All That Remains
Author's Note: I got really into Anya/Wes while I was writing Brave New World, so I just had to write some more.
"… And I'm just stuck here!" Spike said, pacing up and down, waving his arms around.
Wesley ignored him, silently cursing Angel for dumping Spike with him. Like he was some kind of glorified baby-sitter.
"Are you listening to me, Percy?" Spike asked, turning to Wesley.
"Of course," Wesley replied mildly, not looking up. "I find your self pity most interesting."
Spike seemed satisfied and resumed his ranting. Wesley assumed Spike had missed the dry sarcasm, too caught up in his own problems to consider how annoying he was being. Though it was probably more likely that Spike realised he was being a nuisance and was enjoying it.
"I know Fred's trying to help me, but what am I supposed to do while she's working on this? Twiddle my thumbs?"
"Knit?" Wesley offered, only glancing up briefly to smile at the vampire's stunned stare.
"And I suppose you're going to give me the non-corporeal knitting needles, are you? And what do you want out of it? A Head Boy scarf?" Spike chuckled.
Wesley rolled his eyes. He was already sick of Spike's incredibly witty public schoolboy jokes. He glanced at his watch, wondering why he was trying to be subtle.
"I doubt you've got the patience for an egg cosy, let alone a scarf, Spike."
"And I suppose you -"
The words snapped off halfway through the sentence and Wesley looked up with a sigh of relief to find that Spike had disappeared again.
"Well, that's a delightful habit," Wesley said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms out beyond the cuffs of his shirt.
With a yawn, he bent back over his work again, with more enthusiasm than before. But it was only a matter of minutes before he sensed a presence in the room.
"That's a less delightful habit," he muttered, looking up to gauge Spike's mood and determine whether or not he was in for another hour of ranting and raving.
But it was not the leather wrapped blonde vampire standing in the middle of the office. It was a petite blonde woman, with hazel eyes, wearing jeans and an incredulous expression.
"Ah," Wesley said, dropping his pen and standing up. "I thought you were someone else. How can I help you?"
"I need to see Xander," the blonde said bluntly.
"Xander?" he frowned. "I'm afraid he's gone. How do you - wait a minute, you're not Anya, are you?" She narrowed her eyes at him.
"Yes, how do you know?"
"Well, I assume that a woman asking for Xander would be asking out of a romantic interest. And, as far as I knew, his girlfriend died in Sunnydale," he smiled slightly as he adde. "And I believe we had a conversation about the dip at the Sunnydale High School Prom."
She frowned, trying to remember.
"Oh, you were the guy in the penguin suit with Cordelia," she said after a moment and she missed his wince when she mentioned Cordelia's name.
"Yes," he nodded. "Xander's in Cleveland with Dawn while Buffy's in Europe. May I ask, if you are Anya, how you're here? I thought you were, well," he cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed. "Dead."
"I am," she said, rolling her eyes. "But people have choices, y'know, even if they are dead."
"Choices?" he prompted.
"You have two choices, stay dead, meaning you're stuck floating through the dimensions. Which, ok, are lovely and heavenly, but boring after a while. Or you can come back and haunt the living. I thought this option would be more fun," she smiled wistfully. "And I wanted to see Xander again. How… How is he?"
"I'm not sure. I didn't see much of him. They only stayed here a couple of days. He was very low, uncharacteristically quiet. Willow said he was mourning you."
Anya smiled gently.
"Good," she nodded. "I want him to miss me. I do want him to move on though."
He was about to answer when Fred strode it, walking straight through Anya who shuddered.
"Hey!" she protested.
But Fred didn't seem to hear her; she smiled at Wesley and handed him a file.
"That's what I've got so far on the Spike situation, from a scientific point of view, anyway. I thought you could give me the mystical point of view?"
"Of course," Wes replied slowly, glancing over Fred's shoulder at Anya who was glaring at Fred.
"Something wrong, Wes?" Fred asked, frowning and glancing back at Anya. "Whatcha looking at?"
"You don't…?" Wes tailed off when he realised that Fred had no idea there was anyone in the room but themselves.
"What?" Fred asked, laughing a little uncertainly.
"Oh, nothing. I just thought Spike had come back, that's all."
"He's gone again?" Fred asked, laughter fading to be replaced by worry.
"I'm afraid so," Wes said, glancing at Anya who was circling Fred and poking her hands through her Fred's body.
"Well, I'd better get back to work. If Spike's disappearing more frequently, we need to get on this. See ya later, Wesley."
"Yes, right. See you later," he muttered as she left.
"She couldn't see me, could she?" Anya asked softly, placing her hand through Wes's desk before looking at him.
"No, I think we can safely assume she couldn't."
It wasn't until that evening that Wes managed to get the group together and tell them about Anya's presence. None of them could see her apart from him and in a fit of frustration; she squeezed her eyes shut, fisted her hands and disappeared. He blinked and shrugged; informing the others that she had gone.
"And if she comes back?" Gunn had asked.
"Then I suppose I'll have some company in the office," he had replied.
He didn't see her again until the early hours of that morning. He awoke with a shout to see her hunched at the foot of his bed, shoulders shaking slightly as she sniffled.
"Anya?" he asked gently, sitting up a little and rubbing his eyes. "Anya, are you all right?"
"I can touch things," she said with false brightness. "See, I can sit down and everything. All I have to do is want it enough."
"Anya…?"
"I went to see Xander," she said softly. "That's where I went this afternoon. He couldn't see me either. I was screaming at him for hours. While he was playing cards with Dawn, while he was trying to cook. Even while he was in the shower."
"I'm sorry."
"I thought out of everyone, he'd be able to see me. He loved me, I loved him. He should have been able see me. More than anything, I wanted to tell him I loved him," she turned to him, a broad grin on her face, tears shining in her eyes. "I did. I found out how. I wrote it on the mirror in the bathroom. All I had to do is focus and want it and I could do it. He always said I was stubborn. I waited for him to get out of the shower, for him to see it."
"Did he…?"
"Yes. He didn't see it at first; he was too busy singing American Pie. When he saw it, he went as white as a sheet," she chuckled slightly. "I thought I was the ghost."
They were silent for a moment and Wes watched her warily as she stared into the middle distance.
"'Bye, bye Miss American Pie. Take the Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. And good old boys were -" Xander stopped, eyes wide as he stared at the words scrawled messily in the mirror.
I love you, Xander. Always.
He mouthed the words as he paled and sank back onto the edge of the bathtub. He stared around the bathroom.
"Anya?" he asked. "Anya, are you there?"
She crouched down in front of him, reaching up, her hand hovering an inch from his face.
"Yes, I'm here," she whispered.
He was still looking around the bathroom.
"Anya?" he asked again.
"I'm here!" she said, louder this time as his eyes continued to dart around the room. "Xander! Xander, I'm here! I'm right here!"
He couldn't see her and he slumped forward, rubbing the tears out of his eyes.
"Anya," he whispered. "If you're there, I want you to know… I'll never, ever forget you. I will always love you. Always. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
And she smiled grimly as she stood up and watched him get up and pull himself together.
"Yeah," she said softly. "Me too."
Then she squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself away.
"Wesley," Anya said softly. "No one can see me. No one. Except you. What does that mean?"
"Honestly?" he asked gravely and she nodded. He smiled at her. "I have no idea."
She never told him when she went to see Xander, but he could guess when she had. She would disappear for a little while, she did it often enough, he assumed she sometimes hung out in celebrity showers.
But occasionally, she would return, morose and quiet. There was never anything he could say to her then. But thankfully her visits were infrequent and he didn't have to worry about her silence too often. It wasn't that he didn't want her to see Xander; it was just that over the months, he started to grow fond of her and he didn't like it when she was sad. She had a pretty, cheerful face and it was heartbreaking to see her sad and silent.
He, of course, was the only person who noticed when she was depressed. Spike had been able to see Anya while he was ghost, but never seemed to notice when she fell quiet. And if he did, he didn't mind it. Spike had liked Anya when she was alive, but when they were both dead it was another matter. As Spike was the only other person who could see her, Anya would chatter non-stop to him. After becoming corporeal again, Spike told Wesley - after asking if Anya was present and receiving a yes - that the best part of being corporeal was not having to put up her "non-stop bloody chit-chat!"
But Wesley noticed the forlorn glances Spike cast around his office when he poked his head around the door. Anya had been Spike's last link to Sunnydale and therefore Buffy.
Not that it was any concern of Wesley's. His only concern was Anya. Of course he cared about the good fight and so on, but as he was the only one who could see and hear Anya, she was all his.
Responsibility, that is. She was his responsibility.
She noticed a few months after arriving at Wolfram and Hart that her visits to Xander had become fewer and farther between. After a while, she stopped seeing the point of it. All she ever did was trail around after him, watch him sleep and occasionally see the appreciative glances he cast other women in the street or in the mall.
So she would go home to Wesley's and put the TV on, turn it down so as not to disturb him as she flopped in a chair and stared at the flickering images. At work, she would seek out the company of Spike, who - as a ghost - could see her, so as not to upset Wesley with her silence.
She knew it upset him from the way he would look at her and attempt to cheer her up with tales from his days as a Rogue Demon Hunter or as Angel's bumbling sidekick.
She wasn't sure why he cared about her or why he never told her to get lost. Oh, she knew she came in useful. She was a handy spy, keeping an eye on the employees and informing Wesley of any mutiny. And in a fight, she was brilliant. Ok, not so much with the fighting, but with the yelling instructions, she was the best.
Anyway, it didn't matter if Wes tried to take care of her, because the real truth was that she took care of him. She was glad she had figured out quickly how to touch and move things. So now, if she found him asleep on the couch, she could cover him with a blanket. She could throw an apple to him when she thought he should eat.
It wasn't that she needed him; it was that he needed her.
"Wes?"
"Mmmm?"
"How come you never go on dates?" Anya asked, eyes flickering away from the movie as she voiced her question.
"I'm a busy man," he replied, not looking at her, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the aliens bouncing across the screen.
"Yeah, but really. There's plenty of good-looking women at work, I could check out any you've taken a shine too and let you know if they're evil. See, then you don't even have to leave work to get laid!"
"I get laid!" he spluttered defensively.
She was about to answer when she realised that yes, he was right. He did get laid. He never brought anybody back to his place, but sometimes she had the sneaking suspicion that he'd had yet another one night stand.
"I know," she said quietly, after a moment. "but you never get hugged."
"Hugged?"
"You may get laid, Wes, but you don't have relationships. You miss out on all the best stuff. The hugging, the kissing, the waking up on Sunday mornings, eating together, movies, dumb arguments, making up. The nice stuff."
He was looking at her with an odd expression on his face and she shifted uncomfortably.
"You do realise, Anya, that aside from the hugging and the kissing, you and I have all of the above. Well, generally, I do the eating and you make me eat seconds."
She smiled.
"That just proves you need to get out more."
"I'm just fine where I am."
It had been a year since Anya had shown up in his office. A year in which Wesley had precisely no dates. And no relationships. But thankfully, Anya had stopped getting on at him to get himself a girlfriend. He thought maybe she had worked out his feelings for Fred, which would have been ironic, because he was over Fred. There's only so long you can want someone before you realise it's never going to happen so you move on.
Anyway, he had other things on his mind. Like the way he was noticing more frequently how pretty Anya was. Like how distracting she was just sitting in his office not saying anything.
Honestly, it was ridiculous.
She was a ghost and he was alive.
She was in love with someone else and he had only just got over Fred.
She - she… She was American and he was English!
He groaned and lowered his head into his hands. Really, he was pathetic. First Fred, now Anya. Well, at least Fred had been alive.
"You ok?"
He glanced up at the familiar voice and found Anya frowning as she sat down in a chair. She slipped through it on the first attempt and her frown deepened in concentration as she sat down firmly the second time.
"Fine," he told her. "Just thinking."
"About what?" she asked.
"Nothing in particular," he replied evasively, averting his gaze.
She shrugged and shifted in the chair, the leather squeaking as she did so. Wes wondered what the others thought, when they came into his office and sat the indentation on the chair, or the floating files and pens. He allowed himself a smile at the memory of their vaguely uncomfortable expression.
Anya got up from the chair and pulled a pen out the pot on his desk, threw it into the air and tried to grab it, but it slid through her hand.
"Still practising?" Wes asked, watching her repeat the action with the same result.
"Yes," she answered tightly. "I can pick anything I want up, I just can't catch it."
"Then it's a good thing you don't want to be a juggling clown."
Anya left the pen on the floor and looked at Wesley for a moment, before breaking into peals of laughter that set him off too.
Wes watched her as she gasped for unneeded breath and straightened up. She smiled at him and he was reminded for the hundredth time just how beautiful she was. He returned the smile and sighed when she turned to inspect the pile of books on the sideboard.
Because he was willing to admit to himself, at least, that he was in love with her.
Anya glanced at him, picked up an apple from the bowl on the sideboard, and laid it on his book. He looked up at her and smiled.
She returned the smile, turned away, and closed her eyes.
Because she was willing to admit to herself, that all that remained of Anya Jenkins was ectoplasm and love. Warm, gooey, bittersweet love for Xander Harris. The kind of love that hoped he would find someone else to love him like she had.
And then there was the other love. The hot and burning kind that was sad and wistful. The jealous kind that hoped the object of her affections wouldn't find anyone else because she wanted him. The kind that realised this feeling was foolish, but was unwilling to let go.
"So, uh, it's Friday night," Anya said after a moment. "Got a date?"
"Me?" he asked, looking up, "no. It's another night in front of the TV with you, I'm afraid."
And she sank into the chair again, this time with a satisfied smile.
Because Anya was willing to admit, even if she didn't tell Wesley, that while she still loved Xander, she was in love with someone else too.
Someone she could never have because, unlike her, he didn't have to concentrate just to sit down, he could catch things when thrown to him and the only times he walked through walls was when he was thrown through them.
Someone who was the only person who could see her.
Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.
The End.