Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from Angel or Buffy, they are property of their respective owners. I do however own Åke Kivelä, and my own versions of any characters from the Ragnarök mythos - please do not use without obtaining approval.

A single mind working on a problem could only get so far in the space of a few days and Wesley was beginning to grind his teeth at night. Or rather, in the scant half hour naps he unwillingly took at shortening intervals. The demon and its minions were wreaking havoc on Los Angeles and the team couldn't seem to piece together what their plan was. Wesley had been searching texts for days now, and he was beginning to think that he just didn't have the volumes he needed – a pair of old Scandinavian tomes that told of some old forgotten legend.

He cursed softly, and pinched the bridge of his nose before unfolding himself from the desk, leaning over it with his hands flat on the surface, sucking his teeth.

"Wesley – anything?"

The human started and turned, finding Angel standing in the doorway with that usual brooding look, though there was something concerned and almost anxious about it now. There had been for a few days.

Wesley shook his head, straightening, crossing his arms. "Not yet. I believe the texts I need. . . I don't have them." He drummed his fingers on his arm. "But. . .I may know of someone who does."

Angel growled. "Then go get them."

The flight had taken four hours and Wesley had spent most of it with his knee bouncing and the lady next to him glaring as his books slowly began to creep over into her space. He smiled a bit apologetically and pulled them back over to his side. Suffice to say he'd been one of the last off the plane as it was no easy task corralling his wayward texts.

St Louis had such a different feel to LA. The roads were just as clogged but there was a different feel to the air – perhaps it was a lower smog index. The taxi ride to the university was another forty-five minutes. Wesley could remember reading about some scholar or another, hearing the name in circles followed by a relieved sigh at the man's lack of attendance. Åke Kivelä was considered one of the foremost researchers into Nordic literature and linguistics, but he rarely came to conventions – even Wesley occasionally made it out to those. Must be an older gentleman then, perhaps—

"That'll be forty bucks."

The voice of the cab driver shook Wesley out his thoughts and he scowled. "Highwayman," he muttered, handing over the fare.

The university in front of him wasn't large - or at least this building wasn't. It was a modern building, big and almost boxy looking like the majority of American buildings and Wesley couldn't help but feel a bit of distaste for the lack of character. He pushed through the glass doors and started down the hall, pausing at the nearest office to ask for directions. Even the halls looked devoid of spirit, endless walls of white with a cedar trim, a few fliers tacked to cork boards here and there.

It didn't take Wesley much longer to find the right room. Room 003. He took a moment to smarten himself up slightly, readjusting his tie before wrapping sharply on the heavy door.

Nothing.

Wesley frowned, feeling a slight bubbling of anxiety. He tried again.

Same result.

He was on the verge of yelling at the door but a loud clattering from behind interrupted the thought and Wesley swung around, almost expecting that one of the demons had followed him. Instead he saw a lanky young man - most likely a student - struggling with a pile of books in his arms, several already in disarray on the floor.

"Oh dear, let me help!" Wesley could see the books were old as he crouched down to gather them up, the other man steadying himself slightly when he stopped trying to grab them himself. "Here." He stood and set the books back on the stack, albeit a bit more carefully.

The student smiled, almost shyly. "Thank you," he murmured, shifting the weight of the books slightly, peeking around the side of them. His green eyes were soft, a bit curious. "I. . .I haven't seen you before - c-can I help you?"

A sigh slipped out as Wesley lowered his guard slightly. "Yes, I'm looking for Mr Kivelä? I need to speak with him - it's very important."

"I am Mr Kivelä," the man replied, chuckling softly. "If you get the door, we can talk inside. Keys are in my left pocket."

Through the mild shock, Wesley nodded and managed to - somewhat awkwardly - fish the the keys out of the man's pocket, weighing them almost nervously before trying to find the one that would unlock the heavy office door. Contrary to popular belief, it was the fourth try that was the charm. He pulled the door open and waited for Mr Kivelä before following and shutting the door after himself.

The office, unlike the rest of the building, had much more personality. There were stacks of books and texts nearly to the ceiling, in at least 5 languages that Wesley could see at a glance - perhaps more. It almost looked as though Mr Kivelä had tried to paper the walls with various manuscript copies that he had tacked up and annotated in various brightly colored pens. And yet, for all the organized chaos (or perhaps not so organized), there was a cozy feel to the room - not unlike an antique bookstore or a library with its musty old-book smell that Wesley had always loved, laced with a hint of vanilla and thoughts of warm fireplaces and hot tea.

"Mr Kivelä, I—"

"Call me Åke," the man interrupted, carefully setting the newest stack of books on the cluttered desk before turning to regard Wesley. Without the books, Wesley could properly see the oversized sweater the man wore, and the way it hinted that his frame was more average than lanky, even if he was just under two inches shorter than Wesley's six feet. His hair was a somewhat mousy mop of light brown that looked as though the man only half bothered to comb it in the mornings, moss green eyes peeking out from behind both it and his black thick-rimmed glasses. "What can I help with Mr. . .?"

"Wesley. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," he supplied. "I believe you may have two texts I very much need to borrow."

Åke blinked, quirking a brow. "Which?" He rather pointedly looked about the room at the stacks of books.

"Týr's Prophecy."

A confused look crossed the other man's face for a moment before sudden understanding. "Oh! Spádómur af Vánagand!" He turned and shuffled through a pile for a moment before pulling out two large texts. "Here - but are you sure you can read them? I could help, if not."

And that was when it struck Wesley that, for all the languages he did know, Old Norse was not one of them. He grit his teeth, thinking of the demons terrorizing LA in his absence, of Cordelia and Angel waiting for him to return with answers - not unreadable tomes. ". . .No. Dammit."

The reaction only furthered Åke's confusion, though he held out the tomes all the same. "Why do you need them?"

Wesley hesitated. The man could read the texts. . .perhaps if he didn't immediately call security, he might help. Wesley swallowed. "To avert the apocalypse."

There was a beat and Åke opened his mouth as though to reply but frowned sharply instead. "Apocalypse?" He looked down to the tomes, weighing them in his hands. "Ragnarök?"

"Of a sort." He was feeling faintly nervous now, on the verge of reaching out for the tomes, though he managed to hold himself back. "Please - it's a rather urgent matter. . ."

TBC

A/N: I hope you liked it, even if it is still extremely rough around the edges. I'm looking for a beta reader for this, and this is honestly just a rough first draft that I'm only publishing to try and attract a beta to help. Even if you don't want to beta it, feedback is always appreciated! It's the first bit of fanfiction I've posted in probably 5 years. I know it's lackluster at the moment, but hopefully it has a seed of something worthwhile!