Unwanted Gifts (1/2) by WesleysGirl Part 1 in the Unwanted Gifts series Rating: NC-17 Angel/Wesley     Dedicated to Neige, for her tireless and invaluable assistance. "You have to let me do this," she said determinedly. "Not allowed," echoed Skip's voice from somewhere behind her. "Then I take it back," she countered. "I take it all back. I'm not staying. I'm not going to do the work that needs to be done." "You already agreed," Skip said, sounding unsympathetic. "Then I - I unagree. You don't understand. They need this. There's work down there on earth that needs to be done, too, you know, and you can't just take this away from them. They need it." "All right," sighed Skip finally. "Geez, you're a pushy one, aren't you? Three minutes. That's it." * * * * * "Oh, crap," Cordelia said. Wesley was aware of looking haunted, underfed, and utterly shocked. "Cordelia?" he asked in a small voice. "What... what are you doing here?" She was dressed in a flowing gown and looked even less like her normal everyday self than she had in Pylea. She was surrounded by a shining, glowing light that seemed to come from within. "You're not...?" asked Wesley. "Dead? Pffft! Of course not. I've ascended to a higher level." "What? I don't think I under..." "Wesley. Shut up and listen - I only have a couple of minutes." She stepped closer to where he was standing and put a finger up against his lips to quiet him. He felt only the slightest hint of pressure - she wasn't corporeal, obviously. "The Powers That Be called me, and I had to go. Well, I didn't have to go, I mean - I had a choice, but they needed me. You know, blah blah, there's work to be done. I finally managed to convince Skip that they had to let me come back." "And why did you come here in particular, I'm wondering?" "Beats the hell out of me. They didn't give me a choice... next thing I knew, here I was." Wesley grunted. "Little late to be showing an interest now," he said. "Wesley, shut up and listen to me. Your little pity party will have to wait. This is my only chance and I'm not gonna let you screw it up for me." "So what is it you want from me?" "I need you to tell Angel..." Wesley held up a hand. "Not interested. We're not on speaking terms, and we're not going to start speaking just because you decided to send him a message from the beyond." "Damn it, Wesley!" Cordelia stomped her foot. "Shut up! You are going to listen to me and you are going to do what I tell you to do." He looked skeptical. "You need to tell Angel what happened. I was supposed to meet him and I never showed. I need you to tell him that... that I love him." Wesley rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "I'm hardly an appropriate messenger under the circumstances." "It's not that simple," said Cordelia. "When is it ever?" "Not now." And she stepped forward and pressed her lips against Wesley's in a phantom, ethereal kiss. "I love you, too, Wesley. And Gunn, and even crazy old Fred. Don't forget." She stepped back and smiled at the look of astonishment on his face. "Worked this time," she said. And vanished. * * * * * Later that evening, Wesley, still unsure if he had dreamed the whole incident, poured himself another glass of wine and sat down with a book. The first bottle of wine lay on its side, tipped over on the countertop, abandoned. Wesley didn't think about Angel anymore. Or Fred, or Gunn, and certainly not Cordelia. He wouldn't think about her now, either. Assuming that she had actually been standing in his living room for a brief moment in time, what had been so bloody important that she'd come to him? No, he was not thinking about her. Not. He'd been thinking about returning to England, actually. There was a slight chance that the Watcher's Council would take him back - he could, effectively, turn back time, return to the place and person he'd been before he'd been sent to Sunnydale and this whole inconceivable mess had unfolded. It would probably require that he reconcile with his parents, who would no doubt be smug and haughty at his return. That didn't bear thinking about - if he returned to who he'd been, it would all wash clean around him. When you had Rightness and Superiority on your side, you didn't need to feel other people's distaste. He had just poured another glass of wine in the kitchen and was debating how he could break the lease on his flat when the light of a thousand suns flew forward into his face like a missile. There was a brief instant in which he wondered if there had been a nuclear explosion, and then he was assaulted with a montage of images - Angel's face, tormented - metal bars - a screw-gun twisting at metal. Each flickering image was like a physical attack, knocking the wind out of him. Each flash was like a hot poker being stabbed directly into his brain. The pain of one image hadn't ended before the next was upon him, so that the level of pain grew steadily higher. Angel's voice, saying "Listen to me!" Then darkness - Angel's face in the darkness - Angel falling as if in slow motion - "Listen to me!" He was jerking away from the images, as if he could escape them. A metal box like a cage - Angel. Something hard and unyielding was pressed to his face. It was hard to breathe, and his hands were clutching for something, anything. His right hand struck wood and grasped on. When his eyes opened, he saw that he was holding a chair leg and that the surface pressed against his face was kitchen linoleum. Linoleum that was badly in need of mopping. He tried to move, and even the tiny twitch sent icicles of pain through his skull like blue flames. His eyes were burning and his lungs were burning and perhaps it was the whole world that was on fire. Robert Frost would have been pleased. After several more minutes of reluctant intimacy with the linoleum, Wesley managed to get his arms under him and pushed up onto his hands and knees. The lights were still on and the kitchen window was still intact, as was the now-empty bottle on the countertop, so chances were good there hadn't been a nuclear attack. Aspirin. Or codeine. Preferably codeine, but he didn't think there was any left. Painkillers along with hard liquor had made the nights go by in such a comforting blur. Wonder of wonders, there was a bottle of aspirin on the windowsill above the sink. Wesley managed to pry the bottle open and shake a dozen tablets onto the countertop - his hands weren't steady enough to remove only a few. His hand slipped on the wineglass and it shattered into the sink, shards of glass skittering in the basin. He decided to abandon the idea of a glass entirely for safety's sake. Instead, he took three aspirin tablets and then used his palm to scoop water directly into his mouth from the faucet. His face was rough and unshaven, and if he had thought he'd felt like hell before, he was definitely in at least the 7th Circle now. Just when he'd thought he might pull himself ashore, the bloody centaur shot an arrow directly into his head, and here he was leaking brain matter out onto the floor. Time passed, and after a lifetime or so Wesley managed to walk, somewhat crookedly, into the living room, where he sat down on the coffee table instead of the couch. The table was closer. Not nearly as comfortable, though. He shifted his weight slightly and winced as the motion sent another searing bolt through his temple and into his eye. He concentrated on sitting as still as possible. He stared at the floor and tried to think about nothing. The rug was hitched up a tiny bit in the center, and the urge to smooth it out was strong, but his utter lethargy was stronger. There was a knock at the door. He slowly went and opened it, and there was Lilah in all her serpentine glory. She pushed past him without waiting for an invitation and sat herself comfortably down on the couch. Wesley left the door open. "Think of the devil, and she appears," he said bitterly. "Thought maybe you could use a friend," Lilah said. Wesley glared at her. "Is that what you'd like me to believe the other night was about? Friendship?" Lilah fluttered a hand over her left breast. "Ooh, remember what I told you about those dirty looks." "Lilah, I don't know how to put this any more plainly. I don't like you. I don't care what happens to you, or those bloody people that you work for. You're not welcome here." His head was pounding abominably and all he wanted was some quiet. "You keep talking like that, I'm going to get the impression that you don't want me around," she said blandly. "Good. Get out." "I don't think you really want to..." She grunted as Wesley grabbed her by the upper arm and forcibly stood her up. He walked her to the door and, when she struggled to prevent him from propelling her through the doorway, he grabbed a handful of her hair. She squawked in protest. "Out." And Wesley shoved her out into the hallway without a trace of gentlemanly control. "Wesley. Trust me, you..." "Goodbye, Lilah," he said, and slammed the door in her face. His head was throbbing and his hands were shaking, and he realized that this was the primal force that had surfaced when he'd been infected with Billy Blim's blood. Had it been here ever since, lurking just below his skin, waiting to get out? Or was it just that Lilah in particular held a talent for teasing it out of its hiding space? He went over to the couch and lay down, resting his head on his forearm and hoping that there might still be a chance that the aspirin would kick in. As much as he'd like to continue to deny it, he'd had a vision. A bona fide, Alan-Francis-Doyle-turned-Cordelia-Chase vision. Doyle had passed it to Cordelia without her knowledge or consent, and now she had done the same to him. His stomach was churning with a combination of excitement and fear. The childish part of him wanted to run in circles - we'll see who's a vital member of the team now, shall we? His more mature half was concerned - he knew what the visions had done to Cordelia's brain before she'd been offered the opportunity to become part demon. He and Angel had walked that road beside her, and he wasn't particularly interested in making a repeat journey by himself. Not that his lack of interest would make any difference. His hand had been dealt; now he needed to play it as best he could. With as few of his typical fumbling, card-dropping gestures as possible. He'd seen Angel - Angel in some sort of - cage? Cell? There had definitely been bars involved. But what had the screw-gun to do with the situation? And why had Angel been falling? Now Wesley suspected he finally understood why Cordelia had often been so vague when describing what she'd seen - the Powers That Be were tricksters, pure and simple. If they wanted to convey a message, why not show the whole story, in order? What was the point of breaking a meaningful film up into a series of mixed-up slides? He had too many questions and no answers. Damn Cordelia, anyway. She should at least have *told* him what she was intending to do, before she had kissed him and handed him this aneurysm on a silver platter. He was dizzy and aching and if she had been standing in front of him, he still would have found the energy to throw this psychic gift back in her face. Instead, he was lying here cursing her and wondering where on earth Angel was and how he was going to get up the courage to go to him and pass on Cordelia's message. Not that she deserved Wesley's loyalty. Silly twit. He'd call around a few favors, see if he couldn't discover where Angel was hiding out these days. Chances were good someone he knew had heard something. But first, he needed to talk to someone who would at least pretend to care. He picked up the phone and dialed from memory, while his head spun and his empty future with the Council spiralled away from him into darkness. * * * * * Four Days Later: Wesley came through the front door of the Hyperion and paused at the top of the stairs. There was a light on in the office, but otherwise the place was dark and quiet. He made his way down the steps and over to the office's doorway before raising the crossbow that he had in his right hand. Aiming it, he took the final step into the doorway. Gunn was sitting at the desk reading something from a piece of paper. Fred was on the floor in the corner, curled up, a book in her hand. They both looked up as Wesley moved into the room, matching expressions of complete surprise on their faces. "Wesley!" cried Fred, standing up, the book falling unnoticed from her hands. Gunn jumped up and moved in front of Fred, blocking Wesley's shot. His eyes were dark and threatening. "Put that thing down, Wesley." Wesley didn't lower the crossbow. "Angel's not here," he said. It wasn't a question. "No, man. Put it down." "And do you expect him?" Gunn snorted. "We gave up on expecting him a couple a weeks ago." Reluctantly, Wesley lowered the weapon, resting it at his side, pointed toward the floor. "You haven't seen Angel in several weeks?" "Or Cordelia," said Fred nervously, peering around Gunn's arm at Wesley. "They both disappeared the same night. And Connor, too... but then, you didn't know? That Connor's back, I mean?" "I'm well aware that Connor's back from Quor-toth," said Wesley dismissively. "My current concern is Angel's whereabouts." "He's not here," repeated Fred. "At first, we thought maybe he and Cordelia went off somewhere together... you know, romantically. But then they didn't call or come back, and when Connor didn't come back either, we started to think that maybe they were in some kind of trouble. But we haven't been able to find them, and we're running out of places to look." Wesley carefully examined the two of them. Gunn looked exhausted, thinner than he had been, and Fred seemed just as tired. He sighed and walked over to the desk, putting the crossbow down on the blotter on top of some loose papers. He leaned against the desk and rubbed his own eyes, which were also bleary with lack of sleep. "I know where Cordelia is," he said wearily, and stopped, unsure of how to continue. "Where?" asked Fred. "Gone," Wesley said shortly. "From this plane, I mean." Fred wrung her hands together and then clutched at Gunn's arm. "You mean... back to Pylea? What are we going to do? How are we going to get her back, without Angel, and Lorne? And Groo - he's gone, too, you know..." she stammered, turning to Wesley. "Fred," Wesley said, gently. "She hasn't gone back to Pylea. She's... ascended. The Powers That Be needed her assistance, and she's... gone to work for them, I suppose you could say." Fred's face was blank. "She's not coming back?" "No." Every thought Fred had was racing across her face. "But... if Angel's not with Cordelia... then where is he?" "I'm beginning to suspect that I know that, as well," said Wesley. "It's rather difficult to..." Without warning, he suddenly dropped to the floor as if he had been pole-axed. The heel of his hand was pressed to his head and his body writhed uncontrollably. "Vision..." Gunn whispered. Then he said to Fred, "Get a glass of water and see if there are any of Cordy's old pain pills in the bathroom. Go!" He dropped to his knees beside Wesley and gripped the other man's shoulders, but the vision was already over, leaving Wesley gasping for air. "You okay?" Gunn asked. "Yes. I'm fine. Just give me a moment..." Wesley sat up, moving away from Gunn's hands. "How many have you had?" asked Gunn. "That's the third," said Wesley. "Cordelia's pills are gone," said Fred, returning with a glass of water and a bottle of generic painkillers. "All I could find were these." Wesley took the bottle from her, opened it, and tipped four capsules into his hand. He tossed them into his mouth and then swallowed them with the water. Handed the glass and bottle back to Fred. "Cordelia... she gave you the visions?" she asked. "Why would she do that?" "I don't imagine she felt she had much of a choice," Wesley replied. "She thought we needed them, I suppose." "Thought Angel needed them, you mean," said Gunn. "Yes." Wesley grimaced and got up off the floor, ignoring Gunn's hand offered in assistance. "I'll go and leave you to your... whatever it was you were doing." "You're leaving?" asked Fred. "But... what about the visions? I mean... isn't it kind of our job to help fix things?" "It's my job," said Wesley. "I'm perfectly capable of finding a solution to the problem on my own. I didn't come to ask for your assistance. I only came because I needed to verify that Angel wasn't here." "That's what you're seeing," said Fred. "In your visions, I mean - Angel." Wesley nodded. He shook himself briefly. "Regardless, I don't need your help." He picked the crossbow back up off the desk and turned to leave. Fred grabbed his arm and Wesley spun around. "Let. Go." he hissed, directly into her face. She didn't, and although he could feel her trembling, she raised her chin and looked him in the eye. "Don't leave," she said softly. "We want to help." Gunn gently disentangled the two of them, moving Fred back a foot and freeing Wesley from her grip. "We don't want to step on your toes," he said to Wesley in a quiet but determined voice. "But she's right. You need our help. Maybe you don't want to admit it, but I think you know it." None of them moved. "I know there's a lot of water under the bridge," said Gunn. "We all said stuff, did stuff, that we wouldn't have done if we'd had our heads on straight. But we can get it past it, Wesley." "Please, Wesley," said Fred, still in that soft, soft voice. "Stay." "I can't." He couldn't. There was too much water under the bridge. When Gunn had come to his door and Wesley had learned that he'd only come to see if Wesley could help Fred, he'd hit a new low. He wanted desperately to trust these two people, but he couldn't. "I can't," he said again. And he left. * * * * * One week later: Gunn entered the hotel and immediately froze. It was dark, and Fred was still at the grocery store, and something was in the hotel. The sounds were slight, as if the something were trying to be stealthy. Gunn had a large knife tucked into the back of his jeans, but the weapons cabinet was so close that he moved over to it and removed a small axe, leaving the knife where it was as insurance. He crept down into the lobby, identified the sound as coming from the bathroom, and tiptoed over to it. The sounds inside were muffled, and it sounded like something wet was sliming against the floor. Great. Some slime demon. Taking a deep breath and raising the axe, Gunn threw the door open. To discover Wesley, leaning over the sink, dabbing at a large abrasion that covered the side of his face. Wesley looked at him, saw the axe, and didn't react. He turned his face back to the mirror and pressed the wet washcloth against his bloodied skin again. "Gunn. I'm sorry to intrude," he said tiredly. "I was closer to here than to my flat, and it seemed... well, I shouldn't have come in. I'll go." He straightened up and stepped to one side, as if to slide past Gunn back into the lobby. Gunn put the axe down on the floor, took Wesley's arm in one hand, and backed him up until the backs of his legs were against the toilet. "Sit down," said Gunn. Wesley sank down onto the closed toilet seat lid with a sigh of relief. "Before you blow out of here again, at least let me get this cleaned up," Gunn said. "You don't wanna end up with some raging demon goo infection." "It wasn't a demon," Wesley sighed. "I suppose one could say that this injury is a direct gift from the Powers That Be." "They whack you with a big piece of the street?" Gunn looked confused as he studied the wound. He took a pair of tweezers from the medicine cabinet and used them to pick a bit of concrete from Wesley's face. Wesley winced involuntarily. "No, they gave me a vision that knocked me out, thereby causing me to whack myself with a big piece of the street." Gunn poured some hydrogen peroxide onto a gauze pad and pressed it against Wesley's raw skin. "Helluva way to thank a guy for doing their bidding." "Yes, I'll have to register a formal complaint." He took the gauze pad from Gunn's hand and blotted his cheek a few more times. "You were right," he admitted quietly, folding the pad between his fingers. "What?" Wesley looked up at Gunn. "When you said that I needed your help - you and Fred, you were right. I can't do this on my own. If only because, at some point, my luck is going to give out and one of these bloody visions is going to knock me down in the middle of a crosswalk somewhere and I'll be run over." "Or in one of those demon bars you've been spending so much time in," said Fred from the doorway. "And a vampire or some other big scary will get you." "You've been..." Wesley stopped. "We been keepin' an eye on you," Gunn finished for him. "Yeah." Fred came in to the bathroom and took a small tube of salve from a shelf. Kneeling on the floor in front of Wesley, she gently smeared some onto his injury. "I'm glad you came back," she said. "I take it there's still been no sign of Angel?" "None. And still no Connor, either. You seein' Angel, in the visions, I mean?" "Yes, and they're all the same," Wesley said. "I suspect that I'm going to continue having them until I can find a solution to the problem. I can't quite figure out exactly what they're trying to show me... I can see Angel falling. Some kind of cage - metal bars - and it's extremely dark." "We," said Gunn. "I beg your pardon?" "Until we can find a solution." "Oh, I see. Yes, right. Until we can find a solution... or rather, until we can find Angel, I'd imagine." Fred sighed. "There's not a lot to go on," she said. "No," agreed Wesley. "But as endlessly frustrating as it is that the Powers That Be are feeling it necessary to take a mallet to my skull on a regular basis, I do believe that they're trying to show me where Angel is. I just can't quite figure... and Connor's still missing, as well?" "Yeah, since that night," said Gunn. "We got a lot of theories, but no leads. Maybe Connor got into trouble, Angel had to bail him out of it. Maybe Wolfram and Hart got the both of them stashed somewhere." "I haven't seen Connor in the visions," said Wesley thoughtfully. Gunn jerked his head toward the lobby. "Come on out and have a sandwich or something. Tell us more about these visions." * * * * * Eight days later: Wesley and Fred appeared in the doorway to the office within seconds of hearing the front door open. Gunn came down the steps, his face downcast. "Nothing?" asked Wesley. "Not a thing," said Gunn. He took off his jacket and tossed it toward the couch, watched it fall instead onto the floor. "You tried that Dedravalt club?" "Yes, and the one the pickle-faced guy there suggested, and the one three alleys over from that one. Been all over this damned city and no one knows a thing about a vampire being held captive in a cage. Been to every seedy demon dive in LA and no one can tell me anything about a dark pit where people are held hostage. Nothing." Fred went over to him and rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. "We'll find something," she said. "Where?" asked Gunn. "We've tried everything." "There must be something we're missing," said Wesley. "I don't know what it is, but it must be there." "Not like we can just order up one of those visions of yours whenever we want a second look," said Gunn. "Or a ninth look, or a tenth look..." "It's just as well, really," said Fred. "They aren't getting any easier, are they?" Wesley shook his head, but the rest of his brain was mulling over the details of the vision he'd continued to have repetitively. Still lost in thought, he wandered into the office and started rifling through some papers. "I'm worried about him," Fred whispered to Gunn. "I know it seems bad, but remember, Cordy had the visions for, like, a coupla years before her brains started gettin all scrambled." Gunn smiled at her. "He's tough, he can take it." An hour later, Fred loitered in the doorway to the office, watching Wesley as he rubbed at his neck fitfully and tried to read from the computer screen at the same time. She went over and stood behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You all right?" she asked. He turned his head to look up at her. "I'm fine," he responded. "Well, tired, I suppose. I wouldn't guess that any of us has been getting enough sleep lately." She started to gently rub at his neck and shoulder muscles, and he groaned and dropped his head down. "You should do something nice... you know, to relax," she said. "Like, I don't know, take a walk on the beach. Or listen to some music. Or, hey, if you want, I could run you a bath upstairs. I've got these nice little bath beads, they dissolve in hot water and they smell like oranges. It's like taking a bath in Florida or something..." Wesley patted her hand. "That's all right, Fred. I'm fine." But the little trap door between her brain and her mouth had opened, and the words continued to spill out, washing over him like wine. Or, quite possibly, wine too long turned to vinegar. "Sometimes, when I'm taking a bath I like to sink all the way down under the water - but not when I'm taking one with those bath beads, because they're all oily and it would get in my hair - because it's really neat to see the world that way. Everything above the surface of the water looks all wavy and crazy, like you're part of an aquarium exhibit, and everything under the water is all warm and soft and sane. And stuff sounds really funny, too... it's because of the way the water distorts the sound waves - it's like there's cotton in your ears... it's all muffled and echoey, like maybe the way dolphins hear stuff, and..." "Wait a minute," said Wesley. "Say that last part again." "About the dolphins?" Fred looked confused. Gunn came in with a paper bag from the Chinese restaurant up the street. "No, no, about being underwater and the way everything sounds..." Wesley jumped up and started to pace the room quickly. "Oh, right... umm... oh, when your head's under the water everything sounds kind of muffled and echoey... that part?" "Yes, yes! That's it!" Wesley all but shouted. He took off his glasses and pointed them toward Fred, the fingers of one hand pressed to his mouth. "You want to take a bath?" asked Fred uncertainly. "No, I don't want to take a bath! That's what I've been missing about the visions!" He paced back over to the computer, and then back again toward Gunn. "That's how everything sounds, in the vision. It never even occurred to me - I can't believe I was so bloody oblivious, but then I hadn't anything to compare it to, had I? It's underwater!" Understanding tinged with horror slowly dawned on Fred's face. "Angel's underwater?" "That must be it. It makes so much sense now that I think about it." "Don't get too excited, people," said Gunn slowly. "We may know where not to look, but we sure as hell can't narrow down the search." Wesley deflated visibly. "Damn it all to hell," he said quietly, rubbing his forehead. "You're right. He could be anywhere. And he's probably out there in the middle of the fucking Pacific. But how did he get there? And how on earth are we going to find him?" "We'll think of something," Fred said finally, obviously trying to sound optimistic. "I'm going to take a walk," said Wesley. "I'll be back shortly - I just need some fresh air." How "fresh" the air ever was in LA was debatable, but Wesley felt better once he was moving. It seemed that all they were doing these days was standing still, and it was becoming nearly unbearable. He worried about what they would do if they couldn't find Angel. Then he worried about what he, personally, would do if they did find Angel. Would he be forced to leave again? Would Angel even permit him to walk away this time? The endless thought-circles made him dizzy and the vision headaches didn't help matters. All right, he told himself. Stop all of this ridiculous worrying and move on to something productive. How would they locate Angel? It seemed likely that normal means wouldn't get them results - so it would have to be magick, then. He'd have to determine whether he was capable of performing it himself, or whether it would require calling in the bigger guns. He found himself headed back toward the hotel. He'd moved a fair number of his things into one of the rooms last week - it was easier for them all to be in a central location. He'd have to seriously consider moving everything back to his flat before they got Angel back, though. Fred and Gunn were waiting for him in the office. When he came in they both smiled. "Oh, good, you're home," said Fred. "I know what we have to do next," said Wesley. * * * * * Two nights later, Wesley came out of the office to where Gunn and Fred were leaning against each other on the couch. What they were doing could not, under any sense of the word, be called cuddling - it was more like exhausted slumping. Wesley looked no less tired, but he was smiling. "I found it," he said. His voice was tinged with satisfaction and something else less identifiable. "You found the spell?" asked Fred, sitting up. "Really?" "Really." "But you're not happy," said Gunn. "Not completely," admitted Wesley. "I'm... I'm not certain that I'm capable of performing the spell myself. I'm not sure I have the experience, and it's the kind of spell that... well, we only have one shot at it. If the spell fails, whether by error or interruption, I won't be able to try it again. We'd have to try to find an alternative..." "Stop," said Gunn. "We aren't gonna worry about that, because we aren't going to need an alternative. We'll get it right the first time." "I'm going to need to go over some notes," said Wesley. "I'll deal with that in the morning, and after I've gotten things straightened out, we'll be able to make some more concrete plans. I'll have to gather some supplies, verify some information..." "What can we do to help?" asked Fred. "I'm sure there will be plenty," Wesley answered. The next morning, Wesley steeled himself and called Giles. He'd had the Watcher's work number stored away, just in case they needed to contact him for some reason. Still, he dialed the Magic Box wondering what his reception was going to be. He hadn't been in touch with Giles since Buffy had been brought back, at which point he'd only sent a brief email to ask how everyone in Sunnydale was doing. "Hello?" "Hello, Giles... it's Wesley." "Oh," said Giles. He was silent for a moment. "How are you?" Wesley almost laughed. "I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for something he hadn't even done. "I - I need some advice, Giles. Spellcasting advice." He could hear Giles shift in his chair. "All right," said the other man quietly. "What are you working on?" "I need to do a form of a teleportation spell," said Wesley. "You need to do it?" asked Giles. "Wesley, that's a high level spell. It's not the sort of thing you want to muck around with." "I know. I wouldn't be doing it if it weren't important." Giles sighed. "Well. What kind of teleportation spell are we talking about?" "Translocation." "So you want to recover something that's been lost? Locate it, and then recover it, I mean. I hope it is something important, Wesley." "It is," said Wesley. "Did you lose some artifact? A book? And isn't there a way to get it back through more ordinary means?" "It's not that simple." "Wesley, I can't help you if you don't give me some details. What did you lose?" "Angel." There was no reply for a long moment. Then, "Oh, dear," said Giles. "I see." "Can you help?" "I can try," Giles said. "Do you have any idea where he might be? Are you certain he's still... are you sure he hasn't been..." "He hasn't been staked, Giles. And yes, I have a general idea of where he is. He's... somewhere at the bottom of the Pacific. In a sort of - coffin, I suppose you'd say." "How do you - all right, let's stick with what's important. Now I understand why a simple location spell wouldn't do." "Yes. I've found a spell that I think will work, but it offers some options as far as ingredients go, and I wanted to make the best choices possible..." "Wesley?" said Giles. "Yes?" "You do realize... how dangerous a spell this might be, don't you?" "Yes," said Wesley. "I know. But I don't know anyone else who can do it. Do you?" "No," said Giles slowly, after a long moment. "That is... I did, but she's... not able to practice magic any longer." "Then it'll have to be me. I have to try something." "Yes, I suppose you do." Giles sighed again. "All right. About those ingredients..." Later, Wesley hung up the phone and read over the notes he'd taken, trying to drill the information into his brain. What he really wanted to do was lay his head down on the desk and sleep for a week. "Wesley?" Fred was peering around the corner at him. "Yes, Fred, come in." "Is there anything I can help with?" Wesley shook himself mentally and smiled at her. "Of course. Here, why don't you help me make a list of the supplies we're going to need." "You look tired," she said quietly. "Why don't you go upstairs and lie down for a little while?" "I'm fine," he answered. "And this can't wait. If we can manage to get everything we need together, we'll be able to do the spell tonight. I've already got Gunn working on finding a boat." "I know," said Fred. "He thinks he found something - he was gonna go out there and check." "Good," said Wesley absently, looking over the notes he'd taken once more. "Once we locate Angel, we can do the Translocation spell to bring him to the boat. That's the plan, at least." "If you're just gonna do the spell to make him reappear - you know, all 'poof' - then why do we need the boat? Couldn't you just... magic him here to the hotel?" "It's not that simple," Wesley said, feeling as if his life had deteriorated into a series of repeated sentences. At least he hadn't had a vision for more than 36 hours. He wondered if the PTB would ease off on him now that he'd made an obvious commitment to adhere to their demand. "The spell takes an enormous amount of energy, and the further you have to move the object - well, person - the greater a toll it takes on the caster. So we have a better chance of success if the distance Angel has to travel - magically - is short. Shorter." "That makes sense," Fred said, nodding enthusiastically. "You mean like, there's only so much gas in your gas tank, so you can only go so far? And if you try to go further, you might not get all the way there." "Exactly," said Wesley, grateful that she'd grasped the concept. "So... what do we need to get?" She held pen poised over paper, ready to take down his dictation, and although his lips started moving, his mind was somewhere else entirely. * * * * * The air was cold out on the ocean. Wesley hadn't thought about that - wasn't prepared for the drop in temperature. The thin sweater he wore over his cotton shirt was insufficient, and he hadn't brought a jacket. He used the cold in two ways - to keep himself awake and alert, and at the same time to numb his mind for what was to come. Not for the spell - he was as ready as he could be for that - but for what would happen afterward, if the spell worked. Wesley had packed the things he'd been keeping at the hotel into two boxes, and stored them just inside the office door. He thought he'd either have time to get them himself, or he'd have Gunn bring them by his flat once... once everything was taken care of. He'd brought everything with him that they'd need for the ritual - all of the supplies, some bagged blood for Angel, a blanket and clothing. He'd remembered everything they might possibly want - except to provide for his own comfort. The engine cut out suddenly, and within half a minute the world was silent but for the gentle sounds of the waves lapping against the side of the boat. Wesley looked around for Gunn and saw him sitting with Fred, one arm wrapped around her shoulders. When he caught Gunn's eye the other man stood up and came over to him. "This where we start?" asked Gunn. "Yes," said Wesley. His own voice sounded tight and somehow too British. "We'll do the location spell from here, and then Translocate Angel from wherever the homing device leads us." "This is the easy part, right?" "Comparatively, yes," Wesley answered. This part of the spell was only to guide them to Angel's whereabouts - much simpler than physically translocating him, which he wouldn't do until they were as close as possible. "Now, if everyone could remain quiet and refrain from moving around while I do this - I'd like to be able to concentrate." Wesley sat down on the deck and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to let everything around him fall away into the background. After a moment, he he began to speak. "Aradia, Goddess of the Lost; the path is murky, the water is deep, darkness pervades. We beseech thee - bring the light." He opened his eyes, and let his breath out in a sigh of relief when he saw the little spark of light floating in front of him, awaiting his instructions. "You've been conjured here to show us the way to our... friend." Wesley felt an ache in his chest as he said the word, hoping that the pause wouldn't do anything to disrupt the spell. He should have thought more carefully about the proper word to use. Stupid, taking chances because he wasn't prepared. "Guide us to Angel," he said softly. Immediately the little light moved away from him and started out across the water to their right. Wesley glanced over at Gunn, who said to the boat's captain, "Okay, now, just like I told you - follow that light." The engine started up again and the boat began to move in the same direction that the light was travelling. Wesley got up and went to stand against the rail, eyes intent on the glowing spark. He felt a hand on his arm but didn't look down. Instead, he put his own hand over Fred's thin one and squeezed gently. "It's working," Fred whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of the engine. Wesley didn't respond. His eyes were locked on the little light, shining like a tiny beacon in the darkness. Gunn moved over to Fred's other side and the three of them stood together at the rail, watching and hoping. The boat followed the light for nearly twenty minutes before Wesley called a halt by holding up one hand. The light had stopped and was bobbing up and down just above the surface of the water. "Guide us to Angel," Wesley repeated, and the light dove down into the sea, at first illuminating the water around it, and then quickly fading from sight. "That's it," said Gunn. "Have him cut the engine," said Wesley. "Tell him not to start it up again until it's finished." He went over to the bag of supplies he'd brought - the things he and Fred had spent all afternoon and most of the evening gathering. He looked at his watch - it was after 10 pm, and the moon hung in the sky above them like a pale sickle. For a few moments he couldn't identify the feeling fluttering in his stomach - and then he realized it was hope. It had been such a long time since he'd felt it. Here was his chance to set things at least partially right. Wesley got out the candles, the tiny brazier, the charcoal, the herbs, and the salt. He glanced over at Gunn and Fred to make sure that they knew to stay out of the way, and tried to smile at them when he saw how nervous they looked. His own heart was beating quickly. Chanting in Latin, Wesley drew a large circle on the deck with the salt, being careful to use a thick line. He set the brazier just outside the circle, lit the charcoal, and dumped a handful of resin onto it. The fragrant smoke rose thickly in the air, the smell transporting Wesley back to his early days with the Council when this type of spell practice was nearly a daily occurence. Without disturbing the line of salt, he then sprinkled the herb mixture inside the circle, in the vague shape of a curled-up person while he repeated, "The site is here, the return is near." He lit two white candles and two black and placed them at the directional points of the circle. The black candles at East and West signified Angel's departure from his current location, and the white candles at North and South would guide him to the circle. Wesley closed his eyes again, forcing his breathing and heart rate to slow by sheer force of will. This was his one chance. If he failed, they'd have to start all over again from the beginning. He'd never regain this level of energy, and the visions were already starting to eat away at his reserves. But this train of thought was dangerous - he needed to focus solely on the spell, without letting his insecurities take control. He could do this. He would do this. He took out the last little pouch of herbs, the ones Fred had pounded fine with a mortar and pestle. The incandescent powder he'd mixed in shimmered as he took a small amount out and sprinkled it over the salt in the circle, which took on an unearthly glow. Then he stepped back to the rail and dumped the remainder of the powder and herbs into his palm. He threw it out over the water, dropped the pouch onto the deck. And clapped his hands once, sharply, saying, "Revenio!" If he'd thought the sudden hit of the visions was powerful, he now knew that it was indeed nothing compared to the power of this spell. A huge non-sound rushed at him, sucking up everything in its path as it came, taking away his hearing. He could feel a sudden warm wetness on his upper lip, and everything seemed to have frozen in time around him - nothing moved, even the rocking of the boat stilled. Then there was an enormous, mind-splitting *pop* and time resumed, and his peripheral vision was going all red and blurry and he just had time to see a huddled shape within the circle before his sight vanished completely and everything went blank. * * * * * Wesley woke slowly, coming up out of a deep sleep as if drugged. His arms and legs felt leaden and his mouth was unbearably dry. His eyelids were too heavy to open, so he didn't bother. He thought he heard someone moving nearby, and then a familiar voice was saying, "Wes?" He opened his mouth to say something, although he had no idea what, but nothing came out. "Hang on," said the voice, and then there was a warm hand on the back of his neck, lifting him, and the edge of a plastic cup was against his lips. He swallowed water gratefully, the slip of it easing his sore throat. Wesley opened his eyes. Gunn was standing over him, still holding the cup. "More?" Wes nodded and took the cup, shifting sideways so he could prop himself up on one arm. Every muscle in his body ached as if he'd pushed himself to his physical limits. He drank some more water. "What happened?" he finally managed to croak. "You did it," Gunn said. "One minute you were standing there doin' your thing, next minute Angel's lying there on the deck, soaking wet and smellin' all funky and confused as hell. And before we could say anything, you passed out." Wesley realized he was in his own bed. "How long?" "Just a day. We called Lorne - didn't know who else to ask - and he said it'd be normal for you to be out at least 24 hours, and it's only been..." Gunn checked his watch. "22. Good show, English." Wes smiled ruefully. "Right. He... he's all right?" Now that Angel was back, Wesley discovered that he didn't feel right saying his name out loud. "Angel? He's a vampire. Give him a couple days, unlimited access to human blood - good call on bringing that on the boat, by the way, he was desperate - and he'll be back to his broody old self in no time." Wesley sat up slowly, bringing his legs down the floor. He felt only a little light-headed. "I'm just going to..." he gestured toward the bathroom. "You okay?" Gunn hovered at his elbow as he stood up shakily, ready to jump in if Wesley faltered, but he took a few steps and Gunn relaxed. "Yeah... call me if you need anything." Wesley stood looking into the mirror for some time. There were small amounts of dried blood under his nose and inside his ears, and his eyes were full of broken blood vessels. He felt filthy and exhausted, and now that it was all over he just wanted to forget and move on with his life. Except that wouldn't be permitted, would it? No welcoming arms of the Council, not with these visions in his head rendering him unreliable at best and a danger to himself and others at worst. No, he was stuck here in LA, playing messenger boy to Angel, whether he liked it or not. He started up the shower and slowly peeled his clothes off, unable to keep from groaning as he stepped under the hot spray. He let the water pound against his shoulders, and then rotated slowly so that it beat his face, using his fingers to scrub away the dried blood as best he could. He'd actually done it. Now that it was over, he was able to admit to himself how full of doubt he'd actually been - he hadn't thought himself capable of pulling off that spell. It was meant for people with far more experience than he, and he was lucky that he hadn't short circuited his brain and dropped dead of an aneurysm right there on the deck. Although of course, that could probably happen at any time because of the visions, so he needn't get too excited about his continued existence. When the water had changed from hot to warm, Wesley got out and dried himself off. With the towel wrapped around his waist, he went back into the bedroom and dug around for some clean clothes - grabbed the first pair of slacks and t-shirt he saw - and got dressed. Gunn was in the living room, sitting on the couch. When Wesley came in, he jumped to his feet and gestured that Wes should sit down in the seat he had just vacated. "Can I get you anything? Food? You must be hungry..." "Gunn," Wesley said. "I appreciate your staying long enough to make sure I was all right. And I'm fine, so... thank you." Gunn knew a dismissal when he heard one, but his face showed his confusion plainly. "But... I'm not just gonna leave you here, Wesley." "Why not? I was doing perfectly well on my own until these visions started. Now Angel's back, and you can all continue on as things were before." "Without Cordy," said Gunn flatly. "Yes," Wesley admitted. "I assume Angel knows she's... gone?" "Yeah, I told him. Told him everything. He told me some stuff, too. Like that Connor was the one who locked him in that box and threw him into the ocean." Wesley did sit down. "But we thought..." "Yeah," said Gunn. "We thought it was those damned lawyers. But it wasn't - it was Connor, and Holtz's woman, Justine." "Oh," said Wesley. He wasn't sure what else to say. "Well, as I said... thank you for making sure I was all right." Gunn moved over and sat down on the other end of the couch. "Uh-uh." "I beg your pardon?" "No," said Gunn. "I'm not leaving until we get this straightened out." "Get what straightened out?" "This. Whatever's got you all Mr-Stuffy-British-Guy on me all of a sudden. I thought things between us were... okay." "Yes, well, that was before Angel..." "Before Angel came back?" asked Gunn. "Yeah. Before you brought him back, Wesley. You think me and Fred would've gotten him back without you?" "That's really not the point," said Wesley. "Not the point?" Gunn said. "No, I'll tell you what the fuckin' point is, Wes. You were lying there on that boat bleeding out your eyes." Wesley blinked. "That's right," continued Gunn when Wes continued to sit there without speaking. "Do you know what it's like watching somebody... watching a friend... lying there with blood coming outta his eyes and nose and ears?" "I wasn't sure we were friends," Wesley said quietly. "What? After the past coupla weeks, with all of us practically livin' at the hotel, working night and day to find out where Angel was and how to get him back? What'd you think we were?" "I thought we were... working together toward a common goal. You'd get Angel back, I'd get relief from the visions..." "So we... you get him back, and that's it? You're out of the picture again?" Wesley dug the finger of his right hand into his thigh muscle. "I wasn't the one who removed myself from the picture last time, Gunn. Angel did that first, and then you and Fred went right along with him. You chose your side months ago." "Fred didn't want you to get hurt." "What about you, then?" Gunn sighed and rocked his weight forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I was pissed off. I thought we were friends - didn't understand why you couldn't come to me and tell me what was goin' down." "I was wrong," Wesley said. "I should have told you. If I had, maybe things wouldn't have played out the way that they did." "But I... wait a minute," said Gunn. "Did you just say that you were wrong?" "Don't get used to it." Gunn looked at Wesley for a long moment. "You told me not to come back," he said. "After Fred..." "You weren't ready to hear what I had to say. I couldn't bear it... the idea of trying to explain it to someone who was so angry with me." "You said you loved us. Trusted us." "Yes, I did." "Did what? Say it? Or d'you mean you don't love and trust us any more?" Wesley sighed. "I won't... a couple of weeks back, you said that there was a lot of water under the bridge. You were right." "I also said we could get past it. I was right about that, too." "Maybe you were." Gunn looked stunned. "You're admitting that you were wrong, and that I was right? During the same conversation?" "Technically, the conversation in which you were possibly right took place weeks ago. And as I said, don't get used to it." Gunn smiled, a genuine one that crinkled up his eyes. "You kiddin'? I think we need to have a fuckin' parade." Wesley smiled back at him. "So..." he said finally. "So. Can I get you something to eat?" "Yes, please. I'm starving." * * * * * The same night, at the Hyperion: "Angel? We're just going out for a little while... we'll be back soon." Fred glanced down at the floor, and then back up at Angel, without meeting his eyes. "Where you going?" "Umm... We just need to drop something off... I mean... an errand. We just need to do an... errand." "You taking those boxes of stuff back to Wes's place?" Fred froze, barely breathing. Angel could see the pulse at her throat fluttering like a bird with a broken wing. Finally, she nodded. "That's the first time you've... said his name. In a long time, I mean. Not that you should - " "Fred," he said gently. "It's okay." "Okay, then. Good." She turned to go and he held out a hand as if to stop her, although he was too far away and wouldn't have touched her when she was this jumpy. "Umm... can you...?" Fred didn't turn around, but she stopped and listened. "What?" "Never mind." * * * * * Two weeks later: Wesley had had two visions since Angel had been rescued. Both times he had called Gunn's cell phone, relayed the information, and trusted that things would be taken care of. Gunn had called him some time later, in both cases, to report what had happened and assure him that the situation had been resolved. Now that the visions were being dealt with in a timely manner, the headaches he suffered in the aftermath of the resolutions didn't seem to be worsening. They were bad, but not completely unbearable. He'd called his doctor and reported the typical symptoms of a migraine headache, and been given an ergot-based prescription to handle the problem. The pills worked passably - enough so that he was able to get through the couple of days after the vision. Fred and Gunn were solicitous, if not overly so - they called often, and had been over to visit on at least six occasions, separately and together. Even Lorne had phoned - and although it had been awkward at first, Wesley was relieved when Lorne had assured him that he understood why Wesley had attacked him. Even though the demon wasn't one of his closest friends, it was reassuring to know that he didn't blame Wesley. He knew that Wes had only been trying to protect Connor. Wesley was just ordering himself a quick takeaway from the Indian restaurant down the street when the next vision hit him like a runaway truck. One moment he was talking on the phone, and the next he was on the floor, blood pouring from his nose - a leftover side effect of the translocation spell - and his cheek on the carpet. There was a man... a large demon the colour of thick tar, moving slowly and viscously... the man screaming as the liquid tar flowed over him, engulfing his chest and then his face... the number 8, the rear door of a pharmacy, West Alameda. Wesley groaned and pushed himself up off of the cheap shag that carpeted his flat. He'd give any amount of money to be spared this, but he didn't think that the PTB were interested in his bank account, sparse as it was. In a daze, he managed to dial Gunn's number, but there was no answer and when Gunn's voice mail picked up, he hung up without leaving a message. He knew instinctively that if Gunn didn't get the message immediately, it would be too late. He rang the hotel, hoping that Fred or Gunn would be there. Angel answered the phone. "Yeah?" Wesley paused, and then hung up without saying anything. While he was still cursing himself for acting like a fool, the phone under his hand rang. "Hello?" "Wesley." Angel's voice. "Angel," said Wesley, not knowing what to say or how to redeem himself with a sentence. "What is it?" "A demon," Wesley managed. "I think it might be a Danogg. It's going to attack a man - he's wearing a suit - West Alameda, behind a pharmacy, the number 8. That's all I got..." "Right," said Angel. "I'm on it." And hung up the phone without another word. Wesley went to the bathroom, sat down on the edge of the tub, and pressed a wad of tissue to his nose. The trash can was full of similar wads of paper, stained with his blood. He was beginning to wonder if the nosebleeds would ever cease, although he knew that they were worth it on some level. An hour later he was still sitting on the edge of the tub and the bleeding was finally slowing. He was feeling somewhat light-headed again - which was beginning to seem normal - when the phone rang. He managed to stagger to the living room to pick it up. "Hello?" "Wesley. It's Angel." As if he wouldn't know who it was. As if this voice weren't as familiar to him as his own. "Yes?" "I just... I wanted to let you know. I took care of it - you were right, it was a Danogg." "Oh... good," said Wesley faintly, as the room spun lazily around him and he leaned toward the couch cushion with his head, which was begging for support. "I'm glad you..." And that was the last thing he remembered saying. "Wesley? Wes?" Someone was calling him, and he just didn't have the energy to answer. It was so much easier to drift, with words washing over him like gentle waves. "Wesley!" The voice was becoming more insistent, and he reluctantly allowed himself to be drawn upward, toward the surface. His eyes opened slowly, and when he saw Angel looming over him he sucked in a breath of surprise despite himself and jerked away from the hands gripping his upper arms. Angel drew back, letting go of him in reaction to his... reaction. "You okay?" "I'm fine," he managed to get out. "What are you...?" "You passed out when we were on the phone," Angel said. "I couldn't just let you... And - you didn't rescind the invitation." "Oh," said Wesley. "No. I'm fine. Please..." Angel drew further away from him. "You want me to go?" "Yes. I mean, no, I..." The room tilted sideways and Wesley closed his eyes. He was brought to the surface again by Angel's repeated questioning. "Wesley? C'mon, Wes..." "Angel. Just go." "You've lost blood," Angel said flatly. "It's been happening for a while. What's going on?" "It's the spell," Wesley said wearily, not having the energy to deny what Angel could obviously sense. "More than I could handle... should have known better. Keep bleeding..." "Shit," said Angel. "It should stop eventually." Wesley opened his eyes again. "What do you want?" "Wes?" Angel said uncertainly. "What do you want, Angel?" "I... I don't want anything, Wesley. Well... I want to help. Is there - is there something I can do to help?" "No," said Wesley, closing his eyes again. "Just go away." "You're sick," said Angel. "What can I do?" Wesley only managed to keep from laughing because it would have taken so much effort. "There's nothing you can do, Angel. You don't owe me anything." "But you're... I mean, all of this..." Wesley hauled himself to a sitting position and rubbed his fingers against his forehead. "What? I'm sick now because of you?" "Well... yeah." "Don't flatter yourself, Angel. I made the decision to take Connor. I made the decision to do the spell to get you back. They were my decisions, not yours. You're not responsible." "But it..." "Angel." Wesley spoke firmly, hoping for resolution. "You are not responsible. Go home." "I don't... I can't do that," Angel said. "Well, then, go into the other room and stop looking at me." Angel stood up and disappeared, but in a minute or so he was back, holding a glass of juice out to Wesley. "You should... you gotta replace fluids, you know?" Wesley took the glass. The juice was cold and tasted, quite possibly, better than anything had in his life. He silently thanked Gunn and Fred for having stocked his kitchen for him. He looked up. Angel was still standing there, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot. Wesley sighed. "Angel, if you're not going to leave, then sit down." "Umm... okay. Right." Angel went over to a chair and perched himself on it, somehow managing to look no more relaxed than he had standing. Wesley set the empty glass down on the coffee table and swung his feet back up onto the couch, lying back with one arm thrown over his eyes. He was so very tired. His brain didn't seem to be working anymore - instead he found himself focused on only one sound at a time. The faint noise of cars going by on the street outside. His own breathing, gradually slowing. Angel shifting in his chair. The refrigerator humming in the kitchen. He realized that he was falling asleep, just drifting off with Angel sitting only a few feet away. He had time for one more thought - he'd never gotten his dinner - before he slipped under. * * * * * When he woke this time the sun was high overhead and he was alone in the apartment. For a few moments he wasn't sure if he'd fallen asleep with Angel so close by simply because he'd been so tired, or if it meant something more. That he trusted Angel? It wasn't the sort of situation that required trust, in any case - even awake and healthy, Wesley posed little challenge to Angel, should the vampire get it into his head to attack him. There was a piece of paper on the coffee table with Angel's handwriting on it. Wesley picked it up. I stuck around until just before sunrise, but I figured you wouldn't want to spend the whole day with me trapped in your apartment so I left while the leaving was still good. Take care of yourself. - Angel Angel was feeling guilty, that was Wesley's guess. He wondered how Angel felt about Cordelia's departure. For that matter, he wondered how Angel was feeling about Connor - the tiny baby that Wesley had stolen from him, sent to live in a demon dimension with a madman. Who had returned with a plan to damn his father to an eternity of loneliness at the bottom of the sea. A plan that Wesley had admittedly foiled, but even still, it wasn't impossible to imagine how Angel was dealing with recent events. Wesley had some tea and toast and thought about Connor. He took a shower and thought about Connor. Where had the boy gone? What would have been on his mind after he and Justine threw Angel into the ocean? What had happened to him in Quortoth that had convinced him that Angel deserved such treatment? When he had seen the two in that bar, the night Lilah had convinced him to meet her, they had seemed to be working together. Wesley took a walk and thought about Lilah. She hadn't shown up again since that night he'd thrown her out of his flat, but he wasn't naive enough to think that that meant she'd given up. Chances were she was off developing her next plan of attack. What might that be? He could only begin to imagine. He wished he had the file with all of the notes he'd taken about their interactions with Wolfram and Hart. Could the firm have seduced - all right, bad choice of words, but still - Connor in some manner? And if they had, would they have found a place for him somewhere? The more he thought about it, the more he wanted that file. He waved down a cab and headed for the hotel. It was still mid-afternoon, and chances were good he wouldn't run into Angel if he only stopped in for a few moments. In any case, it didn't seem that he ran the risk of attempted suffocation again. The hotel was quiet, the office empty, Gunn and Fred obviously out. He wondered if they were still keeping regular hours - it hadn't occured to him to ask. He slipped in to the office, found the file in a matter of seconds, and perched on the edge of the desk for just a moment while he flipped through, looking for the more recent section. He needn't take the whole file - at least the first half of it was old enough to be of little use. "Fred? I..." Angel paused awkwardly in the doorway when he saw who was actually in the office. "Wesley." Wesley felt caught where he didn't belong. "Angel," he said warily. "What... um, what's up?" He relaxed a bit. "I came in to... pick up a file. I thought I might find it helpful, and I didn't think anyone would be needing it..." Angel held up one hand. "Wes. It's fine. You need it? Take it." "Yes, I wanted to..." He stopped. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It wasn't my intention to sneak in like this. I didn't think about how it would look." "It's fine," Angel repeated. "Heck, you were the one who made most of those files. Well, half of them, anyway. You're entitled to use them." "Thank you." Wesley looked down at the file in his lap, and then at the floor. Anywhere but at Angel, who was blocking his exit - albeit unthinkingly - and watching him a little too intently. "No, I should - I should be the one. Thanking you, I mean. I'd still be down there in that box if it weren't for you." Wesley didn't know how to respond to this. If he hadn't stolen Connor, then Holtz wouldn't have taken Connor to Quortoth. Connor wouldn't have ended up hating Angel, and Angel wouldn't have ended up at the bottom of the Pacific. The steps from here to there were perfectly clear. No one, not even Angel in his most oblivious moment, could have failed to see them, laid out like a shining path from beginning to end. "Don't thank me," Wesley said finally. He wanted to leave, but standing up and approaching the door meant approaching Angel, and he didn't think he could do that. He felt a trickle on his upper lip and raised the back of his hand to his face. Pulled it away and saw the blood, which was no surprise. "Damn," he muttered, and stood up to take a handkerchief from his pocket. Wesley glanced up at Angel, and Angel looked... concerned. "You okay?" Holding the white cloth to his nose, Wesley nodded. "It's not bad," he said. "How can you tell?" "Because I've had enough of them to know," Wesley said irritably. "And because the bad ones are after the visions, for the most part." He took a few steps to the nearest chair and sat down. "Am I supposed to tilt my head back? Or is it forward?" "Umm... back. I think." Angel moved out of the doorway and into the room. "Can I - ?" "What?" Wesley's voice was muffled. "Can I ask you - I mean, about the visions. When Cordelia gave them to you - did she say anything? About what happened?" Wesley took the handkerchief away from his nose and looked at it. The bleeding was already slowing. "You mean about what happened to her?" "Yeah." "Not in great detail. She said that the Powers That Be needed her, and that she felt obliged to go. She said something about leaving you in the lurch - that she was supposed to meet you?" "Yeah, that's why I was out at the beach when Connor..." Angel trailed off. "For a while there I thought something had happened to her. I thought maybe Connor had done something to - but then, Gunn told me that you saw her." Wesley hesitated. Was there any point in making Angel feel worse by telling him? Would telling him make him feel worse? "She wanted me to..." "What?" "She asked me to give you a message. To tell you that she loves you." Angel looked confused, and then pained, as recognition slowly dawned. "Oh," he said weakly. "I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything. But she was very... insistent." "Yeah, I'll bet," said Angel, absently. "That's our Cordy for you." Wesley stood up and swiped at his nose a few times, doing his best to remove any traces of blood from his face. "It's hard to believe she's gone." Angel nodded. He looked at Wesley critically, came a few steps closer, and held out his hand. Gestured with the other one to Wesley's lip. "You've still got..." Slowly, Wesley handed him the bloodstained square of fabric and waited as Angel wiped the last of the blood from his upper lip. He was so still that he almost forgot to breathe. Angel paused, holding the handkerchief, and tipped Wesley's head up and away from him with one finger on his chin. "Quite a scar," he said softly. He leaned in for a closer look, so close that Wesley's skin tingled, and for just an instant Wesley wondered if Angel was going to kiss him. Or bite him. Both of these thoughts startled him, and he twitched away from Angel before any more rational ones could make themselves known. Angel took a step back, keeping his hands at his sides so as to seem less threatening. "I'm sorry," said Wesley. "I'm not - I don't mean to be - " Angel stood very still. "It's okay," he said calmly. "Natural reaction. Nothing to worry about." He paused. "I'm sorry." Wesley forced himself to reach out and take the handkerchief back from Angel. He stuffed it into his pocket and picked the file up off the desk. "You're sure you don't mind if I - ?" Angel waved a hand at him. "No. Take it." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Unless you wanted to..." Wesley waited. "I mean, you could stay here and read it. If you wanted." Wesley smiled, just a little. The movement stretched his facial muscles in a way that felt unfamiliar. "Well. Thank you, but I think I'll just - take it with me. If you're sure you don't mind." Angel deliberately moved to the right, clearing a path to the doorway. "Okay. So... see you around." And when would that be, exactly? But Wesley nodded and left. He had to steel himself not to glance back as he went out the front door. * * * * * Later that night: Fred grinned as she handed Gunn some chopsticks. "You don't want 'em?" he asked. "I think I'll stick with the forking," she said seriously. "It's enough of a challenge. I won't be ready for chopsticks for... oh, at least another year." Wesley passed the fried rice across the kitchen table to Fred. "I went by the office this afternoon," he said, going for casual, and then suspecting that he'd hit 'painfully obvious' instead. "You - you did?" Fred almost choked on her mouthful of cashews and chicken. "You need something, you're supposed to call me," said Gunn. "Just because you and Angel had one... conversation... that didn't involve him screaming about killing you, doesn't mean everything's cool between you." "Two conversations," said Wesley. "We talked again today. Things were... awkward. Uncomfortable. But not impossibly so." "Why did you go to the office anyway?" asked Fred. "To get the file on Wolfram and Hart. I wanted to go over it, see if I could get a feel for what Lilah and the others might be up to. I was thinking that they might have Connor - perhaps they were involved somehow in what he and Justine did to Angel." "You know what Lilah's been up to," said Gunn. "I hardly think a couple of evenings spent with me could be considered a full time job from her perspective. I was just a diversion - something interesting, to give her something extra to do." "Yeah, something to do," said Gunn darkly, and Wesley felt his cheeks flush. "I don't know what Connor would want with those lawyers," Fred said. "Probably nothing," said Wesley. "I'm more concerned about what they might want with him." "You don't think Lilah would have said anything to you about it? If they had him?" asked Gunn. "If Wolfram and Hart were in on the situation, then I'd imagine she'd have been waiting for me to say something. If I didn't know, she'd have preferred not to tell me." "He could be anywhere," said Fred. "Maybe he and Justine went to... Barbados. Or Hawaii. Or Texas - you don't think they went to Texas, do you?" "No, Fred, I'm sure they didn't go to Texas." Wesley reached over to pat her hand reassuringly. "So what do you think this file's gonna tell you about what they're up to?" Gunn got up to take another beer from Wesley's fridge. "Quite possibly nothing," Wesley admitted. "I just... I suppose I feel the need to do something. Sitting around waiting for the next vision leaves a bit to be desired." After Fred and Gunn had gone home for the evening, Wesley sat up late with the file. He didn't know what he was looking for, and even if he had he wouldn't have expected to find it. But it did feel good to do something productive, or at least something that he could pretend might be productive. He wondered how Angel felt about Connor, considering what the boy had done. Was he angry? Or did he refuse to blame him because Connor had grown up under such terrible conditions? It was possible that Wolfram and Hart hadn't known that Angel was missing, but he thought it unlikely. Did they know that he was back? Wesley hadn't seen or heard from Lilah in more than five weeks. That could mean that she knew that he and the rest of the Angel Investigations team were back in contact again. They must know that Cordelia was gone. Gunn had told him about the attack on Connor and Angel at the drive-in theatre. Wolfram and Hart could have been after Angel - or they could have been after the boy. Wesley suspected the latter. Whatever reasons they might have to be interested in acquiring Connor were most likely unpleasant at best. Wesley wondered if there was a way to coax some information out of Lilah. He'd have to consider it; as unpleasant as it was to spend time with the woman, she might let something slip, something useful. He glanced at the clock - it was after eleven, but he hadn't talked with Lilah for weeks, and there was no time like the present. A quick search of the flat unearthed the business card she'd left with him, office number and cell phone number and, written on the back in her terse handwriting, home number. He considered for a moment and then dialed. The phone rang four times and then there was the click of the receiver being picked up. "Yes?" Lilah said shortly. "It's Wesley." A pause, during which Wesley could imagine her attempting not to look surprised. Then she said, "Well. I heard that you're back in the fold - a little bird saw you going into the Hyperion." He thought quickly. Had she been keeping an eye on him, or just the hotel? It wouldn't do to let her know she was correct. "Ah. No, actually I went in to... acquire some files." "Wesley, Wesley... I'm impressed. Stealing from your former employer. I knew you had it in you." "So happy I could live up to your expectations," he said, trying to force some bitterness into his tone. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?" Lilah sounded smug, confident. Wesley wanted to slap her. "I've been thinking..." He let his voice trail off, hoping that she might take the bait. "Mmm... glad you've decided to stop wasting that big brain of yours." He had to tread carefully. He didn't think he was capable of being subtle enough to slide under her radar undetected, so probably best to just come out with it and see whether she was as clever as she thought she was. "I was thinking about the boy." "Angel Jr.?" "Yes. I was thinking what a powerful tool he could be... in the right hands." "And whose hands would those be, exactly?" "Mine. Yours. Wolfram and Hart's." "You surprise me, Wesley. Are you finally seeing the lure of the dark side?" Wesley closed his eyes. She had no idea how close he had been, only a few weeks ago, to letting her seduction of him go much further than his body. "Let's just say I'm considering my options. And as time goes on, the thought of... how did you put it? Slaughter?... becomes a bit more attractive." She laughed, and he sensed it was genuine. "I hoped you'd come around sooner or later, Wesley. And I don't just mean that figuratively..." Wesley didn't want to see her, but on the other hand, he doubted whether he could manage to get any real information from her unless he got her into a more intimate situation. He would have to convince her that he was seriously considering partnering with Wolfram and Hart. He took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you might like to have a drink. Tomorrow night?" * * * * * They met at the same bar they'd gone to the night they'd seen Angel and Connor fighting off the hoard of vampires. Although the music was loud and the people were boisterous, Wesley knew that after that night he'd always consider a normal one "quiet." Not that he intended to start spending a lot of time here. He'd made an effort to be late, despite his anxiousness to get the encounter over with, so Lilah was already there with a drink in her hand when he arrived. Wesley ordered a scotch and reminded himself to sip it slowly, as letting his facade slip was not part of the evening's plans. "I wondered if you'd show," said Lilah. "I was the one who called you," Wesley replied. "Doesn't mean anything." She shrugged eloquently, one finger tracing with the rim of her glass. "You could have been playing with me." Wesley took a sip of his drink, a very small sip. "Well, here I am." "Yes, here we both are. What can I do for you? And what do you intend to do for me?" "As I said on the phone, I'd been thinking about the boy. Do you recall seeing him fighting, here? And how quick he was? He's going to be an asset to someone, and I thought it might as well be me. Or even... us." "There is no us, Wesley. There's Wolfram and Hart, and there's me. Unless you're thinking about working for the firm or trying to seduce me away from them, you're all alone." She toyed with the rim of her glass some more. "I hear little miss Vision Girl has disappeared." Wesley did his best to look surprised. "Cordelia? Really. I had no idea." "Wesley. Don't underestimate me. You knew." "I assure you, I didn't." Lilah's eyes searched his, and he suspected that he was being all too transparent. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Either way, she's gone - just up and vanished. For a little while we thought Angel'd disappeared too - thought maybe the two of them had gone off somewhere together - but no, he's still around." Lilah looked bored, and Wesley knew it wasn't affected - she didn't think she was sharing anything important. Mildly interesting, perhaps, but in the grand scheme of things, nothing earth-shattering. "Hmm. And the boy?" "We haven't been able to locate him. Shame, really. Linwood was looking forward to seeing what makes that boy tick." "I'm sure." Wesley didn't know how to feel about this. They didn't have Connor, he was sure of it. There must be reasons why she was willing to tell him so - did she think he might help them find the boy? Or was his knowing that they wanted Connor but couldn't find him a piece of some bigger picture? "I'd be rather interested in that myself." "I'm sure you would be," said Lilah, sliding her hand across the bar toward his. Nuclear explosion time again, at the worst possible moment. Wesley felt Lilah's fingers brush against the back of his hand just before the violent light smashed into him. Then he didn't feel anything but the blinding pain in his head, ricocheting around and bouncing off the inside of his skull like a steel ball in a pinball machine. Two young women, dressed in revealing clothing... in a parking lot... the stomach-churning stench of flesh being seared... the sound of screaming, two different voices, high-pitched and echoing. A neon sign that blinked - the flashes of it slicing into his eyes - "Horizon." A dark alley, a tall hulking demon dragging a body behind it, a body that scraped along the concrete leaving chunks of skin and blood in its wake. Wesley drew in a shuddering breath and pushed his face up off of the floor. He looked up and Lilah was standing nearby, staring at him in a mix of horror and disgust. "Damn," he said distinctly. He staggered to his feet and leaned against the bar. "You okay, buddy?" asked the bartender, his face concerned and a little bit afraid. "You need an ambulance or something?" "No," said Wesley, waving his hand wearily in dismissal. "Migraine. They come on very suddenly." He didn't know what it was about labeling his apparent seizures 'migraines' that people found so acceptable - he was confident that if he'd said 'epilepsy', in no matter how casual a tone, the ambulance would be pulling up outside within minutes. Well, twenty minutes. This being LA. Lilah hadn't moved. She was still staring at him, and even as he watched her, he could see the sudden *click* like a shutter behind her eyes, the moment when comprehension dawned and she knew. "Vision Girl gave them to you when she left," she said, almost breathlessly. "I knew that you knew she was gone. What the hell is going on?" "Yes, thank you for your help," Wesley managed, as he dug into his pocket for a bottle of pills and his handkerchief. His nose was barely dripping blood this time. "So nice to know that when the chips are down, you're willing to stand around and watch me scrape myself off the floor." He took two tablets with a sip of his scotch and sighed. "How did she do it? Can you give them to someone else?" "Go away, Lilah." He was tired of it all, tired of the game playing. He knew that this episode signified the end of any confidences she might be willing to share with him. She knew he had the visions. She was relatively sure that he was back in Angel's good graces, or at the very least that he was spending time with Gunn and Fred again. It was clear to him that any hopes she'd had of bringing him in to Wolfram and Hart were dashed, and yet she still thought she saw something in him, something that made her look at him as if he were a particularly valuable commodity. He needed to call Gunn. He didn't have his phone on him, so he'd need a pay phone. Front entrance? Near the bathrooms? He hadn't noticed on the way in. She was still standing there. "Lilah? Have you a phone?" "What? Yes..." "Give it to me." "What?" "Give me your phone," he said, slowly and distinctly. Silent for once - thank god - she took the phone out of her purse and handed it to him. He took it without a word to her and went out the front door of the bar, leaning against the wall to steady himself as he dialed the familiar number. Gunn's phone rang twice before being picked up. "Yeah?" The sound of Gunn's voice sent a wave of relief over Wesley. "Gunn, it's me. Two girls, outside of a place called Horizon, in the parking lot. I think it's a nightclub. Some kind of demon - big, but humanoid - it's going to burn them." "Okay, man, take it easy," said Gunn. Wesley could hear him turn his head away from the phone as he spoke next. "Angel - get the yellow pages - place called Horizon. Might be a nightclub." There was a pause, during which Wesley listened to Gunn's breathing and the soft sound of Fred's voice saying something he couldn't quite make out. "Where are you, Wes?" "East side. Bar..." He couldn't remember the name, so he backed away from the wall and far enough into the street that he could see the sign. "Platinum Moon." He moved back to the wall for support and blotted his nose again, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. It sounded as if Gunn was pressing the mouthpiece of the phone to his cheek - Wesley could hear the conversation, but it was muted. Then Gunn's voice was back, soothing him like a caress. "We're gonna swing by and pick you up." Wesley felt his jaw tighten. He didn't want Lilah to see him with the rest of them, even if she knew. "Not here," he said. He looked around. "There's a Starbucks on the corner. I'll be out front." He went back in to the bar, where his head throbbed in time to the music, and walked up to Lilah. He held the phone out to her, and when she didn't take it he put it on the bar next to her hand and turned away. "Wesley," she said. "Wesley." He didn't look back. * * * * * Ten minutes later Wesley had given up on standing and was sitting down against the door of the closed Starbucks, letting his head rest on the cool glass and hoping that the damned migraine medication would start to do something soon. He hadn't quite decided why the medication seemed so ineffective - was it targetting the wrong part of his brain? Or was it just insufficient in quantity? He'd chanced taking an extra tablet on a couple of occasions with no apparent harm, and it did seem to have helped the pain, but he worried about overdosing. He saw Angel's car coming from a block away and struggled to get his feet under him as it pulled up to the curb. Gunn, in the passenger seat, opened the door for him and then hopped over into the back to sit with Fred. Wesley looked at him questioningly, but Gunn nodded so he got into the front seat and shut the door. "Horizon?" he asked. Angel gestured with his chin, both hands busy on the wheel. "Ten minutes east - we had to pass right by here on the way. You know what it is?" Wesley understood that he was asking about the demon. He shook his head mutely. He felt Fred's small hand touch his shoulder gently, comfortingly. It made him feel better. He'd feel even better if the goddamned medication would kick in. Gunn leaned forward so that he could talk to Wesley without raising his voice. "You okay?" Wesley turned his head, his cheek close enough to Gunn that he could feel the other man's warm breath. He nodded, not wanting to speak if it was a lie. Any time now, drugs. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and pressed his thumbs against his temples, hard. Sometimes that helped. He concentrated on taking deep, measured breaths, in and out very slowly through his nose. Sometimes that helped, as well. When they pulled into the parking lot several minutes later, Angel and Gunn jumped out. Wesley started to open the passenger door. "No," Angel said sharply. "Stay here and keep an eye on Fred." Wesley appreciated the sentiment, and since the reality was he wouldn't be anything but a liability in a fight just now, he stayed put. Fred slid over so that she was directly behind him, pulled him back so that his head was leaning against the seat, and began to massage his temples, occasionally sliding her fingers down to rub at his scalp. "Does that help at all?" she asked. "Yes," he said, very quietly. "Don't worry. They'll be fine. I'm sure they'll be back any minute now." Instead, it was almost twenty minutes before Gunn and Angel returned, but when they did Gunn was grinning despite the scorched smell that lingered around him. "Killed it," he said, before either of them could ask the question. "Standard slice and dice." Gunn threw his axe into the trunk and held his hand out to take Angel's sword from him as well. The two men climbed into the car and Angel turned the key in the ignition. "Wes? Can we... do you want us to take you home?" Angel was looking at him, and his eyes were full of concern. Again. Wesley would have given a million dollars to be at home in his bed, with all the lights out and a pillow over his head to dull the headache that had faded only slightly in the past forty minutes. He closed his eyes again as the car started to move away. He was aware that he hadn't answered Angel's question, and then his attention shifted to the back seat, where Gunn was quietly describing the fight with the demon to Fred. Then with a snap he was awake again, his heart pounding in his chest. They were in front of his apartment building, Angel had just shut off the car, and the back seat was empty. Tentatively, Angel reached out a hand and touched Wesley's shoulder. "Easy." Wesley took a few deep breaths. "I must have been... I didn't realize... sorry." "For falling asleep?" The corner of Angel's mouth quirked up. "Fred thought you probably needed it, so I dropped her and Gunn off first. Been driving around for a little while. Thought you might get a crick in your neck from sleeping like that, though, so... here we are." "Right. Well, thank you for the lift." "No problem. Walk you in?" "Err... all right." As they got out of the car Wesley's mind raced over his earlier conversation with Lilah. When they reached his door, Wesley unlocked it and took a step inside. He threw a glance over his shoulder at Angel and asked, hesitantly, "Come in?" Angel followed him in and watched as Wesley locked the door behind them. "I was hoping... we might talk," said Wesley. "Okay," said Angel. "What about?" Wesley didn't want to say 'Connor.' He didn't think he could. But he could say, "Lilah." "What about her?" "I... I met with her tonight. I was hoping she might be able to answer some questions I had, about..." Connor. He could dance around, inelegantly, for as long as he cared to, but it all came back to this. And yet he found that he wasn't able to say it. He'd have to change tacks. "You wouldn't have killed me," Wesley said. "I - huh?" Wesley waited. "In the hospital," he said finally. Angel looked at him steadily. His eyes were dark, and Wesley thought he had never looked more unreachable. "You're a vampire," said Wesley, keeping his tone as even as possible. "You could kill any human you wanted and barely exert yourself. Especially one who was... lying helpless, in a hospital bed. If you'd really wanted to kill me, you could have done it in a second. You wouldn't have mucked about with pillows - you'd have snapped my neck, or ripped my throat out. No one could have stopped you. Not G