X, a common law fanfic

Summary: It's not often Travis gets hurt, anymore. Demon!Wes AU. Oneshot.

Warnings: Demon!Wes AU. OCD. Self-harm.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

Vaguely references many of the previous stories in this series, including 'Thaw', 'Leap Of Faith', 'Heaven And Hell And Everything In Between', and 'Skin-Deep'. I don't think you have to read those to really understand this one, if you don't want to, but you totally should ;)

Beta'd by my wonderful warrenkoles. Thanks for all your help and support with this series, and double thanks to you and mizufallsfromkumo for coming up with this idea in the first place and giving me such a fantastic sandbox to play in.

OOOO

"Sometimes your belief system is really your fears attached to rules."

—Shannon L. Alder

XXXX

Demons don't sleep. There's no need for it. Once a demon takes a vessel, the body is less than human. Demons keep their bodies going with magic and spite. They don't need to eat or breathe—though Wes does his share of both—or sleep.

When he first took a body of his own, Wes hadn't understood the point of sleeping. Humans just lay there, not doing anything for six, seven, eight hours straight. It seemed like such a useless waste of time.

Once he learned that human use sleep to recharge and rejuvenate their fragile little bodies, Wes still hadn't understood the appeal. Just lying there, turning his brain off—what was the use to an immortal, supernatural creature, recharging when there was no need for it?

He never begrudged his human colleagues their rest, fragile fleshy things they were, but he'd never felt the need to try and emulate them.

He's never wished more fiercely for the empty thoughtless peace of sleep than right now.

The closest he's been able to manage is a sort of meditative fugue. His body lies still as a corpse, no energy expended for the trappings of humanity—no blinking, no breathing, no tiny shifting. Within, he swirls through muscles and nerve endings in an aimless, random pattern, exploring this body he knows so intimately. It's serene, quiet—

But it's not quite sleep, and it doesn't stop the slow roil of his thoughts.

Sighting softly, Wes settles back into his body, falling into the familiar grooves and patterns, taking control. He opens his eyes, starting at the ceiling. Hours he'd laid there, trying to become empty and silent and still, to no avail.

He's a little disappointed it didn't work.

He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed. He dresses on automatic, familiar motions made mindless with repetition. He doesn't even have to think about it, which is why it takes him a while to realize that this is the fourth time he's buttoned his shirt up.

Wes blinks down at his hands, watching in bemused fascination as, without conscious thought, he painstakingly unbuttons his shirt. And yet, even now that he is thinking about it, he can't stop, can't pull his fingers away. He has to unbutton all the way to the bottom, then come back up, and it isn't until he fastens the last button at his throat that he can drop his hands to his side.

"Well," Wes tells his empty hotel room. "This is annoying."

It happens again in the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, spits and rinses, and, rather than put the toothbrush away, reaches once more for the toothpaste. It takes three brushings total before he can successfully turn the water off and drop the toothbrush in the cup at the edge of the sink.

Wes braces himself against the counter and takes a deep breath. He feels as weak and brittle as the humans around him, but his teeth have never been cleaner.

"Today," he tells himself in the mirror, "is going to suck."

XXXX

II.

The drive to work is, for the most part, uneventful, thought he does find himself switching radio stations with an almost manic fervor. He tells himself it's because Travis isn't in the car with him, jabbering away and changing channels just to annoy him. "Jazz, Wes?" he always says, hitting the stereo button and filling the car with screaming guitars and heavy bass, "Hate to break it to ya babe, but no one listens to jazz anymore," and Wes smacks his hand away and snarls something rude as he changes the station back—

Wes gags on nothing and has to pull over for a few minutes, resting his forehead on the steering wheel and taking slow, deep breaths.

He's not certain the breathing helps him the way it would a human.

He's running behind schedule by the time he pulls back onto the road—even if he catches every light green, he's going to be late. He can't bring himself to care. What does it matter if he's late when his partner is—

Wes changes the radio station and doesn't think about it.

He makes it to work and almost hopes he'll get inside without further delay. No such luck. He locks the car, then locks the car, then locks the—

And it—it's fucking ridiculous, is what it is. He knows how to lock his car, has done it thousands of times. He can picture it so clearly in his head, pulling the keys out of the lock, pocketing the keychain, walking towards the elevator. And yet, and yet, he cannot bring himself to fulfill the motions, it's as though his body is no longer his to control, and he locks the car a seventh time, an eighth time, a ninth—

"Goddammit!" he snarls, slamming his free hand against the car. The frame buckles under his palm; the fiery, unearthly growl rebounds off the concrete walls of the parking garage.

He's shaking. He watches his hand tremble against the metal with an almost detached interest. How very…human of him. He has complete mastery of this body of his, can control the blood flow through his veins if he wishes, but he can't stop shaking.

His brethren, were they to see him now, would say that being surrounded by so much humanity, immersing himself in it like this, is making him weak. For the first time, Wes wonders if they might be right.

He takes a breath, pulls away from the car. Almost. One last turn of the key in the lock (ten) and finally, finally he can pull it out, can pocket the keychain and turn to the elevators.

There's sweat beading on his brow, and his hands won't stop trembling. He shoves them deep into his pockets and tries not to act like he's hiding.

XXXX

III.

Kate ambushes him in the break room. Just Kate, not Amy. Amy is…his relationship with Amy is complicated. Wes isn't surprised Kate came alone.

"What are you doing here?" she snaps, hands on her hips. Another time, he'd admire that—she's always been one to cover her fear with aggression, and right from the start, she was argumentative with him in ways that not many would dare, against a demon.

Another time. Not today.

Without looking up, he carefully pours the station's coffee into his mug. It's not good coffee, which is why he's drinking this instead of the better stuff from the coffeeshop down the street. The sharp, stringent taste will give him something else to think about, at least for a little while.

"I work here," he says flatly, evenly. He feels stretched taut, at the end of his rope, so it is even more imperative he keep his calm.

"I know that," Kate says, a long sarcastic drawl. "But why are you here?"

He picks his coffee up, but doesn't drink it just yet, merely leans against the counter, running his fingertips around the rim, and looks at her. From the way she flinches, ever so briefly, he knows his eyes are black, inky and empty. Odd. He doesn't remember doing that.

"I have paperwork," he explains reasonably, and really, he's not the type to leave that half-finished, he does his duty and finishes his work, unlike some people who laze about and put it off for ages—

"Paperwork," he says again, quite without meaning to. And then again, though he tries to keep it from coming out, "Paperwork," spitting it out like a curse, like he has to say it or—or—

Thankfully, the compulsion seems satisfied with three—three is a strong number, powerful, the basis of many things. At least that makes sense.

Kate eyes him oddly, and Wes is well-versed enough in human emotions to think he recognizes worry. "Wes," she says, "Are you alright?"

"Of course," he says blandly, fingers circling and circling and circling the mug. Of course he's alright. Of course he's fine. Why wouldn't he be? Everything is fine. Wes is fine. Of course.

(three and three and three, even in his head)

This look Kate gives him is something different, something he's not in the right state of mind to try and puzzle out. Softer, she says, "Wes, you should go. Be there with him. He needs you."

"He doesn't," Wes points out. "He's probably not even conscious." They would have called him, if anything had changed. Surely they would have. Right?

The circles his fingers make on his mug spin faster.

"Wes," Kate says, like he's exactly as soft and frail as he feels, "You should be there."

"Is this a human thing, then?" he snaps with as much derision as he can muster, trying to get a rise from her, to make her look at him with something close to normal, not this soft, gentle expression he doesn't understand.

But she doesn't rise to the bait, just gives him these big sad eyes and says, "Yeah, it's a human thing to be there for your partner. Even if he doesn't realize you're there." She shifts, hand twitching at her side like she wants to reach out and touch him. "He would want you there. And you need to be there."

"I'm fine," he says, which earns him an incredulous look. "I'm fine."

He bites his tongue to keep the third repetition in, so hard he can taste blood. Kate's dubious expression doesn't clear, but after a moment she sighs and leaves the room.

Wes waits for the door to close before he spits out the last, "I'm fine," so fast it's barely intelligible. He wishes he could pretend he meant it, but there's too much desperation in the words to fool even himself.

He stands in the break room a long time, fingers circling the rim of his mug, around and around and around.

XXXX

IV.

Wes likes paperwork. It's orderly, logical, everything has its place. It's easy to fall into a simple rhythm when filling out reports, an almost automatic motion as he fills in the lines in his steady, neat pen.

Then he gets to the end of the report. He signs it with a flourish, sets the pen down, and—flicks his fingers from corner to corner, one two three four, before he sets it to the side.

For a long moment, he folds his hands on his desk and stares at them, as though if he looks long and hard enough through skin and muscle and bone, he'll find understanding.

Answers don't spontaneously appear to him, so he pulls another report in front of him and gets to work.

It takes a dozen reports before he understands what's happening here—it's all ritual. Because numbers have power, and rituals make things happen, can summon demons and create spells, so if he can find the right ritual, if he can combine the correct numbers with the proper motions—and he flicks his fingers from corner to corner to corner to corner.

Demons are ritualistic by nature, tied to the very core of their smokey essences. Everything they were and are and could be is constrained by rituals and contracts and numbers.

And he knows it's absurd, this isn't the way the world works, he can't just repeat words or lock his door ten times and fix things, that's not the way his powers work—without a contract, he's so constrained in every way, so limited in his scope, and it's ridiculous to think he can do anything.

It's absurd, but he can't keep his fingers still—one two three four—and the edge of the paper slices into his fingertip but he can't stop. Because maybe this is…maybe…

Rather than grab the next report, Wes picks up his coffee mug instead, wrapping both hands around the porcelain to keep his fingers from finding the rim. Instead, he finds the murky brown liquid trembling, rippling in the confines of the mug, and Wes realizes his hands are shaking again, and he hates it, hates this human weakness in his body, he is a demon he has control of himself is not some paltry human who trembles and breaks and bleeds—

And though his hands are clean, Wes can feel the blood on them, and that's never bothered him before, he has done so many things in his life he can't regret or he'd go mad, madder than he already is, but his hands are wet with it, sticky and hot, and when he bites his tongue again and tastes blood he gags into his coffee.

"Wes?" a voice calls softly, and Wes turns to find Kate and Amy staring at him—and more, Dietz and Connolly and half the room are staring at him, watching him, some worried like they care, some wary like he's about to snap, and some—some he can't even begin to guess.

So many eyes on him but the only ones that matter aren't here.

Wes stands, slowly, carefully, because he's not sure if he'll snap into pieces if he moves too fast. Amy opens her mouth, then closes it; no one else says anything as he walks out of the room.

He spends twenty minutes washing his hands in the restroom. It doesn't help. It doesn't help at all.

XXXX

"Go."

Wes blinks at Captain Sutton, taken aback. "Sir?" he says, wondering if he misheard.

Sutton exhales softly and gives him another one of those inscrutable looks, and it's driving Wes crazy that he can't figure it out, can't understand it, and normally if he was this confused about the intricacies of humanity he would turn to Travis and simply ask, and Travis might tease him or mock him but he would explain—Travis is so good about that, trying to explain all the little details about humanity Wes lost long ago, never realizing that he himself is the best, brightest example of his species—

A soft scraping breaks him from his thoughts. He blinks, follows the captain's disapproving gaze to his hands, and winces at the lines he gouged in the edge of the desk.

He doesn't apologize. That would be admitting far too much. He merely folds his hands in his lap and looks at the captain.

Sutton doesn't say anything about it, merely sighs and repeats, "Go, Mitchell. Get out of here." When Wes starts to protest, the captain holds up a hand. "We'll survive without you for one day, Wes. You're needed elsewhere."

Wes's hands start sliding across one another; he doesn't look down, doesn't draw attention to the way his limbs keep moving of their own volition. "That's a very human sentiment," he says, and he's proud of the way he puts a hint of bite on the words, the way he almost sounds normal. "Saying I'm needed in a place I can't possibly do any good."

The captain smiles, thin and a little sad. "Well, we're a sentimental bunch, us humans. Something you'll have to get used to, I suppose." He leans forward, earnest and encouraging. "So why don't you take the time, if only for today, to indulge our sentiment and go. We don't need you here. Not today."

"What am I supposed to do?" Wes snarls, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Just sit there and pray? Like that would even work! It won't do me any good to be there!"

"Still," the captain says, not unkindly, "you should be there," and Wes wants to lash out, wants to release the frustration and anger and fear inside of him in a boiling wave of chaos, tear and rend and devour until the emptiness is gone and the fear has been banished, and the only thing keeping him from breaking completely is a tiny voice in the back of his head, one that whispers in his ear, Stay cool, baby, don't go scaring the locals.

Wes closes his eyes and collects himself, gathers the reins of his temper and pulls it tight to his chest. It's harder than he would ever admit to anyone.

(admitting weakness is the same as admitting vulnerability, and for so long he's refused to be vulnerable to anyone. that just leads to betrayal and pain and heartbreak.)

(he doesn't know how he managed to fail himself so spectacularly here.)

He opens his eyes and clears his throat. "I, ah…I think I'm going to go." He doesn't understand it, not really—there is no need for him to be there, nothing he could possibly do. But he can clearly see that he's not needed here, and maybe Kate is right. Maybe Travis would want him there. So he might as well go.

He captain nods approvingly, dismissing him, and Wes rises. He's in the doorway when he pauses, asking tentatively, "Sir…would praying…could it help?"

Wes can't pray. Angels would never listen to a demon's prayer. But there's an entire squad room of humans out there who could pitch in, if asked.

The captain's face tells him the answer before he says a word, but Wes still waits, long enough for the captain to sigh and say, "Believe me, Wes, I've tried, but they're not listening. I guess this isn't important enough to bother with."

Wes sees red, a snarl rumbling from his throat, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. Not important enough, and Wes has never hated those self-entitled feathered assholes more than he does now.

He's got splinters in his palm when he finally yanks his hand from the shattered doorframe. He doesn't bother to pull them out, just stalks across the floor with his fingers clenched, relishing in the pain—sweet and familiar and drowning out the empty ache inside of him.

XXXX

VI.

He spends longer than he should in the bathroom, cleaning out his hand. Pulling out the splinters goes surprisingly easy; Wes isn't exactly certain what compulsion might grab hold of him, but he certainly expects something. It's more surprising that he just calmly pulls the splinters out and drops them into the garbage can, no fuss.

The trouble comes when he puts his hand under the water, watching the tiny dribbles of blood wash down the drain, and he's back there again, hands hot and red, pressing down but that just makes more blood bubble up between his fingers, and there's nothing he can do—

Desperation is heavy in his throat, salty as tears, and Wes heaves into the basin. Nothing comes up, he hasn't eaten since yesterday, when Travis ordered Wes a sub, then blatantly stole his chips, and when Wes asked if that was the only reason Travis ordered him lunch, Travis threw back his head and laughed loud and hard—

Wes heaves again, and curse this foolish, human weakness. He's been too long topside, too—too attached, and for a half-second he thinks about going back to Hell, where everything was pain and rage and heat, but at least it was simple, he knew how the world worked and he never felt like this.

But as quick as the thought comes, it's gone, and Wes knows he won't go back. Not even if Travis—

Snarling at himself, Wes turns the water to its coldest setting and with a thought stimulates the healing factor in his hands, which helps.

He washes his hands seven times before he can bring himself to turn the water off, though, so it doesn't help that much.

Silence falls as he returns to the squad room, the kind of weighted silence that says more than words ever could. They were talking about him, he knows it, and on any other day he would snarl and flash black eyes until they got the message.

Today, though, he just gathers his stuff and stalks out without looking at any of them.

Footsteps follow him into the hall. Wes jabs the elevator button (four five six—) and ignores them, hoping they'll go away, but there's a quiet sigh, and then Amy says, "He's going to be alright, Wes."

Wes turns, glowers at her, jabbing the button (ten eleven twelve—). "You don't know that. You can't possibly know that."

She looks at him, that awful, strange look on her face, and says, "No, I don't. But you need to hear it."

He growls, stabbing the elevator button, a sharp, staccato rhythm (sixteen seventeen eighteen—). "Stupid. Useless. Sentiment!"

She reaches out, rests her hand on his arm, and that stops him more effectively than any words could. Amy doesn't touch him, he doesn't touch her, that's not how their relationship works, and he stares at her slim fingers like he's never seen them before.

"He's going to be fine, Wes."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Oh, he wishes his voice didn't sound quite so fragile there.

She squeezes, gently, and smiles, a melancholy little thing. "Because Kate got shot last year. I've been where you are, and I know what you need to hear. Everything is going to be alright."

Another little smile, and then the door opens and she lets him go before he has to yank his arm free. He steps inside and tries not to feel like he's running away.

She's still watching him when the doors slide shut, and Wes wishes more than ever for Travis to be here to explain the look on her face.

XXXX

VII.

Wes has been in hospitals before. He's interviewed witnesses, victims, suspects. Travis has been here a few times, when he sustains injuries that are more than Jonelle's first aid can take care of, and Wes sat at his bedside every waking moment. He's even been dragged here once or twice when coworkers have been injured, Travis's hand firm on his arm, "We're visiting, Wes, so you have to be nice. Remember the platitudes we practiced in the car and you'll be good."

Wes has never been in the hospital for himself, of course—there are some benefits to being an immortal creature of darkness.

He visited hospitals before, too, from the oldest sick rooms to the more modern conveniences, called to the crossroads to heal the sickness of a parent, a child, a lover.

Wes stands in the hospital parking lot and wishes it were so easy, that he could stride inside the building and snap his fingers and heal all ills.

But he's not an angel, and without a contract he's so goddamn powerless.

He's been in so many hospitals in his life, but simply walking into this one feels like a trial of epic proportions. He finds himself counting his steps, muttering under his breath and sketching the numbers against his thigh. It's twenty-seven steps across the lot, and another fifteen to the elevators—three and three thrice, and then three and five, and he can't help thinking that's an auspicious combination.

As the metal doors close, Wes sags against the railing, staring at his reflection in the polished metal walls. His form is solid, tangible in the shining silver—he feels as though he's falling to pieces, the edges of his body wearing thin and tenuous. It feels like it's taking all his self-control not to shatter right here and now.

He's made you weak, a voice in his head whispers, and he can't tell if it's his own or a remnant of others from the past. He presses his shoulders into the wall and closes his eyes and counts upward by fives.

He's at eighty-five when the elevator door dings open, and in a flash he's upright once more, hands clasped behind his back, spine straight, shoulders square. He is perfectly contained, no hint of weariness or fear, no sign of—

Of weakness.

A woman comes in, wearing a blue volunteer vest. She presses the button for her floor, then pauses, eyeing the panel. When she looks over at Wes, her face—her face is wearing that same inscrutable look everyone has been wearing, Kate and Amy and the captain, and Wes tightens his hands behind his back and digs his nails into his palms and counts in threes.

"Who are you visiting?" the woman asks softly, gently, breaking all the unspoken rules of elevator etiquette—Thou shalt not speak to strangers—and it takes everything he has not to flash black eyes at her, not to snarl and lash out in rage and—

Not grief. Not yet. Travis is not—

His throat is tight, and he can barely say the words. "My partner," he murmurs, a harsh croak, and behind his back, his hands tremble.

The woman clearly has no sense of danger, no idea how close to the edge Wes really is, because she takes a step closer and actually reaches out and pats him on the arm, and all Wes can really do is stare incredulously at the woman's hand, at this human who has the gall to just touch him, he isn't even sure how he's supposed to react right now—

"My sympathies," the woman says, looking up at him with that face. "I'm sure everything will be alright."

Then the elevator doors open and she slips out, leaving Wes staring after her.

My sympathies, she'd said. Is that…is that what it is, those looks on everyone's faces? A little sad, a little worried, a little something else he can't identify, and he hadn't been able to place the expression because he'd never really seen it before, not when it was aimed at him, so without Travis there to explain it he hadn't recognized it for what it was.

Sympathy, and Wes slumps back against the wall with a tired chuckle. Humans, god, he'll never understand them.

"Sentiment," he mutters, but he can't quite muster his normal derision for the word.

XXXX

VIII.

The most potent rituals involve blood. Chickens and goats, cats and dogs, spill the blood and take the life, and any spell, any circle or chant or ritual will be boosted to the Nth degree.

Blood is power, passion, energy. It is the culmination of every heartbeat past, and the potential of every heartbeat to come. Blood is life.

Travis's blood had been so red and thick, bubbling through his fingers no matter how he tried to stop it, every drop another moment gone, another potential heartbeat spread on the floor, and there had been so much…

Wes rises, crosses to the nurse's station. He pumps two squirts of hand sanitizer into his palm, methodically rubbing it into his skin.

He is not human, not anymore, but the gel evaporates against his flesh as though he were, leaving his hands feeling cold. Strange, when he's normally so full of fire.

He's not alone in the waiting room. There are others, sitting still and drawn, waiting in tense silence for news of life or death. Under the sharp, chemical reek of disinfectant is the sour tang of fear.

Beneath that, the coppery stench of blood and injury and sickness.

Wes lets out a slow, steady breath through his nose and counts primes. He only gets to seventy-three before he loses his place. He should be able to get up to the thousands.

Silly, human weakness, infecting his veins, leaving him vulnerable and exposed to the world. He doesn't know how to exorcise it from his body.

He presses his thumbnail into his wrist, drawing a thin pink crescent. No blood wells, not until he wills it; what does rise to the surface is thick and dark, a dead man's blood. He has no oxygen to carry, no heartbeat remaining. No potential left in this body—no power beyond what he brings it.

Blood has power, and there is none in his, but he cuts another thin line in his wrist and watches the dark liquid well up. He is beyond options—he has no way to fix this.

A nurse calls his name, voice like a gunshot in the stillness. Wes is across the room in an instant, only barely remembering to keep his movements within human levels of haste.

The nurse leads him into the depths of the ICU unit, speaking softly as if afraid to disturb the solemnity of the floor. Most of her words pass him without true comprehension, though a few phrases register: "Out of surgery," "stable for now," "observation". It's enough to convey all that matters. Travis is alive; they just don't know if he'll stay that way.

She leads the way into a glass-walled room, and Wes pauses in the doorway, throat tight.

Travis looks so small in the hospital bed. He has always been brimming with vitality and life, the brightest, best example of humanity. And now that glow is dimmed to a barely-flickering spark, kept in a guttering existence by tubes and wires and the harsh rasp of machines.

Travis hovers on the life between life and death, and Wes can't tell which way he'll fall.

The nurse excuses herself, gives him some time alone. Wes hardly notices her exit, moving blindly to the side of the bed. There's a chair beside the bed, and Wes falls into it gracelessly, unable to muster even an ounce of his typical fluidity. Unable to even care how much weakness he's revealing right now.

Careful not to disturb any of the delicate instruments keeping Travis alive, Wes takes his partner's hand in his own.

"I don't know what to do," he admits, voice swallowed by the gentle susurration of the machines. "I can't fix it this time, Travis. I can't fix you."

The last few times Travis had been injured this badly, Wes had taken over, crawling inside Travis and coaxing damaged tissue to heal. Without a deal, Wes has such little power of his own, but he has complete mastery of whatever body he resides in.

But he can't do that anymore. Thanks to a delicate drawing on Travis's chest, Wes is barred from his partner's body.

He can't possess Travis to heal him. He doesn't have the ability outside of a deal. The angels aren't listening.

Wes is out of options.

Demons don't have a word for hope. He swipes his thumb through the tiny cuts on his wrist, draws a sigil on the back of Travis's hand in his murky, powerless blood. Future, for all the eventual moments Travis has yet to see and experience. It's the best he can do.

"Please," he whispers, to Travis or the doctors or a god he's not sure believes in him anymore. He clasps Travis's hand, and he doesn't let go.

Please.

XXXX

IX.

The light is blinding, even through his eyelids, a harsh, cold white light that seems to pierce into his deepest being and illuminate every shadowy nook and cranny. It doesn't hurt, not physically, but it is, in its own way, painful.

He lifts his head, a snarl on his lips, eyes black against the angel's radiance. He recognizes her—though they all glow the same holy light, no two angels are alike, just like no two demons are the same.

She killed Travis once—inadvertently, and she brought him back in penance, but Wes hates her all the same.

Somehow, with Travis lying so still and small between them, Wes's normal antagonism seems petty.

"Why are you here?" he demands, grip tightening on Travis's hand. He hasn't let go since he sat down at Travis's side; it would take hellhounds to make him let go now.

Eae blinks, head tilting to the side. "I heard you," she says simply.

Wes's scowl shifts to a frown. "When?"

"Just now."

He stares at her. Just now? He hasn't said anything in hours, not since his fervent plea upon entering Travis's room. But then, angels are like demons in some ways—both immortal, and time doesn't have the same meaning. A few hours is the blink of an eye to such as them.

(Wes is keenly aware of every passing minute, but time has only had such significance recently, when he started measuring it against a single, fleeting human lifespan.)

"You heard me," he repeats slowly, puzzling over the words. The captain said the angels weren't paying attention, and no angel would ever listen to a demon's prayer.

But she's here. She heard him.

Demons don't have a word for hope, but Wes suspects the feeling rising in his chest is very similar. He clutches Travis's hand. "Can you—" No, not can, angels aren't constrained the way demons are. "Will you heal him?"

She tilts her head once more, pinning him with that luminescent gaze. "Why?"

He bristles until he realizes what she's asking; not why should I? but why does it matter?

Why does he matter?

Wes stares at the hand in his, thumb tracing the sigil he'd drawn. Future, in his powerless, empty blood—it's dry and flaking now, but it carries his wish, that Travis will have a long, fruitful future ahead of him, moment after minute after heartbeat.

It is his hope that Travis will get through this.

"He is my light," he answers without looking up. "He is the light in my darkness."

Travis Marks shines with a golden light, more wonderful and pure than any angel's glow. He is a shining example of humanity, full of everything Wes lost long ago; compassion, empathy, kindness, an overflowing love for the world around him. Through Travis, Wes can see everything he's lost—everything he aspires to be once more.

Through Travis, Wes is so much better, and he will do anything to keep from losing that. Losing him.

"Please," he says, and there's no denying it: he's begging.

Demons don't beg. But then, Wes really hasn't been a proper demon in a very long time.

Eae blinks, and for the first time shifts her gaze from Wes to the human in the bed. Wes holds the breath he doesn't need, watching her, hope a choking, twisted pressure in his throat—

The angel leans forward, caresses Travis's cheek with her palm, and there is a flash so bright he has to turn away.

When he looks back, Travis appears unchanged, no different than before. But the figure on the other side of the bed is watching him, holy glow muted just enough to let the host's gentle blue-green aura come through.

"He's going to be okay," Alex assures him with a soft smile.

And then she's gone, and something unbearably tight eases inside of him.

XXXX

Eae didn't heal Travis completely. Perhaps it's for the better; a miraculous recovery from a gunshot wound might raise questions, draw attention better avoided. But she speeds things up, nudges Travis a little closer towards life, a little further from Death. It will take time, but Travis will heal

Wes still can't quite believe it, not until Travis stirs and blinks open his eyes. Wes doesn't say a word, but Travis turns, smiles. It's a little groggy, unfocused thanks to the drugs in his system—but it's Travis's smile, warm and glowingly alive.

"Hey," he says, squeezing the hand Wes still hasn't released. "Knew you'd be here."

"Oh really." Wes raises one eyebrow dryly. "And why is that?"

(The most important thing, now that he knows Travis will be alright, is to return to normal as quickly as possible. Which means sarcasm and dry wit and never letting on how much the past few days have affected him.)

Travis's grin widens like he can see right through Wes's façade. " 'cuz you're clingy, 's why."

Wes sniffs haughtily and doesn't dignify that with a retort. "How are you feeling?"

"Like you look." There's an impish twinkle in Travis's eyes, unrelenting glee at Wes's silent puzzlement. "Like hell."

Wes rolls his eyes as Travis chortles, but even his partner's stupid puns make Wes feel lighter, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

He reluctantly stands back as the doctors and nurses check on the patient, never going farther than the corner of the room. Travis's eyes are drooping by the time they're done, and he frowns muzzily as Wes resumes his seat.

"You don' have to stay," he slurs drowsily, even such a brief consciousness wearing him out.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," Wes assures him, receiving a sunny, sleepy smile in return. He pats Travis's hand gently "Go to sleep, Travis. I'll be here when you wake."

"Kay," Travis murmurs, letting his eyes drift closed.

Wes waits until Travis's breathing evens out, slow and steady in slumber, before allowing himself to relax, slumping back in the chair. He wraps his hand around Travis's once more, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse in his palm, an endless symphony of heartbeats proclaiming that Travis is alive, alive, he's still so very alive.

Demons don't sleep, not really, but as Wes closes his eyes, something frantic inside him goes still.

This may, he thinks, be what it feels like to be at peace.

OOOO

Because Wes has OCD, and being a demon doesn't change that.