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thebratqueenHere ya go! Two more scenes. I have no idea when this is going to be finished. I'd love to post it sometime soon but I have this thing about posting stories with no ending. I don't. Phooey. Good thing for LJ, huh?
"*The* girl," he told her. "The record keeper. I want to see her tomorrow."
Lilah shrugged. "Fine. Drive me into work in the morning."
"Good," Wesley said. He wiped his hands clean then retreated into the bedroom. It wasn't a question that she would follow.
***
Files & Records was something, he knew, he would have excelled at in different circumstances. A slight change in the destiny of his own life and he might have apprenticed himself in the larger than life storage area of every bit of information Wolfram & Hart cared to collect. He might have even *become* Files & Records, but then again something about his near photographic memory told him that he wouldn't have to become demonic in order to remember where everything was, and the meanings of it all therein.
Lilah had brought him to the room late one evening and had been surprised, he could tell, to see the young woman sitting behind the desk. Lilah had crossly asked if the woman ever gave it a rest, and then recited along with her the statement that, as Files & Records, it was her job.
"You know," Lilah had said to him later, "I understand selling my soul *for* the company. But *to*? What a waste."
They'd spent perhaps an hour there perusing the various categories. He wasn't entirely certain why she'd done it. He'd supposed it was yet another attempt to seduce him into working for the firm - come on in, Wesley, look at all the lovely manuscripts you can get your poncy hands on - but there'd been something in her eyes. Quick, expecting looks as though waiting for him to say something, though he'd had absolutely no idea what.
He'd gone back on other occasions, however. His new career as a demonology writer (latest article: "Tryath Voltis Cross Species Relations: A Commentary On Culture And Evolution") often had him chasing down a difficult to find piece of documentation and Lilah had had no compunction about allowing him to use Files & Records whenever he cared to.
He knew that, by definition, there would be a record of every time he was there but as he'd never tracked down anything that wasn't work related, he didn't particularly mind. They'd sent Lilah to him. It probably put her in line for a bonus the more times he came in. He wondered if there was a sliding scale dependant upon frequency and visit duration.
"Good morning, Mr.Wyndam-Pryce," the record-keeper chirped at him. "What can I help you with today?"
He hesitated. His clearance was Lilah's clearance, he'd found that out the first time. But each time he came he'd had a purpose. Now, he wasn't certain.
A thought occurred to him.
"Er - how does one *enter* records?" he asked. "Or at least make corrections? I thought perhaps I might make myself use - "
"Form 37A, Application to Adjust Existing Records," the record-keeper happily told him. She handed him a sheaf of forms, then placed a smaller, goldenrod colored piece of paper on top of it. "Form 489-L, Outside Contractor Contact Information. You'll also need tax form - "
"I don't wish to be paid," he told her. He affected a "you know how it is" expression. "Merely - I've noticed some inaccuracies and that sort of sloppiness sets my teeth on edge."
The record-keeper nodded in agreement, although he was confident that she would have nodded in agreement if he'd just told her she was a tuna sandwich. She had that sort of helpful personality. Such as it was. "Form 998B, then. Donations."
He took the blue slip of paper from her. "Thank you. Should I fill these out now, then?"
She handed him a pen and he scribbled in the necessary information. He was tempted to write "You bloody well know" under "Address" and "Phone" but restrained himself. He used a false address for "E-mail". No sense deliberately signing himself up for whatever junk letters Wolfram & Hart undoubtedly sold their mailing lists to. Bad enough his inbox was besieged by viruses and the assurance that Hot Japanese Girls Want Him Now.
"Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?" the record-keeper asked once he'd handed the forms back. "You didn't sign your name."
Wesley gave her a tight smile. "Funny thing, that."
Amazingly, it looked as though she understood. She used her own pen to swirl a vaguely signature-looking line in the right spots, then put the forms away in her desk. "What can I do for you today?"
Might as well start at the beginning, he thought. "Show me my file."
Hours later he was still in the room. He'd sat down cross-legged on the floor and flipped through pages and pages of information. His folder had been first, then Cordy's, Gunn's and Fred's. They were of varying sizes of thickness. He'd felt a moment of stupidly hurt pride at seeing how Cordelia's folder was far bigger than his, but reminded himself that this was undoubtedly due to the fact that she had known Angel longer. Also, she had the visions.
At any rate, size was never an indication of quality.
The folders contained the predictable: dossiers on them all; bulleted lists of personal information; written accounts of various encounters, particularly direct encounters with the law firm. In the margins could be found notes, such as "We can use this" or "Father - look into", with the occasional "Roger?" or "2pm, don't forget laundry" from various times when the paperwork had been treated like any other piece of scrap that crossed the desk of a cubicle dweller.
What was lacking, however, was a thread. A commonality to everything being collected. Yes, they had information, but the information had no *purpose*.
It didn't seem quite right.
As he read he made his own notes on the forms, sometimes filling the forms in properly to correct any mistakes he found, other times using the forms for his own benefit whenever a piece of information caught his eye that he wanted to look into later. Normally he would have brought a notebook, but normally he would have known why he was here in the first place.
He folded his arms, leaned back against one of the metal shelves, and thought.
All right. He'd probably provided enough of a cover for his actions that this would seem only a morning of nostalgia on his part. Surely it wouldn't seem overly suspicious to look at Angel's files now?
Yet part of him didn't *want* to.
Angel was out of his life. Angel had *removed* himself from his life. Perhaps literally. Wesley could go on. He could do whatever he wished. He need not encounter the vampire ever again.
And yet….
"Show me Angel's files, please," he called out to the record-keeper, and he was in no way surprised when there was the *click* of a lightswitch and row upon row was illuminated. Cordelia's three inch thick folder was more than dwarfed by comparison.
"Fine," Wesley said, standing up and dusting himself off, "I'll skim."
He knew the record-keeper could tell him anything he wanted to know. But he also know that by asking her she would *know* what he wanted to know. And while Wesley himself wasn't certain of what that was, he *was* certain he didn't want Wolfram & Hart finding out about it.
It didn't take him long to decipher their organization system. One shelf had been dedicated to simply categorizing everything that had occurred from the early days of Liam (*Liam*??) to Angelus to Angel to Angelus to Angel again. After that it was a split. Evil actions on one side, good on the other, neutral in between and everything sub-divided into chronological order.
He supposed for the law firm it made as much sense as anything.
Wesley studied the files. He picked folders at random and flipped through them. He found himself learning the beginnings and middles of stories that the Council had only known the end to. 88 dead in an incident in Bath back in 1789 transformed itself into an orgy of vampires, demons, and a whip-like toy that Angelus had apparently liked to call "Betty".
There were blank spots even still. Angel's time in America had large gaps missing from it, which underlings at the law firm had attempted to fill in with speculative reports, guessing that the vampire had done everything from lock himself away in a mountain cabin to joining a traveling circus. Newspaper clippings and pages torn from diaries suggested possible meetings, although some of the descriptions therein were so vague that they could have very well been a meeting with Wesley himself, or anyone who happened to be male, fairly tall and brown-haired.
There were reports filled with nothing *but* suggestions. Over the years various employees had apparently gotten it into their heads to attempt to find solutions to "The Angel Problem", all of which had either been shot down or used as a cover for whatever the senior partners of the firm really wanted. Wesley wasn't surprised to see some of the known subterfuges in the file - Darla, for instance - but his stomach gave a small twitch to see others, such as Mrs. Parkhurt who'd been a client of theirs two years back and had only needed someone to rid her basement of the rodent-like Ferras. She was elderly, and grandmotherly, and had insisted that Wesley and Angel sit for a moment and enjoy home baked macaroon cookies by way of thanks. Wesley could still remember the look on Angel's face when he'd tried to chew and swallow a cookie down.
Apparently on that day Wolfram & Hart had needed Angel to be in a certain part of town - away from them - and it had worked.
Wesley found himself feeling the tiniest moment of sympathy for the vampire's paranoia.
He shoved the folder back onto the shelf. He grabbed his glasses and began to polish them.
What was this, then? A reopening of old wounds? Had he come here for the sole purpose of reminding himself of - what? What he'd lost? What he'd been deluded into believing in, morelike.
He turned a corner and stared at the rows which contained the "evil" entries. They far outweighed the "good" and *that*, to Wesley, contained no surprise.
There was no "Angel the friendly vampire". The laughing, affable, sometimes even clumsy fellow which Wesley had come to believe was his friend was non-existent. A lie, constructed by none other than Angel himself.
Certainly Wesley thought it a believable lie. He even went so far as to think it had been a lie that even Angel believed in. But that didn't make it any more real.
*This* - the row upon row of damning evidence - *that* was real. *There* was your vampire. Occasionally trapped by Wolfram & Hart, yes, but little more than evil as the pawn of evil. Just as Angel himself cheerfully used his so-called friends and colleagues as pawns for himself if it gave him any gain.
He didn't want to be good. He wanted to help himself, which made *him* feel good. There was no mission. No true caring. The cries of the helpless had gone blissfully unheeded whenever Angel's hormones, or moods, or son came into play. Angel Investigations had been naught more than a hobby. Or, when it came right down to it, a dating service used first to get Darla, and then later to woo Cordy.
The *mission*. The *good fight*. Lord, what a fool he'd been.
What was the good fight anyway? Everyone claimed it, but no one really fought it. The Council presented itself as the authority, but happily enslaved young girls on the odd chance they'd become Slayers and just as happily sacrificed the innocent in the name of saving the world.
Buffy and her friends claimed to be good, but in the end were really only selfish. They saved themselves. If the world was saved too, it was merely a side-effect. They lived *in* the world. It was the only motivation they'd had.
In the end it was entirely a matter of being selfish. There was no gift that did not have ulterior motives. No high road. No good fight.
No *point*.
He grabbed the files and brought them to the front desk. "Here," he said brusquely, giving them and the corrected forms to the record-keeper. "Best I can do."
He left before she could chirp some kind of farewell to him. He found his way to the garage, got into his car, and keyed the ignition. To Hell with it all, he thought. Leave me out. I want no part. I want -
He paused.
He turned his car off.
He sat and thought for a few moments.
"What else can I do for you today, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?" the record-keeper asked when he returned.
"Show me the section on the curse which restores Angel's soul," he said.
***
"Fe, fi, fo, fum," Angelus purred. He rolled over onto his stomach and stood up to face the new visitor. "Hello, Wesley."
Shadows shifted and turned into the shape of a man. "Angelus. So, have you truly lost your soul this time or are you merely faking it again?"
"I don't fake," Angelus said. It was true enough, if you didn't count the fact that he was lying. He jerked his thumbs into dry, scratchy pockets and sauntered over to the bars. He got a better look at Wesley, then let out a low whistle. "Nice scar. Girlfriend give you that?"
Wesley's arms were folded. He looked… *not* Wesley. It was strange. Angelus felt as though he had a mental picture of what a Wesley looked like, and this wasn't it. Or it was just a little *off* from it. He racked his brain, trying to get it to cough up the goods. Words like *leaner*, *stubble*, and *no suit* suggested themselves.
Plus scar.
Angelus licked his lips.
It was a *nice* scar.
"You don't remember?" Wesley asked. His eyebrows quirked upwards as though he had all the time in the world for the answer.
"Gimme a break here," Angelus told him. "Been a long few months. Mem - "
"Indeed," Wesley said, his word crisp and efficient as it cut Angelus off.
His eyes kept going back to it. Right on the neck. Angled. Slow bleeder, that one. Could keep you alive for hours. Days. He wanted to touch it. Put his mouth on it. Flick at it with his tongue until the skin parted again and tiny drops began to fall.
Was he drooling? There wasn't anything more humiliating than drooling.
No, wait. There was. He'd just made a little noise. He played it back in his head and decided it sounded like a high-pitched whine.
Wesley stepped forward, keeping well away from the bars. His blue eyes were piercing. "You're starving, aren't you?"
"Yeah," he said, his voice rough. He cleared it and started again. "What do you expect? Not like Fred and Gunn are getting me a lot of take out here."
Wesley looked around. Bags of animal blood littered the floor. He'd drunk them - he'd had no choice - but it wasn't enough. He'd been down for *months*. There was *never* enough.
"When was the last time you ate?" Wesley asked. "Properly ate."
Angelus kicked the memory into gear. *Properly* ate? The mind threw up an image of a blond-haired cop. But Wes was asking about the starving thing, not the quality thing, so - "Five months ago."
Wes pulled back, eyebrows beetling together. "Five? Where the Hell have you been?"
Angelus made a swooshing motion downwards. "Ten thousand feet below the sea. Kid locked me up and dumped me like a pirate treasure."
"They bury pirate treasures," Wesley automatically corrected, and Angelus wondered if it was a big, fat burden to have to be so *precise* all the time. "The ones under the sea are from shipwrecks."
"'scuse *me* all to Hell," Angelus said, with exaggerated chagrin. "Sorry my metaphor's getting in the way of me *starving* for five months."
Wesley made a grunt that sounded like he was acknowledging the point. He stepped back and began to circle the cage slowly, studying it. "Kid? Connor did this to you?"
"No," Angelus said, speaking as though for the benefit of the brain impaired, "Fred and *Gunn* did this to me. *Connor* dumped me into the sea."
Wesley laughed. Angelus couldn't blame him.
"You have to admit it's funny," Wesley said.
"Funny is when it happens to other people," Angelus told him, and it was true enough. Part of him was a little annoyed that *he'd* never tried locking a vampire in the ocean. Pound for pound it was a pretty nasty piece of torture. But then again you did it and never got to see the outcome. Angelus hated missing out on the screams.
A part of his brain supplied the word *webcam*. He'd have to find out later what it meant.
"What made you lose your soul?" Wesley asked.
Angelus shrugged. "Like I ever know?"
Wesley nodded, as though this didn't surprise him. "So you can't remember the events of last year?"
"I remember," Angelus said. "Just not well. So who cut ya?"
"Justine," Wesley said.
Justine. Justine…
*Flash*
There it was! Red hair. Attitude. Attacking him. And -
*Flash*
A park. Night. And - oh god. Scent. Blood. Wesley's. Everywhere. Seeped deep down into the ground but there, still there, and his mouth tingling and dry and part of him so close to going on his hands and knees and sucking in big handfuls of bleeding, wet earth because it was *human* and he was *so hungry*, hungry like Fred and Gunn wouldn't understand and it was the earth or their necks, their necks or Connor's neck, or - god, please…
"You really *are* starving, aren't you?" Wesley said, his modulated voice cutting through the fantasy.
"Yes," Angelus admitted - not like it was *much* of an admission, really. Five months in a box - you worked up an appetite. Smart boy like Wes had to know. So yeah, no problem to tell him he was hungry, even as he blinked and shook his head to clear his vision and get the scent of…
Wait a minute.
Son of a bitch.
"I'm sorry," Wesley said, holding a bleeding finger aloft with false sincerity. "This must be maddening for you."
Angelus saw the flash of a pen knife in Wesley's left hand. Wes brought it up to his middle finger and cut a quick slice - enough to break just a few layers of skin - across the tip of it.
Wesley closed the knife and returned it to his pocket. He then wafted his fingers in the air, making the scent of blood drift in the direction of the cage.
"Asshole," Angelus said, and it was a compliment.
"I'm only trying to speak your language," Wesley threw back.
Angelus laughed. Wesley. With a pair. When had *that* happened? He twisted the memory banks but couldn't find the answer. Had soul boy just not noticed?
"Got my attention," Angelus told him.
"I thought I might," Wesley agreed. He looked down, holding his hand up in the air. Angelus couldn't tell why until Wesley stepped forward to the edge of dust that surrounded the cage - the line that marked where Angelus's hands could reach through the bars - and then rubbed his thumb along the underside of his fingers until thick, rich drops of blood spattered on the ground.
"You know," Angelus said, "get that *in* me and it's an even better souvenir."
"I wonder why I don't trust you?" Wesley mused. He scattered a few more drops along the floor, each one exploding with a wave of tantalizing scent, then brought his fingers up to his mouth and began to lick and suck them clean.
Holy Hell. When had Pryce gone fag?
"I want to make a deal with you," Wesley said.
"Okay," Angelus said. Not agreeing, just listening.
"A business arrangement, if you will," Wesley said.
Angelus nodded. Christ Brits liked to talk. "Any part of this involve getting me out of the cage?"
"It might," Wesley said. He took out a handkerchief and pressed it to his fingers, staunching the remaining bloodflow. "If I can trust you."
Lying suggested itself, but then again considering who he was talking to -
"Not sure how to prove that one," Angelus said, thinking of pillows and Wesley's struggling body. He had a hunch Wes himself had a pretty clear memory of that night too.
"Well," Wesley said thoughtfully, "I could always perform your curse. That would make you trustworthy, wouldn't it?"
Not really, Angelus thought. Plus curse. He didn't like the curse. On the other hand maybe he could agree to it long enough to get out of the cage.
Except - wait.
That was sarcasm.
Angelus grinned.
"You're not gonna do it," he told Wesley.
"No," Wesley said. He crushed his handkerchief in his newly healed right hand and used the left to hold out his brown leather jacket. There was a rolled up scroll in an inside pocket. "Mind you, I *could*."
"Kind of a fatal habit to have," Angelus said.
Wesley's lips twitched into a grin. "I could curse you first. I could have others standing by, waiting to do it if I fall. I could have all sorts of failsafes in place so that in the event of my untimely demise your life once again becomes a living Hell."
"You *could*," Angelus said, weighing the word carefully and wondering if Wes meant it to be that theoretical.
"I could," Wesley repeated. He let his coat fall back into place. The smell of leather mingled with blood. He let the words stand between them, in no way clarifying their reality.
Angelus thought it over. It'd been a while since he'd played chess, but he remembered how it worked. "I could kill you anyway. I could torture you but leave you not dead."
Wesley nodded, agreeing to all of the possibilities. "You could."
A thought occurred to Angelus. "I could turn you?" It was an offer, not a threat.
Wes made a moue of disapproval. "I wouldn't flatter yourself. I'm not inclined to become some soulless bastard."
Angelus couldn't help but gesture to indicate that Wesley was clearly offering to get him out of the cage.
Wesley smirked. "Some of us don't need to lose our souls."
Oh this had the word "fun" written all over it.
"So what's the deal?" he asked.
"You'll see," Wesley told him. He stepped back into the shadows and walked in the direction of the staircase.
Impatience crept up on him, fueled by the scent of blood on the floor. "When do I get out?"
Wesley paused. In the darkness, Angelus could see him smiling. "You'll see."
Angelus was torn between imagining Wes's throat in his mouth and… imagining Wes's throat in his mouth. Except one of those options wasn't as fatal as the other. "Soon?" he asked, thinking of both unlocked doors and gasping British men.
"Be patient," Wesley said. He balled up his handkerchief and threw it at him. Vamp reflexes alone allowed him to catch it without being zapped by the cage. "It'll do you good."
"Since when do I want to be *good*?" Angelus demanded.
Wesley chuckled as he went back upstairs.
"*The* girl," he told her. "The record keeper. I want to see her tomorrow."
Lilah shrugged. "Fine. Drive me into work in the morning."
"Good," Wesley said. He wiped his hands clean then retreated into the bedroom. It wasn't a question that she would follow.
***
Files & Records was something, he knew, he would have excelled at in different circumstances. A slight change in the destiny of his own life and he might have apprenticed himself in the larger than life storage area of every bit of information Wolfram & Hart cared to collect. He might have even *become* Files & Records, but then again something about his near photographic memory told him that he wouldn't have to become demonic in order to remember where everything was, and the meanings of it all therein.
Lilah had brought him to the room late one evening and had been surprised, he could tell, to see the young woman sitting behind the desk. Lilah had crossly asked if the woman ever gave it a rest, and then recited along with her the statement that, as Files & Records, it was her job.
"You know," Lilah had said to him later, "I understand selling my soul *for* the company. But *to*? What a waste."
They'd spent perhaps an hour there perusing the various categories. He wasn't entirely certain why she'd done it. He'd supposed it was yet another attempt to seduce him into working for the firm - come on in, Wesley, look at all the lovely manuscripts you can get your poncy hands on - but there'd been something in her eyes. Quick, expecting looks as though waiting for him to say something, though he'd had absolutely no idea what.
He'd gone back on other occasions, however. His new career as a demonology writer (latest article: "Tryath Voltis Cross Species Relations: A Commentary On Culture And Evolution") often had him chasing down a difficult to find piece of documentation and Lilah had had no compunction about allowing him to use Files & Records whenever he cared to.
He knew that, by definition, there would be a record of every time he was there but as he'd never tracked down anything that wasn't work related, he didn't particularly mind. They'd sent Lilah to him. It probably put her in line for a bonus the more times he came in. He wondered if there was a sliding scale dependant upon frequency and visit duration.
"Good morning, Mr.Wyndam-Pryce," the record-keeper chirped at him. "What can I help you with today?"
He hesitated. His clearance was Lilah's clearance, he'd found that out the first time. But each time he came he'd had a purpose. Now, he wasn't certain.
A thought occurred to him.
"Er - how does one *enter* records?" he asked. "Or at least make corrections? I thought perhaps I might make myself use - "
"Form 37A, Application to Adjust Existing Records," the record-keeper happily told him. She handed him a sheaf of forms, then placed a smaller, goldenrod colored piece of paper on top of it. "Form 489-L, Outside Contractor Contact Information. You'll also need tax form - "
"I don't wish to be paid," he told her. He affected a "you know how it is" expression. "Merely - I've noticed some inaccuracies and that sort of sloppiness sets my teeth on edge."
The record-keeper nodded in agreement, although he was confident that she would have nodded in agreement if he'd just told her she was a tuna sandwich. She had that sort of helpful personality. Such as it was. "Form 998B, then. Donations."
He took the blue slip of paper from her. "Thank you. Should I fill these out now, then?"
She handed him a pen and he scribbled in the necessary information. He was tempted to write "You bloody well know" under "Address" and "Phone" but restrained himself. He used a false address for "E-mail". No sense deliberately signing himself up for whatever junk letters Wolfram & Hart undoubtedly sold their mailing lists to. Bad enough his inbox was besieged by viruses and the assurance that Hot Japanese Girls Want Him Now.
"Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?" the record-keeper asked once he'd handed the forms back. "You didn't sign your name."
Wesley gave her a tight smile. "Funny thing, that."
Amazingly, it looked as though she understood. She used her own pen to swirl a vaguely signature-looking line in the right spots, then put the forms away in her desk. "What can I do for you today?"
Might as well start at the beginning, he thought. "Show me my file."
Hours later he was still in the room. He'd sat down cross-legged on the floor and flipped through pages and pages of information. His folder had been first, then Cordy's, Gunn's and Fred's. They were of varying sizes of thickness. He'd felt a moment of stupidly hurt pride at seeing how Cordelia's folder was far bigger than his, but reminded himself that this was undoubtedly due to the fact that she had known Angel longer. Also, she had the visions.
At any rate, size was never an indication of quality.
The folders contained the predictable: dossiers on them all; bulleted lists of personal information; written accounts of various encounters, particularly direct encounters with the law firm. In the margins could be found notes, such as "We can use this" or "Father - look into", with the occasional "Roger?" or "2pm, don't forget laundry" from various times when the paperwork had been treated like any other piece of scrap that crossed the desk of a cubicle dweller.
What was lacking, however, was a thread. A commonality to everything being collected. Yes, they had information, but the information had no *purpose*.
It didn't seem quite right.
As he read he made his own notes on the forms, sometimes filling the forms in properly to correct any mistakes he found, other times using the forms for his own benefit whenever a piece of information caught his eye that he wanted to look into later. Normally he would have brought a notebook, but normally he would have known why he was here in the first place.
He folded his arms, leaned back against one of the metal shelves, and thought.
All right. He'd probably provided enough of a cover for his actions that this would seem only a morning of nostalgia on his part. Surely it wouldn't seem overly suspicious to look at Angel's files now?
Yet part of him didn't *want* to.
Angel was out of his life. Angel had *removed* himself from his life. Perhaps literally. Wesley could go on. He could do whatever he wished. He need not encounter the vampire ever again.
And yet….
"Show me Angel's files, please," he called out to the record-keeper, and he was in no way surprised when there was the *click* of a lightswitch and row upon row was illuminated. Cordelia's three inch thick folder was more than dwarfed by comparison.
"Fine," Wesley said, standing up and dusting himself off, "I'll skim."
He knew the record-keeper could tell him anything he wanted to know. But he also know that by asking her she would *know* what he wanted to know. And while Wesley himself wasn't certain of what that was, he *was* certain he didn't want Wolfram & Hart finding out about it.
It didn't take him long to decipher their organization system. One shelf had been dedicated to simply categorizing everything that had occurred from the early days of Liam (*Liam*??) to Angelus to Angel to Angelus to Angel again. After that it was a split. Evil actions on one side, good on the other, neutral in between and everything sub-divided into chronological order.
He supposed for the law firm it made as much sense as anything.
Wesley studied the files. He picked folders at random and flipped through them. He found himself learning the beginnings and middles of stories that the Council had only known the end to. 88 dead in an incident in Bath back in 1789 transformed itself into an orgy of vampires, demons, and a whip-like toy that Angelus had apparently liked to call "Betty".
There were blank spots even still. Angel's time in America had large gaps missing from it, which underlings at the law firm had attempted to fill in with speculative reports, guessing that the vampire had done everything from lock himself away in a mountain cabin to joining a traveling circus. Newspaper clippings and pages torn from diaries suggested possible meetings, although some of the descriptions therein were so vague that they could have very well been a meeting with Wesley himself, or anyone who happened to be male, fairly tall and brown-haired.
There were reports filled with nothing *but* suggestions. Over the years various employees had apparently gotten it into their heads to attempt to find solutions to "The Angel Problem", all of which had either been shot down or used as a cover for whatever the senior partners of the firm really wanted. Wesley wasn't surprised to see some of the known subterfuges in the file - Darla, for instance - but his stomach gave a small twitch to see others, such as Mrs. Parkhurt who'd been a client of theirs two years back and had only needed someone to rid her basement of the rodent-like Ferras. She was elderly, and grandmotherly, and had insisted that Wesley and Angel sit for a moment and enjoy home baked macaroon cookies by way of thanks. Wesley could still remember the look on Angel's face when he'd tried to chew and swallow a cookie down.
Apparently on that day Wolfram & Hart had needed Angel to be in a certain part of town - away from them - and it had worked.
Wesley found himself feeling the tiniest moment of sympathy for the vampire's paranoia.
He shoved the folder back onto the shelf. He grabbed his glasses and began to polish them.
What was this, then? A reopening of old wounds? Had he come here for the sole purpose of reminding himself of - what? What he'd lost? What he'd been deluded into believing in, morelike.
He turned a corner and stared at the rows which contained the "evil" entries. They far outweighed the "good" and *that*, to Wesley, contained no surprise.
There was no "Angel the friendly vampire". The laughing, affable, sometimes even clumsy fellow which Wesley had come to believe was his friend was non-existent. A lie, constructed by none other than Angel himself.
Certainly Wesley thought it a believable lie. He even went so far as to think it had been a lie that even Angel believed in. But that didn't make it any more real.
*This* - the row upon row of damning evidence - *that* was real. *There* was your vampire. Occasionally trapped by Wolfram & Hart, yes, but little more than evil as the pawn of evil. Just as Angel himself cheerfully used his so-called friends and colleagues as pawns for himself if it gave him any gain.
He didn't want to be good. He wanted to help himself, which made *him* feel good. There was no mission. No true caring. The cries of the helpless had gone blissfully unheeded whenever Angel's hormones, or moods, or son came into play. Angel Investigations had been naught more than a hobby. Or, when it came right down to it, a dating service used first to get Darla, and then later to woo Cordy.
The *mission*. The *good fight*. Lord, what a fool he'd been.
What was the good fight anyway? Everyone claimed it, but no one really fought it. The Council presented itself as the authority, but happily enslaved young girls on the odd chance they'd become Slayers and just as happily sacrificed the innocent in the name of saving the world.
Buffy and her friends claimed to be good, but in the end were really only selfish. They saved themselves. If the world was saved too, it was merely a side-effect. They lived *in* the world. It was the only motivation they'd had.
In the end it was entirely a matter of being selfish. There was no gift that did not have ulterior motives. No high road. No good fight.
No *point*.
He grabbed the files and brought them to the front desk. "Here," he said brusquely, giving them and the corrected forms to the record-keeper. "Best I can do."
He left before she could chirp some kind of farewell to him. He found his way to the garage, got into his car, and keyed the ignition. To Hell with it all, he thought. Leave me out. I want no part. I want -
He paused.
He turned his car off.
He sat and thought for a few moments.
"What else can I do for you today, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?" the record-keeper asked when he returned.
"Show me the section on the curse which restores Angel's soul," he said.
***
"Fe, fi, fo, fum," Angelus purred. He rolled over onto his stomach and stood up to face the new visitor. "Hello, Wesley."
Shadows shifted and turned into the shape of a man. "Angelus. So, have you truly lost your soul this time or are you merely faking it again?"
"I don't fake," Angelus said. It was true enough, if you didn't count the fact that he was lying. He jerked his thumbs into dry, scratchy pockets and sauntered over to the bars. He got a better look at Wesley, then let out a low whistle. "Nice scar. Girlfriend give you that?"
Wesley's arms were folded. He looked… *not* Wesley. It was strange. Angelus felt as though he had a mental picture of what a Wesley looked like, and this wasn't it. Or it was just a little *off* from it. He racked his brain, trying to get it to cough up the goods. Words like *leaner*, *stubble*, and *no suit* suggested themselves.
Plus scar.
Angelus licked his lips.
It was a *nice* scar.
"You don't remember?" Wesley asked. His eyebrows quirked upwards as though he had all the time in the world for the answer.
"Gimme a break here," Angelus told him. "Been a long few months. Mem - "
"Indeed," Wesley said, his word crisp and efficient as it cut Angelus off.
His eyes kept going back to it. Right on the neck. Angled. Slow bleeder, that one. Could keep you alive for hours. Days. He wanted to touch it. Put his mouth on it. Flick at it with his tongue until the skin parted again and tiny drops began to fall.
Was he drooling? There wasn't anything more humiliating than drooling.
No, wait. There was. He'd just made a little noise. He played it back in his head and decided it sounded like a high-pitched whine.
Wesley stepped forward, keeping well away from the bars. His blue eyes were piercing. "You're starving, aren't you?"
"Yeah," he said, his voice rough. He cleared it and started again. "What do you expect? Not like Fred and Gunn are getting me a lot of take out here."
Wesley looked around. Bags of animal blood littered the floor. He'd drunk them - he'd had no choice - but it wasn't enough. He'd been down for *months*. There was *never* enough.
"When was the last time you ate?" Wesley asked. "Properly ate."
Angelus kicked the memory into gear. *Properly* ate? The mind threw up an image of a blond-haired cop. But Wes was asking about the starving thing, not the quality thing, so - "Five months ago."
Wes pulled back, eyebrows beetling together. "Five? Where the Hell have you been?"
Angelus made a swooshing motion downwards. "Ten thousand feet below the sea. Kid locked me up and dumped me like a pirate treasure."
"They bury pirate treasures," Wesley automatically corrected, and Angelus wondered if it was a big, fat burden to have to be so *precise* all the time. "The ones under the sea are from shipwrecks."
"'scuse *me* all to Hell," Angelus said, with exaggerated chagrin. "Sorry my metaphor's getting in the way of me *starving* for five months."
Wesley made a grunt that sounded like he was acknowledging the point. He stepped back and began to circle the cage slowly, studying it. "Kid? Connor did this to you?"
"No," Angelus said, speaking as though for the benefit of the brain impaired, "Fred and *Gunn* did this to me. *Connor* dumped me into the sea."
Wesley laughed. Angelus couldn't blame him.
"You have to admit it's funny," Wesley said.
"Funny is when it happens to other people," Angelus told him, and it was true enough. Part of him was a little annoyed that *he'd* never tried locking a vampire in the ocean. Pound for pound it was a pretty nasty piece of torture. But then again you did it and never got to see the outcome. Angelus hated missing out on the screams.
A part of his brain supplied the word *webcam*. He'd have to find out later what it meant.
"What made you lose your soul?" Wesley asked.
Angelus shrugged. "Like I ever know?"
Wesley nodded, as though this didn't surprise him. "So you can't remember the events of last year?"
"I remember," Angelus said. "Just not well. So who cut ya?"
"Justine," Wesley said.
Justine. Justine…
*Flash*
There it was! Red hair. Attitude. Attacking him. And -
*Flash*
A park. Night. And - oh god. Scent. Blood. Wesley's. Everywhere. Seeped deep down into the ground but there, still there, and his mouth tingling and dry and part of him so close to going on his hands and knees and sucking in big handfuls of bleeding, wet earth because it was *human* and he was *so hungry*, hungry like Fred and Gunn wouldn't understand and it was the earth or their necks, their necks or Connor's neck, or - god, please…
"You really *are* starving, aren't you?" Wesley said, his modulated voice cutting through the fantasy.
"Yes," Angelus admitted - not like it was *much* of an admission, really. Five months in a box - you worked up an appetite. Smart boy like Wes had to know. So yeah, no problem to tell him he was hungry, even as he blinked and shook his head to clear his vision and get the scent of…
Wait a minute.
Son of a bitch.
"I'm sorry," Wesley said, holding a bleeding finger aloft with false sincerity. "This must be maddening for you."
Angelus saw the flash of a pen knife in Wesley's left hand. Wes brought it up to his middle finger and cut a quick slice - enough to break just a few layers of skin - across the tip of it.
Wesley closed the knife and returned it to his pocket. He then wafted his fingers in the air, making the scent of blood drift in the direction of the cage.
"Asshole," Angelus said, and it was a compliment.
"I'm only trying to speak your language," Wesley threw back.
Angelus laughed. Wesley. With a pair. When had *that* happened? He twisted the memory banks but couldn't find the answer. Had soul boy just not noticed?
"Got my attention," Angelus told him.
"I thought I might," Wesley agreed. He looked down, holding his hand up in the air. Angelus couldn't tell why until Wesley stepped forward to the edge of dust that surrounded the cage - the line that marked where Angelus's hands could reach through the bars - and then rubbed his thumb along the underside of his fingers until thick, rich drops of blood spattered on the ground.
"You know," Angelus said, "get that *in* me and it's an even better souvenir."
"I wonder why I don't trust you?" Wesley mused. He scattered a few more drops along the floor, each one exploding with a wave of tantalizing scent, then brought his fingers up to his mouth and began to lick and suck them clean.
Holy Hell. When had Pryce gone fag?
"I want to make a deal with you," Wesley said.
"Okay," Angelus said. Not agreeing, just listening.
"A business arrangement, if you will," Wesley said.
Angelus nodded. Christ Brits liked to talk. "Any part of this involve getting me out of the cage?"
"It might," Wesley said. He took out a handkerchief and pressed it to his fingers, staunching the remaining bloodflow. "If I can trust you."
Lying suggested itself, but then again considering who he was talking to -
"Not sure how to prove that one," Angelus said, thinking of pillows and Wesley's struggling body. He had a hunch Wes himself had a pretty clear memory of that night too.
"Well," Wesley said thoughtfully, "I could always perform your curse. That would make you trustworthy, wouldn't it?"
Not really, Angelus thought. Plus curse. He didn't like the curse. On the other hand maybe he could agree to it long enough to get out of the cage.
Except - wait.
That was sarcasm.
Angelus grinned.
"You're not gonna do it," he told Wesley.
"No," Wesley said. He crushed his handkerchief in his newly healed right hand and used the left to hold out his brown leather jacket. There was a rolled up scroll in an inside pocket. "Mind you, I *could*."
"Kind of a fatal habit to have," Angelus said.
Wesley's lips twitched into a grin. "I could curse you first. I could have others standing by, waiting to do it if I fall. I could have all sorts of failsafes in place so that in the event of my untimely demise your life once again becomes a living Hell."
"You *could*," Angelus said, weighing the word carefully and wondering if Wes meant it to be that theoretical.
"I could," Wesley repeated. He let his coat fall back into place. The smell of leather mingled with blood. He let the words stand between them, in no way clarifying their reality.
Angelus thought it over. It'd been a while since he'd played chess, but he remembered how it worked. "I could kill you anyway. I could torture you but leave you not dead."
Wesley nodded, agreeing to all of the possibilities. "You could."
A thought occurred to Angelus. "I could turn you?" It was an offer, not a threat.
Wes made a moue of disapproval. "I wouldn't flatter yourself. I'm not inclined to become some soulless bastard."
Angelus couldn't help but gesture to indicate that Wesley was clearly offering to get him out of the cage.
Wesley smirked. "Some of us don't need to lose our souls."
Oh this had the word "fun" written all over it.
"So what's the deal?" he asked.
"You'll see," Wesley told him. He stepped back into the shadows and walked in the direction of the staircase.
Impatience crept up on him, fueled by the scent of blood on the floor. "When do I get out?"
Wesley paused. In the darkness, Angelus could see him smiling. "You'll see."
Angelus was torn between imagining Wes's throat in his mouth and… imagining Wes's throat in his mouth. Except one of those options wasn't as fatal as the other. "Soon?" he asked, thinking of both unlocked doors and gasping British men.
"Be patient," Wesley said. He balled up his handkerchief and threw it at him. Vamp reflexes alone allowed him to catch it without being zapped by the cage. "It'll do you good."
"Since when do I want to be *good*?" Angelus demanded.
Wesley chuckled as he went back upstairs.
