A Theory of Use and Abuse
by Jaclyn // musicnotej@aol.com
09.08.03
Disclaimer: Not mine, Joss's, no infringement, etc.
Timeline: Early season four.
A/N: Whoa. Having an AP Bio flashback. Could the title have been inspired by somebody's [incorrect] evolutionary theory of Use and Disuse? The guy's name was...I want to say DeMark, but that's wrong. *googles it* Lamarck! Yeah. Okay, whatever.
___
Part I
It's Wednesday. Only a small fraction of the week, but it stretches on and on and on. Wesley hangs up the telephone tiredly, willing it to keep its rings to itself, at least for the rest of the night.
And then Lilah is there, Lilah, a woman he undoubtedly hates. Lilah, who somehow always appears just when he needs her.
She's barely in his apartment before Wesley grabs her and slams her body hard against the wall. Kicking the door shut, he yanks at her shirt until he can see her skin, flushed, through the thready rips. She's breathing hard, fingers closed tightly around his shoulders.
This is angry, pounding sex; this is Wesley trying to expel the tightness that seems to have replaced his lungs. This is Lilah with her eyes closed, goading him on.
*
When it's over, she retrieves her purse from its haphazard landing place on the floor and walks with measured steps to the door. "I have a late meeting tomorrow," Lilah offers into the stillness. Wesley is strangely quiet. He's reverted to the way he was only a few weeks ago, that past lifetime. "Just letting you know."
"Already?"
Her hand slips from the doorknob to her hip at the non sequitur. "Pardon?"
"You just got here." Wesley's lonely, and she can be surprisingly good company.
"My arm's broken," she says.
His mouth actually opens in surprise. Wesley does a double take, but yes, there it is, one bruised forearm dangling stiffly at an odd angle from her left elbow. "I did that to you," he murmurs, and the tightness in his chest intensifies as this new knowledge sinks in. "My G0d."
"Wes, it's fine," Lilah replies, an eyebrow raised. Frankly, she's been waiting for him to say she deserves it. And it's not like she particularly minds the pain. It's something she's only dimly aware of, something only the back of her mind picks up on by now, and anyway, the sorcerers at Wolfram & Hart can mend the bone in an instant.
"I'll take you to the ER." He jerkily grabs for his keys and ushers her into the hallway.
"Really...it's fine, Wesley. I'll just go to--"
"How the bloody hell were you planning to drive with a broken arm? I thought you were supposed to be clever, Lilah."
"Wesley..."
He is barely listening. The inside of his head is smothering, images of his father's big hands threatening to overwhelm Wesley now, even after all these years. And Cordelia had had a vision once: a man beating his wife. The Powers That Be had often shown her worse violence, but the Sunnydale-born brunette had lain in Angel's arms for almost an hour, unable to stop crying. There was something so base, so blatantly iniquitous, about the man's fists flying over the woman's slippery red skin that even the war-hardened Cordelia hadn't been able to stomach it.
Turned out the man had been possessed by a demon. Wesley doesn't even have that excuse.
"Lilah," he says quietly, actually pausing on the stairs to look her in the eye. "I'm so sorry."
He feels almost like his old self, humble and right.
*
"Is it even open this late?"
"The Emergency Room? Of course."
"Oh." Pause. "I've never been. Stop looking at me like that."
"...damn it!"
Lilah feels a grin nudge at her lips as Wesley swears. He brakes at the sudden red light, angry at the delay, but using the time to stare at her arm. "Does it hurt a lot?"
She shrugs.
They drive the rest of the way in silence.
*
Wesley sits with Lilah on black plastic chairs in the crowded waiting room. He wonders aloud if they could skip triage if Lilah throws a histrionic fit, complete with tears and blinding shrieks of pain.
But Lilah only laughs. "Could you cry on demand?"
No, he can't. He knows what she means: do you even remember how to get past the point of tears? Neither do I.
Across from them, a couple in their early twenties are bickering in low growls, their behavior not nearly as discreet as they seem to think. Lilah's watching them with amusement written all over her face, and the ever-persistent clench in Wesley's chest blossoms into something that feels like affection.
At this moment, Lilah is exactly what he wants, and he can't imagine sitting in a noisy LA hospital with anyone else. It feels like a revelation. They sit with her arm cradled between them -- Lilah was so careless with it that Wesley felt compelled to intervene -- and he feels lighter than he has in months.
___
Part II
But then the nurse looks at Wesley when she asks Lilah how her arm was hurt.
"I'll be frank," the nurse says, her steely gaze turning sympathetic when she faces Lilah. "I've worked here a long time, seen a whole lot of awful things. And a whole lot of abuse, even between people who genuinely love each other."
"Um..." Lilah begins, but for once she is wordless. Wesley's stomach drops so far down he feels he'll have to circle the globe to find it again.
"It's not what you think," he finally stammers. "Lilah and I...we've seen a lot of awful things too...we're...well...it's classified."
Gunn -- back when they were 'best buds' -- at taken it upon himself to educate Wesley in American popular culture. They'd watched a James Bond flick every weekend for months.
*
"I'll ask you again, Mister...?"
"Wyndham-Pryce," Wesley supplies automatically. Lilah twitches, itching to kick him. Hard.
"How did your girlfriend get hurt, Mr. Pryce?"
Wesley looks at Lilah. She's watching him, a little curious, a little bored. The nurse clears her throat loudly.
He doesn't mention the catlike way Lilah's nails slice his back ragged when she's pressed up against him, the way the cuts reopen every time he moves, the way he hasn't been able to wear a shirt comfortably since he met her. He doesn't speak of the way Lilah's voice chases him, belittling, even in dreams.
He doesn't mention it because it doesn't matter, because it doesn't change anything. Lilah is self-professed evil. He is self-professed good.
It's times like these when he thinks they're both lying to themselves.
"I never meant to hurt her," Wesley finally says, and he's scared of what this round, matronly woman with her world-weary eyes is going to do to him. "We were..."
"Fucking," Lilah offers. "Not that it's any of your business. I like it rough."
Wesley doesn't like it rough. He likes it wild, yes. But for now, rough is something he needs.
Only for now. Yes.
"Lilah..." he begins, thinking her intensity might be a little too much for this grandmotherly nurse.
But the nurse turns on him, her mouth set in a thin, menacing line. "Did you tell her to say that?!"
And suddenly it's all just crashing down on him, all the anger and blame that people both dead and alive insist on piling on him. He doesn't know the difference between good and evil anymore; he's thinking that maybe there isn't one, and maybe they're the same. He hurts Lilah but she isn't hurting -- because she's evil? Or because she's scared? When Angel and Fred and Gunn hurt Wesley, he felt like the world was on fire. And when Lilah hurts him, her words like little razors lodging in his chest, she believes -- truly believes -- that it's all a game.
He doesn't even mean to hurt Lilah, it just happens. Words appearing out of his mouth to mingle with hers. Angel wanted to kill him out of revenge. Wesley and Lilah push each other down because how else could they possibly communicate? And he wonders, shouldn't that count for something?
Lilah can't comprehend the effect she has. Angel can. Fred can. Gunn can. Of all of them, these strange people with whom he's spent so much time, shouldn't Lilah possess the most 'good'? It is simple logic, the kind that never and always makes sense.
(Lilah can't, Angel can. Wesley could. Once. He is tired of trying to figure out what this means. He'll judge himself by Lilah, for now. She is his link to im/morality.)
"We haven't done anything wrong. Neither of us." Wesley is firm now, calm and in control of himself. "Thank you for setting Lilah's arm. We'll be leaving now."
"No." There is a form in the nurse's calloused hand. "You won't." She hands it to Lilah, and the nametag it had previously obscured is plainly visible again.
G. Mathison, R.N. tells Lilah that the hospital can't allow her to leave unless she signs a waiver stating she'd been warned of the potential danger and had still refused to take action.
"Can we have a moment, please?"
G. is reluctant, but Lilah is a fast talker, and a woman more fluent in the language of human disease is no match for a lawyer.
*
"Shit," says Lilah, when the door finally closes, awarding the two of them some privacy. "Now that they know your name, I can't sign this. That was brilliant, Wes. Why didn't you make up a fake?"
"Because I did it to you," he says sullenly. Everything is always his fault, and maybe it's childish, but he can't bear it all.
"Wesley. Come on," Lilah sighs, catching herself mid-eyeroll and making a fairly serious effort to calm him. Poor bastard, all slumped over like that. She doesn't understand him; why does he care if she doesn't? "I know this doesn't make any difference to you, but I really don't mind about the arm. But what should make a difference is the fact that it was an accident. Right?"
Wesley is just looking at her. Now Lilah can't contain herself; it's like her eyes roll of their own accord. "Riiiight," she fills in. "You're still a sickeningly good person, Wes, really. All right? Cheer up...oh Lord, listen to me. This alone should have you in stitches." A thought strikes her, and she snorts. "...which will contrast nicely with my splint!" Peppy-Lilah voice says brightly. Lilah had adamantly refused a cast, and the nurse had finally had no alternative but concession. "Wes? I know that sucked, but--"
"You're wrong," he says. "You were great."
Lilah blinks.
"Now let's see that form."
She knows what he's looking for. "There's no blank for your name, but it doesn't matter. They have it. Trust me, they have it."
Wesley cocks his head. "Ashamed to be associated with me? Who cares if they have it? I'm not like Angel; I do happen to exist, social security number and all."
The mention of the vampire's name is like an avalanche crashing down between them. Wesley immediately wishes he could take the words back.
"No," Lilah says carefully, and then seems to internally shrug and get over it. "This has nothing to do with your citizenship status, Wesley."
He has always secretly loved this about her, the way her eyes gleam when she's being wry but trying to hide it.
"If Wolfram & Hart get ahold of this -- which, of course, they will -- it'll be all the excuse they need to permanently eliminate a former colleague of their favorite vampire."
"Oh," he says.
"Plus," Lilah continues, "they would frown heavily upon legal documentation of our relationship. Especially if it turns out that this whole thing has just been an elaborate ploy to glean information about the firm. They don't take humiliation well, especially the recorded kind."
"It isn't," Wesley huffs. "I don't use people."
She looks at him hard, but lets it slide. He is thankful.
"Anyway. If there's a reconciliation with Angel, which, knowing his touchy-feeliness lately, there probably will be...it won't look good for you." Lilah shrugs. "I'm just saying."
"You aren't allowed to have a personal life? Everything, everything, is always work-related?" Wesley asks heatedly.
"In our line of work...isn't it?" she prods, almost gently.
His silence is his grudging answer.
"And if anyone finds your body, unlikely as that'll be, the Senior Partners'll make me say I killed you in self-defense," Lilah informs him matter-of-factly.
"They would send YOU to kill me?" Pause. "...You would kill me? If they told you to?"
"They wouldn't. If anything, the bigwigs are efficient. They'll send someone who'll go in, go out, go home."
She hasn't answered the most important question, Wesley notices. Does that mean she would follow her firm's instructions to the letter and she doesn't want him to know, or she wouldn't...and still doesn't want him to know?
It's hard to know anything, the way they talk. Or don't.
*
"Let's make a break for it," he says. She nods.
The window is so easy to pry open. They use Lilah's stiletto, and it doesn't even break.
They end up in an enclosed parking lot and have to double back through endless stretches of bustling white hallways. Lilah is excellent at looking like she is exactly where she belongs. Wesley has a harder time suppressing the fervent glances that come so automatically to him.
In the end, everything in life doubles back to guilt and one's perception of it.
*
Once they're in the car again, Wesley can fervently-glance to his heart's content. He directs a particularly thoughtful one at Lilah, who pretends not to see. She is busy trying to stifle a yawn as she smirks out the window; and she looks like safety, like the one thing that's kept him afloat these past few months.
It is strange that such a gleefully vicious woman is representative of the total opposite to him. But he understands why, now. Why Angel's deep fury was enough to get him drunk -- and Wesley hates being drunk -- but Lilah's calculated barbs are something he can seek refuge in.
He doesn't exactly know what love is, having never truly loved anyone before; and he has a feeling the word is meaningless to Lilah as well. But he thinks he maybe understands now why neither of them have left.
It's not something he'll tell her, but it makes him feel more human all the same.
END