enough that he could tip the cup and trickle the blood into Angel’s slack mouth. He felt Angel swallow instinctively, once, then twice…then hands came up to meet Wesley’s and hold the cup, tilting it further and the swallowing became stronger.
Just as suddenly, Wesley felt those hands pushing away, the cup flying toward the closet doors and Angel doubled over, whispering “No, no, no, no…” The sobbing came at the same time and Angel’s head ended up in Wesley’s lap. His hands seemed to settle of their own accord into an active loop of stroking Angel’s hair and back while trying to figure out what had just happened.
Obviously whatever had done this to him had made it impossible for Angel to feed, though it seemed to be a purely psychological prohibition. That alone could be the cause of much of the confusion, the weakness. “There now, its okay,” he heard himself saying, though he wasn’t sure what “it” was or how it was okay.
Then, Angel was retching, his body convulsing as what little blood had found its way into him came up and out, joining the blood already painting the walls and floor. Long after the vomit ceased, Angel shook convulsively, clinging to Wesley and still whispering “No, no, no, no…” in an endless loop of denial.
For almost an hour he sat on that floor, amid the spilt blood and Angel’s frighteningly bizarre behavior, until the crying had stopped and Angel was still. “Angel?” His voice was soft, his hands sliding off Angel’s head as he shifted.
“W-wesley?” The voice was little more than a whisper, but it was a start.
“Come, let’s get you off the floor and into some clothes.” It wasn’t lost on Wesley that Angel was naked, having been unable to do more than get him out of the wet and dirty clothes the night before. Angel let Wesley lift him to his feet, leaning into him as Wesley led him to the end of the bed closes the dresser.
Angel sat dully where he was deposited, his eyes glazed over and only vaguely following Wesley as he pulled sweat pants and a t-shirt from the drawers. Wesley knelt in front of Angel and tried to arrange the pants for the easiest method of assisting Angel into them, then lifted Angel’s foot. The skin at the ankle felt odd, bumpy, almost like some sort of rash. Wesley settled Angel’s foot into the pool of material, his hand sliding up the back of Angel’s leg. The bumpy skin continued.
Wesley frown and leaned closer, trying to see in the shadows cast by his body and the bed. Angel began shaking again, trying to pull his leg out of Wesley’s hands, and Wesley looked up at him. “I can’t very well help you dress if I don’t touch you, Angel,” he said softly, deciding it best to leave the examination for later. Wesley resumed working on getting Angel’s feet into the sweat pants, then pulling them up until he had to help Angel stand.
As his arms’ circled Angel’s waist, his nimble fingers could feel the skin of his back. It to was covered in a series of bumps. As he sat Angel back down, Wesley’s fingers skimmed the surface of his back. Angel moved just enough to break the contact. “No.” he said in that sad, plaintive voice.
“It’s okay Angel.” Wesley murmured, his eyes now beginning to pick out the bizarre mosaic that swept across his skin in tiny scars. Most people would look right at it and never see it…but Wesley wasn’t most people. “I know you’re frightened, Angel. But you are safe and I need to know.” Wesley said before reaching out to touch once more.
Not far removed from Braille, tiny bumps spread across every inch of Angel’s back, each of them a tiny scar, a reminder of their making, a reminder of the pain of each puncture, cut and tear inflicted until he ran red with it. Angel didn’t flinch, but Wesley did. He could almost see it being done. He wanted to pull his hand away, but he needed Angel to trust him, to know that he wouldn’t abandon him.
Wesley licked dry lips and exhaled slowly, his hand moving over Angel’s left shoulder, following the line of the pattern onto Angel’s chest, then down. There was little skin not marked. Wesley tried to imagine what the purpose was, other than the pain, but he could feel Angel starting to stiffen and withdraw from him again. He lifted his eyes from Angel’s chest, surprised to be met with Angel’s eyes, their dark depths begging for something. “Oh, Angel, what have they done to you?” Wesley whispered.
Angel looked away, his eyes closing. “No.” was all he said in response.
Wesley sighed and stood, reaching for the t-shirt and helping Angel into it. “Come now, let’s get you ready for bed.”
An hour later, Wesley had remade the bed with fresh linens and settled Angel into it. The vampire was asleep, though it didn’t seem to be peaceful. Wesley sat in a chair near the bed, his head swimming with what little he knew, trying to make the pieces fit. He tried laying out the words to the spell he had once crafted to free himself from his father’s control in his head, but the fatigue of the last 38 hours was pulling at him…and he slipped into the soft darkness of sleep instead.
Chapters 3 & 4
Pairing: Angel/Wesley...eventually
Rating: This chapter retains a PG rating...what follows will not
Setting: Part way through season 3, alternate universe type of thing (wherein I would take a different road than Joss...because last I checked, I wasn't Joss....)
Disclaimer: If wishes came true, Angel and Wesley would live in my closet, and I would play with them mightily...but alas...they do not
Feedback: gladly accepted...
Summary: Angel's slide into darkness takes a nasty turn, even as Wesley discovers its cause, and Angel disappears after torturing Wesley. A year later, Angel is back, and this time Wesley is a changed man. Wesley goes out hunting, aiming to finally fulfill the destiny his father demanded of him, only what he finds is neither the vampire he befriended, nor his evil alter ego, but a broken hero, his mind torn apart by torture far worse than anything he ever dished out.
*cross posted to AO3*
The dark warehouse had once housed a booming import/export business, but the owner had died horribly when an antique urn had turned out to house the essence of a Phalark demon. It had taken the team days to contain it and slay it. By the time they had, the damage had been done and the building had lain idle ever since.
Well, not quite. There had been the incident that had left him with the scars on his arms and the less than perfect nose. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce took a deep breath of the sharp salt air and steadied his resolve. He was a changed man since that night. Torture at the hands of a man he had once admired had burned away the last of the bumbling incompetence he had inherited from a lifetime of berating and verbal abuse.
It wasn’t quite nightfall. A vague orange glow hung low over the horizon, even as banks of dark, ominous clouds gathered above him. He stood for a long time looking into the open maw of the door, then closed the car door. The cross bow was cocked and ready, the stake in his pocket felt heavy but he had come with a mission. Tonight it would finally end.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Years ago the Watcher’s Council had sent him to kill Angel. He had found himself working for him instead. They became friends, and no one would ever believe all that they went through over the course of the time they spent together. It had been Wesley’s first rebellion, his first taste of freedom. A year ago the Council had tried to woo him back, and he had fought them for his friend’s soul.
He hadn’t been fast enough, strong enough. Angel was gone, first into the darkness of his demon self, then into the darkness of the Los Angeles night, and they couldn’t find him. For a year they had searched, but nothing. Nothing until Anna had told him this morning that Angel was back and where to find him. Now it fell to him to do what he couldn’t do when he’d first come to LA.
His boots crunched on the scattered debris as he moved into the warehouse. Lightening flashed across the sky and he jumped, chiding himself for his foolishness and adjusting his grip on the crossbow.
The rain was thunderous as the heavens opened and spilled its cargo on the tin roof of the building. Wesley stepped cautiously, remembering the hole that he had twisted his ankle in the last time. Holes in the roof let in the torrent from outside, while thunder shook the ground. Memories hung in the dark corners and threatened to strip him of his strength. He could almost feel the spikes, white hot and smoking, as Angel pushed them into his skin.
Wesley stopped walking and closed his eyes, shaking his head to rid it of the memory. It wouldn’t do to give in to those thoughts. It would only cause him to stumble again. Angel was here, he could feel him, though he wasn’t certain if it was the memory he felt or the actual presence of the vampire.
His footsteps echoes on the wet floor of the mostly empty building. Large pieces of abandoned equipment loomed in the shadows like prehistoric monsters awaiting the right resurrection spell to bring them to life. Rain dripped in from the ruined roof above and the smell of the ocean was strong.
A movement off to his right caught his eye and he turned. There, behind those broken pallets. Wesley moved, lowering the flashlight to let his eyes adjust. Angel would only be drawn by the light and Wesley couldn’t give him any advantages this time. His trust in Angel had hampered him then, his belief that Angel could best the magic that had been surreptitiously thrust upon him mistaken. Angel had used that to trap him.
An old office with broken windows and no door came into view, hovering in the darkness. Wesley thought he heard something moving as he stepped closer, raising the crossbow. As he stepped across the threshold into the office, he stopped, caught staring at his prey.
It was certainly Angel, but the vampire was a mere shadow of his former self. Gaunt to the point of pain, he sat in the dirty water pouring in through the open roof above him, his arms wrapped around his rag-covered legs. Long hair hung down to hide his face as he rocked back and forth in the deluge.
Wesley held the crossbow leveled at him for a long moment before he realized that Angel scarcely knew he was there. He had come thinking he was ready for anything. Anger, rage, snarky banter, fight and flight, these Wesley had come ready for. He had known Angel and Angelus, the good and the bad, the moody, the evil. Never this. It gave him pause. He could never be ready for this.
Hesitantly he lowered the crossbow and took a step forward. “Angel?”
His head shot up, his face showing fear and pain as his eyes opened wide, then he turned away, burying his head in his knees. “No, no, no, no.”
This was not what Wesley had expected. He cleared his throat and lifted the flashlight, shining it at Angel’s feet. The vampire retreated, pulling his limbs out of the light and shrieking. Wesley took another hesitant step forward, and Angel’s body jerked at the sound of his shoes on the debris strewn floor. That familiar face turned toward him briefly with a choked sound Wesley couldn’t interpret. His resolve was swiftly retreating as Angel’s despair washed over him.
Wesley tried raising the flashlight to get a better look at the vampire, but Angel withdrew again, his body shaking as he huddled into a ball well out of arm’s reach. A part of Wesley was warning him this was a ruse, but as he watched the man who had been his friend, he knew it wasn’t. Gently, Wesley set the crossbow on the floor, carefully turning it away from Angel. He stepped closer again, but regretted it when Angel cringed and rolled further into himself.
“Angel?” he said again, this time dropping his voice to a soft tone. Angel shook, his long hair dripping with the rain coming in around him. Hesitantly Wesley took one last step, then hunched down. “Angel?”
This time he was rewarded with Angel’s face again, rising up from the protective circle of his arms. His face was gaunt, dirty, streaked with rain or tears and for a long moment he looked at Wesley with little comprehension.
This was so far from what Wesley had expected. He didn’t know what to do or how to respond to this. He had come wanting to hurt Angel, but someone, or something, had clearly beaten him to that. Keeping his eyes on the cowering vampire, Wesley fumbled in his coat pocket for his phone, then held it undecided in his hand. He should call Cordelia and Gunn to help him, but they didn’t know…he hadn’t told them he was coming to do this. He had wanted to just end it quietly, with as little fuss as possible.
Cordelia wouldn’t understand. She’d been hurt by Angel’s betrayal, maybe more than Wesley, though in different ways. Gunn would come in with stakes drawn and keeping him from killing Angel would be difficult. Wesley shook his head. Maybe he should stake Angel himself. That was why he’d come after all. Damn he hated how he reverted so easily to the indecisive twit he had been before. He took a deep breath and steadied himself.
“W-w-wesley?” Angel’s voice, higher pitched and weaker than Wesley could ever remember hearing it, cut through his thoughts and sent them scattering into the wind. His whisper was filled with pain, guilt, sorrow…an ache that made Wesley reach out to him instinctively.
Angel’s eyes caught on the stake protruding from Wesley’s pocket as he squatted in front of him and he pulled away, scrambling back to the wall behind him. Wesley shook his head and pulled the stake from his pocket, setting it on the floor, followed by the flashlight. Warning thoughts yelled at him to stay armed, that unarmed he was no match for the vampire, but he pushed forward, stepping lightly into the darker shadows, showing his empty hands to Angel.
“No more stake. Not today,” he said softly, sinking slowly to one knee just an arm’s reach from Angel. He could see the shoulders shaking, could just make out the sound of sobs. “Angel?”
He chanced a hand out to touch him, and felt the vampire stiffen. “I won’t hurt you.” He shifted so that he was sitting, thinking he might be less threatening that way. He had no idea what had happened, and as much as he had cause to hate Angel, the sight of him in this condition tugged at every affection he had ever harbored for him as a friend. “Angel?”
“You should.”
The words were muffled by the arms and legs that hid Angel’s face and wrapped in between shuddering sobs. As softly as he could manage, Wesley asked, “Should what Angel?”
Angel’s face came up. He wouldn’t look at Wesley. “Hurt.” Wesley could see the tears now. It struck him in the gut. He had seen Angel angry, in pain, lonely, beat up, even frightened, but he had never seen Angel broken. “Hurt me.” Wesley could see it in the dark eyes, the Angel that he had known was shattered. Something inside Wesley melted as Angel collapsed back on himself.
The touch on Angel’s hand became a hand, slowly rubbing the wet, cold sleeve of Angel’s dirty shirt…that became another hand, slowly doing the same on his back…that became an arm, slowly circling the vampire’s shaking form and drawing him close into the warmth of his chest.
This seemed to bring back the sobbing, and for a time they sat, Wesley’s arms wrapped around Angel’s shaking, sobbing form, the rain slowly drenching them both. When the sobbing had at last stilled and Angel seemed to have calmed, Wesley put a hand on his cheek and drew his face up where he could see into the dark eyes. What he saw there shook him, but to his credit, he didn’t let it show. Now wasn’t the time for sissies. “We should get someplace dry,” he said softly. “Can you stand?”
Angel didn’t respond, didn’t move, but neither did he regress to sobbing and cringing as Wesley got his own feet underneath him and pulled Angel up with him. “Good,” Wesley murmured, in part to hide his astonishment at the lightness of Angel’s body.
It was a trick getting the uncooperative, but still not protesting vampire up the stairs and into Wesley’s apartment, much less stripped out of his wet, filthy clothes and settled into the bed, but he managed. He wasn’t sure what else to do though. Angel seemed to melt into the pillows and sleep. Wesley nodded, though to who or about what, he wasn’t sure.
With a heavy sigh, he left the bedroom, closing the door behind him and heading off for a hot shower to shake off the chill that had settled into his bones. He stood beneath the steaming water until it started to cool, then wrapped himself in a warm towel. In the bedroom he tried to dress without waking Angel, his eyes catching on the scar on his chest where the metal spike had been lodged in a rib. It had been the blow that nearly killed him, the one that sparked his survival instinct and left him lying in hospital for weeks. Over his shoulder, he could see Angel in the mirror, and in his mind’s eye he could see him as he was that night.
Wesley hung his head and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and searching for the balance that would let him move on. After a long moment, he pulled a t-shirt on to hide the scars and left the bedroom to call his friends, and make some coffee.
Two hours later, just past sun up, Gunn and Cordelia were in his living room. Their anger was tangible, and Wesley wouldn’t deny them their right to it.
“This is the vampire that tortured you, Wesley!” Cordelia said, her hands flying around her. “Remember, with the whole torture thing? You nearly died.”
“I remember.” Wesley said softly. How could he make them understand when they hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard the pain in his voice, seen the terror in his eyes.
“And that was with his soul.” Gunn added. “You should have told us he was back.”
Wesley nodded. “You are right, Charles. I did only find out yesterday morning. But, I should have told you what I was about. I apologize.”
“Damn straight I’m right. We should stake him now before he wakes up to figure it out.”
Wesley stepped between Gunn and the bedroom door. “This is my house, Charles. Angel is my guest, for the moment. There will be no staking of my guests in my house.”
“This is wrong. Just wrong. He’s going to wake up and remember what he was doing when he left and then with the killing and the torture. I did mention the torture, right?” Cordelia’s words were harsh, but the belied the fear and uncertainty Wesley could see in her eyes. Angel had used her to get to Wesley, had forced her to watch him slowly abuse Wesley’s body with dreadful promises to play with her when he was done with Wesley.
Wesley wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he’d called them. They of course had a right to know, and every right to their anger and fear. “Cordelia, I-if you had seen him-“
“I’d have staked him where he stood.” Gunn said, crossing his arms.
“He wasn’t exactly standing.” Wesley responded. “He was…huddled…he was crying, shaking…he didn’t know who I was at first…he wanted me to hurt him.”
“Sounding pretty good to me.”
“Charles, please. He was so…broken…” Wesley adjusted his glasses, then took them off to clean the lenses for about the fourth time in the last half hour.
“So don’t hurt him. Just stake his sorry ass and get it over with.”
“Not until we know what happened.”
“What?” Both Gunn and Cordy turned to Wesley in unison.
“Something clearly happened. I explained about the spell, why this wasn’t entirely his fault. I tried, I mean, before-I tried to counter it. It didn’t work, or didn’t seem to. When he left us he was not himself, nor is he the Angel we have known now. He really is broken…and I can’t-not until I know.”
Cordy let out an explosive breath and grabbed her purse. “Fine, play demon nursemaid. I’m going shopping, since we apparently aren’t working today. But if he kills you, don’t expect me to not say I told you so.”
Before Wesley could say another word, she was gone, leaving the door open behind her. Gunn seemed undecided about leaving or staying. Finally, he jutted his chin toward the bedroom door. “Can I see him?”
“What do you expect to see, Charles?”
“I don’t know, whatever it is you’re seeing?”
“Go home Gunn. Take care of Fred and the baby. I’ll call you when he’s ready for visitors.”
Gunn nodded slowly. “Call me if he gets out of hand. And don’t hesitate to stake him.”
Wesley smiled slightly and nodded as he walked Gunn to the door. “Yes Charles.”
“Keep that stake handy.”
“I will, I promise.”
Wesley sighed as he closed the door behind him. The stake Charles had referred to was still in his hand. He shook his head and tossed it on the couch. He hadn’t slept, or eaten. He hadn’t yet figured out what to do with Angel, or what his actions would mean in the long run. No, that wasn’t right, he’d thought about it, but all he could see when he did was that look on Angel’s face, the anguish in his eyes…and the knowledge that whatever Angel had been through was his fault.
This wasn’t the confident, if brooding, demon he had always known. There was no playful banter to erect a façade to hide the guilty conscience over lifetimes of evil, no bravado and witty repartee to ease the fear in his companions, no silent, solid action to end the conversation. There was only the raw brokenness of a former hero, held together by the skin that by all rights should have been dust centuries before.
Wesley ran a hand over his face, and across the stubble that reminded him he hadn’t shaved. He wasn’t dressed properly either, having pulled on the first clothes that had come from his hand as he rummaged the dresser, trying not to wake his patient. His bare feet seemed odd too, staring up at him from the beige carpet.
So much had changed in the time Angel had been gone. The three piece suits and highly polished shoes had given way to a more casual business dress code that more often than not included denim and leather and boots. The indecision had been replaced with strength, the doubt with confidence, the weak, simpering Watcher he had been when he first met Angel had become a leader, a man in charge of a growing agency that was really beginning to make a difference in the city’s underworld. Even the Watcher’s council had begun to take notice.
The Watcher’s Council. Wesley cursed and looked up at the clock. His father’s plane was likely already on its final approach. It was already after eight. Wesley had to be at the office when he arrived. If he didn’t-no, Wesley wouldn’t let that happen. His father simply could not be allowed into the apartment, not with Angel in his bed. In his bed. His father would never understand that. The implications alone…
Cursing more, Wesley let himself back into the bedroom and fumbled around in the closet without turning on the light. His eyes darted over the vague form of Angel beneath the comforter on the bed. He couldn’t just leave him-but what choice did he have? Wesley cussed more, pulling pressed pants from a hanger. He hated falling into his old indecisive nature.
He heard movement and turned. Angel’s eyes were on him, watching his movements. “Angel-I-“ Wesley didn’t know what else to say, so he stopped and pulled on the primly pressed pants. He moved closer to the bed as he buttoned them. Angel moved away from him, but only a little. Wesley took it as a good sign and sat gingerly on the bed, as far from Angel as he could be. “It’s all right Angel No one is going to hurt you here.”
Angel’s tormented eyes met his only briefly, then turned away. He seemed to dissolve into the bed sheets. “I have to go out for a little while. To the office. You’ll be safe here.” Wesley rose to continue dressing. Angel made some noise, painful, mournful. It brought Wesley back to the side of the bed. “I’ll bring some blood home for you. You will be safe, I promise.”
He couldn’t tell if Angel believed him, if he’d even heard him. Already he was falling back into the unconscious state he’d been in since Wesley had gotten him into the bed. For a long moment, Wesley hovered there uncertain; afraid to leave Angel alone, afraid to have Angel in his home, afraid that he was reverting to old habits just when his father had taken notice of the new ones. With a quick exhale, Wesley let it all go, shrugging into a jacket that he knew his father wouldn’t approve of and slipping his feet into his boots. A glance at the clock as he grabbed his keys said he might just make it to the office before his father, if he ran every red light between his apartment and the office.
Chapter Two
Wesley had carefully constructed his office and his appearance to a fine balance between the things that his father would disapprove of and respect. His office looked the part of any of the upper Watcher Council’s gentlemen, dark wood paneling, accented by bookshelves and artifacts from around the world. The desk had been one of Cordelia’s finds, bought at an estate sale for less than a hundred dollars and refurbished to an impressive finish.
The effect would likely be lost on his father, but Wesley relished the notion that this time it would be his turn on the other side of that desk. He had conceded to a dress shirt this morning, but no tie and the dress slacks were blue, not black as his father preferred. The jacket was not a suit jacket, but a sports jacket, and that would not be lost on his father.
Wesley knew his father had beat him when he saw the limo in front of the office. He pulled into his parking spot and gathered himself, taking a moment to breathe and grab his courage in both hands before getting out. Roger Wyndham-Price was just taking a seat on the lobby couch when Wesley swept into the room, glancing at his father, then ignoring him to go directly to his secretary. “Good morning, Anna.”
He took the stack of messages she handed to him, very aware that the other man had returned to standing, and was waiting to be acknowledged. “Good morning, Sir.” Anna responded, smiling discretely to encourage him. “I trust all went well last evening?”
Wesley nodded tightly. He didn’t want to think about that now, but it had been her information that had led him to Angel. “Hold my calls, Anna. Gunn and Cordelia won’t be in today, they’re taking personal days. Reschedule my one o’clock to tomorrow.”
“Your nine o’clock is here,” she said, all professional, despite the smirk that told Wesley that he knew she was taking her cue from his behavior.
Wesley winked at her and turned finally to face his father. After a long pause, Wesley held out his hand, half expecting his father to refuse it. The hesitation was only brief, but his father’s hand was as cold as he remembered.
“Good morning. I trust your flight was good?” Wesley didn’t wait for his father to answer, turning back to Anna. “Anna, could you send a thank you note to the boys down at the station please? We want to encourage their future help if we can. Oh, and re-order that Berzi oil. I got a phone call yesterday from Lorne with word that there may be a new nest of Muraki’s over on Loveridge.”
The older man cleared his throat and Wesley turned to smile at him. “Yes, shall we visit in my office, Father?” Wesley moved at a brisk pace, opening his office and moving quickly to his desk. Anna had recently been in the room, a steaming cup of coffee sat beside his collection of daily papers. Wesley removed his jacket and sat, instantly picking up the coffee to sip at while he gestured for his father to sit down. Almost before the elder Wyndham-Price had sat, Anna appeared with a tea service. Wesley could tell from the scent that it was a choice his father would approve of.
Somehow managing to be unobtrusive and yet obvious at once, Anna poured tea and handed it to the visiting Watcher, already prepared as he would like it. Wesley hid a smile behind his coffee cup as his father stared after her. Days like this it really paid to have a psychic for a secretary.
“So, Father…what brings you to California?” Wesley asked when the silence had grown long and heavy. He held his outer façade of calm, despite the erratic desires pummeling through his brain. Years of this man berating him and belittling him had made Wesley into a cowed man, trained to do as he was told without question, forced to believe he was incompetent and good for nothing.
But Wesley was no longer a man to be cowed that easily. Too much had happened in the years he had spent away from home. He had survived it all, better than that in fact. He had thrived.
“Your mother sends her greetings.” His father finally responded, his eyes darting around the room, glancing disdainfully over the diploma, the commendations and other obvious signs of his son’s success. “And the council as well.”
Wesley nodded. He was so not in the mood for idle banter, particularly with a partner who was so poor at it. He cut directly into it. “So, you’re here at their bidding?” He knew the choice of words would prickle Roger.
Indeed, Roger’s eyes snapped sharply back to Wesley, then continued their perusal of his office. “They seem to think that there is a point to your flailing about here. Despite my misgivings, they are interested in the work you are doing, you and your little band of ruffians.”
Wesley refused to let himself be riled. “Those ruffians are my friends, Father, and together they have averted major disaster more times than the Watcher Council can count.”
Roger shrugged. “Be that as it may, they have no training, no finesse. They don’t follow orders, they-“ Roger caught himself and shook his head. “Still, there are results to consider, and you do seem to have finally rid us of that cocky little vampire you used to work for.”
Wesley smiled, but it held little mirth. “That cocky little vampire was also my friend, at least until your council friends messed with his head.” His father looked surprised, and Wesley relished it. “Yes, father. I figured out what you did. It was, after all, a spell I crafted, did you honestly think that I wouldn’t?”
Roger seemed angered, and he bristled. “What does it matter? You finally did what you were sent here to do and Angelus is no more.”
Wesley took a sip from his coffee. He might have preferred tea on any other day, but it was one more thing that would disturb his father. He let the pause hang on the air for a moment before he spoke again. “Actually, we don’t know that. He disappeared. As far as we know, he’s still alive, actually.”
This seemed to give the older man pause. Wesley watched a battle raging in his father’s eyes, and watched the side of the man who was his father triumph over the part of him that was a Watcher. “You, boy, are far too trusting in that…thing. What good is a soul when there is a demon living in it? That spell only revealed his true self.”
Wesley finally turned to look at his father full on. His eyes were like cold steel as he made sure his father saw them. “When that soul has led its owner to throw himself between this world and every threatening apocalypse for the last ten years, saved more lives than I can count and vanquished more evil than the entire Watcher’s council combined has ever even known existed, I’d say the good in that soul is pretty damn amazing, sir. That spell was designed to remove the natural inhibitions that keep us bound to our conscience. What you did was remove his ability to be himself.”
Roger had gone white in the face and Wesley’s heart was racing. He had never spoken to the man this way before. “I was 16 when I crafted it, and even then I realized that it would not make me free, only a different kind of prisoner.”
“Prisoner?” Roger was clearly furious, and stood. “You were hardly a prisoner, boy.”
Wesley smiled again. Seeing his father like this somehow released him of the anger. “You will never understand, sir. I won’t bother explaining it.”
“I don’t know why I bothered.” Roger said, adjusting his coat and moving toward the door. He paused and glanced around the room, then back to his son, his face a mask of contempt. “You can dress it up all you like boy, but I know you. Your secretary knows where to find me when you’re ready to converse like a gentleman. The council has an offer to discuss. I suggest you dress appropriately when you come to see me.”
Wesley watched him go, exhaling slowly. He was sweating, and his hands were shaking, but he had to admit to enjoying the discomfort he had just given his father. He wondered if he would even make it to the car before he was on the phone to England.
When he was certain his father had cleared the lobby, Wesley buzzed for Anna. Almost before he had finished speaking her name, she was at his door. Wesley smiled at her. “Thank you Anna. That went rather well.”
She came to stand near him. “Thank you sir, I’m glad.”
Anna was a young woman, petite, pale, with gold hair that just dusted her shoulders. She wore a white business suit today, in fact, Wesley wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her wear anything but white. He had hired her when the agency had started to turn around and Cordelia couldn’t handle the office alone anymore. She’d already proven to be a value in lending the office a professional demeanor, and her skills with potions and other magic had stunned Wesley early on.
“I think we’ll let him stew for a few days. We have more pressing matters.”
“I take it that Cordelia was less than pleased with Angel’s return?”
Wesley sat back, cradling his coffee cup. “Yes.”
“How is he?” she asked, concern coloring her voice.
Wesley looked up at her. The day before when she’d told him that Angel had returned, she hadn’t said anything about his condition. “I’m reading you, sir. You’re worried, concerned for his safety. Yesterday you left here to kill him. I assume that means he is…unwell.”
He nodded. “He is very unwell, Anna. I don’t know what is capable of doing this to a person like Angel. But, I aim to find out.” He put down the coffee cup and sat up. “Cancel everything for the next few days. Have Gunn take the meeting with Mr. Perlin tomorrow afternoon. I need you to order some groceries to be delivered to the apartment. Include a generous supply of pig’s blood.” He drank deeply from his cup, then put it down. “Assume the council will try to learn what is going on. Treat all new clients with suspicion. Use the family emergency excuse.”
Anna scribbled notes on her pad and disappeared, only to reappear a few minutes later with a small stack of books. “You might need these, sir,” she said when he looked at her in question. “Don’t know why, just seems like the right ones to take.” She smiled and it made Wesley respond in kind. He’d stopped questioning moments like this months before.
“Thank you Anna.” When she was gone again, Wesley gathered those books and several others, then slipped out the back way to his car. Knowing the groceries would take a while, he made a quick stop at the butcher’s shop near his apartment complex for a pint of blood, then juggled his box of books, briefcase and the blood up the stairs to the apartment.
All in all he had only been gone a few hours. With any luck, Angel had spent the time sleeping. Wesley set the briefcase down and dug in his pocket for his key, and more importantly, the hematite keychain that was the key to the magical protection he had triggered before leaving.
Wesley pushed the door open, with his free hand, and pushed the briefcase in with his foot. The apartment was quiet, somehow quieter than when he knew there was no one in it. He freed the keys from the knob and put them on the table by the door. Gingerly, he set the box of books on the floor, retrieving the stake that Gunn had left him.
Slowly, almost afraid of what he might find, Wesley moved to his bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, and he peered into the dark depths of the room, trying to make out Angel’s form on the bed. “Angel?” His voice was soft, and he imagined the jump, the unnatural fear the voice had caused the night before. “I’m home.”
Once into the bedroom Wesley could see that Angel wasn’t in the bed. It took a moment for that to register. Wesley turned on the overhead light. The bed was a disaster, the sheets torn, the comforter ripped in half. “Angel?” He moved further into the room, looking around the bed and behind the door for any sign of the vampire. He stood there holding the Styrofoam container of blood and a stake and waited…listened.
Softly, not sounds really, more guttural emanations drew Wesley toward the closet. He parted the clothes and found Angel, huddled into himself, rocking in a disconcerting not-rhythm, his lips moving without real sounds coming from them. His eyes were vacant-no, that wasn’t the right word, they were looking at something Wesley couldn’t see, something Wesley never wanted to see, because somehow he knew that Angel was looking at the face of whatever had done this to him.
That, more than anything, cut into Wesley. He had wanted to hate him, to hurt him, and ultimately to stake him for everything he had said and done, for leaving and letting them all believe he had turned again, this time of his own free will. But, to actually see Angel broken hurt him in ways he had never anticipated. Wesley paused to turn and throw the stake into the next room, before moving closer.
Angel didn’t even know he was there as Wesley set the pint of blood on the night stand and came to squat in front of Angel. It took Wesley’s hand on his arm to pull Angel even slightly out of himself. Wesley found himself making comforting “shh-shh” noises, or what he hoped was comforting “shh-shh” noises as he gently rubbed at Angel’s arms.
It took a while for Angel to settle enough for Wesley to try to get him to stand, and even then, it was only a step or two out of the closet before Angel was collapsing on himself again. With a patience usually reserved for the very elderly, or the very ill, Wesley sank to the floor with him, doggedly trying to keep Angel from withdrawing from him again. They ended up with Angel half in Wesley’s lap, up against the bed.
When it seemed Angel’s shaking had subsided, Wesley tried to turn Angel’s face toward him, but Angel pulled away. Trying not to let his frustration show, Wesley reached up for the container on the nightstand. He opened it slowly, lest he spill any of it, then moved it closer to Angel’s face.
It was fairly obvious that Angel hadn’t fed in some time. The strong, muscular body that had protected innocents and dispatched demons was gone, his skin slack, his face drawn, his eyes sunken. Wesley waved the cup under his nose, trying to draw some reaction. When there was none, Wesley brought it right up to Angel’s mouth. Wesley shifted a little to get Angel’s head against his shoulder, tilted just enough that he could tip the cup and trickle the blood into Angel’s slack mouth. He felt Angel swallow instinctively, once, then twice…then hands came up to meet Wesley’s and hold the cup, tilting it further and the swallowing became stronger.
Just as suddenly, Wesley felt those hands pushing away, the cup flying toward the closet doors and Angel doubled over, whispering “No, no, no, no…” The sobbing came at the same time and Angel’s head ended up in Wesley’s lap. His hands seemed to settle of their own accord into an active loop of stroking Angel’s hair and back while trying to figure out what had just happened.
Obviously whatever had done this to him had made it impossible for Angel to feed, though it seemed to be a purely psychological prohibition. That alone could be the cause of much of the confusion, the weakness. “There now, its okay,” he heard himself saying, though he wasn’t sure what “it” was or how it was okay.
Then, Angel was retching, his body convulsing as what little blood had found its way into him came up and out, joining the blood already painting the walls and floor. Long after the vomit ceased, Angel shook convulsively, clinging to Wesley and still whispering “No, no, no, no…” in an endless loop of denial.
For almost an hour he sat on that floor, amid the spilt blood and Angel’s frighteningly bizarre behavior, until the crying had stopped and Angel was still. “Angel?” His voice was soft, his hands sliding off Angel’s head as he shifted.
“W-wesley?” The voice was little more than a whisper, but it was a start.
“Come, let’s get you off the floor and into some clothes.” It wasn’t lost on Wesley that Angel was naked, having been unable to do more than get him out of the wet and dirty clothes the night before. Angel let Wesley lift him to his feet, leaning into him as Wesley led him to the end of the bed closes the dresser.
Angel sat dully where he was deposited, his eyes glazed over and only vaguely following Wesley as he pulled sweat pants and a t-shirt from the drawers. Wesley knelt in front of Angel and tried to arrange the pants for the easiest method of assisting Angel into them, then lifted Angel’s foot. The skin at the ankle felt odd, bumpy, almost like some sort of rash. Wesley settled Angel’s foot into the pool of material, his hand sliding up the back of Angel’s leg. The bumpy skin continued.
Wesley frown and leaned closer, trying to see in the shadows cast by his body and the bed. Angel began shaking again, trying to pull his leg out of Wesley’s hands, and Wesley looked up at him. “I can’t very well help you dress if I don’t touch you, Angel,” he said softly, deciding it best to leave the examination for later. Wesley resumed working on getting Angel’s feet into the sweat pants, then pulling them up until he had to help Angel stand.
As his arms’ circled Angel’s waist, his nimble fingers could feel the skin of his back. It to was covered in a series of bumps. As he sat Angel back down, Wesley’s fingers skimmed the surface of his back. Angel moved just enough to break the contact. “No.” he said in that sad, plaintive voice.
“It’s okay Angel.” Wesley murmured, his eyes now beginning to pick out the bizarre mosaic that swept across his skin in tiny scars. Most people would look right at it and never see it…but Wesley wasn’t most people. “I know you’re frightened, Angel. But you are safe and I need to know.” Wesley said before reaching out to touch once more.
Not far removed from Braille, tiny bumps spread across every inch of Angel’s back, each of them a tiny scar, a reminder of their making, a reminder of the pain of each puncture, cut and tear inflicted until he ran red with it. Angel didn’t flinch, but Wesley did. He could almost see it being done. He wanted to pull his hand away, but he needed Angel to trust him, to know that he wouldn’t abandon him.
Wesley licked dry lips and exhaled slowly, his hand moving over Angel’s left shoulder, following the line of the pattern onto Angel’s chest, then down. There was little skin not marked. Wesley tried to imagine what the purpose was, other than the pain, but he could feel Angel starting to stiffen and withdraw from him again. He lifted his eyes from Angel’s chest, surprised to be met with Angel’s eyes, their dark depths begging for something. “Oh, Angel, what have they done to you?” Wesley whispered.
Angel looked away, his eyes closing. “No.” was all he said in response.
Wesley sighed and stood, reaching for the t-shirt and helping Angel into it. “Come now, let’s get you ready for bed.”
An hour later, Wesley had remade the bed with fresh linens and settled Angel into it. The vampire was asleep, though it didn’t seem to be peaceful. Wesley sat in a chair near the bed, his head swimming with what little he knew, trying to make the pieces fit. He tried laying out the words to the spell he had once crafted to free himself from his father’s control in his head, but the fatigue of the last 38 hours was pulling at him…and he slipped into the soft darkness of sleep instead.
Chapters 3 & 4