Habit, Part Four
Mar. 29th, 2004 01:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thebratqueenETA: Some tweaks and changes have been made based on people's suggestions in the comments. My thanks to those who offered them!
Previous parts can be found here.
PART FOUR
When he'd first left Wolfram & Hart he'd traveled. Drifted from place to place with no particular rhyme or reason other than to not remain wherever he currently was. It was part restlessness, part mourning, part sheer practical worry that any representative from the other branches of the firm would show up on his door one day to quietly inquire as to when he would be fulfilling the rest of his contract in a tone of voice which indicated that "when" both meant "right now" and "don't expect any further kindness from the Senior Partners when you do so."
Not that the Senior Partners had ever been kind.
But time went on and no such visit came. He slowed his journey and eventually settled down in England. London. A flat in Kensington. It wasn't grand, but it suited his needs.
He wrote to those in LA. Electronic communication let replies come quickly, but he found himself not feeling up to maintaining his end of the flow. After the first rounds of assurances that he was alive, all right, and doing better, he fell into a torpor where letters sat in his inbox for longer and longer periods of time without receiving an answer. Eventually he began to delete them, regardless of whether or not he had read them. If anything important happened he assumed they would call.
When no calls came, and when Harmony's chirpy missives with what she termed the "Latest News of the Weirdest Clients" were the only letters he received on any sort of regular basis, Wesley finally admitted to himself that his Los Angeles based life was done with. It was time to move on.
He went into business for himself, spurning the advances of a few old Watchers who thought they could lure him back to their half of the schismed Council. They clucked their tongues at him then left him be.
He spoke to his father once. His mother a few times. They actually began regular communication again, and even if he did not see her he still talked with her on the phone every other week or so. He told her nothing of his life in America, and she didn't ask about it. Most of their talk was about politics, or botany.
Roughly half a year prior to the car accident he ran into Giles again. They were both in Italy working on a case. They eyed one another somewhat warily until Giles acknowledged that he knew Wesley no longer worked with Wolfram & Hart and Wesley acknowledged, though not aloud, that he couldn't dispute Giles's opinion of the firm itself, even if he would defend to the death Angel's right to be in charge of it.
They pooled their resources - Wesley's months of research into the species and its culture matched with three of the Slayers currently under Rupert's wing - and ferreted out a nest of demons that was attempting to make a home for itself in Rome. They weren't kind, they weren't inclined to negotiate, and their opinions on the health and well-beings of humans was such that even Illyria might have felt it erred on the side of testy.
They fought what demons they found, managed to kill most, and then Wesley did what he could to make sure he never spoke to or saw Rupert again. Wesley's father's funeral was the next and last time they ever laid eyes upon each other again.
In the months before his parents' deaths Wesley tried to cope with the reality of his health situation. He tried to come to terms with it, studying it as he would any other problem before him. He learned all that he could about it and tried to extrapolate even further from the lives of those with similar problems - diabetics, cancer victims, those with MS - but he knew, ultimately, that he was fooling himself.
Two months before his mother's death, Wesley sought out those with the same affliction that he had.
He found them. It took cunning, bribery, and occasionally intimidation but he eventually found the ones he sought. They were scattered throughout Europe, some in Asia, and they all had the same tale to tell.
The last, one he tracked down perhaps three and a half weeks before the accident, was a young woman. She was locked away in a hospital with a diagnosis which in no way addressed the truth of her illness. Wesley knew the signs, however, based on the narratives of her medical history and the results of blood tests which foretold the future of his own. He lied his way into seeing her, then stared at her from behind the safety of reinforced glass.
Her body was ravaged. More importantly so was her mind.
That was the moment when Wesley gave up.
***
"Wes! Wes, come join us!"
Wesley stops. He clutches a book to his chest, then tries to relax and hold it in some form of easy manner. It's night, and late enough that only the high-level staff has forgotten to go home. The majority of them, minus Angel and of course the absent Lorne, have gathered in the lobby, sitting casually on desks and office chairs. Gunn is in the middle of it all, and he is trying to wave Wesley over.
"I have work," Wesley tries.
"We all have work," Lindsey says. He does a welcoming wave as well. "C'mon. Quick coffee break won't kill ya."
Wesley joins them, but stands on the outside of their circle. When no one offers conversation, he says, "So what were we talking about?"
"The time that Gunn and I got trapped in the elevator," Harmony says. Her face lights up, and she makes a quick stabbing motion towards Lindsey. "Oh my God, and remember the time you got stuck in there with that Gravlik?"
"Remember?" Lindsey asks. "Lost one of the best suits I ever owned. But doesn't beat the time that *Spike* - "
"Oh shut up," Spike drawls from his perch on the reception desk.
"Got stuck in there with the nubile daughter of one Mr. Yarmel," Lindsey continues, warming to the tale, "for all of - "
"Four hours," Gunn choruses along with Lindsey.
"And comes out with his face covered in lipstick," Lindsey says, "then has the balls to look her daddy in the eye and say - "
The group as a whole, holds their hands up and recites, "I swear I never touched her, mate!"
Laughter goes through those assembled. Wesley holds his book tighter. He tries to wear a smile.
Gunn notices him. He tries to smile in turn, catching the others' attention. "Oh, but if you want a *real* good story, try the time me and Wes cornered this nasty-ass Rhomquo demon down in the sewers off of Sunset."
Lindsey salutes him with his coffee mug. "Oh yeah? Tell us the tale."
"Wes does it better," Gunn promises.
Wesley shakes his head. "I - it's been eight years. I'm sure I - "
"Go on, tell," Stella, the new head of the Science Department, encourages him. She's blond, and petite, and not for the first time Wesley uncharitably thinks that Angel must have hired her. "Gunn says you two were quite the demon hunters back in the day."
"In the day, yes," Wesley says. He's trembling now, and licks of pain flash through along his skin. Going this long with nothing but the pills to sustain him is bad enough. Stress only makes it worse. He steps back, away from the group and the light that they're gathered in. "I'm sorry, I - I really need to finish my work."
He's gone before anyone can protest. Not trusting himself to make it back to his office, Wesley shoves his way into a stairwell. The fire door swings shut behind him. He closes his eyes, lets his back fall against the wall, and gasps in air as though it could somehow heal him. Behind his eyes is the vision of his satchel. His hand twitches with the desire to tear inside of it.
"Wes?"
Wesley jerks, his body as shocked as if Gunn had startled him out of slumber. "Charles."
Gunn comes into the stairwell, his face falling into shadows as the door closes behind him. "You okay?"
Wesley composes himself. He scrubs a rough hand over his face. Tries to look as though he's no more than tired. "Yes. Fine. Thank you."
"Did we say something wrong back there?" Gunn asks. It's difficult to see in the dim light, but Wesley thinks he can make out concern in Gunn's features. "I guess going over old times isn't as much fun for you these days, huh?"
"I find it hard to see how it might be fun for you," Wesley snaps, thinking of fragile girls dying in his arms. Then he hears his own voice and he hates himself for it. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
"No, it's okay," Gunn says. "You're going through a rough time. I get it."
Wesley is aching now. He's missed a window of some sort. Or he's being taxed too greatly. Either way his skin is now clammy, and cold, and it takes far too much effort not to lash out at Gunn again for disturbing what little semblance he had of peace. "It is. Thank you. I - I don't think I'm excellent company at the moment. Can you tender my apologies to the others? Perhaps tomorrow night we can all go out. Dinner. On me."
"Sure, if you want," Gunn says. He steps closer. Wesley flinches back. "Wes?"
"I'd like to be alone now," Wesley says. He keeps his eyes on the stairs in front of him. He wonders where they go. If he ran up them would it be possible for him to escape? He wonders if it's possible for him to run up them at all.
"You don't look so good," Gunn says. He reaches out a hand. "Maybe we should - "
Wesley pushes him away. "Don't."
Gunn comes back. "Wesley - "
"Leave me alone," Wesley tells him. The book is on the floor. He's forgotten when he dropped it. "What does it take to earn some privacy? Go away."
"It's not about privacy," Gunn says. "You look like *shit*. Screw this, I'm getting Stella."
"No," Wesley says.
Gunn's already at the door. "Get pissed at me later if you want. I'm not gonna stand here and watch you fall over. You can kick my ass after if you have to."
Wesley grabs him, twists him back. "I said no."
Gunn moves to pull away from his grip. "Well I'm saying yes."
"You have no right," Wesley says. He pushes Gunn again, feeling satisfaction in it. "You turn your back on me for *years* and you *now* assume right into my personal affairs? It's none of your concern. Stay out of it."
"So there is an it," Gunn retorts, with the arrogance of his fake law degree.
His hands are too unsteady for him to use them as proper threats. "There's nothing."
"Then let me get Stel and we'll prove it," Gunn says.
Wesley tries to stare him down. "You can't trust me?"
Gunn's eyes are dismissive. "Let's just say you aren't too trustworthy."
A brick wall - or something which feels like it - stops him before Wesley's fist can connect with Gunn's jaw.
Angel stands between them, his hand holding Wesley's in a firm grip. "Gunn, why don't you go back to the others?"
Gunn's not certain. "Angel - "
"I can take it from here," Angel says.
Gunn shifts his weight back and forth on his feet, then nods curtly. "Call if you need me."
"Sure," Angel agrees, sounding as though that isn't too likely.
The light brightens and dims with Gunn's leaving. Wesley tries to be still, hoping Angel can't feel how much he's shivering.
"If I let this go are you going to put it away?" Angel asks, still holding Wesley's fist in his hand.
"Yes," Wesley promises.
Angel releases him. "We need to talk."
Wesley wraps both arms around himself. He's not certain how much longer he can stand. "I'm fine."
"That wasn't the question," Angel says. He bends down, picks the book up. Then he places his hand on Wesley's shoulder and guides him towards the door. "More like, we're *going* to talk."
"I have nothing to say," Wesley says.
"Wouldn't worry about that," Angel says. They're in front of an elevator. Angel punches the button for the car that goes only to the penthouse. "'cause I'm feeling real chatty."
The elevator arrives. Wesley gets in. He and Angel ride in silence to the top.
***
"Prollta'c demons," Angel says as he walks into the penthouse. He flicks on a few lamps. "What can you tell me about them?"
Wesley swallows. His head is swimming. His tongue feels thick. "Prollta'c. A new species not from our dimension. According to reports they arrived here some years ago but were not known about until - "
Angel slams the book down onto a countertop. Wesley jumps back, wishing he had a wall to steady himself against. "Prollta'c," Angel repeats. "What can you tell me about them?"
Wesley tightens his hands into fists, feeling his fingernails bite into skin. "They are unfriendly demons who seek to either destroy humanity or enslave them. Carnivorous by nature they feed mostly by - "
Angel's in his face now, shoving him back into the wall he so desperately needs. "Prollta'c. What can *you* tell me about them?"
Several long moments pass. Wesley can hear his breath rattling in his lungs. Angel's eyes remain on him, steady and unblinking. Finally, Wesley says, "They are best known for their venom."
"Really," Angel says, the word not really a question. He steps back, folding his own arms in turn. "Do tell."
Wesley stares at the floor. It takes several tries before he manages to work his voice again. "Their venom is highly toxic, and valuable. A single bite in the heat of battle is fatal to a human, and kills within minutes."
"And why is that?" Angel asks, the very image of a teacher demanding a recitation.
"It takes over their bodies," Wesley says. His arms spasm, and he holds himself tighter to try to keep them still. "First they are subdued, then the venom takes over the bloodstream, perverting the body's natural makeup until the victim no longer has any true blood or hormones with which to survive."
"Lousy way to go," Angel says.
The wall is the only thing that's keeping Wesley standing. "Indeed," he whispers.
"Why is it valuable?" Angel asks, his tone now something approximating gentle.
"Be-because - " Wesley sucks in a breath, trying to control himself. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the words out past chattering teeth. "They aren't f-from this dimension. The venom can - can be distilled into a poison."
"Something not as obvious as a killing bite," Angel says, granting him a moment with which to control himself.
Wesley nods. If he curled up any tighter on himself he'd be fetal. "P-perfect murder weapon."
"Because it's undetectable," Angel says. "Because they're not from this dimension."
"N-no hospital can test for it," Wesley says. His fingers are starting to claw into his own skin. His arm itches, and he struggles to concentrate. "It - it reads as an autoimmune virus. I-it reads as HIV."
"So our less savory clients can use this to kill anyone who stands in their way," Angel says, "and leave no trace of outside influence behind."
"Exactly," Wesley says. Nausea moves through him. Sparks dance in front of his closed eyes. The earth rocks beneath his feet. "A-Angel - "
As if by magic, a couch appears underneath him. Wesley didn't even feel himself be moved. Angel's hands touch him, reach for his own, grasp them so that he can't keep cutting into his own skin. The gesture is so kind and tender Wesley wants to apologize to Angel for teasing him with the scent of the blood, but he's not sure if he's bleeding and he's not sure if the contact isn't wishful thinking either.
"Tell me the rest, Wes," Angel says.
Everything hurts so much Wesley's ready to cry. He's not sure that he isn't. Over a year of denial threatens to shape his lips, but Angel's borrowed strength gives him what he needs to do otherwise. Unfortunately, his emotions aren't enough to control his body. "It… it has…. It…"
"It has another value, doesn't it?" Angel says, giving the answer for him.
Wesley nods. "Yes."
There's something wet and cool against his face. Wesley realizes it's a washcloth. He presses into it as Angel's voice continues. "It doesn't have to kill at once. It can kill over time. Slowly. With lower doses. It gradually replaces the body's chemicals with its own, right?"
"Right," Wesley says. Or thinks he says.
"Except at lower doses it's different," Angel continues. The cloth is swiping over Wesley's hands, lightly dabbing at the palms. "Because it doesn't mutate everything at once so it creates a void. It takes away chemicals the body needs, and if something doesn't replace them the body starts to protest."
"Yes," Wesley says. His head throbs. He opens his eyes to try to clear it. The room is spinning. He holds on to Angel's arm for support.
"A victim can ironically prolong their life by taking low doses of the venom," Angel says, looking up at him. "By maintaining the fucked up proportions that the toxin creates. They'll still die, but they can live a little longer."
Wesley struggles to maintain eye contact. "Yes."
"And it does one other thing too," Angel says. He holds Wesley's hand, saying nothing. Wesley realizes that Angel wants him to give the answer. He holds Angel's hand as best he can.
"It works as a narcotic," Wesley says, his voice so soft only a vampire could hear it. "It subdues, then poisons. T-the toxin can also act like a narcotic."
"You were attacked in Rome," Angel says.
Wesley nods. His clothes are drenched with sweat, and clinging to his skin.
"You and Giles fought some of the demons," Angel says. "You had a client whose daughter was hooked, Giles had Slayers and thought the demons would make a good training exercise. You went in together but during the fight you separated, and afterwards Giles never saw you again. You got bit. You got poisoned somehow, but not enough to kill."
"T-tiny dose," Wesley says. He laughs, but it's a pale imitation of humor. "H-hardly noticeable. S-scrape of-of a fang. S-so close it almost missed."
"It's not your fault, Wes," Angel says.
"Could have been stronger," Wesley says. "C-could have fought better."
"Said it yourself," Angel reminds him. "They're much stronger than a man."
Wesley looks at Angel in confusion. "If-if you knew, why - "
"After you left I had people keep an eye on you," Angel says. He gives a slightly scolding look. "Especially when you wouldn't write back. Figured if you wanted to be quiet, okay, but I was going to know if you were all right. So yeah, I knew you got hurt. But then you kept going in and out of hiding, and all I had was what Giles told me. And between that and your parents dying there was one thing I couldn't figure out."
"What?" Wesley asks.
Angel stands up. He walks into the darkness of his bedroom, then comes back with Wesley's satchel. He opens it up, tears apart the hidden lining without even looking, then produces a syringe. "I couldn't figure out when you started taking it just for pleasure."
Seeing what he's longed for all week is almost too much for him. Wesley nearly passes out from the effort it takes not to snatch it out of Angel's hand.
Angel sits down beside him, the syringe held carefully in his fingers. "My guess was your mom's funeral. You managed to keep to just the maintenance dose for half a year, then lost it when you had to go through your mom's funeral."
Wesley gives a bark of laughter. "Be a nice lie. P-pretend I was that brave, or strong."
"You are," Angel says.
"About a month before," Wesley says. He faces Angel, wanting to throw this out at him, to rub in the truth of the disappointment he's become. "M-Mum was fine. Healthy. *I* was weak. And I - "
"Saw your client's daughter," Angel finishes, realization shaping his features. "The one you'd been hired for."
"She was raving," Wesley says, the trembling in his body now coming from fear as much as withdrawal. "Insane. Her mind completely d-decimated - " the laugh is a sob now, as he hears how little he's able to speak his own thoughts. "God, Angel - "
"Come here," Angel says. He puts his arm around Wesley, drawing him close. "You've gone too long without. That's not healthy anymore."
"I used to be able to," Wesley says. He lets Angel take his hand, unbutton the cuff of his shirt sleeve. He winces at the sight of his own ravaged veins. "Weeks. Weeks with tiny doses. I c-couldn't fight or even take exercise but… I-I could live with it."
Angel reaches into the satchel again. Pulls out a rubber tourniquet and a premoistened cotton pad. The tourniquet goes around Wesley's upper arm. Then Angel tears open the packaging for the pad and rubs it against Wesley's skin. "You can't do that now that you're on the higher dose, Wes. You can't go back. You can only maintain."
"You knew," Wesley says, watching all of this as if from a great distance. "All this time, you knew."
Angel taps Wesley's skin, studying the rising veins with a critical eye. "Actually did need your expertise on this, because we've got Prollta'c here, dealers and all. But I could've always called you on the phone for that. Yeah, Wes. I hauled you back here because I knew. If you hadn't come willingly, I would've tracked you down myself."
"T-the others?" Wesley asks.
Angel shakes his head. "I didn't tell them anything. Gunn's probably figured out that you're not exactly healthy, but other than that nobody else knows. Just me. I didn't spread it around."
"I - " Angel's thumb distracts him as it dances over the faded bruises on his arm. "H-how did you … If I was hiding, h-how did you know - "
"That you were taking for pleasure?" Angel asks, looking over at him.
Wesley nods. His body is so keyed for the shot now that his mouth is dry.
"Because I knew only something like that would make you so desperate that you'd steal money from Giles," Angel says. "You're going to pay him back for that, by the way."
Wesley nearly bites through his own lower lip as he tries to clamp down on the sickening wave of his humiliation. It isn't the first time that he's savagely mocked himself for being so base and weak during that act of friendship after his father's funeral. "I - I did. B-before I left. T-the inheritance. I only n-needed it to come through - "
The caress of Angel's hand silences him. "Okay, good. At least that's settled. Next up is your mistaken belief that you can handle this by yourself, or that I'm letting you fly back to England."
"A-Angel," Wesley pleads. "I c-can't. I can't *do* it."
"You can," Angel says. He uncaps the needle, then flicks the syringe with his index finger to coax the air bubble towards the top, then out of the syringe itself.
"I *can't*," Wesley says, desperation lending strength to his words. "I thought I could. I thought I could live a *week* on - on lesser doses, on pills, but - I *can't*. Angel, it's killing me and I can't stop."
Angel looks at him, his eyes dark, and gentle. "That's why they call it addiction, Wes. And I know you can't stop, but at least we can control it. And who knows? I've got the big, semi-evil law firm here. Maybe I can find you a loophole."
"Why?" Wesley asks.
Angel either doesn't hear, or chooses to ignore him. Satisfied with the vein which has finally appeared for him, Angel slides the needle in with a finesse so expert that Wesley barely feels the pinch of it. The tourniquet is released, the plunger is depressed, and the dose finally shoots its way into Wesley's circulation. Angel pulls out the needle, presses a clean cotton pad onto the wound, then bends Wesley's arm shut over it. "Could ask you the same question."
The trembling now is wholly different. Wesley tries to focus in his last few moments of clarity. "What?"
"I know what seeing the girl must have done to you," Angel says, safely capping the needle again. "But addiction is about more than that. You willingly dosed yourself higher. Why? What were you looking to get out of it? What *do* you get out of it?"
Wesley's eyes have drifted to half-mast. He can feel the first few tendrils of sleepy giddiness start to slip inside of him. When he speaks his words are no longer staccato, but slurred. "I get… what it feels like."
Angel's voice comes from miles away. "What does it feel like?"
His skin is tingling. Champagne-small bubbles are floating through his mind. "Like… I never failed anyone."
Everything tilts. There's hard and strong things against him, and he realizes that Angel has pulled him against his chest. "You don't go through this alone anymore. We'll fix you, or at least get you stable. And for the record, Wes, that's my answer too."
"Answer?" Wesley murmurs, the sensation of his cheek against Angel's shirt is almost enough to make him lose thought altogether.
"To why I'm helping you," Angel says. He presses a kiss against Wesley's forehead. "I'm doing it because I don't think you're a failure. Not even now. Not even with this."
"'s going to kill me," Wesley reminds him, feeling this is important to say, even if he can't remember why or how that relates to the way Angel is touching him.
"Not if I can help it," Angel says.
"Don't want to die," Wesley says, holding tight to Angel's chest.
"Then we'll take that as our first step," Angel says. He runs his own hand up and down Wesley's back.
Wesley curls into the touch. "Only eleven more to go?" he asks.
Angel laughs, softly. "Yeah. Something like that."
The final rush lifts up, and overcomes him. The world drops away, and takes all of his unpleasant memories with it.
But for the first time, Wesley fights it, and he struggles to hold on to what Angel gave him.
He turns away from his fellow-feeling with Illyria's bitterness, and he tries hard to remember Fred's hope.
It's not enough, but it's a start.
End.
Previous parts can be found here.
PART FOUR
When he'd first left Wolfram & Hart he'd traveled. Drifted from place to place with no particular rhyme or reason other than to not remain wherever he currently was. It was part restlessness, part mourning, part sheer practical worry that any representative from the other branches of the firm would show up on his door one day to quietly inquire as to when he would be fulfilling the rest of his contract in a tone of voice which indicated that "when" both meant "right now" and "don't expect any further kindness from the Senior Partners when you do so."
Not that the Senior Partners had ever been kind.
But time went on and no such visit came. He slowed his journey and eventually settled down in England. London. A flat in Kensington. It wasn't grand, but it suited his needs.
He wrote to those in LA. Electronic communication let replies come quickly, but he found himself not feeling up to maintaining his end of the flow. After the first rounds of assurances that he was alive, all right, and doing better, he fell into a torpor where letters sat in his inbox for longer and longer periods of time without receiving an answer. Eventually he began to delete them, regardless of whether or not he had read them. If anything important happened he assumed they would call.
When no calls came, and when Harmony's chirpy missives with what she termed the "Latest News of the Weirdest Clients" were the only letters he received on any sort of regular basis, Wesley finally admitted to himself that his Los Angeles based life was done with. It was time to move on.
He went into business for himself, spurning the advances of a few old Watchers who thought they could lure him back to their half of the schismed Council. They clucked their tongues at him then left him be.
He spoke to his father once. His mother a few times. They actually began regular communication again, and even if he did not see her he still talked with her on the phone every other week or so. He told her nothing of his life in America, and she didn't ask about it. Most of their talk was about politics, or botany.
Roughly half a year prior to the car accident he ran into Giles again. They were both in Italy working on a case. They eyed one another somewhat warily until Giles acknowledged that he knew Wesley no longer worked with Wolfram & Hart and Wesley acknowledged, though not aloud, that he couldn't dispute Giles's opinion of the firm itself, even if he would defend to the death Angel's right to be in charge of it.
They pooled their resources - Wesley's months of research into the species and its culture matched with three of the Slayers currently under Rupert's wing - and ferreted out a nest of demons that was attempting to make a home for itself in Rome. They weren't kind, they weren't inclined to negotiate, and their opinions on the health and well-beings of humans was such that even Illyria might have felt it erred on the side of testy.
They fought what demons they found, managed to kill most, and then Wesley did what he could to make sure he never spoke to or saw Rupert again. Wesley's father's funeral was the next and last time they ever laid eyes upon each other again.
In the months before his parents' deaths Wesley tried to cope with the reality of his health situation. He tried to come to terms with it, studying it as he would any other problem before him. He learned all that he could about it and tried to extrapolate even further from the lives of those with similar problems - diabetics, cancer victims, those with MS - but he knew, ultimately, that he was fooling himself.
Two months before his mother's death, Wesley sought out those with the same affliction that he had.
He found them. It took cunning, bribery, and occasionally intimidation but he eventually found the ones he sought. They were scattered throughout Europe, some in Asia, and they all had the same tale to tell.
The last, one he tracked down perhaps three and a half weeks before the accident, was a young woman. She was locked away in a hospital with a diagnosis which in no way addressed the truth of her illness. Wesley knew the signs, however, based on the narratives of her medical history and the results of blood tests which foretold the future of his own. He lied his way into seeing her, then stared at her from behind the safety of reinforced glass.
Her body was ravaged. More importantly so was her mind.
That was the moment when Wesley gave up.
***
"Wes! Wes, come join us!"
Wesley stops. He clutches a book to his chest, then tries to relax and hold it in some form of easy manner. It's night, and late enough that only the high-level staff has forgotten to go home. The majority of them, minus Angel and of course the absent Lorne, have gathered in the lobby, sitting casually on desks and office chairs. Gunn is in the middle of it all, and he is trying to wave Wesley over.
"I have work," Wesley tries.
"We all have work," Lindsey says. He does a welcoming wave as well. "C'mon. Quick coffee break won't kill ya."
Wesley joins them, but stands on the outside of their circle. When no one offers conversation, he says, "So what were we talking about?"
"The time that Gunn and I got trapped in the elevator," Harmony says. Her face lights up, and she makes a quick stabbing motion towards Lindsey. "Oh my God, and remember the time you got stuck in there with that Gravlik?"
"Remember?" Lindsey asks. "Lost one of the best suits I ever owned. But doesn't beat the time that *Spike* - "
"Oh shut up," Spike drawls from his perch on the reception desk.
"Got stuck in there with the nubile daughter of one Mr. Yarmel," Lindsey continues, warming to the tale, "for all of - "
"Four hours," Gunn choruses along with Lindsey.
"And comes out with his face covered in lipstick," Lindsey says, "then has the balls to look her daddy in the eye and say - "
The group as a whole, holds their hands up and recites, "I swear I never touched her, mate!"
Laughter goes through those assembled. Wesley holds his book tighter. He tries to wear a smile.
Gunn notices him. He tries to smile in turn, catching the others' attention. "Oh, but if you want a *real* good story, try the time me and Wes cornered this nasty-ass Rhomquo demon down in the sewers off of Sunset."
Lindsey salutes him with his coffee mug. "Oh yeah? Tell us the tale."
"Wes does it better," Gunn promises.
Wesley shakes his head. "I - it's been eight years. I'm sure I - "
"Go on, tell," Stella, the new head of the Science Department, encourages him. She's blond, and petite, and not for the first time Wesley uncharitably thinks that Angel must have hired her. "Gunn says you two were quite the demon hunters back in the day."
"In the day, yes," Wesley says. He's trembling now, and licks of pain flash through along his skin. Going this long with nothing but the pills to sustain him is bad enough. Stress only makes it worse. He steps back, away from the group and the light that they're gathered in. "I'm sorry, I - I really need to finish my work."
He's gone before anyone can protest. Not trusting himself to make it back to his office, Wesley shoves his way into a stairwell. The fire door swings shut behind him. He closes his eyes, lets his back fall against the wall, and gasps in air as though it could somehow heal him. Behind his eyes is the vision of his satchel. His hand twitches with the desire to tear inside of it.
"Wes?"
Wesley jerks, his body as shocked as if Gunn had startled him out of slumber. "Charles."
Gunn comes into the stairwell, his face falling into shadows as the door closes behind him. "You okay?"
Wesley composes himself. He scrubs a rough hand over his face. Tries to look as though he's no more than tired. "Yes. Fine. Thank you."
"Did we say something wrong back there?" Gunn asks. It's difficult to see in the dim light, but Wesley thinks he can make out concern in Gunn's features. "I guess going over old times isn't as much fun for you these days, huh?"
"I find it hard to see how it might be fun for you," Wesley snaps, thinking of fragile girls dying in his arms. Then he hears his own voice and he hates himself for it. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
"No, it's okay," Gunn says. "You're going through a rough time. I get it."
Wesley is aching now. He's missed a window of some sort. Or he's being taxed too greatly. Either way his skin is now clammy, and cold, and it takes far too much effort not to lash out at Gunn again for disturbing what little semblance he had of peace. "It is. Thank you. I - I don't think I'm excellent company at the moment. Can you tender my apologies to the others? Perhaps tomorrow night we can all go out. Dinner. On me."
"Sure, if you want," Gunn says. He steps closer. Wesley flinches back. "Wes?"
"I'd like to be alone now," Wesley says. He keeps his eyes on the stairs in front of him. He wonders where they go. If he ran up them would it be possible for him to escape? He wonders if it's possible for him to run up them at all.
"You don't look so good," Gunn says. He reaches out a hand. "Maybe we should - "
Wesley pushes him away. "Don't."
Gunn comes back. "Wesley - "
"Leave me alone," Wesley tells him. The book is on the floor. He's forgotten when he dropped it. "What does it take to earn some privacy? Go away."
"It's not about privacy," Gunn says. "You look like *shit*. Screw this, I'm getting Stella."
"No," Wesley says.
Gunn's already at the door. "Get pissed at me later if you want. I'm not gonna stand here and watch you fall over. You can kick my ass after if you have to."
Wesley grabs him, twists him back. "I said no."
Gunn moves to pull away from his grip. "Well I'm saying yes."
"You have no right," Wesley says. He pushes Gunn again, feeling satisfaction in it. "You turn your back on me for *years* and you *now* assume right into my personal affairs? It's none of your concern. Stay out of it."
"So there is an it," Gunn retorts, with the arrogance of his fake law degree.
His hands are too unsteady for him to use them as proper threats. "There's nothing."
"Then let me get Stel and we'll prove it," Gunn says.
Wesley tries to stare him down. "You can't trust me?"
Gunn's eyes are dismissive. "Let's just say you aren't too trustworthy."
A brick wall - or something which feels like it - stops him before Wesley's fist can connect with Gunn's jaw.
Angel stands between them, his hand holding Wesley's in a firm grip. "Gunn, why don't you go back to the others?"
Gunn's not certain. "Angel - "
"I can take it from here," Angel says.
Gunn shifts his weight back and forth on his feet, then nods curtly. "Call if you need me."
"Sure," Angel agrees, sounding as though that isn't too likely.
The light brightens and dims with Gunn's leaving. Wesley tries to be still, hoping Angel can't feel how much he's shivering.
"If I let this go are you going to put it away?" Angel asks, still holding Wesley's fist in his hand.
"Yes," Wesley promises.
Angel releases him. "We need to talk."
Wesley wraps both arms around himself. He's not certain how much longer he can stand. "I'm fine."
"That wasn't the question," Angel says. He bends down, picks the book up. Then he places his hand on Wesley's shoulder and guides him towards the door. "More like, we're *going* to talk."
"I have nothing to say," Wesley says.
"Wouldn't worry about that," Angel says. They're in front of an elevator. Angel punches the button for the car that goes only to the penthouse. "'cause I'm feeling real chatty."
The elevator arrives. Wesley gets in. He and Angel ride in silence to the top.
***
"Prollta'c demons," Angel says as he walks into the penthouse. He flicks on a few lamps. "What can you tell me about them?"
Wesley swallows. His head is swimming. His tongue feels thick. "Prollta'c. A new species not from our dimension. According to reports they arrived here some years ago but were not known about until - "
Angel slams the book down onto a countertop. Wesley jumps back, wishing he had a wall to steady himself against. "Prollta'c," Angel repeats. "What can you tell me about them?"
Wesley tightens his hands into fists, feeling his fingernails bite into skin. "They are unfriendly demons who seek to either destroy humanity or enslave them. Carnivorous by nature they feed mostly by - "
Angel's in his face now, shoving him back into the wall he so desperately needs. "Prollta'c. What can *you* tell me about them?"
Several long moments pass. Wesley can hear his breath rattling in his lungs. Angel's eyes remain on him, steady and unblinking. Finally, Wesley says, "They are best known for their venom."
"Really," Angel says, the word not really a question. He steps back, folding his own arms in turn. "Do tell."
Wesley stares at the floor. It takes several tries before he manages to work his voice again. "Their venom is highly toxic, and valuable. A single bite in the heat of battle is fatal to a human, and kills within minutes."
"And why is that?" Angel asks, the very image of a teacher demanding a recitation.
"It takes over their bodies," Wesley says. His arms spasm, and he holds himself tighter to try to keep them still. "First they are subdued, then the venom takes over the bloodstream, perverting the body's natural makeup until the victim no longer has any true blood or hormones with which to survive."
"Lousy way to go," Angel says.
The wall is the only thing that's keeping Wesley standing. "Indeed," he whispers.
"Why is it valuable?" Angel asks, his tone now something approximating gentle.
"Be-because - " Wesley sucks in a breath, trying to control himself. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the words out past chattering teeth. "They aren't f-from this dimension. The venom can - can be distilled into a poison."
"Something not as obvious as a killing bite," Angel says, granting him a moment with which to control himself.
Wesley nods. If he curled up any tighter on himself he'd be fetal. "P-perfect murder weapon."
"Because it's undetectable," Angel says. "Because they're not from this dimension."
"N-no hospital can test for it," Wesley says. His fingers are starting to claw into his own skin. His arm itches, and he struggles to concentrate. "It - it reads as an autoimmune virus. I-it reads as HIV."
"So our less savory clients can use this to kill anyone who stands in their way," Angel says, "and leave no trace of outside influence behind."
"Exactly," Wesley says. Nausea moves through him. Sparks dance in front of his closed eyes. The earth rocks beneath his feet. "A-Angel - "
As if by magic, a couch appears underneath him. Wesley didn't even feel himself be moved. Angel's hands touch him, reach for his own, grasp them so that he can't keep cutting into his own skin. The gesture is so kind and tender Wesley wants to apologize to Angel for teasing him with the scent of the blood, but he's not sure if he's bleeding and he's not sure if the contact isn't wishful thinking either.
"Tell me the rest, Wes," Angel says.
Everything hurts so much Wesley's ready to cry. He's not sure that he isn't. Over a year of denial threatens to shape his lips, but Angel's borrowed strength gives him what he needs to do otherwise. Unfortunately, his emotions aren't enough to control his body. "It… it has…. It…"
"It has another value, doesn't it?" Angel says, giving the answer for him.
Wesley nods. "Yes."
There's something wet and cool against his face. Wesley realizes it's a washcloth. He presses into it as Angel's voice continues. "It doesn't have to kill at once. It can kill over time. Slowly. With lower doses. It gradually replaces the body's chemicals with its own, right?"
"Right," Wesley says. Or thinks he says.
"Except at lower doses it's different," Angel continues. The cloth is swiping over Wesley's hands, lightly dabbing at the palms. "Because it doesn't mutate everything at once so it creates a void. It takes away chemicals the body needs, and if something doesn't replace them the body starts to protest."
"Yes," Wesley says. His head throbs. He opens his eyes to try to clear it. The room is spinning. He holds on to Angel's arm for support.
"A victim can ironically prolong their life by taking low doses of the venom," Angel says, looking up at him. "By maintaining the fucked up proportions that the toxin creates. They'll still die, but they can live a little longer."
Wesley struggles to maintain eye contact. "Yes."
"And it does one other thing too," Angel says. He holds Wesley's hand, saying nothing. Wesley realizes that Angel wants him to give the answer. He holds Angel's hand as best he can.
"It works as a narcotic," Wesley says, his voice so soft only a vampire could hear it. "It subdues, then poisons. T-the toxin can also act like a narcotic."
"You were attacked in Rome," Angel says.
Wesley nods. His clothes are drenched with sweat, and clinging to his skin.
"You and Giles fought some of the demons," Angel says. "You had a client whose daughter was hooked, Giles had Slayers and thought the demons would make a good training exercise. You went in together but during the fight you separated, and afterwards Giles never saw you again. You got bit. You got poisoned somehow, but not enough to kill."
"T-tiny dose," Wesley says. He laughs, but it's a pale imitation of humor. "H-hardly noticeable. S-scrape of-of a fang. S-so close it almost missed."
"It's not your fault, Wes," Angel says.
"Could have been stronger," Wesley says. "C-could have fought better."
"Said it yourself," Angel reminds him. "They're much stronger than a man."
Wesley looks at Angel in confusion. "If-if you knew, why - "
"After you left I had people keep an eye on you," Angel says. He gives a slightly scolding look. "Especially when you wouldn't write back. Figured if you wanted to be quiet, okay, but I was going to know if you were all right. So yeah, I knew you got hurt. But then you kept going in and out of hiding, and all I had was what Giles told me. And between that and your parents dying there was one thing I couldn't figure out."
"What?" Wesley asks.
Angel stands up. He walks into the darkness of his bedroom, then comes back with Wesley's satchel. He opens it up, tears apart the hidden lining without even looking, then produces a syringe. "I couldn't figure out when you started taking it just for pleasure."
Seeing what he's longed for all week is almost too much for him. Wesley nearly passes out from the effort it takes not to snatch it out of Angel's hand.
Angel sits down beside him, the syringe held carefully in his fingers. "My guess was your mom's funeral. You managed to keep to just the maintenance dose for half a year, then lost it when you had to go through your mom's funeral."
Wesley gives a bark of laughter. "Be a nice lie. P-pretend I was that brave, or strong."
"You are," Angel says.
"About a month before," Wesley says. He faces Angel, wanting to throw this out at him, to rub in the truth of the disappointment he's become. "M-Mum was fine. Healthy. *I* was weak. And I - "
"Saw your client's daughter," Angel finishes, realization shaping his features. "The one you'd been hired for."
"She was raving," Wesley says, the trembling in his body now coming from fear as much as withdrawal. "Insane. Her mind completely d-decimated - " the laugh is a sob now, as he hears how little he's able to speak his own thoughts. "God, Angel - "
"Come here," Angel says. He puts his arm around Wesley, drawing him close. "You've gone too long without. That's not healthy anymore."
"I used to be able to," Wesley says. He lets Angel take his hand, unbutton the cuff of his shirt sleeve. He winces at the sight of his own ravaged veins. "Weeks. Weeks with tiny doses. I c-couldn't fight or even take exercise but… I-I could live with it."
Angel reaches into the satchel again. Pulls out a rubber tourniquet and a premoistened cotton pad. The tourniquet goes around Wesley's upper arm. Then Angel tears open the packaging for the pad and rubs it against Wesley's skin. "You can't do that now that you're on the higher dose, Wes. You can't go back. You can only maintain."
"You knew," Wesley says, watching all of this as if from a great distance. "All this time, you knew."
Angel taps Wesley's skin, studying the rising veins with a critical eye. "Actually did need your expertise on this, because we've got Prollta'c here, dealers and all. But I could've always called you on the phone for that. Yeah, Wes. I hauled you back here because I knew. If you hadn't come willingly, I would've tracked you down myself."
"T-the others?" Wesley asks.
Angel shakes his head. "I didn't tell them anything. Gunn's probably figured out that you're not exactly healthy, but other than that nobody else knows. Just me. I didn't spread it around."
"I - " Angel's thumb distracts him as it dances over the faded bruises on his arm. "H-how did you … If I was hiding, h-how did you know - "
"That you were taking for pleasure?" Angel asks, looking over at him.
Wesley nods. His body is so keyed for the shot now that his mouth is dry.
"Because I knew only something like that would make you so desperate that you'd steal money from Giles," Angel says. "You're going to pay him back for that, by the way."
Wesley nearly bites through his own lower lip as he tries to clamp down on the sickening wave of his humiliation. It isn't the first time that he's savagely mocked himself for being so base and weak during that act of friendship after his father's funeral. "I - I did. B-before I left. T-the inheritance. I only n-needed it to come through - "
The caress of Angel's hand silences him. "Okay, good. At least that's settled. Next up is your mistaken belief that you can handle this by yourself, or that I'm letting you fly back to England."
"A-Angel," Wesley pleads. "I c-can't. I can't *do* it."
"You can," Angel says. He uncaps the needle, then flicks the syringe with his index finger to coax the air bubble towards the top, then out of the syringe itself.
"I *can't*," Wesley says, desperation lending strength to his words. "I thought I could. I thought I could live a *week* on - on lesser doses, on pills, but - I *can't*. Angel, it's killing me and I can't stop."
Angel looks at him, his eyes dark, and gentle. "That's why they call it addiction, Wes. And I know you can't stop, but at least we can control it. And who knows? I've got the big, semi-evil law firm here. Maybe I can find you a loophole."
"Why?" Wesley asks.
Angel either doesn't hear, or chooses to ignore him. Satisfied with the vein which has finally appeared for him, Angel slides the needle in with a finesse so expert that Wesley barely feels the pinch of it. The tourniquet is released, the plunger is depressed, and the dose finally shoots its way into Wesley's circulation. Angel pulls out the needle, presses a clean cotton pad onto the wound, then bends Wesley's arm shut over it. "Could ask you the same question."
The trembling now is wholly different. Wesley tries to focus in his last few moments of clarity. "What?"
"I know what seeing the girl must have done to you," Angel says, safely capping the needle again. "But addiction is about more than that. You willingly dosed yourself higher. Why? What were you looking to get out of it? What *do* you get out of it?"
Wesley's eyes have drifted to half-mast. He can feel the first few tendrils of sleepy giddiness start to slip inside of him. When he speaks his words are no longer staccato, but slurred. "I get… what it feels like."
Angel's voice comes from miles away. "What does it feel like?"
His skin is tingling. Champagne-small bubbles are floating through his mind. "Like… I never failed anyone."
Everything tilts. There's hard and strong things against him, and he realizes that Angel has pulled him against his chest. "You don't go through this alone anymore. We'll fix you, or at least get you stable. And for the record, Wes, that's my answer too."
"Answer?" Wesley murmurs, the sensation of his cheek against Angel's shirt is almost enough to make him lose thought altogether.
"To why I'm helping you," Angel says. He presses a kiss against Wesley's forehead. "I'm doing it because I don't think you're a failure. Not even now. Not even with this."
"'s going to kill me," Wesley reminds him, feeling this is important to say, even if he can't remember why or how that relates to the way Angel is touching him.
"Not if I can help it," Angel says.
"Don't want to die," Wesley says, holding tight to Angel's chest.
"Then we'll take that as our first step," Angel says. He runs his own hand up and down Wesley's back.
Wesley curls into the touch. "Only eleven more to go?" he asks.
Angel laughs, softly. "Yeah. Something like that."
The final rush lifts up, and overcomes him. The world drops away, and takes all of his unpleasant memories with it.
But for the first time, Wesley fights it, and he struggles to hold on to what Angel gave him.
He turns away from his fellow-feeling with Illyria's bitterness, and he tries hard to remember Fred's hope.
It's not enough, but it's a start.
End.
