Ficlet redux
Aug. 6th, 2002 10:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thebratqueenIt's WIP but I thought y'all might be interested in what's been written so far. (Benefits of reading my LJ) (Or possibly detriments ;) )
And it's 100% spoiler free. (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kita0610? Feel free to read to your heart's content).
PROLOGUE
It wasn't pain. *Hurt*, yes, but not pain. Pain was loss. Weakness. Something he couldn't handle.
Hurt he could handle.
His whole damn *life* was hurt. Price of admission, he thought. And *worthwhile*, because hurt had been Buffy, and Connor, and Cordy and the familiar metallic tang of betrayal over and over again.
You *had* to hurt. If you didn't hurt, what were you?
Pain was for other people.
So he lived. And he hurt, but he wasn't in pain. The hunger, the darkness, the cold and pressure that even he could feel (Had a vampire ever dropped to this depth? What *was* this depth?) did not affect him. It couldn't. It wouldn't. He didn't allow it to.
He lived second by second. Getting through one because it meant he could get through another. He thought about Faith, and his lessons to her about how to atone one day at a time. He thought about wanting to teach Connor about morals, and rightness, and solving problems in ways that his old man couldn't.
He would *not* feel fear. He would *not* feel defeat.
He meditated. He observed. His preternatural eyes weren't equipped for the constant night of the ocean's floor - a night he knew kept him alive - but he had senses. He could feel movement, change, temperature.
At times his mind wandered.
"Did you know there are lakes inside of the ocean?" Wesley had said once, sitting at his desk and pouring over a bright, blue-colored magazine. "Absolutely fascinating!"
Then, as now, Angel had laughed, but not so anyone could hear him. Lakes in the ocean. He had to be hallucinating. Or maybe Wesley had. Or maybe it was all a dream.
Maybe *everything* was a dream.
What lived in the ocean? What lived *here*? Dreaming-Angel reached out to ask Wesley/Fred/Willow/Giles and wonder if there were sharks. Great whites. Large enough to chew through steel. And would they come for his blood? If he struggled enough against the chains to cut himself would it release the scent? Call the predator to him, and tempt it to eat his flesh, carrion though it was?
But he couldn't die. That was impossible too. The release of death was as mythical as the lakes of the oceans. He never died. Or had he died, and this was the end? Himself, locked away and forgotten by all - God, man, Powers….
Himself.
He longed to forget himself.
He felt nothingness around him. He felt *everything* around him - the entire, wet world and him a part of it like Dru and her constant, dancing, singing stars. Dru of the air, him of the water, dusted Darla once again of the earth and Spike - besotted, bechipped boy - always, always fire.
How much time? How long had it been? Would it be? He knew Acathla, and the centuries that were but minutes that had *felt* like millennia.
It was happening again, he knew. Days upon earth, years down below. He had no watch to measure. Only himself. And his unbeating heart. Time, like him, didn't matter. But he still knew. Knew it wasn't mere minutes. Knew it was days. More than days.
He struggled. He knew the joy of oblivion, of madness. But he couldn't. That wasn't his path. It wasn't his destiny (and somewhere, in his head, Fred happily cried "Screw destiny!"). He could not, *would* not give in. Not again. Not as he had. Never, ever like that.
He recited Scripture. He prayed rosaries, thinking of emerald and ruby beads in his head and counting them off one by one. He kept time by a God who never loved him. *Forgive us our trespasses,* he thought, making himself continue on to *as we forgive those who trespass against us* even though part of his mind, another part, quietly whispered *As we were never forgiven. As we never forgive.*
And to this part, still quietly chanting his prayers, Angel replied *We do. I forgive. And someday I'll be - *
He was cut off by the sensation of laughter.
*I will!*
*You won't.*
*Hail Mary,* he thought, locking his mind to the words, *full of grace, the Lord is with thee….*
He continued the prayer, even though he could hear it being mocked. Hear *him* being mocked. Mocked as a thing which was never blessed, and would never know blessing from a child born of prophecy.
He could survive. He *would* survive. The time it took did not matter. He would be beyond it. Beyond time, worry, hunger or fear.
And he *was*.
Until nothing became something. Cold and dark and wet became bright and hot and prickly and *joy* and *warmth* and the perfect/wonderful flow of rich, red blood in his mouth and it was *real* and not an ocean lake and he knew he was out and saved and of course that meant he'd been forgiven and -
- there was pain -
He was empty. And hungry. He reached for more blood -
- there was pain -
Darkness came. His own, he knew. And he laughed because this was never long-lasting. He'd rise, and rise again and it would be wonderful and God-damn *funny* like it always was…
***
Wesley walked past shops, feeling the faint hint of what might be the thought of coolness in the air as the sun went down. It wasn't much, but it was the sort of thing that poked its head out once Los Angeles made its way into fall. Come November restaurants would make use of the flaming torch-lamps that provided heat so long as there was no wind, and his own flat would occasionally remind him of the flat he'd kept back in Kensington, provided he didn't look out the window or notice the hulking brown air conditioner in his bedroom wall.
For now it was only the suggestion of winter, which was fair enough since *actual* winter in LA was little more than a strongly-worded memo.
Still, it was dry. He liked it.
The scent of oregano wafted over to him and he thought about stopping for dinner. Lunch had been… what? Six hours ago? And this particular restaurant made a stellar foccacia with sundried tomatoes. Perhaps he'd get some as take away.
He waited for the lights to favor him, feeling the tiny pang of nostalgia for zebra crossings that he always did. Los Angeles wasn't a town that catered to pedestrians. He passed time by counting the neon-colored signs that had been taped to telephone poles, alerting actors and crew members to various filming locations. Once he'd met a girl at a bar who'd convinced him to drive around on his bike and try to track one of the films down. They'd ended up at UCLA and she - slightly drunk - had clutched his arm and slurred into his ear the name of an actor he'd never heard of before nor heard of again, insisting that he was *right there* and didn't he look wonderful?
Wesley, not *always* a fool, had insisted of course he did, and he'd been rewarded for the lie with a more than pleasant shag later that night.
Miranda? he thought. No - Naomi. It had *been* Miranda before she'd gotten the breast implants. Then her agent suggested that she change it.
It had been a one night stand, but he'd seen Naomi-nee-Miranda a few times after that. Of course it was always after he'd rented a film which brought back rather accurate memories of the one night stand itself. Particularly the one in which she'd attempted a British accent which he flattered himself to think she'd based upon his, although the end result was actually closer to that of a drunken Cambridge student by way of Bronx, New York.
"Wesley!"
Come to think of it, it had been close to fall last year as well, when he'd met her. No wonder his mind was sauntering along that particular path in his memory lane. It had been mid-September but even still, just as now, the stores had put up Halloween decorations and he could recall the night two evenings prior to Miranda in which he'd gotten himself pissed doing body shots with a swore-she-was 21 year old girl named … D something. Debbie? Daria? And the two of them had stumbled arm in arm down the street in search of a taxi, then abandoned the search when his hand only somewhat accidentally connected with her quite real breasts through the red velvet of her Anna Sui minidress.
"Wes! Yo, Wesley!"
They'd started snogging like teenagers, which quite frankly she very possibly *could* have been, but he never did find out because as they kissed she fell back against a store window and somehow through the fog of tequila and thin fingers rubbing against the fly of his trousers his eyes were assaulted by orange and he'd looked up to see a banner proclaiming "HAPPY HALLOWEEN!" complete with hissing black cat, neon-yellow eyed pumpkin, and a two foot tall cartoon vampire with such a *startled* expression on his face that Wesley couldn't help but laugh and laugh because, honestly, the *clothes* and the *size* and the *hair* for God's sake.
"*Wesley!*"
Undoubtedly underaged D-something had tried to laugh along but it soon became clear that she, even drunk as *she* was, couldn't find the same humor in it that he did. Nor could she get him back in the mood, a thing which Wesley now blamed on the alcohol and his age as much as he did the fact that he couldn't stop giggling at the picture, and she'd hailed a cab for herself and left Wesley to his own devices, which that evening had been BBC news on cable and then a good, hard wank in the shower.
"*Wesley!*"
As he studied the list of Bella Luna's specials, Wesley wondered when Gunn was going to get it through his head that Wesley could hear him perfectly well, he was simply choosing to ignore him.
"Wes," Gunn said, jogging up to him. He panted slightly. Wesley surmised the man must have run for a few blocks. When Wesley didn't look up in response to this, Gunn took a deep breath and gasped out: "Angelus."
Wesley perused the regular menu and debated the merits of swordfish versus prawns. "Gunn," he replied, "Winifred. Are we now done listing the members of our shared past or must I listen to you recite Cordelia's name as well? No - wait, I've just done it and saved you the trouble. Good evening."
Gunn grimaced in frustration. "I'm not - man, I'm *telling* you. Angelus. He's back. Not so much an ex-vampire as a full-on, technicolor, THX, back in black reality."
Wesley debated asking why he should care, but another query presented itself. "How can you tell?"
Gunn blinked, as though surprised he was asked. "He - um…"
Wesley turned around, folded his arms, and waited patiently. This was bound to be rich.
"He attacked Fred," Gunn admitted.
"Goodbye," Wesley told him. He turned on his heel and resumed walking. No sundried tomato was worth this.
Gunn came after. "I'm just saying - "
"Good *bye*, Charles."
"He was gone, okay?" Gunn said, increasing speed to catch up with him. Wesley's car wasn't far. He estimated he had about five more minutes of this to tolerate. "Couple months ago *everybody* went and - "
"Not interested."
Gunn tried to step in front of him. Wesley moved aside to let an elderly woman pass between them and thwart the attempt. "Will you *listen*?"
Some people really did need the obvious pointed out to them. "No," Wesley answered. "Now you can be on your way."
Gunn stopped, and Wesley allowed himself a moment of delusion that the annoyance was over. It gave a fleeting pleasure before Gunn spoke up again. "He didn't ask about Connor. Or Cordy."
Wesley paused. This could be evidence.
Gunn closed the distance between them, happily pouncing on the opportunity. "Me'n Fred, we couldn't find him, right? So Fred gets this idea - "
"Skip a bit," Wesley told him, a note of warning in his voice.
Gunn nodded, understanding, at least, that there were certain names best not mentioned between them. "We did this thing. This magic and I don't even know what all thing. To bring him back, 'cause we figured - "
Wesley made a rolling gesture with his hand to indicate Gunn could feel free to speed up at any time.
Gunn sighed, but got to the punchline. "He came back wrong."
Having already asked how it was possible to tell, Wesley picked up the other question which he'd abandoned in its favor. "I'm terribly sorry - I've forgotten why I care."
"He's evil!" Gunn said.
"Yes, and?" Wesley replied.
"Look," Gunn said, "I know you and Angel -"
"No, you *don't* know 'me and Angel'," Wesley said. "Or else you wouldn't be here jabbering at me and expecting that it's going to do you any good. And, pray tell, what *exactly* were you expecting to get from this, Charles? Surely a former vampire hunter like yourself can handle a pesky little problem like Angel - "
"Angelus," Gunn said.
"*Angel*," Wesley shot back, "without any difficulty. Or did you loose all of your vampire hunting skills when you allied yourself with one?" Wesley felt a tiny inner twitch at that and cursed himself for hitting too close to one of his *own* weak spots. "Whatever you are now, you're not allied with *me*. If you brought him back and broke him then *you* deal with him. The bed's made, have a good night's sleep. I daresay keep one eye open."
"He's contained," Gunn said. "We got him locked up. We just need - "
"*What*?" Wesley asked, letting every bit of annoyance show.
"The curse," Gunn said. "We need somebody to do the curse."
"Willow Rosenberg, Sunnydale, California," Wesley told him. "Shouldn't be hard to find."
"No good," Gunn said, which Wesley actually already knew, although he wondered how Gunn had found out. "And you're here."
"Yes," Wesley said, with exaggerated agreement. "As I always am when you need me to pull your balls from the fire, particularly in Fred's name. So glad my importance to you is so greatly dependant upon geography."
"Look," Gunn said, abandoning his attempts to find a peaceful middle ground, "I know we ain't friends, and way you been lately I'm real cool with that. But this is bigger shit than you'n me. You know the prophecies, man!"
"Those again?" Wesley asked, affecting a bemused expression.
"We need Angel on our side," Gunn said, bottom-lining it. "*Angel*."
"Angel, yes," Wesley murmured, thinking to himself that of all the choices "Angel" would not have been the word he would pick as being the most crucial in that statement. "Well. Quite the muddle for you then, isn't it?"
"We need your help," Gunn said.
"As I say - "
"*Please*."
Wesley paused. It was a rather nice moment, all things considered. In a way he savored the times like this. It reminded him why he'd left.
"No," he said, simply, and walked away.
"He's at the hotel," Gunn called after him. "We've got him locked up but - what if he gets out?"
"Stake to the heart would seem to be on order then," Wesley retorted. "Buggers up those prophecies of yours but what can one do?"
"And if we can't?" Gunn asked. "You know him, man - he'll come after you too!"
Wesley thought about it. He took a deep breath, letting the taste of Los Angeles smog wash over the memory of a suffocating pillow.
He chuckled, and pulled out his car keys.
Indian tonight, he thought, as his still-smelled-like-new SUV hove into view. Indian, and perhaps a little television. It'd be a good way to spend the evening.
***
And it's 100% spoiler free. (
kita0610? Feel free to read to your heart's content).PROLOGUE
It wasn't pain. *Hurt*, yes, but not pain. Pain was loss. Weakness. Something he couldn't handle.
Hurt he could handle.
His whole damn *life* was hurt. Price of admission, he thought. And *worthwhile*, because hurt had been Buffy, and Connor, and Cordy and the familiar metallic tang of betrayal over and over again.
You *had* to hurt. If you didn't hurt, what were you?
Pain was for other people.
So he lived. And he hurt, but he wasn't in pain. The hunger, the darkness, the cold and pressure that even he could feel (Had a vampire ever dropped to this depth? What *was* this depth?) did not affect him. It couldn't. It wouldn't. He didn't allow it to.
He lived second by second. Getting through one because it meant he could get through another. He thought about Faith, and his lessons to her about how to atone one day at a time. He thought about wanting to teach Connor about morals, and rightness, and solving problems in ways that his old man couldn't.
He would *not* feel fear. He would *not* feel defeat.
He meditated. He observed. His preternatural eyes weren't equipped for the constant night of the ocean's floor - a night he knew kept him alive - but he had senses. He could feel movement, change, temperature.
At times his mind wandered.
"Did you know there are lakes inside of the ocean?" Wesley had said once, sitting at his desk and pouring over a bright, blue-colored magazine. "Absolutely fascinating!"
Then, as now, Angel had laughed, but not so anyone could hear him. Lakes in the ocean. He had to be hallucinating. Or maybe Wesley had. Or maybe it was all a dream.
Maybe *everything* was a dream.
What lived in the ocean? What lived *here*? Dreaming-Angel reached out to ask Wesley/Fred/Willow/Giles and wonder if there were sharks. Great whites. Large enough to chew through steel. And would they come for his blood? If he struggled enough against the chains to cut himself would it release the scent? Call the predator to him, and tempt it to eat his flesh, carrion though it was?
But he couldn't die. That was impossible too. The release of death was as mythical as the lakes of the oceans. He never died. Or had he died, and this was the end? Himself, locked away and forgotten by all - God, man, Powers….
Himself.
He longed to forget himself.
He felt nothingness around him. He felt *everything* around him - the entire, wet world and him a part of it like Dru and her constant, dancing, singing stars. Dru of the air, him of the water, dusted Darla once again of the earth and Spike - besotted, bechipped boy - always, always fire.
How much time? How long had it been? Would it be? He knew Acathla, and the centuries that were but minutes that had *felt* like millennia.
It was happening again, he knew. Days upon earth, years down below. He had no watch to measure. Only himself. And his unbeating heart. Time, like him, didn't matter. But he still knew. Knew it wasn't mere minutes. Knew it was days. More than days.
He struggled. He knew the joy of oblivion, of madness. But he couldn't. That wasn't his path. It wasn't his destiny (and somewhere, in his head, Fred happily cried "Screw destiny!"). He could not, *would* not give in. Not again. Not as he had. Never, ever like that.
He recited Scripture. He prayed rosaries, thinking of emerald and ruby beads in his head and counting them off one by one. He kept time by a God who never loved him. *Forgive us our trespasses,* he thought, making himself continue on to *as we forgive those who trespass against us* even though part of his mind, another part, quietly whispered *As we were never forgiven. As we never forgive.*
And to this part, still quietly chanting his prayers, Angel replied *We do. I forgive. And someday I'll be - *
He was cut off by the sensation of laughter.
*I will!*
*You won't.*
*Hail Mary,* he thought, locking his mind to the words, *full of grace, the Lord is with thee….*
He continued the prayer, even though he could hear it being mocked. Hear *him* being mocked. Mocked as a thing which was never blessed, and would never know blessing from a child born of prophecy.
He could survive. He *would* survive. The time it took did not matter. He would be beyond it. Beyond time, worry, hunger or fear.
And he *was*.
Until nothing became something. Cold and dark and wet became bright and hot and prickly and *joy* and *warmth* and the perfect/wonderful flow of rich, red blood in his mouth and it was *real* and not an ocean lake and he knew he was out and saved and of course that meant he'd been forgiven and -
- there was pain -
He was empty. And hungry. He reached for more blood -
- there was pain -
Darkness came. His own, he knew. And he laughed because this was never long-lasting. He'd rise, and rise again and it would be wonderful and God-damn *funny* like it always was…
***
Wesley walked past shops, feeling the faint hint of what might be the thought of coolness in the air as the sun went down. It wasn't much, but it was the sort of thing that poked its head out once Los Angeles made its way into fall. Come November restaurants would make use of the flaming torch-lamps that provided heat so long as there was no wind, and his own flat would occasionally remind him of the flat he'd kept back in Kensington, provided he didn't look out the window or notice the hulking brown air conditioner in his bedroom wall.
For now it was only the suggestion of winter, which was fair enough since *actual* winter in LA was little more than a strongly-worded memo.
Still, it was dry. He liked it.
The scent of oregano wafted over to him and he thought about stopping for dinner. Lunch had been… what? Six hours ago? And this particular restaurant made a stellar foccacia with sundried tomatoes. Perhaps he'd get some as take away.
He waited for the lights to favor him, feeling the tiny pang of nostalgia for zebra crossings that he always did. Los Angeles wasn't a town that catered to pedestrians. He passed time by counting the neon-colored signs that had been taped to telephone poles, alerting actors and crew members to various filming locations. Once he'd met a girl at a bar who'd convinced him to drive around on his bike and try to track one of the films down. They'd ended up at UCLA and she - slightly drunk - had clutched his arm and slurred into his ear the name of an actor he'd never heard of before nor heard of again, insisting that he was *right there* and didn't he look wonderful?
Wesley, not *always* a fool, had insisted of course he did, and he'd been rewarded for the lie with a more than pleasant shag later that night.
Miranda? he thought. No - Naomi. It had *been* Miranda before she'd gotten the breast implants. Then her agent suggested that she change it.
It had been a one night stand, but he'd seen Naomi-nee-Miranda a few times after that. Of course it was always after he'd rented a film which brought back rather accurate memories of the one night stand itself. Particularly the one in which she'd attempted a British accent which he flattered himself to think she'd based upon his, although the end result was actually closer to that of a drunken Cambridge student by way of Bronx, New York.
"Wesley!"
Come to think of it, it had been close to fall last year as well, when he'd met her. No wonder his mind was sauntering along that particular path in his memory lane. It had been mid-September but even still, just as now, the stores had put up Halloween decorations and he could recall the night two evenings prior to Miranda in which he'd gotten himself pissed doing body shots with a swore-she-was 21 year old girl named … D something. Debbie? Daria? And the two of them had stumbled arm in arm down the street in search of a taxi, then abandoned the search when his hand only somewhat accidentally connected with her quite real breasts through the red velvet of her Anna Sui minidress.
"Wes! Yo, Wesley!"
They'd started snogging like teenagers, which quite frankly she very possibly *could* have been, but he never did find out because as they kissed she fell back against a store window and somehow through the fog of tequila and thin fingers rubbing against the fly of his trousers his eyes were assaulted by orange and he'd looked up to see a banner proclaiming "HAPPY HALLOWEEN!" complete with hissing black cat, neon-yellow eyed pumpkin, and a two foot tall cartoon vampire with such a *startled* expression on his face that Wesley couldn't help but laugh and laugh because, honestly, the *clothes* and the *size* and the *hair* for God's sake.
"*Wesley!*"
Undoubtedly underaged D-something had tried to laugh along but it soon became clear that she, even drunk as *she* was, couldn't find the same humor in it that he did. Nor could she get him back in the mood, a thing which Wesley now blamed on the alcohol and his age as much as he did the fact that he couldn't stop giggling at the picture, and she'd hailed a cab for herself and left Wesley to his own devices, which that evening had been BBC news on cable and then a good, hard wank in the shower.
"*Wesley!*"
As he studied the list of Bella Luna's specials, Wesley wondered when Gunn was going to get it through his head that Wesley could hear him perfectly well, he was simply choosing to ignore him.
"Wes," Gunn said, jogging up to him. He panted slightly. Wesley surmised the man must have run for a few blocks. When Wesley didn't look up in response to this, Gunn took a deep breath and gasped out: "Angelus."
Wesley perused the regular menu and debated the merits of swordfish versus prawns. "Gunn," he replied, "Winifred. Are we now done listing the members of our shared past or must I listen to you recite Cordelia's name as well? No - wait, I've just done it and saved you the trouble. Good evening."
Gunn grimaced in frustration. "I'm not - man, I'm *telling* you. Angelus. He's back. Not so much an ex-vampire as a full-on, technicolor, THX, back in black reality."
Wesley debated asking why he should care, but another query presented itself. "How can you tell?"
Gunn blinked, as though surprised he was asked. "He - um…"
Wesley turned around, folded his arms, and waited patiently. This was bound to be rich.
"He attacked Fred," Gunn admitted.
"Goodbye," Wesley told him. He turned on his heel and resumed walking. No sundried tomato was worth this.
Gunn came after. "I'm just saying - "
"Good *bye*, Charles."
"He was gone, okay?" Gunn said, increasing speed to catch up with him. Wesley's car wasn't far. He estimated he had about five more minutes of this to tolerate. "Couple months ago *everybody* went and - "
"Not interested."
Gunn tried to step in front of him. Wesley moved aside to let an elderly woman pass between them and thwart the attempt. "Will you *listen*?"
Some people really did need the obvious pointed out to them. "No," Wesley answered. "Now you can be on your way."
Gunn stopped, and Wesley allowed himself a moment of delusion that the annoyance was over. It gave a fleeting pleasure before Gunn spoke up again. "He didn't ask about Connor. Or Cordy."
Wesley paused. This could be evidence.
Gunn closed the distance between them, happily pouncing on the opportunity. "Me'n Fred, we couldn't find him, right? So Fred gets this idea - "
"Skip a bit," Wesley told him, a note of warning in his voice.
Gunn nodded, understanding, at least, that there were certain names best not mentioned between them. "We did this thing. This magic and I don't even know what all thing. To bring him back, 'cause we figured - "
Wesley made a rolling gesture with his hand to indicate Gunn could feel free to speed up at any time.
Gunn sighed, but got to the punchline. "He came back wrong."
Having already asked how it was possible to tell, Wesley picked up the other question which he'd abandoned in its favor. "I'm terribly sorry - I've forgotten why I care."
"He's evil!" Gunn said.
"Yes, and?" Wesley replied.
"Look," Gunn said, "I know you and Angel -"
"No, you *don't* know 'me and Angel'," Wesley said. "Or else you wouldn't be here jabbering at me and expecting that it's going to do you any good. And, pray tell, what *exactly* were you expecting to get from this, Charles? Surely a former vampire hunter like yourself can handle a pesky little problem like Angel - "
"Angelus," Gunn said.
"*Angel*," Wesley shot back, "without any difficulty. Or did you loose all of your vampire hunting skills when you allied yourself with one?" Wesley felt a tiny inner twitch at that and cursed himself for hitting too close to one of his *own* weak spots. "Whatever you are now, you're not allied with *me*. If you brought him back and broke him then *you* deal with him. The bed's made, have a good night's sleep. I daresay keep one eye open."
"He's contained," Gunn said. "We got him locked up. We just need - "
"*What*?" Wesley asked, letting every bit of annoyance show.
"The curse," Gunn said. "We need somebody to do the curse."
"Willow Rosenberg, Sunnydale, California," Wesley told him. "Shouldn't be hard to find."
"No good," Gunn said, which Wesley actually already knew, although he wondered how Gunn had found out. "And you're here."
"Yes," Wesley said, with exaggerated agreement. "As I always am when you need me to pull your balls from the fire, particularly in Fred's name. So glad my importance to you is so greatly dependant upon geography."
"Look," Gunn said, abandoning his attempts to find a peaceful middle ground, "I know we ain't friends, and way you been lately I'm real cool with that. But this is bigger shit than you'n me. You know the prophecies, man!"
"Those again?" Wesley asked, affecting a bemused expression.
"We need Angel on our side," Gunn said, bottom-lining it. "*Angel*."
"Angel, yes," Wesley murmured, thinking to himself that of all the choices "Angel" would not have been the word he would pick as being the most crucial in that statement. "Well. Quite the muddle for you then, isn't it?"
"We need your help," Gunn said.
"As I say - "
"*Please*."
Wesley paused. It was a rather nice moment, all things considered. In a way he savored the times like this. It reminded him why he'd left.
"No," he said, simply, and walked away.
"He's at the hotel," Gunn called after him. "We've got him locked up but - what if he gets out?"
"Stake to the heart would seem to be on order then," Wesley retorted. "Buggers up those prophecies of yours but what can one do?"
"And if we can't?" Gunn asked. "You know him, man - he'll come after you too!"
Wesley thought about it. He took a deep breath, letting the taste of Los Angeles smog wash over the memory of a suffocating pillow.
He chuckled, and pulled out his car keys.
Indian tonight, he thought, as his still-smelled-like-new SUV hove into view. Indian, and perhaps a little television. It'd be a good way to spend the evening.
***
