Habit, Part Two
Mar. 24th, 2004 11:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thebratqueenSecond part of the new kinkfic/WIP. And look! I've learned from my mistakes! I already know to provide a way to say that previous parts can be found right here. See? She can be taught =)
PART TWO
On the day that Wesley was given proof of his illness he had felt perversely healthy.
It had been in Paris. Months - a lifetime - before a slick road and an intoxicated driver would thrust Wesley one level higher upon his family tree. The sun had shone. Birds twittered from trees. Tourists, even, had appeared friendly and respectable. Wesley had woken early, dined on cocoa and baguettes, and savored the crisp bread and bittersweet chocolate as though he'd known no food before.
That afternoon he had tracked down Gerald. A friend from school. Prior to the Academy, which meant that they had history enough, still, for Wesley to ask him for a favor, but not so much that Gerald ever knew the lie in the claim that Wesley's father was a high paid solicitor. Gerald was a doctor now. A good one. He lived just outside of Paris. When Wesley had searched for someone who could do the tests and remain under the radar of anyone who might care for the information, Gerald's name had come up.
Wesley fed him a lie about being in Paris on holiday, and managed to convince him to get the results over the course of the weekend.
***
"Anything for an old friend," Gerald said. His movements were quick, efficient. He drew blood from Wesley's veins with a precision that would have been admired by a vampire.
"I appreciate it," Wesley said.
Gerald studied the dark liquid inside of its vial as though he could discern the microscopic contents with the naked eye. "And what's new with you, eh? Ever go into business with your old man?"
"For a time," Wesley said. "We parted ways after some years."
Another vial was added. Still more blood drawn. "Lost your chance to work with the big firm then?"
"On the contrary," Wesley said, managing to keep the irony from his tone. "I ended up working with the largest and most important law firm in all of America."
Gerald looked interested. "How'd that go?"
Wesley swallowed, thinking of his last year with Wolfram & Hart. "I lost my taste for it."
***
Later, the results came back. Gerald's office had a lab of its own. He performed the work personally. By his own admission he had double and triple checked.
"Wesley, I - " Gerald tried to be sympathetic, reassuring. "It's only preliminaries. Nothing's set in stone. And frankly it's so unusual that - "
"No," Wesley said, not needing to raise his voice to stop the flow of unwelcome pity. He stared at the printouts, wondering if he was required by etiquette or at least some sort of karmic fate to thank his father for literally beating the desire for medical lessons into him. He could take in the numbers. He knew what they meant. "Actually, this would be the norm."
"You're familiar with this?" Gerald asked.
"Yes," Wesley said. He picked up all the copies of the tests, wanting no record that he'd been there. At Gerald's questioning look he said, "I know someone. A specialist. He'll want to study these. Determine a course of treatment."
"Of course, of course," Gerald said. Then, "Until then please try to remember that it doesn't *have* to mean - "
Wesley folded the paperwork into his satchel, buckling it closed for safety. "Of course not. As you say, it is only preliminaries. Ridiculous to take this sort of thing as a death warrant."
"Precisely," Gerald said, clearly glad to be rid of the responsibility for any of Wesley's possible despair. "Second opinion and all that. Mustn't take this as the final answer."
But that night, when Wesley went jogging, he ran as much as he ever could. As he ever did. Tearing the ground underneath his feet as he did when he went to the gym. Hitting the pace and the effort that only weeks earlier had been so easy for him.
Halfway through his lungs had protested. His eyes swam black. He staggered to a stop, retching in air as though his throat had been cut.
It was the only second opinion he needed. When he got back to his hotel, he burned the test results and scattered their ashes to the wind.
***
The conference room that he's given is big, and empty. The dark woods of the walls and table offer him no comfort, and the metal arms of his chair are bitterly cold and do not invite him to touch.
Paperwork is scattered before him. Some from Angel, some from others, some Wesley requested to be sent in. He is surprised to discover that there is no new head of Research and Intelligence to either pave or stand in his way. A casual question gives him the answer that his department was folded into Gunn's, and Lindsey's, and that Angel never asked for someone to replace him. Wesley doesn't know if he should take that as a compliment, or a sign of how useless he really was.
What is known about the Los Angeles infestation of Prollta'c demons is not much, but it does not all correspond to what Wesley has taught himself about them. He studies the slim reports, not knowing if he should be happy or sad when the pictures inside of them confirm that it is the same species. Part of him is miserable that he can't pack it in and leave well before Lorne comes home. Another part is selfishly glad to be needed.
He begins work on his own reports. He writes out bullet points of necessary information. He jots notes that try to draw conclusions from the differing points of view. Various accounts catch his attention and he reads and rereads them as though repetition might offer him a clue.
The template books are stacked beside him. Wesley ignores them. Someone has wisely not included the volume which once held the story of Sarah Crewe, but that doesn't mean Wesley is any more inclined to open the rest of them.
"Percy's back."
Wesley looks up, surprised that anyone has come to talk to him. "Spike."
"The vamp, the myth," Spike confirms. He leans against the doorway. "Got you working the coal mines again?"
"Angel asked me to help," Wesley says.
"Right, new demons," Spike says. "Any luck with that?"
Wesley shakes his head. "I've only just started."
Spike frowns. Tilts his head as though trying to catch a thought. "Oh yeah. You got in yesterday?"
"Correct," Wesley says.
"Hey, listen," Spike says, his attitude more somber now, "real sorry about your - "
"Yes, thank you."
It's the same pause of silence that everyone gives. And, when Spike speaks, it's also the exact same segue. "So… want to get a drink or something?"
Unlike the other times, Wesley's answer has changed. He's spent hours in this room. And, more importantly, it's now been days since the drinking of alcohol would be a worry for him. "Yes, actually. I would."
"Oh," Spike says, taken aback. "Uh - all right then."
***
At Wesley's request they go to a restaurant which has California cuisine. He's come to miss the oddly appealing foods which can only be found in the heart of Los Angeles. Wesley orders a wafer-thin pizza with Parma ham, seaweed, and bufala mozzarella. On the side he asks for a salad with thick, buttery slices of avocado. To drink he gets a white wine. It's the only form of alcohol he can handle.
Spike orders a pint, and a burger, which he demands have all the strange bits removed from it. He then slumps in his chair and regards Wesley expectantly. When Wesley does not offer conversation, he tries it on his own. "So… good old England. How is the homeland?"
"Fine," Wesley says. He sips his wine. It's clean, and cool, and reminds him of a stream that flowed by the chalet his parents owned in Switzerland. "Wet. Cold. Dreary. The usual."
"Guess it's not much fun for you these days," Spike says. "What with not seeing much outside of graveyards and all." The look on Wesley's face makes Spike realize the horror of his words. He gamely tries to correct it. "Not - um - I mean some are all right. Stayed in some nice graveyards in my day. Bet your folks have the best. One any vamp'd be proud to call home."
Wesley puts his drink down before he shatters the crystal. He tries to appreciate the vampire's efforts in the manner in which they were intended. "Thank you. It is."
"Do they have the little - " Spike begins, starting to sketch out some part of a crypt in the air, then stops when it's clear Wesley does not want to pursue this avenue of conversation. He drops his hand, mulls it over, then tries again. "Least it's over, right? Dotted your i's, crossed your t's. Don't have to worry about all the bollocks that come with it."
Wesley nods. The details of his parents' wills had only just been finalized the week before. His mother's, to be fair, had been fine. His father's, on the other hand, had proven a nightmare that Wesley wasn't wholly certain hadn't been purposefully intended to torment him after the man's death. Wesley's relief at no longer having to fight with his father's executor - yet another former Council member - is so strong that he answers "Indeed." before the full meaning of Spike's words hit him. "Wait - how did you know that there were problems with my inheritance?"
Spike dodges the question. "Could've asked for help, you know. Got a whole bloody law firm here that would've died to help you. Literally, if it came to it."
"I want nothing to do with Wolfram & Hart," Wesley says.
"Angel's made a lot of changes."
"Which is why I'm here, now, helping him," Wesley says. "But I will *not* do dealings with this firm. Is that understood?"
"Yeah, pet," Spike says. His voice is sympathetic. There's a flash of fellow feeling in his eyes. "Can't say I blame you."
"How did you know?" Wesley asks again.
Spike shrugs. "Didn't everybody?"
Wesley realizes for the first time that Angel must have known, and that the only reason why none of the European branches of Wolfram & Hart dared to try knocking on his door is because the vampire undoubtedly made it clear to his fellow CEOs that any such attempts would prove to be extraordinarily fatal. The gratitude Wesley feels for that humbles him. He'd no idea that Angel would have been that understanding.
"Still," Spike says, "it's over, right? Fat lady sung, drama past, and a nice fat check out of the bargain."
Wesley again reminds himself that for a vampire these words are meant to be supportive. "Yes. I'm glad it's over with."
"Do all right?" Spike asks.
Wesley has calculated the total sum of his newly flush bank account very precisely. "I can live quite comfortably until I am in my fifties."
"Could live *really* well until your forties," Spike counters with a grin.
"No," Wesley says, sipping his wine again. His wealth is not the only thing he's done the math on. "My fifties will be more than adequate, I suspect."
***
The food arrives. Spike chatters on, filling the time with stories about his heroic exploits and the random observations about what things have changed in the time that Wesley's been gone. Wesley lets him talk. There's nothing he, personally, feels moved to speak of and the bulk of his concentration is now focused on his food. What had seemed tempting on the menu now turns his stomach. The wine he had enjoyed is now sour. He mentally curses the food for not arriving when his appetite still existed, and gamely pokes at his meal as though he could reawaken interest in it. He pulls the ham and seaweed to the side and nibbles the crust of his pizza. Angel's observation that he has lost weight rings in his ears. He wonders if he can possibly manage to swallow some toast, or other form of bread.
"You all right?" Spike asks, perhaps noticing how long it's been since Wesley has said or eaten anything.
"Fine," Wesley says. He takes in a breath. Offers a casual smile. "You were saying? Something about Japan?"
"Tibet," Spike says. "Was saying wolf girl went to Tibet."
Wesley pauses at that. This is actually something he is interested in. "Really?"
"Yeah," Spike says. "Wolf boy - uh, Oz - swung by. Said it might be a good idea."
"What did Angel think?" Wesley asks.
Spike shrugs. "Dunno. Doesn't say much about his love life, does he? Look, you *sure* you're all right?"
Wesley drinks water. Tries to mop the sweat from his brow. He's missed his window. He's past the point where he can drink fine wine and enjoy finer food. Now he's on to the unpleasantness. The nausea, the shaking, the thickness in his head which feels like congestion, or fever.
Fortunately all of this makes it easy to lie. But not, of course, with *complete* lies. Truths. Wesley speaks nothing but truths. He only wraps them around themselves and makes them sound as though they are related. "I feel like I might be coming down with something. Feels a bit like flu. Which would be typical, after such a long plane flight. We mortals don't tend to fare well with so much recycled air."
"You know they've got shots for that now," Spike says. "Don't have to go through it like it's 1918."
"I've got pills," Wesley says. He produces a bottle from his satchel, a turn of his wrist inside the bag makes sure the label safely faces towards him. "It should help with the symptoms."
"Could bring you over to medical," Spike offers.
Wesley takes the tablets, washing them down with more of his water. "It's nothing," Wesley says. He checks his watch, noting the time until he can dose himself again. "And I told you I want nothing to do with Wolfram & Hart."
Spike nods, his interest in common human illnesses having waned. "Fair enough."
***
They're met by Lindsey when they return.
"Wes," Lindsey says. There's a quick flash of a smile for greeting, then he continues his words. "Got a security briefing going on. I'd like you to sit in on it."
"Briefing?" Wesley asks.
"We're sending a patrol out," Lindsey explains. "Try to gather more information on the Prollta'c. Anything you can give us - "
"I haven't finished my reports yet," Wesley tells him.
The smile is back again. It's a salesman's smile, though Lindsey manages to make it seem genuine. "Won't take five minutes of your time."
Wesley allows himself to be led into the room.
There are some ten men, women, and demons there, dressed in the black uniforms of Wolfram & Hart's security department. Baseball caps dot every head. Uzis hang from shoulders like purses.
A memo is thrust into Wesley's hand. He skims it while Lindsey is speaking.
"This is intelligence gathering," he explains. "Observe, record, report. Find out what you can about these bastards before we've got even more of them to deal with."
One of the women raises her hand. "Can we bring back a specimen for study?"
"If you think you can," Lindsey says. "But don't do anything stupid. We don't know everything about their weapons yet. Wes? Care to fill us in?"
Wesley looks up. His reflexes are slower than they should be, but fortunately his headache has started to fade. "About what?"
"Anything we're missing on that memo?" Lindsey asks.
Wesley reads it again. It outlines Prollta'c offensive and defensive capabilities. Wesley discovers one item has been forgotten. "Yes. Their venom."
"That's an important one," Lindsey tells the group. "We'll be having a meeting on that and Wes's notes are going to be required reading. I find out any of you don't do the homework and you are off the team, got it?"
"What's the big deal?" one of the men asks.
Lindsey appeals to Wesley for the response. Wesley provides the simpliest answer. "It's fatal. If a Prollta'c bites you in the heat of battle, you won't be alive long enough to make it back here to report."
"Good enough for me," the man replies.
The meeting looks to be over. Then a new voice asks. "How strong are they?"
Wesley looks up. He didn't even realize that Angel was in the room. "Pardon?"
The vampire steps forward from the shadows. "How strong are they?"
Wesley falters. "I - there've been no tests. I could *estimate* if necessary."
"Could they stop a man?" Angel asks. "One on one, are they stronger than a man?"
Wesley swallows, wishing that Angel's gaze did not make his skin itch with guilt. "Yes. They could easily overpower a man."
Angel nods, accepts that. "Okay. Good to know."
Wesley retreats back to the safety of his conference room.
PART TWO
On the day that Wesley was given proof of his illness he had felt perversely healthy.
It had been in Paris. Months - a lifetime - before a slick road and an intoxicated driver would thrust Wesley one level higher upon his family tree. The sun had shone. Birds twittered from trees. Tourists, even, had appeared friendly and respectable. Wesley had woken early, dined on cocoa and baguettes, and savored the crisp bread and bittersweet chocolate as though he'd known no food before.
That afternoon he had tracked down Gerald. A friend from school. Prior to the Academy, which meant that they had history enough, still, for Wesley to ask him for a favor, but not so much that Gerald ever knew the lie in the claim that Wesley's father was a high paid solicitor. Gerald was a doctor now. A good one. He lived just outside of Paris. When Wesley had searched for someone who could do the tests and remain under the radar of anyone who might care for the information, Gerald's name had come up.
Wesley fed him a lie about being in Paris on holiday, and managed to convince him to get the results over the course of the weekend.
***
"Anything for an old friend," Gerald said. His movements were quick, efficient. He drew blood from Wesley's veins with a precision that would have been admired by a vampire.
"I appreciate it," Wesley said.
Gerald studied the dark liquid inside of its vial as though he could discern the microscopic contents with the naked eye. "And what's new with you, eh? Ever go into business with your old man?"
"For a time," Wesley said. "We parted ways after some years."
Another vial was added. Still more blood drawn. "Lost your chance to work with the big firm then?"
"On the contrary," Wesley said, managing to keep the irony from his tone. "I ended up working with the largest and most important law firm in all of America."
Gerald looked interested. "How'd that go?"
Wesley swallowed, thinking of his last year with Wolfram & Hart. "I lost my taste for it."
***
Later, the results came back. Gerald's office had a lab of its own. He performed the work personally. By his own admission he had double and triple checked.
"Wesley, I - " Gerald tried to be sympathetic, reassuring. "It's only preliminaries. Nothing's set in stone. And frankly it's so unusual that - "
"No," Wesley said, not needing to raise his voice to stop the flow of unwelcome pity. He stared at the printouts, wondering if he was required by etiquette or at least some sort of karmic fate to thank his father for literally beating the desire for medical lessons into him. He could take in the numbers. He knew what they meant. "Actually, this would be the norm."
"You're familiar with this?" Gerald asked.
"Yes," Wesley said. He picked up all the copies of the tests, wanting no record that he'd been there. At Gerald's questioning look he said, "I know someone. A specialist. He'll want to study these. Determine a course of treatment."
"Of course, of course," Gerald said. Then, "Until then please try to remember that it doesn't *have* to mean - "
Wesley folded the paperwork into his satchel, buckling it closed for safety. "Of course not. As you say, it is only preliminaries. Ridiculous to take this sort of thing as a death warrant."
"Precisely," Gerald said, clearly glad to be rid of the responsibility for any of Wesley's possible despair. "Second opinion and all that. Mustn't take this as the final answer."
But that night, when Wesley went jogging, he ran as much as he ever could. As he ever did. Tearing the ground underneath his feet as he did when he went to the gym. Hitting the pace and the effort that only weeks earlier had been so easy for him.
Halfway through his lungs had protested. His eyes swam black. He staggered to a stop, retching in air as though his throat had been cut.
It was the only second opinion he needed. When he got back to his hotel, he burned the test results and scattered their ashes to the wind.
***
The conference room that he's given is big, and empty. The dark woods of the walls and table offer him no comfort, and the metal arms of his chair are bitterly cold and do not invite him to touch.
Paperwork is scattered before him. Some from Angel, some from others, some Wesley requested to be sent in. He is surprised to discover that there is no new head of Research and Intelligence to either pave or stand in his way. A casual question gives him the answer that his department was folded into Gunn's, and Lindsey's, and that Angel never asked for someone to replace him. Wesley doesn't know if he should take that as a compliment, or a sign of how useless he really was.
What is known about the Los Angeles infestation of Prollta'c demons is not much, but it does not all correspond to what Wesley has taught himself about them. He studies the slim reports, not knowing if he should be happy or sad when the pictures inside of them confirm that it is the same species. Part of him is miserable that he can't pack it in and leave well before Lorne comes home. Another part is selfishly glad to be needed.
He begins work on his own reports. He writes out bullet points of necessary information. He jots notes that try to draw conclusions from the differing points of view. Various accounts catch his attention and he reads and rereads them as though repetition might offer him a clue.
The template books are stacked beside him. Wesley ignores them. Someone has wisely not included the volume which once held the story of Sarah Crewe, but that doesn't mean Wesley is any more inclined to open the rest of them.
"Percy's back."
Wesley looks up, surprised that anyone has come to talk to him. "Spike."
"The vamp, the myth," Spike confirms. He leans against the doorway. "Got you working the coal mines again?"
"Angel asked me to help," Wesley says.
"Right, new demons," Spike says. "Any luck with that?"
Wesley shakes his head. "I've only just started."
Spike frowns. Tilts his head as though trying to catch a thought. "Oh yeah. You got in yesterday?"
"Correct," Wesley says.
"Hey, listen," Spike says, his attitude more somber now, "real sorry about your - "
"Yes, thank you."
It's the same pause of silence that everyone gives. And, when Spike speaks, it's also the exact same segue. "So… want to get a drink or something?"
Unlike the other times, Wesley's answer has changed. He's spent hours in this room. And, more importantly, it's now been days since the drinking of alcohol would be a worry for him. "Yes, actually. I would."
"Oh," Spike says, taken aback. "Uh - all right then."
***
At Wesley's request they go to a restaurant which has California cuisine. He's come to miss the oddly appealing foods which can only be found in the heart of Los Angeles. Wesley orders a wafer-thin pizza with Parma ham, seaweed, and bufala mozzarella. On the side he asks for a salad with thick, buttery slices of avocado. To drink he gets a white wine. It's the only form of alcohol he can handle.
Spike orders a pint, and a burger, which he demands have all the strange bits removed from it. He then slumps in his chair and regards Wesley expectantly. When Wesley does not offer conversation, he tries it on his own. "So… good old England. How is the homeland?"
"Fine," Wesley says. He sips his wine. It's clean, and cool, and reminds him of a stream that flowed by the chalet his parents owned in Switzerland. "Wet. Cold. Dreary. The usual."
"Guess it's not much fun for you these days," Spike says. "What with not seeing much outside of graveyards and all." The look on Wesley's face makes Spike realize the horror of his words. He gamely tries to correct it. "Not - um - I mean some are all right. Stayed in some nice graveyards in my day. Bet your folks have the best. One any vamp'd be proud to call home."
Wesley puts his drink down before he shatters the crystal. He tries to appreciate the vampire's efforts in the manner in which they were intended. "Thank you. It is."
"Do they have the little - " Spike begins, starting to sketch out some part of a crypt in the air, then stops when it's clear Wesley does not want to pursue this avenue of conversation. He drops his hand, mulls it over, then tries again. "Least it's over, right? Dotted your i's, crossed your t's. Don't have to worry about all the bollocks that come with it."
Wesley nods. The details of his parents' wills had only just been finalized the week before. His mother's, to be fair, had been fine. His father's, on the other hand, had proven a nightmare that Wesley wasn't wholly certain hadn't been purposefully intended to torment him after the man's death. Wesley's relief at no longer having to fight with his father's executor - yet another former Council member - is so strong that he answers "Indeed." before the full meaning of Spike's words hit him. "Wait - how did you know that there were problems with my inheritance?"
Spike dodges the question. "Could've asked for help, you know. Got a whole bloody law firm here that would've died to help you. Literally, if it came to it."
"I want nothing to do with Wolfram & Hart," Wesley says.
"Angel's made a lot of changes."
"Which is why I'm here, now, helping him," Wesley says. "But I will *not* do dealings with this firm. Is that understood?"
"Yeah, pet," Spike says. His voice is sympathetic. There's a flash of fellow feeling in his eyes. "Can't say I blame you."
"How did you know?" Wesley asks again.
Spike shrugs. "Didn't everybody?"
Wesley realizes for the first time that Angel must have known, and that the only reason why none of the European branches of Wolfram & Hart dared to try knocking on his door is because the vampire undoubtedly made it clear to his fellow CEOs that any such attempts would prove to be extraordinarily fatal. The gratitude Wesley feels for that humbles him. He'd no idea that Angel would have been that understanding.
"Still," Spike says, "it's over, right? Fat lady sung, drama past, and a nice fat check out of the bargain."
Wesley again reminds himself that for a vampire these words are meant to be supportive. "Yes. I'm glad it's over with."
"Do all right?" Spike asks.
Wesley has calculated the total sum of his newly flush bank account very precisely. "I can live quite comfortably until I am in my fifties."
"Could live *really* well until your forties," Spike counters with a grin.
"No," Wesley says, sipping his wine again. His wealth is not the only thing he's done the math on. "My fifties will be more than adequate, I suspect."
***
The food arrives. Spike chatters on, filling the time with stories about his heroic exploits and the random observations about what things have changed in the time that Wesley's been gone. Wesley lets him talk. There's nothing he, personally, feels moved to speak of and the bulk of his concentration is now focused on his food. What had seemed tempting on the menu now turns his stomach. The wine he had enjoyed is now sour. He mentally curses the food for not arriving when his appetite still existed, and gamely pokes at his meal as though he could reawaken interest in it. He pulls the ham and seaweed to the side and nibbles the crust of his pizza. Angel's observation that he has lost weight rings in his ears. He wonders if he can possibly manage to swallow some toast, or other form of bread.
"You all right?" Spike asks, perhaps noticing how long it's been since Wesley has said or eaten anything.
"Fine," Wesley says. He takes in a breath. Offers a casual smile. "You were saying? Something about Japan?"
"Tibet," Spike says. "Was saying wolf girl went to Tibet."
Wesley pauses at that. This is actually something he is interested in. "Really?"
"Yeah," Spike says. "Wolf boy - uh, Oz - swung by. Said it might be a good idea."
"What did Angel think?" Wesley asks.
Spike shrugs. "Dunno. Doesn't say much about his love life, does he? Look, you *sure* you're all right?"
Wesley drinks water. Tries to mop the sweat from his brow. He's missed his window. He's past the point where he can drink fine wine and enjoy finer food. Now he's on to the unpleasantness. The nausea, the shaking, the thickness in his head which feels like congestion, or fever.
Fortunately all of this makes it easy to lie. But not, of course, with *complete* lies. Truths. Wesley speaks nothing but truths. He only wraps them around themselves and makes them sound as though they are related. "I feel like I might be coming down with something. Feels a bit like flu. Which would be typical, after such a long plane flight. We mortals don't tend to fare well with so much recycled air."
"You know they've got shots for that now," Spike says. "Don't have to go through it like it's 1918."
"I've got pills," Wesley says. He produces a bottle from his satchel, a turn of his wrist inside the bag makes sure the label safely faces towards him. "It should help with the symptoms."
"Could bring you over to medical," Spike offers.
Wesley takes the tablets, washing them down with more of his water. "It's nothing," Wesley says. He checks his watch, noting the time until he can dose himself again. "And I told you I want nothing to do with Wolfram & Hart."
Spike nods, his interest in common human illnesses having waned. "Fair enough."
***
They're met by Lindsey when they return.
"Wes," Lindsey says. There's a quick flash of a smile for greeting, then he continues his words. "Got a security briefing going on. I'd like you to sit in on it."
"Briefing?" Wesley asks.
"We're sending a patrol out," Lindsey explains. "Try to gather more information on the Prollta'c. Anything you can give us - "
"I haven't finished my reports yet," Wesley tells him.
The smile is back again. It's a salesman's smile, though Lindsey manages to make it seem genuine. "Won't take five minutes of your time."
Wesley allows himself to be led into the room.
There are some ten men, women, and demons there, dressed in the black uniforms of Wolfram & Hart's security department. Baseball caps dot every head. Uzis hang from shoulders like purses.
A memo is thrust into Wesley's hand. He skims it while Lindsey is speaking.
"This is intelligence gathering," he explains. "Observe, record, report. Find out what you can about these bastards before we've got even more of them to deal with."
One of the women raises her hand. "Can we bring back a specimen for study?"
"If you think you can," Lindsey says. "But don't do anything stupid. We don't know everything about their weapons yet. Wes? Care to fill us in?"
Wesley looks up. His reflexes are slower than they should be, but fortunately his headache has started to fade. "About what?"
"Anything we're missing on that memo?" Lindsey asks.
Wesley reads it again. It outlines Prollta'c offensive and defensive capabilities. Wesley discovers one item has been forgotten. "Yes. Their venom."
"That's an important one," Lindsey tells the group. "We'll be having a meeting on that and Wes's notes are going to be required reading. I find out any of you don't do the homework and you are off the team, got it?"
"What's the big deal?" one of the men asks.
Lindsey appeals to Wesley for the response. Wesley provides the simpliest answer. "It's fatal. If a Prollta'c bites you in the heat of battle, you won't be alive long enough to make it back here to report."
"Good enough for me," the man replies.
The meeting looks to be over. Then a new voice asks. "How strong are they?"
Wesley looks up. He didn't even realize that Angel was in the room. "Pardon?"
The vampire steps forward from the shadows. "How strong are they?"
Wesley falters. "I - there've been no tests. I could *estimate* if necessary."
"Could they stop a man?" Angel asks. "One on one, are they stronger than a man?"
Wesley swallows, wishing that Angel's gaze did not make his skin itch with guilt. "Yes. They could easily overpower a man."
Angel nods, accepts that. "Okay. Good to know."
Wesley retreats back to the safety of his conference room.
