TITLE: Shaken, Not Stirred - Part 1

FEEDBACK: Yes please - but be gentle with me, I'm new to this!

ARCHIVE/DISTRIBUTION: Wherever, just ask.

SUMMARY: Wesley hits the gin & indulges in a spot of karaoke.

SPOILERS: Takes place straight after events of "Epiphany", so spoilers up to that point I guess.

CONTENT/WARNINGS:

RATING: (British System 'cause I don't get the US system) U.

DISCLAIMER: I am not now, nor have I ever been, Joss Whedon. (If I were each episode of AtS would feature Lindsey being naked.)



"Honey, much as I appreciate the income I rather think you've had enough for the moment. Lonely drunk is * really * not a good look for you."

Wesley Wyndham Price peered up at the green demon standing by his table. It spoke volumes about the appearance of his fellow drinkers that a Christmas- coloured demon resplendent in a vivid purple suit over a crimson silk shirt looked perfectly unremarkable in this bar.

Wesley, who had been trying to catch the attention of a waiter, looked gravely down at his empty glass with its melting ice cubes and curl of lemon. When he spoke, the Englishman took a little too much care to pronounce his words clearly:

"I may be lonely, but I'm not drunk." His brow furrowed as he replayed the sentence in his mind. "Or lonely."

"Right. And I'm Joan Collins. Look, my little English muffin, if singing takes this much Dutch courage then by the time you're feeling brave enough your legs aren't going to carry you to the stage."

In the background two yetis and a Fyarl demon were giving a rendition of "My Way" which just about made up in volume and enthusiasm what it lacked in pitch and melody. Wesley shuddered. In spite of all the drinks he was very far from relaxed.

The Host gave him a long appraising look, then glanced around at the rest of the bar. His gaze encompassed a party of elderly Mirikin demons, a handful of vampires and assorted other creatures with various imaginative combinations of antlers, scales, horns, snouts, fangs, mandibles, arms, tentacles, legs and wings. Creatures, for the most part, that would have come as a *great* surprise to Charles Darwin. It was a quiet night by Caritas standards.

Reaching an easy decision, the green demon slid into the seat opposite Wesley Wyndham Price and snagged the arm of a passing waiter. "Another seabreeze for me, Raoul, and a tequila for Captain Conviviality. And whilst you're at it, bring a filter coffee and something," his lips twitched in a sudden smile, "something appropriately crisp and starchy for my friend here."

The waiter obediently threaded his way off through the tables, careful to avoid the occasional tail or tentacle snaking underfoot.

Wesley eyed the demon quizzically. He was rather touched by the Host's concern, but at the same time there was an edge of mockery in his voice when he said simply: "I thought you said I'd had enough?"

The Host smiled.

"That was when you were sitting alone drinking yourself into a stupor - you aren't alone now, are you, sweet-cheeks? And whilst I'm being all Jewish mother, I *do* want you to be sure to get a cab home - my patrons aren't going to give you any trouble whilst you're in Caritas, but once you're out the door they might see you as convenient fast food. Or in your case, kinda slow, stumbling food."

"You'd be surprised," said Wesley, looking needled. "I'll have you know I've fought and slain some pretty nasty demons after more alcohol than this. Lots more."

The green demon bit back a smile and pointedly didn't mention the limp or the crutches they both knew were propped up under the table.

"No need to get all pouty now, precious. I'm just looking out for you - don't want Tall, Dark and Broody to get his panties in a bunch because Slengahar and his buddies ate you on their way home."

Scowling slightly Wesley followed The Host's gaze and weighed up his chances against the five big blue spiky things at an adjacent table. Kankanath demons, he wondered automatically, or were they Lesser-Spotted Sesstini? But one really couldn't bring reference books on a drinking session.either way, if that was indeed Slengahar and his friends then perhaps a taxi cab wasn't a bad idea.

"You're much too cute to end up as a snack, honey," said The Host disarmingly. "And anyway, this is all rather beside the point. I'm sure you're just dandy at fighting big demonic evil. That isn't what's eating you just now, though, is it? Metaphorically, I mean." Another smile. "I don't need the PTB to tell me that your immediate future involves a microphone and a Judy Garland number."

He deftly relieved the returning Raoul of his burden of glasses and food and pushed the tequila across the table.

"Come on, don't give me that puppydog look, you big bad rogue demon hunter. Get this down you and then go and strut your stuff up there while you can still walk in a straight line - and then I'll see if I can't help figure things out a little. *And* there will be this nice cup of coffee waiting for you when you get back, as if the unbridled joy of my company weren't encouragement enough."

* * *

"Let's hear it for the handsome Englishman, boys and girls!" cried the green demon, bounding to his feet and clapping with characteristic enthusiasm as the last uncertain note of Wesley's song trailed away.

As Wesley tottered painfully off the stage to scattered snores, snarls and (pleasant surprise!) a smattering of applause, he reflected that it could have been worse. He had experienced actual torture at the hands of a psychologically disturbed teenager with superhuman strength, a viciously creative imagination and a grudge. He had done battle with fire-breathing monsters many times his size. He had survived an encounter with Cordelia Chase when she found him absent mindedly eating the last of her favourite type of doughnut. Singing a Judy Garland number in front of a (mostly) live audience really wasn't the worst thing that could happen to a person.

It just always *felt* that way.

The Host was still clapping and beaming encouragingly as Wesley sat down.

"That wasn't so bad, now, was it, sugar? You really have a very nice voice, you know." Wesley choked slightly on the coffee and quirked one eyebrow incredulously.

"No, really," protested the demon warmly, and in spite of his incredulity Wesley felt himself blushing slightly. "You've been practicing, haven't you? But down to business. *Quite* the tangled web of emotions, you've got going on there - In fact I'm starting to think we should have gone with Gloria Gaynor rather than Judy. Where to begin.well, the Virginia thing."

Wesley's flinch was barely noticeable. The tactile memory surged up briefly of skin against skin, a warm, soft body curled up in his lap. Shampoo- scented curls tickling his chin. A hand squeezing his thigh under the table during a dull dinner party. Something warm and tender and human and *normal* and absolutely nothing to do with green ichor, fangs, scales, horns, zombie cops or evil law firms. Or virtually nothing, once that whole rescuing-her-from-hideous-and-untimely-sorcerous-sacrifice thing was out of the way.

"Owch. I won't even tell you she's a bitch and you're better off without her, because we both know she's a pretty sweet kid, all things considered. She just didn't sign up to save the world."

"That's quite a skill you have for stating the obvious," said Wesley ascerbically after a moment, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I trust you won't object to being strangled with your own cravat once you've uttered the phrase 'better to have loved and lost'."

He was smiling rather tightly, his cut-crystal vowels slurring slightly with the drink, and the dry tone he'd aimed for came out far harsher and more brittle than he'd meant. A heartbeat later he glanced apologetically across the table and The Host reflected that without his glasses the Englishman became almost a stranger - his face oddly both harder and more vulnerable. Difficult to read. His aura, on the other hand, was an open book as far as the green demon was concerned.

"Alright already! No need to get all alpha male on me, sweetness. Sheesh, you're pretty feisty after a few drinks, aren't you?" The green demon batted his eyelashes shamelessly and watched a little - just a little - of the tension seep out of Wesley's face as his mouth curved into an involuntary half-smile. "Not to get all Hallmark card on you, but it *is* worth remembering that even with little Miss Society Page gone, you've still got some good friends."

The coffee was all gone. Depressingly - and quite unaccountably, considering the ruthless quantity of gin he'd got through so far and the number of pain killers in his system - Wesley seemed to be heading back towards sobriety, with the added bonus of a hangover. Lovely. Why was it that some days all it took was one small sherry to feel plastered and other days a person could drink their bodyweight in alcohol and still not feel drunk?

He picked up an onion ring delicately, automatically regretting the lack of cutlery, and as he bit into it Wesley wished, not for the first time, that he had never known that there really were monsters under the bed. That he had never known the world was so much stranger and more fearsome than most people ever guessed. But he *did* know and, knowing, Wesley could never pretend otherwise to himself. He was in the frontline of a war and at times he envied many of his neighbours, content in their belief that "good" and "evil" were abstract ideas.

He carefully wiped the grease from his fingertips with a paper napkin but his gaze was focused on the middle distance, recalling Cordelia with an eye blinking out of the back of her head. More things between heaven and earth, Horatio.

"Look," he said evenly, "at the risk of being stereotypically British I really have absolutely no wish to share my feelings about the tragi-comedy that is my love life right now. Call me old fashioned, but washing dirty linen in public has never been one of my more cherished pastimes. The reason I have just comprehensively humiliated myself in front of your delightful customers is so that you can use this magical perspicacity of yours to offer me some guidance. Please."

The Host pouted slightly and took a sip of his cocktail.

"Hmph. Well, there are no easy paths for you, honey.I think we both know that already. Romantically there are already a number of definite possibilities at hand, once the sting of..."

Wesley shot him a look that left The Host in absolutely no doubt about how unwelcome this particular topic was at present.

"Alright, already! We won't go there. So, it's mostly that great big slab of adorably tortured vampiric masculinity you're worried about? Our very own Fallen Angel, all bright and shiny after his recent epiphany?"

Wesley looked like he could have said a great many things, but contented himself with a measured: "Quite."

"You and your pals had to hold the fort while Mr Soulier-than-thou was obsessing over his Momma. Or Lover. Or whatever the hell she is. Was. Is. And you've done a pretty good job. You've got all this this group-bonding going on - taking a bullet for your buddy, yada yada yada. It's a beautiful thing, it really is. I'm filling up. Now Angelcakes wants to come back to play and you don't know if you want him back. Did I miss anything?"

"Not quite how I would have put it, but essentially correct," replied Wesley. Another coffee had materialised at some point - he couldn't for the life of him remember seeing Raoul, so maybe he was still pretty tipsy.

"What I want to know is what I should do about it." The smile faded away as quickly as it had come. "When I saw him at my door, I just.it has been so bloody difficult managing alone. I could have staked him myself for putting Cordelia through so much pain. He let her down. He let us all down. Part of me was absolutely delighted to see him again. But I don't know if I can trust him."

He made a small frustrated sound.

"If it were only a matter of pride then it wouldn't matter, because fighting the forces of darkness is more important than that." His deprecating expression showed that Wesley knew that he sounded like a character from a pulp comic book, but stood by his words nevertheless because they were the literal truth. "I know how much we need his strength. But.I honestly don't know how stable he is. I have never forgotten that Angelus is always lurking under his skin, but I never expected Angel - ANGEL, with his soul intact - to risk our lives as he has. To turn his back on the cause." He hesitated infinitesimally. "I don't know if I can trust my own judgment when it comes to Angel.I have made some very poor decisions before now. But," he concluded firmly, "I *will not* tolerate any increased risk to Cordelia or Gunn."

Wesley's eyes were burning when he looked up into The Host's crimson gaze.

"I need to know whether Angel's return poses a threat to them. I need to be sure we are doing the right thing."

"Stop worrying about it, sweetcheeks, " the green demon said very gently, squeezing Wesley's hand. "You need to take him back. I can tell you *for sure* that if you turn Angelcakes away things will go Very. Badly. Indeed. For all of you. He has hit rock bottom recently - almost forgot to put on any hair gel at one point, the mopey little drama queen. I mean, I know he screwed up *big time*. But he loves you three kids. And you've gotta give him points for trying to rebuild the bridges he incinerated. He saved your cute little dimpled asses last night, didn't he? You need to take him back. You want to take him back. So take him back." The demon sighed. "I know it won't be easy for any of you at first, honey, but it is much, much better than the alternative, take it from me. You'd be dead within the month."

The Host watched Wesley's shoulders relax for the first time since he'd hobbled through the door. The relief was palpable.

In the background a large, sharp-tusked purple demon finished a surprisingly high pitched rendition of "Like a Virgin" and bowed blushingly. His clansmen whooped and applauded madly and The Host glanced automatically at the stage and then jumped to his feet. "Alright! Give it up for Argandinax the Terrible, Devourer of Souls, Tormentor of the Innocent and Terror of Three Continents!" cried the green demon, clapping encouragingly at the stage. "Eat your heart out, Madonna - before Argandinax does it for you! I'll be over in a second, 'Gandi, sugar."

Wesley's sudden snort of laughter took them both by surprise.

"GANDHI?" he repeated weakly. "Dear God, my life is ridiculous. Abso-bloody- lutely ridiculous," he exclaimed, eyebrows arched in sudden merriment. The Host, poised to go and offer words of wisdom to Argandinax The Terrible, surveyed him affectionately and stroked Wesley's cheek with one the back of one curled green hand in a surprisingly tender little gesture.

"Not just yours, honey," said the demon, plucking an onion ring from the basket. "Believe me, it's not easy being green."

And that was probably true enough, thought Wesley, a wry little smile ghosting across his face. Perhaps it was alright to feel a surge of relief at Angel's return after all.