ethrosdemon ||| Buffy & Angel

Being and Fate
by ethrosdemon

Email: naturallycalm@yahoo.com
Distribution: List archives, the Biblio, EUB, you know the routine.
Disclaimer: Joss made it up, too bad he is an incompetent ninny. Mutant Enemy and others own the rights. I own nothing but my bad attitude and malapropisms. No suing please.
Rating: NC-17 not for small, furry animals or those eating (read: blood and wickedness)
Pairing: If you want to read it, you will find out. There might not be one.
Spoilers: Shanshu, Reunion, everything
Dedication: To the five people who fbed on the last part of Devil's Own, not to the people who read it and sent nothing, I spurn you. To Lar, well, where would I be without you? To Sam for being twisted and lovely. To Donna for the enthusiasm and conversation that led to this fic.

-----

Wes eases back in his chair and lays his glasses on the open book in his lap. His fingers brush across the yellowed pages and indentations left by the block-printer as it scarred the ink into the surface. He lets his breath out in a long, low moan to remind himself that he is here, and it is today, and he is still alive. The radio programme shifts from piano concerto to some modernist opera, but he doesn't have the energy to amble over and switch it off.

"Besides, what's a little auditory torture after the sheer hell of this week?" He rolls his head against the back of the chair and clutches for the glass of bourbon on the end table to his right. Nudges the bottle on the way and reflects that his weakness is showing at the edges with no one around to keep him in check. No place to be really; no one to see who expects any different from him. Considers calling Cordelia just to check in. Her routine clicking through his mind, and he knows she should be about to get home from the gym. A twinge of guilt flutters through his chest, but he's her friend after all, it's normal to keep abreast of one's friend's doings. Perhaps, and perhaps rationalisations are so familiar to him to it's difficult to tell what's true and what's just a way of easing him through his day.

She's his friend, and he's concerned that her day went well. That she's being as safe as possible, that the routine is still the routine, no interruptions or deviations, visions or visitors.

He glances down at the copy of "Prophetic Writings and Utterances of the Second Millennia C.E.: English Translations". One of the books he was able to keep for himself when the Council sacked him. Since the thundering awakening which was the finding of The Scroll, it has also been his constant companion. Working his way from the beginning to the end, analysing each cryptic quatrain, sonnet and free verse for any scrap of possibility of it pertaining to Angel. Knows there must be something, something somewhere, he just has to be diligent. His hope is a slithering thing, twisting and arching almost out of his grasp, and this book is his last clutch to keep a hold.

He wedges his fingers between the seat and arm of the chair and extracts the phone. Number two in speed dial and the ringing starts.

"Hi Wes, I'm not dead."

"You're so very witty, have you thought of taking your show on the road?"

"As a matter of fact…you gonna come over tonight? Watch some movies? We could order from that Indian take out place you like."

"I don't know. Certainly you could use some time to yourself…"

"Stuff it, like I have a personal life. Take the bus if you had more than two drinks."

"Yes, ma'am"

"Damn straight. Bye."

"Bye."

He never admits to having more than two drinks, never takes the bus, but she says it every time like just the words and the motion of saying them would save his life the one time it was more than six drinks, the invocation against death by drunken stupidity.

He always offers to let her be alone, listens to his heart stutter as he does in the fear that this time would be the time she took him up on it. Not yet. He ducks into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, relieved to be able to sit with she and Gunn for another night, to be able to watch them both in the glow of the television screen or hear them laugh or squabble and know they were both safe and alive.

~ ~

Back again from his nightly sojourn to Cordelia's. Slight indigestion from curry just that much too spicy. Watching the aura of the lamp at his side fade and give way to the sharper light of the approaching dawn, Wesley skims over the last stanza of the prophecy of the day again.

"As the world drifts to the West so does the unworld, and in that time when they find the furthest Western shore, the Old Powers will find new vessels, some weak, some not, and there will arise one who has no true nature and yet two natures untrue, and this one shall be Light and Dark, the Bulwark and the Crack."

He tugs the words back and forth in his mind. So many could-bes and perhapses, but he thinks this might actually be something. Two natures and no real true one. Sounds familiar. They certainly live as far West as one could in what is considered the Western World, well, if the visionary was North American-centric. Even if it was about Angel, it really didn't say anything except that he shall "arise". Bloody lot of good that did him. He places his glasses in the book to hold his spot in case the pages try to flip themselves over and makes his way to bed.

~ ~

In his dreams, Wesley is picking his way through a rocky path down to the soft sand along the shoreline. He can see the waves eddying out into large tidal pools, and he knows he needs to be down there in water. The rocks seem to go on and on and on until finally he glances down and sees he is on the sand after all, sheltered by the swaying leaves of the night blooming orchids that grow near the waterline. The fifteen-foot high plants dot the landscape, and their scent fills his senses. He moves from tidal pool to tidal pool searching for his prey, what that is, he is not so sure, but he steadily searches nonetheless. Three pools to go, and he knows he will find what he needs, just three more…he plays his fingers along the trunk of the nearest orchid, silver and purple and black in the night, and pulls his fingers back tipless. He stares at the bone and sinew where skin was seconds before, and remembers: yes, the orchids are scaled with razors, how could he forget the weapons that defend their blooms?

He wakes the same way he has since he came remember, different beds, narrow, wide, soft, hard, wind rattling the window panes, soft California light falling across his face: with a prayer.

"Lady and Lord pleases make my actions acceptable in your sight, cause my thoughts to be pure and mindful of your Light. Let this day bring me not to the other side, but if that is your desire, let my end be swift and painless." Whispered vowels and consonants that he means just as earnestly laying in his own bed greeting a new day as he does in the heat of battle praying it won't be his last.

Shower. Dressing. Tea and toast. Marmalade his sister sends him every month //Gram doesn't give one fig for what Father says Wesley, besides, she says the Yanks don't even make grapefruit marmalade.// He can see her in her flat in with law books and folios piled up on the desk leaving only enough room for the paper and her hand to write on it. //You can always come here. I have room, and the Council wouldn't have to know. Gram says you can use the cottage anytime. No one would have to know. Please, Wesley, we are so worried about you.// The post office box was all that stood between he and Julia Windham-Price standing on his doorstep one afternoon, her come to haul him home by his collar. Staying in L.A kept her safe, and that was what his life was about, protecting the innocent.

He scalds his tongue with his tea, almost drops the cup in his lap. Sets it aside and reaches for the Book.

Wes wishes he had thought to abscond with more books when he left Sunnydale. There was only so much he could take, and subsequent access to most of the tomes he desired was limited to say the least. He was sure that Virginia could put him into contact with dealers, but he is unsettled at the thought of letting people outside of his direct acquaintance know he was on the look out for the original versions of the prophecies his abridged Prophetic W&U contained. His life was stressful enough without the added concern that someone who knew someone who had sold him a book was an operative with the Council.

Besides, so far he had found little that would demand the original to gnaw at. He picks his extra set of glasses out of the book and scans over the last entry he read the night before.

"As the world drifts to the West so does the unworld, and in that time when they find the furthest Western shore, the Old Powers will find new vessels, some weak, some not, and there will arise one who has no true nature and yet two natures untrue, and this one shall be Light and Dark, the Bulwark and the Crack."

Fucking sibyls and their ridiculously obtuse phrasing. Some weak, some not. Thanks for taking a stand.

He moves down to the next bit of text, there is no break, so he assumes it's somehow related to the previous verse.

"When the time of the Mother who is yet not a Mother has dawned, the Light which is Darkness personified will be tempted by she who is close to his body and soul. His days will be fraught with woe, and His tread will be marred by blood. He will seek oblivion in the arms of the steadfast, and He will return to the path he once walked."

"Dear lord, why couldn't it have been one about winning the lottery?" Wesley feels the shakes starting in his hands and working up his arms, the muscle above his left eye starts to twitch, and he feels the sudden urge to clear his bladder.

He sets the book on the coffee table, riffles through the drawer in the side-table, pulls out the crumpled piece of notepaper and picks up the phone.

"Hello. Could I speak with Rupert Giles please?" A clipped American accented, female voice greets him from the other end.

"You aren't one of those Council guys, are you? Because we don't need you to come around here screwing with things again…" In the background he can hear Rupert's raised voice "Anya, really. Hand me the phone."

"Hello, this is Rupert Giles." Wes sighs and tries to decide what he should say. He realises that he should have perhaps pieced that together before he dialled.

"Hello, Rupert, this is Wesley Windham-Price." He hears footsteps and fumbling movement.

"Indeed, Wesley, I think I your first name would have sufficed. To what do I owe this assumingly inauspicious phone call?"

"Sorry to be a bother, but I need some help. I know you have resources which I lack, and I need some materials."

"What sort of materials? If you are in need of magic supplies, we have a new web-site, I could give you the address."

"Well, actually, it is something slightly more arcane than that. I need a book, or books. In the original language. I only have a translation, and I need to, well, see the first hand account."

"Ah. I see. I can certainly do whatever I am able. Which books? I will forego the Inquisition for now, but if this has anything to do with putting my people in danger, I certainly hope you would be forthcoming with said information."

"You have my promise to that, Rupert. The information I need pertains to certain prophetic writing…

~ ~

A few days, weeks possibly, Rupert wasn't able to say exactly how long it would take him to find the books Wesley needs. This doesn't exactly settle Wesley's nerves. He's working himself into a higher state of frantic reading the two verses over and over. With each rereading, he's more positive that they pertain to Angel and his new, self-destructive activities.

What causes his insides to clench and churn is that he is coming to believe that the arms in which Angel seeks oblivion are not Darla's or Druscilla's. No, he's numbingly positive that the steadfast one is someone so much worse. Someone whom Wesley loves with the single- minded devotion of the true friend.

Cordelia.

While he has difficulty wrapping his mind around Cordelia falling into a passionate embrace with Angel, especially the new, unimproved version of their ex-employer, their reason and rallying point in the Fight, he can imagine other scenarios. Scenes in which Cordelia is a not exactly willing participant. And those thoughts feel like a betrayal, as though even the thought itself is a wound to what is left of his belief in the sullied Knight who fights for the Good. He knows all the same that Angel is walking a path where such a situation could transpire.

So, he flips two more Alka-seltzer tablets into his tumbler and tries to not run screaming into the street.

He knows he should call her. Apprise her what he makes of the writings. Let her in on her own fate. But what would he say?

"Cordelia, right, so I was obsessing over these prophecies, and I think that Angel is going to rape you, so we need to get on that uninvitation incantation on your apartment."

"Cordelia, Angel is a rampaging lunatic, bolt your door."

So many possibilities, all of them resulting in her calling in the men with the white coats or accusing him of needing a 12-step programme for disenfranchised Watchers.

He turns the scenarios over in his mind, can't decide which is worse, letting it play out and stepping in when the situation turns south, or moving in now and allowing her let loose on him for being a monumental wanker.

After a couple of hours of working himself into a state which had previously on been brought about by Faith, he decides his path: go to the source—Angel.

Perhaps a quick call to Cordelia first.

********************

Wesley stands on the doorstep of the Hyperion with his right hand wrapped around the knob of the front door. He half expects it to be locked and for his key to not work. He's taken slightly off-guard when the metal rotates in his grasp, and he's able to walk across the threshold.

He reconsiders his course of action once again, but is buoyed with remembrance of his brief phone conversation with Cordelia a half hour before //Gr, what? Have I ever "had relations" with Angel? Wesley, have you lost what little mind you had? Don't you think I might have mentioned it before? I mean, I'm anti-sex girl. Gawd, get a fricking grip!// He knows that the prophecy has to yet to come to pass, that Cordelia is not one to lie about her actions, and he walks into Angel's lair with the determination that she will be kept from her fate all costs.

When he steps into the corridor leading to Angel's suite, he knows the being he still considers his compatriot and friend can sense him. He most likely knew the moment Wesley entered the building. The lack of a looming presence in the hallway allows him a semblance of hope. Perhaps Angel has come somewhat to himself and will be accommodating.

He raps brusquely on the door and waits for a response. When none is forthcoming, he opens the door and stands in the opening. Angel is sitting facing Wesley. No emotion or even what would pass for recognition crosses his features, and Wesley decides coming to himself is definitely not what Angel has been up to.

"I'm sorry to intrude on your solitude, Angel, but I…"

"Then leave." Wesley can't maintain eye contact, and turns his head slightly to the side, notices the room is littered with clothes, weapons, empty blood-bags, the general refuse of Angel out of control.

Practice has taught him to school his physical response to the man- demon, and he has never been so glad when he realises that this is not going to go even as well as his worst case scenario.

"Angel, I want to talk to you about Cordelia." He clasps his hands together to steady any slight tremor they might betray.

"I'm on sabbatical from the visions. I'm sure the three of you can handle whatever comes your way." And that was at least recognition that he was there, and that this could be a conversation, so Wesley ploughs forward.

"This is not in regards to her visions. It pertains to your intentions towards her." He takes a step into the room and another as he waits for Angel to respond.

"I have none." Angel's face is rigid, his right hand plays over the raised pattern on the fabric of the chair on which he sits.

"Well, that's not what I've come to believe. I have had certain, er, indications, that you might desire to harm her." Ripple of the muscles in Angel's cheeks, and the grin that brought honey-flavored death to untold throngs graces his lips.

"You think that if I did she would be breathing now?" Grace of the death in human clothing, and Angel is moving through the room towards Wesley.

"I think you are one who plans his actions carefully, and I'm here to tell you that I intend to do anything in my power to keep her breathing long into the future." Five feet from him, and Wesley's skin starts to break out in gooseflesh. He reminds himself that this is just Angel. Angel in a bad temper and trying to scare him, but Angel nonetheless.

"Anything? Wes, you would come here, and from your perspective, put your life on the line to keep me away from Cordelia?" His tone is taking on inflection, and it's not pleading notes or the timbre of concern; it's flint and peevishness.

"Certainly, that's what friends do…"

"After I fucking sent you all away to keep you from dying with your intestines hanging out and your eyes ripped from their sockets, you come here to my home and confront me?" Displaced air buffeting Wesley's face, and Angel's circling behind him, hovering out of sight, but close enough to raise the hairs on the back of the other man's neck.

"That is rather graphic…Angel, I…" He takes a step or two forward, turns slightly to bring Angel back into his vision, but Angel echoes him, following his precise lines and staying just out of his peripheral vision.

"You have no idea what graphic is, child. What more would you do for her Wesley? Would you offer up your own body in her place? Would you be her sacrifice?" Rise and fall in pitch so Wesley has to strain to hear the last line, and he knows that he is playing a game that was devised and executed untold times by the demon behind him when the soul was not in residence.

"If I thought you would leave her be, yes, I would die in her place." He is starting to lose his ability to regulate his breathing and heartbeat, hears Angel scent the air, says his prayer in his mind, hopes the Lady and her Consort are with him in this place.

"What if it wasn't death I was offering? What if it was something else? What if I were to show you things you haven't ever even dreamed of" Shifting behind him, and Wesley turns his head to see what Angel is doing, where he is going, still can't see him.

"I couldn't imagine you would do such a thing, after all the time and hours spent in…"

"You don't think? Maybe you should have thought this out a little more, Wes." Cold hand clamped over his mouth, another pinning his arms to his side, and the twining muscles of Angel's chest against his back.

And this, this was the thing he never envisioned. Not once in all the imaginings and whatifs that ran through his mind on his way to this moment did he ever conceive that he would have his head wrenched to the side and feel the biting sting of Angel's teeth freeing his blood from his body. As the vertigo sets in, and Wesley's mind begins the progression towards unconsciousness, he wonders if he remembered to turn the lights out when he left his flat.

~ ~

Awakening finds him in a momentary daze. He thinks he's in his own bed in his parent's house. Panic hits him when he realises he might be late for breakfast, he bolts up-right and comes to himself.

Not in his bedroom with the sound of his mother bustling down the hall to fetch him, not even in his room across town with the phone ringing or alarm blasting out honky-tonk hits from the `70s.

In Angel's bed. With his heart about to break out his chest, pumping blood so fast he could feel a trickle down the side of his neck. That's just the first place that makes itself known. There's also a steady throb in the crook of his left arm. And he is certain the warm cascade matting in his pubic hair is definitely the result of another bite.

Wesley's entire body sags. The energy it took for the thirty-second panic attack had left his body sapped to the bone. Just sitting up was becoming a struggle.

"Are you proud of yourself?" Five words, that is all it takes to break him. The one thing he never did for Faith. She got no tears from him, not even with five glass remnants protruding from his thighs and her straddling his groin, bumping the glass further and further into his flesh. Not one tear. No barrier for this, no way to prepare for waking up in Angel's bed. Being Angel's most recent meal. Having Angel chastise him for letting himself be here.

The bed dips at his feet. He feels the weight shift and shimmy up his body until it rests stretched along his own. Always imagined that he would look death directly in the eye when his time came, that wasn't the case after all. His eyes refuse to open, refuse to let the last image be that of death on his friend's face.

"Why are you crying, Wesley? Are you hurt?" Fingertip tracing the tears over his face in a swirl, cool, but not as cool as Angel's touch normally is, and Wesley knows it's his heat Angel has stolen, his blood that pools in his stomach and works from there out to the toes and top of the head.

"Why am I alive?" Undulation, Angel's hip is digging into his own, the pain wakes him up again. But the lethargy is satin and fireflies; he tries to push Angel out.

"What kind of question is that? I told you I wasn't going to kill you. I've done nothing but keep you from dying. Why would I do the job myself?" Punctuates this by jamming his thumb in the soft flesh directly under Wes's jaw, just enough to get the eyes open.

"You bit me. More than once." An attempt at venom. Not too successful with Angel's face so close the absent breath is making him more nervous than the arousal skimming, skimming, rotating against his stomach.

"You came in here and offered. I'm not going to look a gift vein in the mouth. Besides, it kept me here. Away from Cordy. Isn't that what you wanted?" Bow of a smile. Fools gold appears real too.

"Yes, I suppose, I don't know…you don't feed from…I feel dizzy." Reality is coming is patches, and he's not sure this is even real. Doesn't know the rules, what he's supposed to say or do.

"Was there something else you wanted when you came here? Or was it just to offer me a snack?" The absurd fact that he is nude jostles into Wes's mind. He has been naked this entire time. And somehow that is wrong. Why it's wrong, he's not sure, but it Is. And Being in itself is something right now.

"Wha…I was here to stop you…" He doesn't want to talk anymore. This needs to be over. The scene played out and death or living to come after.

"Oh right. And you thought what I wanted with Cordelia wasn't just her blood. Or am I slipping?" Words and more words, and he wants to ask Angel to stop talking. To just touch him the way he is now, rose petal fingers and lips tracing his eyebrows.

"Angel…" Tongue and lips cleaning the bite mark at his neck, washing away the evidence save the two holes that will leave matching scars to tell the tale the rest of his life. If he lives to scar.

"Were you offering me the whole deal, or just the blood play?" Weight horribly absent. Cold air and tiny hairs standing on end.

"Do you want me Wes? Do you want me to give you your reward for being so brave?" Fight or flight, he knows that voice. Pops his eyes open, clarity of thought kicking in, and he knows he has to at least attempt to get away. Hands on him, over him, bracing him against Angel's chest, grip firm enough to leave purpled, blacken flesh.

The adrenaline rush washes through his system, devastates the rest of Wes's energy. If he wanted to resist, there is nothing to call up to even go down fighting. His body flows along with Angel's, dipping and swaying as the large hands stroke him, position him, mock him with every caress.

"It's been a while for me, but this isn't your first time, is it, Wes? I won't have to take any special care." Pulled up off his belly by his waste, comes to rest on his elbows and knees. His head too heavy to hold up on it's own, much less his whole body, without Angel's fingers grooving into his hip he would collapse completely.

Realises through the distance he is building for himself that there are fingers smearing the blood on his thigh, knows as well when the fingers don't linger that his blood will return to his body, just not in a vein.

Litany of intertwined vitriol and reassurance from Angel's lips.

"Why would you be so stupid? I thought you were the smart one."

"It will all be over soon. I protect what's mine. They won't ever touch you, Wes."

And this schizophrenic stream of thought is what is inducing the icy sweat on his back and the black hole of terror in his thoughts. Angel's mind is fragmenting before him. There is nothing he can say, do, attempt that can make any difference. The tears begin to pool and soak through the royal blue coverlet inches from his face. Red and blue, good contrast.

Angel's grip tightens and the heartache, soul shredding and pain of self-hatred manifests in the corporeal. A burning ache spreads from where Angel has lodge himself inside of Wesley's body. Took him too long to start, the blood he used to lubricate himself has coagulated. Some detachment there, and Wesley is glad for it. A wedge he places between Self and the body, freedom to imagine his life without the choice to come here tonight.

He's brought back to this plane, this place, this second as Angel's fingers clutch him so tight four blood trails form where the skin ruptures. But this is just a side note, an interlude or sideways glance, because the bright star of pain is the something inside of him that bursts. There has been pain of many varieties and tastes in his life; this is something new and overwhelming. Physical and mental anguish paired perfectly. In the second when the nails puncture his skin, the haemorrhaging begins internally, Angel's voice bounds off all four walls of the bedroom in a manic cry: "Why did you make me do this? I love you, Wesley."

Not much more after that. Some thrusting, collapsing, and darkness that could have come so much sooner, but this won't ever be over. And that is Wesley's last thought for the night.

~ ~

This time when he comes to, Wesley lies as still as possible. Of all the people on earth, he knows better than any that Angel will not be tricked by feigned sleep. But what else is there for him? Pretend wish hope lie.

Fifteen minutes and silence. He thinks it's fifteen minutes. Could be thirty seconds, how would he know? Wants to be home or just die. Rolls over. Still no movement or sound. Pulls his leaden limbs into an upright or half up-right position.

Nothing. No Angel. No Angelus. Rips the sheets off his body. Band-aid over his thigh wound. No blood anywhere. Clean sheets. Forrest green coverlet. The world is a varied and wondrous place. Angel is a creature of the world.

Wesley isn't scared as he dresses himself. He isn't remembering the brutality or the whispered words of affection.

He's thinking about Cordelia. Safe. Unaware. Going about her daily routine.

He decides he'll take a cab when the walk to the hallway causes him to collapse against the door facing.

~ ~

Not so far to his flat. The city passes by the window of the cab just the same as it would any other day. Nothing new under the sun or beneath the moon. No signs heralding the new person he thinks he might be. He isn't altogether sure yet. It might just still be the old him in need of orange juice and sleep.

Bundle of brown paper and twine on his doorstep. Stooping to pick it up sends whirling black dots to obscure his vision. Keys, lock and he's inside. Inside where Angel never was and won't ever be. Or maybe he will. When the world shifts again and this Angel is gone. And the smoothing over and repressing starts. He will forgive and move on. He did this for her. He knew someplace where recognition lives what would happen. And he is still alive, at least part of him, the body part seems to be alive.

Lets his entire body just loosen and fall into the chair. Sits to the side after the initial sharp twang of pain from his intestines. Wonders how Angel stopped the bleeding, then decides he doesn't want to know. Thinks about haemorrhoid cushions. Uses his key to tear the paper off the parcel. He half rips the note that is directly under the paper nestled against the leather binding of the book.

//Wesley,

I do hope this is what you needed. I marked the passages that appear to correspond to the translations. There are some discrepancies, however. Let me know what you make of it. Return the book at your leisure, but please make sure it is in one piece.

Rupert//

Flips open the book to the page where the bookmark juts out the top //The Magic Box—Your One Stop Shop for All Your Magical Needs//

Scans the page. Right. Greek. Not just Greek, Linear B sub-variant. At least it's something he knows well. Not too much brainpower need be expanded.

Scans down to find the verses he wants.

Lets the book fall off his lap onto the floor.

Half-cocked, the story of his life.

One word difference in a translation where the pronoun references are garbled, and his life is…his life is not the same one as yesterday.

"When the time of the Mother who is yet not a Mother has dawned, the Light which is Darkness personified will be tempted by he who is close to his body and soul. His days will be fraught with woe, and his tread will be marred by blood. He will seek oblivion in the arms of the steadfast, and He will return to the path he once walked."

It was never Cordelia.

It was always him. Who is more steadfast then he?



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