Title: Sunshine
Author: silverwind24
Summary: Wesley's grief finally becomes too much for Illyria to bear, and she makes a decision that will bring hope to the hopeless, and life to the dead.
Rating: PG-13 (for a very vague innuendo)
Disclaimer: If I owned even a tiny bit of Angel, Wes and Fred never would have died! Author's Note: Please read and review!

Chapter 1

Wesley slept with his door cracked open, like a child who needed light to keep the monsters away. Yet, this futile attempt did nothing to alleviate the man from his demons, the torrents of unavailing grief that plagued him night and day. Regardless of his privacy or the hour of the night, she blew the door open with barely a touch of her hand and stood there, watching him. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, the sweat that trickled over his brow, and the way he clutched the white sheets in his trembling hands. She saw the emotions fly over his face, sometimes flickering there like a flame in the wind. First, hope, then confusion, fear, and a sudden onslaught of sadness that tugged at sometime inside of her as she watched. As the sleeping man grew more frantic, his lips moved, quietly whispering something at first, and then increasing in volume. The fallen goddess need not have listened to hear what the man would say.

"Fred...Fred...oh God...Fred," he mumbled, shaking his head, his voice still sleepy and muddled. Illyria tipped her head to the side, watching intently, but unmoving.
"Please...stay...oh Fred," his voice got louder, and then lost all control and dignity that he might have held to him when he spoke as he called her name. Yet, his own voice did not wake him, and he almost thrashed, kicking at the blanket that covered him, and it was too much for her to take.
Illyria lifted up her head and the blue pigment faded from her skin, her hair lightened, and her eyes became the doe-like brown that Fred's had been. In a perfect imitation of her voice, tone, and expression, she breathed, "Oh Wes," and went to him.
At the moment that her hand touched his arm, he was aware of her, but remained sleeping. In the nightmare that had become agonizingly real and blurred all senses of reality, the woman that he loved came to him, not the ancient goddess that now inhabited her broken body. She surrounded him, comforting him with the lovely voice he had longed to hear, and touching him with her soft, perfect skin. Wesley kissed her and held her, not stopping even when he woke, feverishly believing in the waking dream that Illyria had created to ebb his pain. He said her name again and again like it was a sacred word, and she responded to him as only Fred could. Tears dripped from his face onto hers, half from the joy of having her in his arms, and the others from the subconscious knowledge of her death. Illyria took it all in, the emotions she felt startling and awakening her, realizing that she was no longer in control of her feelings for this man, for Wesley. Slipping back into sleep, clutching her to him so much that it almost hurt, he whispered, "Don't go Fred."
"I won't leave ya, Wes," she told him, in a voice that was not her own, before sleep overcame her.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce woke the next morning with a sense of inexplicable happiness. Then he became aware of the woman in his arms, and he almost convulsed in his confusion.
"Morning sunshine," she said to him, and he wanted so badly to let his face melt into a smile. Instead, he swore loudly and pushed her aside with a violence that he didn't know he possessed. He screamed as loudly as he could, tumbling out of the bed, raising his voice in a wail that was more animal than human. He continued to scream, unable to look at her, and unable to contain his pure rage. He cursed her in every language that he knew, both demonic and human. He shook his head in disbelief, clutching at his hair with his fingers, then staggering helplessly around the room.
She lay there on the floor, still utterly Fred, watching every emotion flow unmeasured from him. In a moment of Fred-like self-conscious, she pulled the bed sheet around her body, still watching him.
He picked up a coffee mug in a shaking hand and flung it at his mirror with all his strength, shattering it, letting the sounds of crashing and destruction join the chorus of his sorrow. After every shard of glass had settled to its resting place, he stood there, looking at her. Shaking his head again slightly he began to sob, sinking to his knees.
"I told you never to be her."
The tears ran unchecked down his face, and the violent rage that had consumed him moments before was replaced by despair.
"Why did you have to be her?"
She rose, the sheet around her, and knelt beside Wesley as he fell apart in a way that he had never allowed himself to before.
"I love you, Wes."
"No. No. No. No!" His face hardened again and he grabbed her wrist, squeezing it so hard that she cried out. "How dare you? You're not her! You can never be her, you filth; you desecrate everything that we had! You lead me to believe...oh God... what have you done?"
She looked at him, the hurt in her eyes, tears on her face.
"Stop it. Stop it now, Illyria. You don't know what you have done. Be blue, don't be her," he commanded, as harsh and cruel as he had ever been.
She didn't change.
"Illyria, stop. Be blue, don't be her, I can't stand it." Something in his voice wavered again, and when she didn't change, he broke. He let go of her wrist and sobbed like no man should ever sob. His forehead pressed against the side of his bed, his arm wrapped around his head as if to shield him from everything, he rocked slightly, the sobs continuing as if he could never stop.
Illyria touched her hand to his shoulder, and he jerked away, looking at her with a new level of insanity in his red and swollen eyes.
"You would give anything to bring her back," she said, in her own voice. He stopped crying long enough to nod.
"There is a way."
"What?" He sat up suddenly, aware and almost collected, except for the hiccupping sobs that returned involuntarily to his throat.
"There is a way you can have your Fred back, Wesley. This," she gestured to her face and body, "Is not enough for you. You love her soul."
"That is not possible. Her soul was destroyed." He wiped his wet and reddened visage with the back of his hand.
She smiled as Fred would, using her voice. "Don't be silly. Matter cannot be created or destroyed. The soul is matter, science has proved that as well."
"Don't," he warned her, looking physically pained.
"Her soul was altered from the form that it was in her body when the resurrection occurred. But the particles that composed it still exist, they are merely scattered throughout this world. I am surprised that this did not occur to you earlier."
"Why do you tell me this, Illyria? What use is it to you? Do you plan to bribe me or bargain with me by using her as a promise, keeping her hostage?" He spat the words almost coldly.
"For one so intelligent, by human standards, you miss so much. There is nothing here for me, Wesley, except for you. And all you want is her." There was something in her voice that he had never heard before. Was it regret? Disappointment?
"I still cannot understand."
"Then you are not meant to. Do you want her back or not?"
"Yes."
"Then we must go." In an instant, she was blue and leather-clad, and she rose, leaving him there on the floor.