That Lonelier Place | This Position Familiar

Gunn is the only one of them who didn't come around to threaten him or express his sense of the unforgivable, and somehow that felt like the worst sting of all. Angel tried to kill him, true, but really, Wes had been expecting that; in his own dim, morphine-dampened way he'd expected the pillow, the rage, the utter lack of forgiveness in spite of the soul, perhaps because of the soul. If Angel had been Angelus he wouldn't have felt the betrayal so sharply, now would he.

And Fred's sense of betrayal he could understand, her broken faith in his abilities as an expert, his fallen professionalism as though no one had ever been fooled by a forged prophecy before. It hurt, but he understood.

And Cordelia's silence he'd understood since childhood, a priori, like a mathematical formula. She was like the sister he'd never had. There is no forgiveness in family. Ergo, of course she.

Gunn, though. The one face he'd expected to see when he emerged from the endless black in a world of hospital sheets and humming machinery, the one person who's forgiveness he'd never questioned his right to, had never visited. Neither to berate nor to show support. Nothing. Having to take a taxi back to his empty flat, lacking any name to give to the well-meaning doctor, knowing in his darkened soul that his mistaken attempt at heroics had left him with no one. Gunn had called him one of his own, had said I've got your back in a way that Wesley had assumed wouldn't end. He'd seen the betrayals excused by Gunn, seen his former gang turn against him and Gunn react with a regretful frown not because he hated them but because a part of him wished he could go back. It was like instant forgiveness, it was stronger than family because Gunn had fought with these people, trained them, defended them, loved them.

And somewhere along the line Wesley had come to believe he shared the same bond with the younger man, had come to believe that his any action would be forgiven because hadn't Gunn forgiven so much more in the others? That hatred hurt worst of all, burned in him when Fred's recriminations only stung and Cordelia's continued silence remained expected and understood. Gunn's hatred burrowed into the growing lonely places that seemed almost eager to fill him in the dark nights, in the space of days after his release from the hospital, perhaps not too soon if he'd anyone at home to care for him, a stretch of empty time in which he barely moved and hardly bothered eating, every action a burden because really, he'd never had anyone but these people, and he'd never had a closer friendship, and he'd been doing the right thing.

He thought (continued to think) he'd been doing the right thing.

Justine's knife beneath his skin didn't hurt worse than the knowledge of his own failure, couldn't possibly hurt worse than knowing it had all been a lie. It filled him, as he grew harder, and leaner, and tried his damnedest to stop caring about it all, to stop caring that even in the end, when he'd thought he was dying and thought that were he to survive they would understand, that in what he'd thought was his lowest point his only concern had been for Connor, and Angel, and his only need had been the need to explain his actions.

In that lonelier place he could admit his arrogance, his hubris, his naïve self-assurance that of course forgiveness would come, that of course they would understand. That Gunn would still hold him a friend, and defend him as such. He was able to see the lies inherent in his earlier assumptions. Everything had seemed so much clearer then, with the protestations of friendship lying in the metaphorical dust at his feet. But then Gunn had come to him. Not for himself, or for the team, not to renew a friendship or offer forgiveness, but for Fred. And he thought that might have hurt worst of all.

His third day without sleep (he would stop counting beyond four, unable or unwilling to mark the endless stretches of time) marked the first occurrence of the dream that would become typical, common, consuming: he walks into the lobby of the hotel, looking down at a text (important in the way that dream-things are always important but likewise always unnamed) open to a lithograph of a Kubari demon, his mouth opening to speak to Angel who is as always standing over the bassinet when he hears the noise, the wet, sticky swallowing noise and he frowns and looks up just in time to see Angel red-mouthed straighten up from Connor's side, and smile.

That first time, as he had every time thereafter, Wesley bolted upright, shoving his chair back from the desk with the force of the move, eyes going wildly to the door where whatever woke him from his too-brief slumber awaits. That first time, it was Angel, reassuringly clean-mouthed and too late to catch Wesley's desperate attempts to waken. Still gasping, heart beating a little too rapidly but calming, and there is a book open before him, so Angel assumed that he had been startled, and asked, "Here early, Wes?"

And fresh from the dream, the horrible prophecy-inspired dream, he simply nodded a lie. "Yes," he breathed, mouth dry, voice low and rough with sleep. But Angel is distracted by a low cry from the bassinet in the lobby, and he just nodded, and left without hearing the rest of Wesley's explanation.

Once Angel's flaring coat cleared the door, Wesley allowed his shoulders to slump, curling in with exhaustion so inborn it's almost painful, and very casually pulled a series of manila folders atop the open book.

His first reaction had been disbelief. It was impossible, it was a mistake, he'd translated it wrong again. Then had come denial, so very like disbelief but so much more firmly-rooted, so much longer-lived, a months-long search through every tattered scrap of old parchment he could lay his hands on, months of questioning demons in back alleys and temporally shiftless bars, months of terror and secrecy and no sleep and feeding the denial like a favored pet. By the end of it he'd dropped thirteen pounds his already thin frame could ill afford, his flat had become a place where he stored books and clothing, little more, and even his ability to be a friend had atrophied and gone the way of his attention to food and personal hygiene.

Already soaked in regret like old whiskey for things not yet accomplished he planned, and plotted, and caused his own ruination. That was the first time.

Beer was what you had with pizza, with friends, stout or lager or a pale ale fizzing in a frozen mug or served warm at one of the faux British pubs near his flat.

Rum was something hidden coyly in mixed drinks, iced in the blender and served with little paper umbrellas and forced upon him by Cordelia. Gunn had never been coerced into sampling a daiquiri.

Vodka was for dancing, for knocking back in frozen shots unmarred by ice or flavoring, for the quick rush, the instant disorientation of Grey Goose or real imported Stoli, Kremly, Thor's Hammer, the names that roll off his tongue like old friends, the acid-wash of dizziness that precluded self-consciousness or even good sense.

Scotch was for regret, and things left unsaid, and the bitter drunkenness that ended inevitably in tears, whether his own or someone else's. Scotch was for all night, and for blackouts that lasted days, and for that instant of complete amnesia that accompanied every hangover. In the four months after they left him to die, he pickled his liver. It seemed appropriate to no longer care. That was also the first time, though it counted as the second or perhaps a time in between as the entire period had been lost to magic or mercy or to that damn W&H contract.

It would have been better not to remember.

She would have explained that memory is nothing but electricity, would have anticipated or at least understood Ilyria's lingering static sparks, and never would have guessed that his mind would immediately and inevitably follow that thought to the more obvious applications of ECT.

The other She paced his office like a lion. A cerulean lion, anyway, pontificating through rationalizations of her Fall, incomprehensible though it is to her the force of those dire arms. Irreconcilable to her grand foe (though spoken of as 'our' grand foe, the royal We still threading her speech patterns), the Wolf, the Ram, the Hart, powerless beings in her time, but now triumphant in the excess of joy sole reigning hold the tyranny of heaven, or hell, or whichever name she chooses to give this earth on this day.

He watched and in reply waxed poetical through her increasing impatience. Laughing at it somewhere inside where it still had the ability to hurt, where he still had the ability to bleed.

"The essence is there, you see. The essence is essential, something of it must remain or the it isn't it any longer. A bench is a bench, essentially a bench, accidentally a heavy wooden object or something covered in green paint."

She cocked her head, stepped forward. He smiled beatifically. "We never describe things by their accidentals, Illyria. 'When we say what it is we do not say white, or hot, or three cubits long, but a man or a god.' Aristotle made that particular observation. Wise man, Aristotle. He was right, you know. Bench is an adequate answer. An assemblage of sticks painted green, we consider freakish."

She watches, perhaps curious though he is aware that it would be a mistake to attribute human feelings to a god, even to a fallen god. Grief heavy as a blow just waiting for her arrival, pain so sharp it couldn't be felt, not really, not until days later and then over the course of weeks, pain stretched into a long disbelief and a longer acceptance like hollow, purposeless regret. He is aware of slowly going mad.

It was worse that there wasn't even anything he could have done. Worse that nothing could have changed it. If there had been something, if he'd only done something wrong, he'd at least have himself to blame.

She killed him. He remembers. She blew a gasket, according to Angel's more colorful phraseology, and lost everything of herself in a brilliant explosion of color and light and timespace. The last is only a guess, but he distinctly remembers dying, falling into the light of her death only because something was different this time. This time he opened the portal straight away, this time she knocked him aside without killing him but disabling the machine, creating a crack in its engine block, this time she concentrated on dusting Angel and Spike before worrying about the two weaker beings, both the demon and the human. This time her explosion caught the edge of the wounded, wavering portal. This time he woke up in Hell.

There wasn't even pain. Just the light, and then he blinked sideways at the blurry strokes of ancient Sumerian. He blinked again, discerned that he still had limbs, pushed himself upright away from the parchment unrolled across his desk. He blinked again, looked out through the double doors of his office onto the lobby of the Hyperion, and realized that something was desperately wrong.

"Hey, Wesley," Cordelia murmured, spotting his movement from the outer office area and venturing through the open doors. He only blinked at her. "Long night? Or early morning?"

Her hair was very short, chin-length but not blonde. She had a baby in her arms, an infant, and she barely looked up to see his response. "Connor?" Of any possibility, this one would have stunned him the most. Cordelia looked up then, grinning. He hadn't seen her grin since. Well.

"This little guy's doing fine," she said indulgently, settling the baby more firmly in her arms. Wes swallowed. She caught the motion this time, looked up to glare at him with all her old protective instincts. "But you aren't fine," she said firmly. "Don't tell me you stayed all night again."

"Alright," he husked. He couldn't look away. "You're." Awake (alive), but he knew better than to say the words. Something was wrong here.

She looked at him expectantly. "Well?"

"What?" Dazed, his hands moving restlessly over a prophecy he remembers translating. His notes are only half-finished, the worst of it still to come, and he can place the date.

"So you're going home, right?" She's beside the desk now, chiding, but gently so that Connor is undisturbed. "You need sleep, Wes, you look like hell."

"Hell, yes." He is only repeating her final words (echo of Angel's long-forgotten concern, his comparison of a fun hell versus the Britney Spears hell), but the explanation makes a kind of sense. The god-king of the primordium explodes and anything within close proximity … "Fred?"

"Out with Gunn, still," Cordelia said absently, rather more concerned with the faces Connor is making. Wesley remembers an older boy layered beneath the false memories of a saner boy, and shudders. "They're getting breakfast and more cleaning supplies, should be back any time."

"Yes, good. I think I'll." Stops, can't go on, watches Cordelia with black edging his vision. "I'll just." Can't speak, or move, suddenly remembers that he hadn't eaten in several days in either timeline, hadn't had anything other than scotch for longer than he can count, can't remember where he lives in this thread or when he's supposed to start fucking Lilah.

"Wesley?" Finally distracted from Angel's son. He hears her words from the next state, answers "I'm fine, perfectly alright," or at least he intends to do so as he sinks back into the light.

"Is he okay?" Angel says, and Wes blinks up at the circle of his friends, realizes he is on the floor and attempts to rise. There is another period of darkness. He blinks again. Angel is mentioning a hospital, Fred is kneeling beside him and he can only smile helplessly. "Hey," she says. Gunn taps his other shoulder, grins down at him. "You gave us a scare, man." And he wants to ask Gunn about the latest changes to city ordinance, wants to hear Gunn's inability to answer. Nods instead, allows the younger man to help him sit up. Angel is holding Connor, Cordelia close beside them in the expected triumvirate, but both watching him with distinct worry.

"I'm alright," he manages, relaxing against Gunn's broad hands. He hasn't been touched by another human since he stabbed Charles, by another being at all since Angel questioned that decision in his own pointed way. "I think I just need to eat something."

"You are getting too thin," Gunn agrees easily, prodding at one collarbone as though comfortable in his presence.

"I've got just the thing," Fred says brightly, scampering off to retrieve their usual breakfast takeout.

"So, what have you been working on?" Angel asks, still focused on Connor but more aware than Wesley would like. "That prophecy about Connor? Cause I know it's important and all, but you don't have to kill yourself over it."

Wesley shakes his head, looks at his desk with only a faint regret. "No, I don't." Then Gunn is helping him to his feet, and the issue of whether to tell the truth is lost in his sudden hunger. "It's false."

"False." Angel seems to be taking the news rather calmly, considering. But then, he doesn't know what Wesley would have found. "Figured that out last night?"

"Early this morning." That is a lie, but as he's hovering over Fred's apportionment of breakfast he supposes even a paranoid vampire might overlook his tone. "The surface text seems genuine enough," he elaborates over a small coffee and breakfast burrito (both from Fred's favorite diner), wolfed down for nutrients alone even though the grease if nothing else would indicate a lack of such. Angel settles Connor into his bassinet, rocking it gently while Cordelia and Gunn claim their share of the food. "However, upon further study one finds a series of discrepancies in the author's use of language, calligraphy, and so forth, that leads me to believe that the prophecy has been tampered with."

"Tampered with?"

And even though Wesley is making this up, bullshitting with every phrase and mumbled explanation, it feels enough like something he might have discovered that Angel seems willing to believe.

"I'll have to double check with a few of my sources," he qualifies willingly enough. "But the original prophecy refers only to Connor. The additions concern the 'vampire with a soul' and his relationship to the miracle child."

"So, what, like what kind of daddy Angel's going to be?" Gunn asks around a mouthful.

"Not exactly." Wesley would cringe from this if he hadn't killed that impulse months ago. "The instances of forged writing include a passage that states 'The father will kill the son.' For obvious reasons, I believe that this section was added to the prophecy at a later date."

"Damn right it was!" Connor woke at his father's protest. Wesley closed his eyes against the wailing, and Angel's attempts to soothe the infant. His food was ambrosial after so long without, and he knew for fact that Angel would never harm his son. The others' concern therefore seems distant, unconnected almost. Connor quieted, and Angel continued more gently. "I would never hurt my son."

"I know," Wesley said blankly. Gunn and Fred were huddled together. Cordelia put one hand on Angel's arm, offering her comfort as always. Easy to forget how she would betray them later. "As I said, that portion is a forgery of sorts. The verb 'to kill' is genuine, as is the mention of Connor, but the object of the phrase has been altered and I believe that it refers to Connor's destiny. He will eventually kill something, some great enemy. Nothing to worry about, really."

"Nothing to worry about?" If anything, Angel seemed more distressed. "I don't want my son having to kill things, Wes."

"Frankly, Angel, that's the better of the two options, wouldn't you say?" He closed his eyes, dropped the last crumbs of his meal. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap." Angel muttered a sullen acceptance, and Fred approached him again with sympathy in her eyes. Didn't make it hurt any less, knowing that he didn't get to have her in any dimension. "I find I'm rather tired, would you mind terribly if I explained the rest of it tomorrow?"

Angel looked as though he wanted the rest of the prophecy now, ASAP, preferably quantified and with proof, but Cordelia fixed him with a glare and the vampire just nodded, shrugged, sent him on his way.

He didn't actually make it out of the hotel. Another fainting spell on the front steps ("fainting" being only marginally more masculine than Fred's assertion that he'd swooned) saw him standing shakily over the "employees only" bathroom sink, bracing himself with one hand while he dampened his face with the other. The intention was to splash cold water over his fever-hot skin (it worked in the movies) but with one hand the motion was nearly useless. In the end he simply held himself upright with both hands, staring at his own reflection in the mirror, hair longer and unkempt, minus a few scars, eyes harder than he remembered them being. His hand slid down the opening of his shirt, where he'd loosened the top three buttons, fingers sliding up his neck in a loose embrace. Just checking. Harder to remember when he wasn't wearing a turtleneck, when he wouldn't have shelves of them at his flat. Not now. Not anymore.

He sighed, looked down at the running water, caught a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye and spun to punch Angel … Of course. Mirror. Well, bugger.

Each realization flickered quickly upon the heels of the last, quickly enough that Angel's automatic retaliation only crushed him against the mirror, rather than through it. Wesley remained frozen, wide-eyed and cautious while the vampire calmed down, fingers relaxing slowly from their grip on his shoulders, eyes fading from anger to puzzlement. "Wes?" he questioned.

"Yes, Angel, I'm sorry about that, I …" There really was no explanation. "You startled me."

"I get that." Nodding, stepping back slowly so that Wes slid to the ground instead of falling. "You've been apologizing a lot today, you don't need to, I mean, I'm not mad about the prophecy being fake if that's why."

Wesley lowered the stare he knew was becoming antagonistic. Angel was trying. "It's not the prophecy, exactly." Ran a hand over his hair, flicked water away from them both. The faucet was still running. "Do you know how you would have, no." Stopped himself with a gesture. "I know exactly what would have happened if that prophecy had been real."

"Wes, I wouldn't hurt him." The anger had faded so much in the past hour. Angel was quietly pleading, barely more.

"I know." Whispered. "But if I had believed it, if I had tried to save him."

"Taken him." As though he'd just realized what the words could have meant, just realized the lengths to which one shattered Englishman would go for a friend. "You would have? I."

"I know." Smiled. Bitterly, but who's counting. "And you would have been right."

It hadn't happened, not yet, wouldn't happen at all if Wesley had any say in the matter, and so Angel was able to shrug, and smile weakly, and protest, "If it had been to protect him, I mean, if you thought. It would have been best, right?"

Wesley shrugged, not able to meet guileless, killer's eyes. "Maybe. If it had been real." It was as close to forgiveness as he would ever get, probably.

"Yeah." And shaken, Angel's gaze slips away to the obstructed view of Connor cradled against Fred's breast. "It would have killed me."

"I know." Wesley turned off the faucet, the squeak of the fixture loud after Angel's nearly prayerful confession. "But it didn't." A declaration of his own. "I won't let it."

Angel smiled at that, eyes flicking to him with good humor and something like gratitude. "I know you won't, Wes." Almost too close to a declaration of trust, difficult to remember that in this timeline he still deserved it. He shivered, looked away.

"I'll try not to fail this time," he said quietly, almost too quietly even for vampire's ears. As always, Angel frowned, shuffled, ignored the words. He'd never been comfortable with emotions. Feelings, as the vampire would mutter, almost shuddering, even though it meant that Wesley never was acknowledged. Funny. Wesley had never been comfortable with feelings either, and even the impulse to wish for more had been killed in this last, well, several months from now. Angel turned away as always, and now Wesley was only relieved.

"It'll be fine, Wes," Angel said instead. Wesley looked up, caught the tail of a dying smile. "Everything is going to work out. I know it will."

Wesley forced a smile of his own, didn't contradict the unusually optimistic words. It would work out this time. He would make sure of it if the attempt killed him. Everything really would be okay. It had to be.

It had to be.

A/N Chapter title taken from "Perfect Blue Buildings" by the Counting Crows. My thanks to Scribblemoose for her work as first reader and beta, and for the Britishisms. Wes!patter stolen partly from W.K. Wimsatt, Jr. in his essay "The Structure of the Concrete Universal". Illyria's speech is mostly stolen from Satan's first monologue in Milton's Paradise Lost, around line 84 on.