"Jonathan. Lord, please, he's only a little boy!"
His father grabbed him by the hand roughly and pulled him away. Wesley was confused and more than a little frightened now. Father had been acting strange around him the past few weeks. No more sitting on his lap to hear stories about the Council. No more bed time stories about Peter Rabbit. No more wrestling in front of the telly. Father was mad at him all the time now, always shouting, "No, Wesley!" each time he did It.
It's not as if he wanted to. It just happened. He didn't know how to tell Father that.
Mother was following them now, and she kept saying that he was a little boy – only, he wasn't you see? He was big and strong, like Father said he was.
But he was scared.
"Father, please, I'm scared," he whimpered.
He was pulled roughly into the house and they headed towards the stairs. Then his father pulled open the basement door and hauled him in. Wesley thought Father would follow him in, but he didn't, he only stood at the doorway staring at him.
Wesley was guilty now. He was being punished, but he didn't know why.
"Don't you ever do that again, do you hear me, boy?" his father said roughly.
Wesley shook his head. He was too terrified to say anything else.
Mother appeared next to Father, her blue eyes streaming with tears.
"Jonathan, for God's sakes, please stop!"
"We have to do this Margaret. You know we have to," his Father said, his chin up – the way he spoke to Uncle Lewe and Uncle Nod when they came on Council business.
"He's just a boy. He's afraid of the dark."
"Then he'll have to outgrow it. He'll be a Watcher one day, Margaret, nothing else. Do you realise what the Council will do to him if they found out what…he is?" Father's voice turned small and quiet, and Wesley saw that his Father's eyes were wet too. Was he crying? He thought men did not cry. Father said men should not.
"Father, I don't like the dark," he said in a small voice.
Mother and Father looked at him, their eyes were the same. So wet and big.
"Wesley," his mother whispered. Then she bit her lip and with a small sigh, walked slowly away.
"Mother? Mommy?" he lost his strength to speak. He shifted his gaze to Father and pleaded with his eyes. But Father only looked at him, his face impassive.
"Father please…Daddy…please don't leave me here. I'm scared. There are monsters in the basement."
"Yes there are," his Father said, his voice flat. "Remember that when you light another fire."
Then Father closed the door, and he was alone in the dark with the monsters.
* * *
"Are you … alive?"
He opened his eyes.
He wanted to say something sarcastic. He usually did after someone asked him such a silly question, but after feeling the strange heaviness that weighed down his limbs, Wesley wasn't quite sure anymore.
Connor…or Steven, whatever, was watching him with an unreadable expression – something between anxiety and wariness.
He realised that he was lying on his stomach on something hard, and that his arms hung limply by his sides. No wonder the boy thought he was dead.
Wesley got up carefully, adjusting to the brief moment of dizziness the movement cost him. When things began to steady around him, he looked at Connor, who was still studying him impassively.
"Where am I?" Wesley wondered out loud, looking around.
"Some abandoned warehouse," Connor answered shortly.
Wesley frowned. He did not remember getting here. Better, he barely remembered what happened last night. He was at the Hyperion, fighting the Gurnaks. Then there was fire…and Angel? And the Hyperion again?
He gingerly rubbed his forehead with his hand, wondering whether what he remembered were dreams or reality.
"What happened?" Wesley asked tentatively.
Connor shrugged – the way teenagers do – as if to say, "who cares?"
"I followed you after you burnt the Gurnaks."
"I…" he swallowed. "I burnt them?"
"Yeah. And you did a lot of other stuff too," he glowered, his eyes narrowing. "You passed out-"
"Passed-?"
"-and then set yourself on fire."
"What?" his voice rose a little.
But Connor was not finished.
"Then you got up, a burning pillar of fire, and disappeared. You are a demon aren't you?"
"Well, I'm surprised you took so long to figure that out," Wesley said dryly. But beneath his sarcasm, was fear. He remembered vaguely what had happened, but they seemed distant; infact, his dream about being locked in the basement seemed more real than his recollections of the day before.
But if his dreams were real, then…
"Angel is back," he said shortly, giving Connor a pointed look. The boy only straightened and tipped his chin up in defiance. It reminded him of his father for some reason.
"So you buried him in the ocean? There is a cruel streak in you that seem familiar," he murmured, getting down from the low table he was lying on.
"He deserved it. He killed my father!" Connor responded hotly.
"I doubt it."
Connor flinched at that. Then, he said hesitantly. "Why are you so sure?"
"Because if he wanted to kill your father, he would have done it before. He had plenty of chances and plenty of reasons," he walked around gingerly, testing his strength.
He didn't appear to have much because the world started spinning once more.
Then he felt someone hold his elbow.
"Don't pass out again. I wouldn't know what to do if anything burns," Connor said flatly.
*You could lock me in the closet.*
The thought came unbidden into his mind. It made him flinch; as memories of hours in the dark basement with ghouls came flooding back into his mind. He decided to focus on Connor instead.
"Why are you still with me?"
Connor's face was expressionless. "Does it matter?"
Wesley grinned at that answer. "At some point it will," he answered.
Suddenly, Connor's face blurred and his vision darkened. Suppressing a groan, Wesley reached out to the nearest wall to brace himself.
"Are you going to pass out now?"
Wesley had to smile at that. He wanted to pass out. Anything better than existing right now.
"Help me back," he whispered to the boy.
And to his surprise, Connor obeyed.
* * *
Fred swept the Hyperion floors dispiritedly. Despite the ick factor of the ash being former Gurnak demons, Fred ignored the sticky clumps of ash that stuck to her boots, shirt, hair…
"Where's the vacuum?" she heard Gunn say.
She looked up to see Gunn puttering busily about, ducking under this and that, lifting this and that – as if a vacuum could be hiding under a pile of books.
He's rattled, that's all. Just like how everyone is.
Lorne, meanwhile, was sitting on the couch, looking uncharacteristically morose.
She dropped the broom and went to him.
"Hey sweetcakes," Lorne said absently as she sat next to him.
All she could do was put a hand on his arm – which he patted.
"I just can't figure it out," he said, looking at the soot covered area at the center of the hall. Fred didn't want to look. Wesley used to be there.
"I saw a future for him, Fred. He can't be dead. He has a role to play … in the Apocalypse."
Fred felt blank and drained.
"I can't be wrong."
"He's dead," she heard Gunn say flatly. This time, she did look up.
Gunn's eyes were hard and … determined? It made her frown, disturbed by what she saw.
"And there's nothing we can do to change that. Now, all we have to do is pick up, vacuum this shit up and move on," he said firmly.
Firmly? Or gladly? Fred thought. Was Gunn glad that Wesley's gone. Finally?
The thoughts were too disturbing to contemplate. Without a word, Fred got up and headed up the stairs.
"Baby?" she heard Gunn call.
She didn't want to answer. She was no one's baby.
Upstairs, Fred walked around the corridors absently. So many rooms, yet so empty. It used to full of life and a heck of a lot of noise. Wesley and Cordelia bickering downstairs. Gunn showing off his fighting moves, sometimes upsetting a potted plant or something – which set Wesley and Cordelia off again. Angel telling them all to calm down and not disturb his afternoon slumber… And then Connor was here, and he was always crying or chuckling in that baby way of his. Fred missed all that. Fred wanted it all back.
She found herself wandering into Angel's apartments. She stared at the blackened walls – gouged out by the fire that nearly got Connor and Angel. This was where it must've happened – when Wesley decided to take Connor – and changed everything.
Then her eyes shifted to the bed.
Her eyes widened.
* * *
Baylor House
"Please, don't hurt me."
Despite his wavering vision, Wesley aimed his gun at Mr. Swanson's chest.
"You set a trap for me, didn't you Mr Swanson?"
Mr Swanson was sweating profusely, and his face was white. He lifted his trembling hands in an effort to placate Wesley and stammered:
"Look, I can explain."
"Five minutes," Wesley said curtly.
"He said he would kill them," at that Mr. Swanson burst into tears, letting them flow freely down his cheeks.
The unexpected display of emotion disconcerted Wesley. He unconsciously shifted his feet. But he remained quiet.
"He said that if I told you what to do – where to go, they'll be alive. They'll be okay," he whispered.
"Who?" Wesley asked, his brows knitted in a heavy frown.
"My girls. My daughters. He has my daughters. K-Koskov. He's … he's a vampire," Swanson murmured. At that he turned away and covered his face, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"I didn't even know there were vampires until a few weeks ago. I am just a businessman, damn it!" Swanson cursed.
Wesley lowered his gun – only to have Connor stop its descent.
"He's lying," he hissed.
Wesley frowned and looked at the young man's face.
"Yes," he agreed.
Swanson must've heard what he said because he whirled around, despair etched on his face.
"You don't believe me," he whispered.
Wesley sighed and walked towards the man. "No. You're lying – but you don't know that you are."
"W-what?" he blubbered, backing away as Wesley approached him.
Wesley did not give him an answer. Instead, he looked at his gun and pensively caressed it as he contemplated what he had to do next. Connor, however, knew what he was thinking.
"He is leading you into a trap. Don't be an idiot," Connor hissed.
Wesley gave him a sideways glance.
"Please help me. I'll pay you anything. I don't want my girls…I don't want him to hurt my girls."
"Don't," Connor said, he reached out and clasped his arm – as if to physically prevent him from going.
"Connor," Wesley whispered.
A resigned look came over Connor's face. He gave Wesley a light push and threw his sword to a corner. It clattered loudly, the sound travelling in Wesley's empty warehouse.
"You're going to regret it," he muttered as he walked out of the house.
And he was right.
Chapter TWENTY FIVE
{A week later}
"Firefighters say that the fire started at 4am last Saturday. Police believe that the fire was started by arsonists. However, the intention seems unclear. The warehouse belongs to the Swanson Corporation and sources believe that Mr. Swanson was in the building when the fire broke out. Whether he survived the fire or not also remains unclear."
"Angel?"
"Strangely, one of Mr. Swanson's 10-year-old twin daughters were found at the warehouse. Police refuse to comment on her condition, or how she came to be there, but she is currently believed to be in state custody."
"Angel?"
This time Angel did turn away from the television. It was Fred, holding a tray with a glass of blood on it. She gave him a nervous smile.
"Blood?" she asked, her voice a little on the over-perky side.
He returned his gaze to the television.
"Meanwhile, unexpected fires have broken out in several parts of LA since the Swanson fire. Could these fires have been set off by the same arsonist?"
Fred sighed and knelt by his side. Nervously, she touched his shoulder. This made him flinch, which made Fred jump a little. Guiltily, she withdrew her hand.
"You need to take some blood Angel. You haven't had any since yesterday afternoon," she said.
"You should go away, Fred."
Fred flinched. Then, pursing her lips, she shook her head. "No."
Angel gave her a hard glare. "I lose everyone close to me. I don't want to lose anyone else."
"Angel," she whispered, risking a touch to his hand. It was icy cold – colder than usual. "You didn't leave me in Pylea, and I won't leave you either. You got me?" she said firmly.
Angel removed his hand from hers and returned his gaze to the television.
"The arsons seem random. So far seven people have been killed by the fires. Police believe that we now have a serial arsonist in our midst. How our arsonist sets the fire, however, is a complete –"
The television screen went blank. Fred stood before it, remote control in her hands.
"It was actually starting to get interesting," he commented dryly.
Fred threw the remote aside and knelt before him, clutching his hands as if she was afraid he'd get up and run away. Not that that would've stopped him.
"Angel, look at me. We're going to get through this. We're going to find Cordelia, and Connor, and everything's going to be fine!" he voice wavered and shook, and Angel was reminded of the less than stable Fred in Pylea. Concerned, he met her eyes – and realised that she was crying.
"Fred-"
"When I found you in your room, did you know how freaked out I was? I thought you were dead! Not in the ashy kind of way – we had so much of that that day but-"
"Fred-"
"Shut up and listen to me," she snapped.
Surprised, Angel did what he was told.
"Since you came back, you haven't told us what happened to you. Who brought you back. Where you went. Who did this to you. You're barely eating, barely recovering and you're watching Oprah."
Angel merely stared at the blank screen.
"Okay. She has something to say once in a while. She can be entertaining. B-but I thought we lost you for good. We missed you. And we're glad you're back. But you're not back. Not really."
Angel met her eyes again reluctantly.
"Please come back to us," she whispered.
"Fred…I-" his eyes narrowed. Then he frowned heavily, suspicion clouding his eyes.
Fred frowned herself. This was more than Angel being anti-social. "What is it?"
With shocking speed, Angel got off his armchair, whirled around and pointed his hidden gun (what's he doing with one?) at-
"Hey! Hey! Take it easy!" the intruder protested as Angel stuck the point of his crossbow up his chin.
Angel backed away, surprise in his features. "Earl?" he said incredulously.
The demon informant brushed off the cross bow and petulantly adjusted his coat. "Yeah. Earl. Your informant. Your buddy," he huffed.
Before Angel could put a word in, Earl began his barrage of words:
"You better tell your pal – sorry ex-pal – Pryce that he's gone off his rocker and he has no right doing the things he does, bustin' into people's homes and turning them into fried enchilada just because they said they don't know. Ten. TEN people have died because of his crazy quest – some were not even demons, just plain ordinary people, leading normal, achingly boring lives. What did they do? Ka-boom, that's what they did. Hiroshima. Why? Who the freaking 37th hell knows? Why I just heard from Myrtle the other day-"
"Earl," Angel interrupted.
"-that he didn't even ask his stupid question before frying one guy. That man is off his rocker, real crazy, and I put the blame on you guys. Yeah, even you, pretty stick thing at the back holding that tray. Drove the man up the wall with your holier-than-thou attitude-"
"Earl," Angel grated.
"-about him stealin' some baby. Yup, it's all over the grapevine, what he did. Wow, we demon folk thought it was super of him to just save the baby's neck, but no, you, Mr vamp with a soul decides to smother him to death, which by the way is a pretty lame thing to do to a guy who nearly had his head sawn off. So I'd think you-"
"EARL!" Angel roared and clamped a hand around the green-skinned demon's neck and lifted him a few inches off the ground.
"Shut up," Angel growled.
Earl let out an "eep" and promptly shut up.
"Now, tell me why you're here," he growled.
"Well," Earl said in a little chocked voice. "Boy wonder here said I was useful."
"Boy wonder?" Fred asked, now beside Angel.
It was then that Connor walked casually through the door, hands in his tattered jeans pockets. The trio stared at him – Earl with relief, Fred and Angel in shock.
Connor gave Angel a smirk bereft of any humour.
"Hey, dad. Had a good swim?"
* * * *
They have been in LA for a week. Willow calls it a vacation. Giles calls it stalling.
"I mean, I have not been to LA like for ages, a-and wow, did you see that Wicca supply shop? It's like Tesco for Witches."
They were in Ben & Jerry's - something Willow laughably calls "soul food shop" and she had just consumed shocking amounts of sugar-high ice-cream. About three huge bowls so far.
"Hey lady – two minutes to closing, okay?" said the man behind the counter. His eyes travelled to the bowls on her table and he shook his head wryly.
"Boyfriend left her?" the man asked when Giles went to the counter to pay the bill.
"Well. Um. You can say that." Giles risked a small glance to Willow, who had her back to him.
"Well, just tell that pretty thing that there's more men in the sea. He is not worth gaining a hundred pounds for, eh?" he gave Giles his change.
Giles gave him a tight smile. "I'll be sure to tell her that."
The man chuckled and leaned down to close the refrigerated units which held the ice-cream. His smile faltered.
"What the?" he exclaimed, backing away from the unit.
Curious, Giles looked at what he was staring at.
"My word…" he murmured.
The ice-cream – all twenty vats of them – were now pools of multi-coloured liquid goo. Some were even bubbling. He read the temperature gauge at the side of the box.
His eyebrows lifted.
Giles frowned. "Cooling problems?"
The man was about to answer when a deep growl from the entrance interrupted.
Giles stiffened. Especially when he saw the shade of white the man turned into.
Vampires! Willow mind-shouted into his brain. He winced at the force of it – caught an apologetic look from the witch – and slowly turned.
Four vamps – in game face mode – stared at them, fangs bared. One – a female in a tattered, dust-covered black dress, which signalled that she was newly risen, hissed at him.
"Food," the female growled. "Hungry."
One of the male vampires looked annoyed. "I didn't realise newly risen meant zero IQ," he muttered.
Another male vamp, who dressed as if he was going to a Rolling Stone concert – in the 70s – shrugged. "She was pretty. I didn't choose her for her IQ."
"Hey, can you two losers stop your male talk and start thinking what we're going to do with these folks?" a female shoved between the two vamps a few steps closer to Giles.
"I think this old guy is yummy," she said saucily, licking her lips.
"Old?" Giles couldn't keep the offended tone out of his voice.
The female looked surprised at being interrupted. "Aren't you afraid?" she asked frankly.
Giles managed a shrug while scanning the room discreetly for wooden objects in the shop. Metal, plastic, and more plastic. Wonderful.
Giles. What do we do? Willow asked.
BURN THEM.
The thought was so strong that both Willow and Giles cried out in surprise, covering their ears.
Who said that? it was Willow this time. Giles shook his head. He didn't know.
The female vampire started backing away. "Oh shit! He's here!"
Giles and Willow exchanged a look. But *they* know.
"What? How long is he going to keep tracking us? Shit!" he swore and took the newly-sired female vamp's hand.
"Come Abigail, we'll find food some other time."
"Hungry," Abigail mewled.
"Dang, newly risen and she has had no food for a day. I remember how it's like," the other male vamp muttered.
"Shut your-" the female began.
WHERE ARE THEY?
The alien voice came again – deep and guttural.
"Let's get out of here," the female took an about turn-
-only to scream as a stake flew from out of nowhere to imbed itself solidly in her dead heart.
When the female vampire disintegrated, the one called Abigail lost it. She let go of the male vamp's hand and charged towards Willow.
"Dego!" Willow shouted, making a swiping motion with her hand. With a bloodcurdling cry, Abigail flew backwards and crashed through the see-through glass front of the shop.
"Forget it," muttered one of the vamps and made a break for it.
But there was no way he could've made it because a dark figure, his face obscured by shadows, suddenly appeared at the entrance, blocking his way. The vamps backed away slowly – one of them raising their hands.
"Hey, look – we didn't do anything."
"Where is the mother?"
"How many times do I have to tell you, I don't –"
The figure dragged something from behind him. It was a demon, struggling vainly to free himself from the man's grasp.
"Sam?" the vampire asked. Then his deeply ridged brows furrowed deeper. "You turned us in?!"
"H-he made me, man…" the demon protested weakly. His red eyes batted nervously.
"Where is the mother?"
"Someone took it away. Now leave us alone, okay?" growled Rolling Stones vamp.
The figure seemed to take that into consideration.
But then, with a burst of unimaginable speed, the man lunged forward. Giles had only the time to pull Willow away before he saw the glint of silver from a long blade and the sight of the Rolling Stone vamp flying through the air headless.
He dragged Willow to hide behind a fallen table. All he could see from his vantage point were shadows and swirls of dust. They were moving at impossibly high speeds – faster than even vamps. He heard only growls and the painful thudding of bodies hitting concrete.
Then all was silent.
Footsteps moving towards them. Then it stopped.
"Lemme alone!" a voice protested. Giles recognised it as the demon's.
Another thud. Footsteps coming their way. Very close now.
Giles…
He exchanged a worried look with Willow. At the same time, his hand wrapped around the broken leg of the table. It must've snapped off when it was hurled into the wall by all the fighting.
The footsteps stopped just mere inches before them.
Giles stiffened, lifting the piece of metal in his hands. He could hear Willow muttering a spell.
The table was tossed aside like paper.
Giles got ready to plunge the metal in the creature's – well, whatever that came his way first – but he stopped because he saw its face.
He could only stare while Willow let out a long-drawn gasp.
"Rupert?" said the apparition before them. "Rupert Giles?" the familiar voice rose with excitement. In his excitement, he dropped the demon from his clutches. "My word! It has been, what-"
"Nearly four years," Giles found himself answering.
"Four?" cried Wesley, as if he couldn't believe it. The demon began to crawl away. Wesley sighed in annoyance and brought his foot down on the creature's back. It yowled in pain as he was pinned to the grown. Which was rather impossible since the demon should have had the strength to break Wesley in a few pieces.
"Are you-" Giles shifted his gaze discreetly to the pinned demon "-quite alright old chap?"
"Oh, right as rain," Wesley answered cheerfully. With a casual twist of his wrist, he sent the bloody sword in his hand flying into the wall, its tip buried between the eyes of Mr Happy Burger Ice Cream.
"Oh look. Burger-cide." With that, he howled with laughter, his knees nearly buckled. "Burger-cide. Oh, why didn't I think of that when I spoke to the Loa the last time?"
"You spoke to the Loa? Why-"
"Giles," Willow interrupted him, her voice grave. "There's something wrong-"
Wesley interrupted her. "Because I wanted to prevent the prophecy. But I was silly, Rupert. You were right. I think too much of myself, sometimes," he murmured, rising to his feet.
"Oh, wait. Excuse me while I deal with this problem," Wesley smiled and returned to the sprawled demon.
"Willow," Giles prompted, lowering his voice to a whisper while Wesley is distracted.
"There's magic pouring off him like hot molten lava. But magic I've not seen before," she whispered.
"Hey man!" the demon protested and struggled feebly as he was lifted off his feet again. "Look, I did nothing, okay? So what if I'm a Vornak demon? So what if I hung out with the vampires? They play great pool, okay? I am really harmless, honest!"
Wesley smiled. "Funny demon trying to lie to me." With that, he clamped his hands around the demon's neck. Willow winced as she heard the demon gagging, which barely concealed the faint popping sounds that came along with the act.
Giles could only stare and think about Willow's safety and the guy behind the counter's. The man was currently staring at Wesley with his mouth open, rooted and frozen to his spot.
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was, to put it succinctly, changed.
Gone was the well-groomed, starched-up Watcher that first graced their presence with irritating probing and upper-lip snobbery. Gone was the well-trimmed hair, the suit, the glasses, the –
Everything. The man before him wore a dusty leather coat, a not too well-ironed shirt and tattered jeans. His hair looked as if it had never met the end of a comb (or scissors) for months.
My word. He looks…
Roguish came the thought from Willow. Giles gave her a discreet puzzled look, which she returned with an apologetic look. Apparently, he wasn't supposed to have heard that.
Yes, there was something wrong with Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. A lot can happen to change a man in four years, but the man he remembered was not this violent. Nor was he this strong.
Or that skilful in dispatching four vampires in a few minutes.
"Wesley. I believe he is right. His species is quite harmless really. More of the merchant class-"
Wesley glared at Giles. Willow gasped when his eyes glowed green.
"I need to cleanse this city from filth," he said, his voice guttural.
"Please man! I swear I didn't do anything! I've got kids-" the demon choked out.
Wesley lifted the demon higher. It squealed and kicked his legs. "Where's the Mother?"
"What? M-my mother? Well, she's in-"
Angry, Wesley threw the demon aside. He threw him so hard that he flew through the wall to land on the street outside. The man behind the counter yelped and ran out of the door.
"Wesley. Stop it," Giles said firmly, stepping forward. He felt Willow's cold hands on his – possibly trying to restrain him.
Wesley narrowed his glowing eyes, his expression saying that he wasn't quite pleased with his suggestion.
Green. Glowing green. Heat. Melting ice-cream. Familiar, so familiar.
"Tell me what happened," he said as he slowly walked towards him, his hands up in a placating gesture.
"Giles," Willow whispered.
"It's alright, Willow. We're old friends, aren't we, Wesley?"
Wesley's green eyes narrowed further to glowing slits. "Don't talk to me like I'm a git," he hissed.
"Then tell me what happened," Giles replied, unperturbed.
Wesley tilted his head aside at that and after a while, gave him an amused smile.
"It won't work with me, Rupert. This circling and probing. This teasing," he drawled.
"I just want to find out what happened, Wesley," Giles murmured in the reassuring way of his. Willow tensed when she saw the peculiar magic swirling more violently around Wesley. She didn't think Wesley bought into Giles's reasoning.
"Giles, be careful," she whispered. Mentally, she prepared herself to chant a protection spell – even if it meant losing control of magic once more.
"I'll tell you what happened," Wesley said bitterly. "My life has been a lie."
Giles remained quiet, staring at the man.
"Haven't you wondered why we are Watchers, Rupert? Don't you feel cheated of your true destiny?"
"Being a watcher is my destiny," Giles replied firmly.
"Don't lie, Rupert. If you had a choice, you wouldn't choose this destiny."
"No. I am not lying. It is my destiny."
"Oh, balderdash. This coming from the man who was called Ripper!"
Giles flinched. "That was in the past," he muttered.
"I'll tell you what's in your past, present and future, Rupert Giles. Your destiny is to be a tool for the Powers that Be! Just like the bleeding rest of us!" with that, Wesley threw his fist into the wall next to him. The wall crumbled apart like paper and then exploded in a sudden burst of green fire.
Wesley cried out at that, his knees buckling. He fell to his knees, clutching his head and moaning.
Now Willow! Willow told herself. Chanting quickly, she unfurled a barrier around Wesley. It built up astonishingly fast – faster than she had ever done before. The effortlessness of it all scared her, but it served her now.
Wesley reached out to touch the barrier. When he found it there, his eyes glowed a furious green.
"What have I done to you, Willow?" he asked, his voice sounding hurt.
"Wait – you're still sore that I suggested you be sacrificed for the greater good, aren't you?"
It took Willow a while to remember the horrific graduation day where so many were killed at Sunnydale High. She just shook her head in denial. "We're here to help you, Wesley. You're – you're not well."
Giles came to her side to study the ex-Watcher. She could see the question in his eyes, the amazement. The last time they saw Wesley, he was being wheeled into the ambulance, not exactly Mr Action Man after being taken out at the first stroke. Now he apparently had Slayer strength, skills, plus more. He had been annoying, yes, but then he was wholly dedicated to the Watcher's cause, with clear knowledge of what was acceptable and what's not when it came to dealing with the supernatural world. This was not acceptable. Worse, he's not making a whole lot of sense.
They say LA can do that to people.
"Maybe we should ask Angel what happened to him?" Willow suggested, her voice soft.
"Angel?" Wesley interrupted before Giles could formulate an answer. "I think you better not. I think he still has too much water in his system," he gave them a big smile before breaking into laughter. It was high and uncontrollable, the laughter of a madman.
Giles placed his hands in his pockets to prevent them from reaching for his glasses. "I think you're right, Willow. A visit to Angel Investigations seems appropriate right now."
Wesley rose to his feet, giving them a piercing stare with his glowing eyes.
"Its rude to talk about people when they're around," he snapped. With that, he hurled a fist into the barrier-
"He shouldn't be able to-" Willow began.
- and it shattered, sending a backlash of energy that whipped into Willow. She fell to the ground, her head impacting the ground hard.
Quickly, Giles went to her side. Willow looked dazed but otherwise unhurt. Quickly, he shifted his eyes back to Wesley. The ex-watcher was walking towards them, but Giles saw something different this time. His eyes were now normal – no longer glowing. His expression – serious and … sad?
"Giles?" Willow breathed, struggling to get up. He could sense her trying to build her energies to formulate a spell. He placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.
"It's alright Willow," he reassured her.
Was it really alright? As Wesley stopped two feet away from them, he prayed that he was right.
Wesley stared at them for a long time before replying. "I'm sorry," he said flatly. This voice, Giles recognised.
"Wesley. You must stop," he said softly. Stop what? Giles wasn't really sure, but he had a feeling that it was sound advice nevertheless.
Wesley gave him a sad smile. "I'm sick, Giles. And there's no cure," he said, averting his eyes from them. "And if you try to help me, you'll only get burnt."
"Sick? Perhaps you can tell me-"
Wesley gave him a low laugh. Giles feared the return of the instability that he saw earlier, but when their eyes met, he saw a calmness that was both reassuring and frightening.
"I have work to do. I must find the Mother. Only she can release me from this prison," he replied calmly. With that, he walked away, stepping over debris and ash.
"Wesley!" Giles called out. What was going on? He wanted to shout out, but somehow he knew that Wesley wouldn't answer that.
Wesley halted, gave him a sidelong glance and then a small nod. "Goodbye Giles." Then a look at Willow. "Good to see you again, Willow."
Then he was out of the shattered remains of the glass door, his figure slowly receding into the inky darkness.
"The Mother? Something tells me he's not referring to his mom," Willow murmured after Wesley disappeared from view.
"No. He is certainly not. Because I know *what* the Mother is. Every watcher does," he said gravely. "It's time for a little tête-à-tête with a certain vampire with a soul."
His father grabbed him by the hand roughly and pulled him away. Wesley was confused and more than a little frightened now. Father had been acting strange around him the past few weeks. No more sitting on his lap to hear stories about the Council. No more bed time stories about Peter Rabbit. No more wrestling in front of the telly. Father was mad at him all the time now, always shouting, "No, Wesley!" each time he did It.
It's not as if he wanted to. It just happened. He didn't know how to tell Father that.
Mother was following them now, and she kept saying that he was a little boy – only, he wasn't you see? He was big and strong, like Father said he was.
But he was scared.
"Father, please, I'm scared," he whimpered.
He was pulled roughly into the house and they headed towards the stairs. Then his father pulled open the basement door and hauled him in. Wesley thought Father would follow him in, but he didn't, he only stood at the doorway staring at him.
Wesley was guilty now. He was being punished, but he didn't know why.
"Don't you ever do that again, do you hear me, boy?" his father said roughly.
Wesley shook his head. He was too terrified to say anything else.
Mother appeared next to Father, her blue eyes streaming with tears.
"Jonathan, for God's sakes, please stop!"
"We have to do this Margaret. You know we have to," his Father said, his chin up – the way he spoke to Uncle Lewe and Uncle Nod when they came on Council business.
"He's just a boy. He's afraid of the dark."
"Then he'll have to outgrow it. He'll be a Watcher one day, Margaret, nothing else. Do you realise what the Council will do to him if they found out what…he is?" Father's voice turned small and quiet, and Wesley saw that his Father's eyes were wet too. Was he crying? He thought men did not cry. Father said men should not.
"Father, I don't like the dark," he said in a small voice.
Mother and Father looked at him, their eyes were the same. So wet and big.
"Wesley," his mother whispered. Then she bit her lip and with a small sigh, walked slowly away.
"Mother? Mommy?" he lost his strength to speak. He shifted his gaze to Father and pleaded with his eyes. But Father only looked at him, his face impassive.
"Father please…Daddy…please don't leave me here. I'm scared. There are monsters in the basement."
"Yes there are," his Father said, his voice flat. "Remember that when you light another fire."
Then Father closed the door, and he was alone in the dark with the monsters.
* * *
"Are you … alive?"
He opened his eyes.
He wanted to say something sarcastic. He usually did after someone asked him such a silly question, but after feeling the strange heaviness that weighed down his limbs, Wesley wasn't quite sure anymore.
Connor…or Steven, whatever, was watching him with an unreadable expression – something between anxiety and wariness.
He realised that he was lying on his stomach on something hard, and that his arms hung limply by his sides. No wonder the boy thought he was dead.
Wesley got up carefully, adjusting to the brief moment of dizziness the movement cost him. When things began to steady around him, he looked at Connor, who was still studying him impassively.
"Where am I?" Wesley wondered out loud, looking around.
"Some abandoned warehouse," Connor answered shortly.
Wesley frowned. He did not remember getting here. Better, he barely remembered what happened last night. He was at the Hyperion, fighting the Gurnaks. Then there was fire…and Angel? And the Hyperion again?
He gingerly rubbed his forehead with his hand, wondering whether what he remembered were dreams or reality.
"What happened?" Wesley asked tentatively.
Connor shrugged – the way teenagers do – as if to say, "who cares?"
"I followed you after you burnt the Gurnaks."
"I…" he swallowed. "I burnt them?"
"Yeah. And you did a lot of other stuff too," he glowered, his eyes narrowing. "You passed out-"
"Passed-?"
"-and then set yourself on fire."
"What?" his voice rose a little.
But Connor was not finished.
"Then you got up, a burning pillar of fire, and disappeared. You are a demon aren't you?"
"Well, I'm surprised you took so long to figure that out," Wesley said dryly. But beneath his sarcasm, was fear. He remembered vaguely what had happened, but they seemed distant; infact, his dream about being locked in the basement seemed more real than his recollections of the day before.
But if his dreams were real, then…
"Angel is back," he said shortly, giving Connor a pointed look. The boy only straightened and tipped his chin up in defiance. It reminded him of his father for some reason.
"So you buried him in the ocean? There is a cruel streak in you that seem familiar," he murmured, getting down from the low table he was lying on.
"He deserved it. He killed my father!" Connor responded hotly.
"I doubt it."
Connor flinched at that. Then, he said hesitantly. "Why are you so sure?"
"Because if he wanted to kill your father, he would have done it before. He had plenty of chances and plenty of reasons," he walked around gingerly, testing his strength.
He didn't appear to have much because the world started spinning once more.
Then he felt someone hold his elbow.
"Don't pass out again. I wouldn't know what to do if anything burns," Connor said flatly.
*You could lock me in the closet.*
The thought came unbidden into his mind. It made him flinch; as memories of hours in the dark basement with ghouls came flooding back into his mind. He decided to focus on Connor instead.
"Why are you still with me?"
Connor's face was expressionless. "Does it matter?"
Wesley grinned at that answer. "At some point it will," he answered.
Suddenly, Connor's face blurred and his vision darkened. Suppressing a groan, Wesley reached out to the nearest wall to brace himself.
"Are you going to pass out now?"
Wesley had to smile at that. He wanted to pass out. Anything better than existing right now.
"Help me back," he whispered to the boy.
And to his surprise, Connor obeyed.
* * *
Fred swept the Hyperion floors dispiritedly. Despite the ick factor of the ash being former Gurnak demons, Fred ignored the sticky clumps of ash that stuck to her boots, shirt, hair…
"Where's the vacuum?" she heard Gunn say.
She looked up to see Gunn puttering busily about, ducking under this and that, lifting this and that – as if a vacuum could be hiding under a pile of books.
He's rattled, that's all. Just like how everyone is.
Lorne, meanwhile, was sitting on the couch, looking uncharacteristically morose.
She dropped the broom and went to him.
"Hey sweetcakes," Lorne said absently as she sat next to him.
All she could do was put a hand on his arm – which he patted.
"I just can't figure it out," he said, looking at the soot covered area at the center of the hall. Fred didn't want to look. Wesley used to be there.
"I saw a future for him, Fred. He can't be dead. He has a role to play … in the Apocalypse."
Fred felt blank and drained.
"I can't be wrong."
"He's dead," she heard Gunn say flatly. This time, she did look up.
Gunn's eyes were hard and … determined? It made her frown, disturbed by what she saw.
"And there's nothing we can do to change that. Now, all we have to do is pick up, vacuum this shit up and move on," he said firmly.
Firmly? Or gladly? Fred thought. Was Gunn glad that Wesley's gone. Finally?
The thoughts were too disturbing to contemplate. Without a word, Fred got up and headed up the stairs.
"Baby?" she heard Gunn call.
She didn't want to answer. She was no one's baby.
Upstairs, Fred walked around the corridors absently. So many rooms, yet so empty. It used to full of life and a heck of a lot of noise. Wesley and Cordelia bickering downstairs. Gunn showing off his fighting moves, sometimes upsetting a potted plant or something – which set Wesley and Cordelia off again. Angel telling them all to calm down and not disturb his afternoon slumber… And then Connor was here, and he was always crying or chuckling in that baby way of his. Fred missed all that. Fred wanted it all back.
She found herself wandering into Angel's apartments. She stared at the blackened walls – gouged out by the fire that nearly got Connor and Angel. This was where it must've happened – when Wesley decided to take Connor – and changed everything.
Then her eyes shifted to the bed.
Her eyes widened.
* * *
Baylor House
"Please, don't hurt me."
Despite his wavering vision, Wesley aimed his gun at Mr. Swanson's chest.
"You set a trap for me, didn't you Mr Swanson?"
Mr Swanson was sweating profusely, and his face was white. He lifted his trembling hands in an effort to placate Wesley and stammered:
"Look, I can explain."
"Five minutes," Wesley said curtly.
"He said he would kill them," at that Mr. Swanson burst into tears, letting them flow freely down his cheeks.
The unexpected display of emotion disconcerted Wesley. He unconsciously shifted his feet. But he remained quiet.
"He said that if I told you what to do – where to go, they'll be alive. They'll be okay," he whispered.
"Who?" Wesley asked, his brows knitted in a heavy frown.
"My girls. My daughters. He has my daughters. K-Koskov. He's … he's a vampire," Swanson murmured. At that he turned away and covered his face, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"I didn't even know there were vampires until a few weeks ago. I am just a businessman, damn it!" Swanson cursed.
Wesley lowered his gun – only to have Connor stop its descent.
"He's lying," he hissed.
Wesley frowned and looked at the young man's face.
"Yes," he agreed.
Swanson must've heard what he said because he whirled around, despair etched on his face.
"You don't believe me," he whispered.
Wesley sighed and walked towards the man. "No. You're lying – but you don't know that you are."
"W-what?" he blubbered, backing away as Wesley approached him.
Wesley did not give him an answer. Instead, he looked at his gun and pensively caressed it as he contemplated what he had to do next. Connor, however, knew what he was thinking.
"He is leading you into a trap. Don't be an idiot," Connor hissed.
Wesley gave him a sideways glance.
"Please help me. I'll pay you anything. I don't want my girls…I don't want him to hurt my girls."
"Don't," Connor said, he reached out and clasped his arm – as if to physically prevent him from going.
"Connor," Wesley whispered.
A resigned look came over Connor's face. He gave Wesley a light push and threw his sword to a corner. It clattered loudly, the sound travelling in Wesley's empty warehouse.
"You're going to regret it," he muttered as he walked out of the house.
And he was right.
Chapter TWENTY FIVE
{A week later}
"Firefighters say that the fire started at 4am last Saturday. Police believe that the fire was started by arsonists. However, the intention seems unclear. The warehouse belongs to the Swanson Corporation and sources believe that Mr. Swanson was in the building when the fire broke out. Whether he survived the fire or not also remains unclear."
"Angel?"
"Strangely, one of Mr. Swanson's 10-year-old twin daughters were found at the warehouse. Police refuse to comment on her condition, or how she came to be there, but she is currently believed to be in state custody."
"Angel?"
This time Angel did turn away from the television. It was Fred, holding a tray with a glass of blood on it. She gave him a nervous smile.
"Blood?" she asked, her voice a little on the over-perky side.
He returned his gaze to the television.
"Meanwhile, unexpected fires have broken out in several parts of LA since the Swanson fire. Could these fires have been set off by the same arsonist?"
Fred sighed and knelt by his side. Nervously, she touched his shoulder. This made him flinch, which made Fred jump a little. Guiltily, she withdrew her hand.
"You need to take some blood Angel. You haven't had any since yesterday afternoon," she said.
"You should go away, Fred."
Fred flinched. Then, pursing her lips, she shook her head. "No."
Angel gave her a hard glare. "I lose everyone close to me. I don't want to lose anyone else."
"Angel," she whispered, risking a touch to his hand. It was icy cold – colder than usual. "You didn't leave me in Pylea, and I won't leave you either. You got me?" she said firmly.
Angel removed his hand from hers and returned his gaze to the television.
"The arsons seem random. So far seven people have been killed by the fires. Police believe that we now have a serial arsonist in our midst. How our arsonist sets the fire, however, is a complete –"
The television screen went blank. Fred stood before it, remote control in her hands.
"It was actually starting to get interesting," he commented dryly.
Fred threw the remote aside and knelt before him, clutching his hands as if she was afraid he'd get up and run away. Not that that would've stopped him.
"Angel, look at me. We're going to get through this. We're going to find Cordelia, and Connor, and everything's going to be fine!" he voice wavered and shook, and Angel was reminded of the less than stable Fred in Pylea. Concerned, he met her eyes – and realised that she was crying.
"Fred-"
"When I found you in your room, did you know how freaked out I was? I thought you were dead! Not in the ashy kind of way – we had so much of that that day but-"
"Fred-"
"Shut up and listen to me," she snapped.
Surprised, Angel did what he was told.
"Since you came back, you haven't told us what happened to you. Who brought you back. Where you went. Who did this to you. You're barely eating, barely recovering and you're watching Oprah."
Angel merely stared at the blank screen.
"Okay. She has something to say once in a while. She can be entertaining. B-but I thought we lost you for good. We missed you. And we're glad you're back. But you're not back. Not really."
Angel met her eyes again reluctantly.
"Please come back to us," she whispered.
"Fred…I-" his eyes narrowed. Then he frowned heavily, suspicion clouding his eyes.
Fred frowned herself. This was more than Angel being anti-social. "What is it?"
With shocking speed, Angel got off his armchair, whirled around and pointed his hidden gun (what's he doing with one?) at-
"Hey! Hey! Take it easy!" the intruder protested as Angel stuck the point of his crossbow up his chin.
Angel backed away, surprise in his features. "Earl?" he said incredulously.
The demon informant brushed off the cross bow and petulantly adjusted his coat. "Yeah. Earl. Your informant. Your buddy," he huffed.
Before Angel could put a word in, Earl began his barrage of words:
"You better tell your pal – sorry ex-pal – Pryce that he's gone off his rocker and he has no right doing the things he does, bustin' into people's homes and turning them into fried enchilada just because they said they don't know. Ten. TEN people have died because of his crazy quest – some were not even demons, just plain ordinary people, leading normal, achingly boring lives. What did they do? Ka-boom, that's what they did. Hiroshima. Why? Who the freaking 37th hell knows? Why I just heard from Myrtle the other day-"
"Earl," Angel interrupted.
"-that he didn't even ask his stupid question before frying one guy. That man is off his rocker, real crazy, and I put the blame on you guys. Yeah, even you, pretty stick thing at the back holding that tray. Drove the man up the wall with your holier-than-thou attitude-"
"Earl," Angel grated.
"-about him stealin' some baby. Yup, it's all over the grapevine, what he did. Wow, we demon folk thought it was super of him to just save the baby's neck, but no, you, Mr vamp with a soul decides to smother him to death, which by the way is a pretty lame thing to do to a guy who nearly had his head sawn off. So I'd think you-"
"EARL!" Angel roared and clamped a hand around the green-skinned demon's neck and lifted him a few inches off the ground.
"Shut up," Angel growled.
Earl let out an "eep" and promptly shut up.
"Now, tell me why you're here," he growled.
"Well," Earl said in a little chocked voice. "Boy wonder here said I was useful."
"Boy wonder?" Fred asked, now beside Angel.
It was then that Connor walked casually through the door, hands in his tattered jeans pockets. The trio stared at him – Earl with relief, Fred and Angel in shock.
Connor gave Angel a smirk bereft of any humour.
"Hey, dad. Had a good swim?"
* * * *
They have been in LA for a week. Willow calls it a vacation. Giles calls it stalling.
"I mean, I have not been to LA like for ages, a-and wow, did you see that Wicca supply shop? It's like Tesco for Witches."
They were in Ben & Jerry's - something Willow laughably calls "soul food shop" and she had just consumed shocking amounts of sugar-high ice-cream. About three huge bowls so far.
"Hey lady – two minutes to closing, okay?" said the man behind the counter. His eyes travelled to the bowls on her table and he shook his head wryly.
"Boyfriend left her?" the man asked when Giles went to the counter to pay the bill.
"Well. Um. You can say that." Giles risked a small glance to Willow, who had her back to him.
"Well, just tell that pretty thing that there's more men in the sea. He is not worth gaining a hundred pounds for, eh?" he gave Giles his change.
Giles gave him a tight smile. "I'll be sure to tell her that."
The man chuckled and leaned down to close the refrigerated units which held the ice-cream. His smile faltered.
"What the?" he exclaimed, backing away from the unit.
Curious, Giles looked at what he was staring at.
"My word…" he murmured.
The ice-cream – all twenty vats of them – were now pools of multi-coloured liquid goo. Some were even bubbling. He read the temperature gauge at the side of the box.
His eyebrows lifted.
Giles frowned. "Cooling problems?"
The man was about to answer when a deep growl from the entrance interrupted.
Giles stiffened. Especially when he saw the shade of white the man turned into.
Vampires! Willow mind-shouted into his brain. He winced at the force of it – caught an apologetic look from the witch – and slowly turned.
Four vamps – in game face mode – stared at them, fangs bared. One – a female in a tattered, dust-covered black dress, which signalled that she was newly risen, hissed at him.
"Food," the female growled. "Hungry."
One of the male vampires looked annoyed. "I didn't realise newly risen meant zero IQ," he muttered.
Another male vamp, who dressed as if he was going to a Rolling Stone concert – in the 70s – shrugged. "She was pretty. I didn't choose her for her IQ."
"Hey, can you two losers stop your male talk and start thinking what we're going to do with these folks?" a female shoved between the two vamps a few steps closer to Giles.
"I think this old guy is yummy," she said saucily, licking her lips.
"Old?" Giles couldn't keep the offended tone out of his voice.
The female looked surprised at being interrupted. "Aren't you afraid?" she asked frankly.
Giles managed a shrug while scanning the room discreetly for wooden objects in the shop. Metal, plastic, and more plastic. Wonderful.
Giles. What do we do? Willow asked.
BURN THEM.
The thought was so strong that both Willow and Giles cried out in surprise, covering their ears.
Who said that? it was Willow this time. Giles shook his head. He didn't know.
The female vampire started backing away. "Oh shit! He's here!"
Giles and Willow exchanged a look. But *they* know.
"What? How long is he going to keep tracking us? Shit!" he swore and took the newly-sired female vamp's hand.
"Come Abigail, we'll find food some other time."
"Hungry," Abigail mewled.
"Dang, newly risen and she has had no food for a day. I remember how it's like," the other male vamp muttered.
"Shut your-" the female began.
WHERE ARE THEY?
The alien voice came again – deep and guttural.
"Let's get out of here," the female took an about turn-
-only to scream as a stake flew from out of nowhere to imbed itself solidly in her dead heart.
When the female vampire disintegrated, the one called Abigail lost it. She let go of the male vamp's hand and charged towards Willow.
"Dego!" Willow shouted, making a swiping motion with her hand. With a bloodcurdling cry, Abigail flew backwards and crashed through the see-through glass front of the shop.
"Forget it," muttered one of the vamps and made a break for it.
But there was no way he could've made it because a dark figure, his face obscured by shadows, suddenly appeared at the entrance, blocking his way. The vamps backed away slowly – one of them raising their hands.
"Hey, look – we didn't do anything."
"Where is the mother?"
"How many times do I have to tell you, I don't –"
The figure dragged something from behind him. It was a demon, struggling vainly to free himself from the man's grasp.
"Sam?" the vampire asked. Then his deeply ridged brows furrowed deeper. "You turned us in?!"
"H-he made me, man…" the demon protested weakly. His red eyes batted nervously.
"Where is the mother?"
"Someone took it away. Now leave us alone, okay?" growled Rolling Stones vamp.
The figure seemed to take that into consideration.
But then, with a burst of unimaginable speed, the man lunged forward. Giles had only the time to pull Willow away before he saw the glint of silver from a long blade and the sight of the Rolling Stone vamp flying through the air headless.
He dragged Willow to hide behind a fallen table. All he could see from his vantage point were shadows and swirls of dust. They were moving at impossibly high speeds – faster than even vamps. He heard only growls and the painful thudding of bodies hitting concrete.
Then all was silent.
Footsteps moving towards them. Then it stopped.
"Lemme alone!" a voice protested. Giles recognised it as the demon's.
Another thud. Footsteps coming their way. Very close now.
Giles…
He exchanged a worried look with Willow. At the same time, his hand wrapped around the broken leg of the table. It must've snapped off when it was hurled into the wall by all the fighting.
The footsteps stopped just mere inches before them.
Giles stiffened, lifting the piece of metal in his hands. He could hear Willow muttering a spell.
The table was tossed aside like paper.
Giles got ready to plunge the metal in the creature's – well, whatever that came his way first – but he stopped because he saw its face.
He could only stare while Willow let out a long-drawn gasp.
"Rupert?" said the apparition before them. "Rupert Giles?" the familiar voice rose with excitement. In his excitement, he dropped the demon from his clutches. "My word! It has been, what-"
"Nearly four years," Giles found himself answering.
"Four?" cried Wesley, as if he couldn't believe it. The demon began to crawl away. Wesley sighed in annoyance and brought his foot down on the creature's back. It yowled in pain as he was pinned to the grown. Which was rather impossible since the demon should have had the strength to break Wesley in a few pieces.
"Are you-" Giles shifted his gaze discreetly to the pinned demon "-quite alright old chap?"
"Oh, right as rain," Wesley answered cheerfully. With a casual twist of his wrist, he sent the bloody sword in his hand flying into the wall, its tip buried between the eyes of Mr Happy Burger Ice Cream.
"Oh look. Burger-cide." With that, he howled with laughter, his knees nearly buckled. "Burger-cide. Oh, why didn't I think of that when I spoke to the Loa the last time?"
"You spoke to the Loa? Why-"
"Giles," Willow interrupted him, her voice grave. "There's something wrong-"
Wesley interrupted her. "Because I wanted to prevent the prophecy. But I was silly, Rupert. You were right. I think too much of myself, sometimes," he murmured, rising to his feet.
"Oh, wait. Excuse me while I deal with this problem," Wesley smiled and returned to the sprawled demon.
"Willow," Giles prompted, lowering his voice to a whisper while Wesley is distracted.
"There's magic pouring off him like hot molten lava. But magic I've not seen before," she whispered.
"Hey man!" the demon protested and struggled feebly as he was lifted off his feet again. "Look, I did nothing, okay? So what if I'm a Vornak demon? So what if I hung out with the vampires? They play great pool, okay? I am really harmless, honest!"
Wesley smiled. "Funny demon trying to lie to me." With that, he clamped his hands around the demon's neck. Willow winced as she heard the demon gagging, which barely concealed the faint popping sounds that came along with the act.
Giles could only stare and think about Willow's safety and the guy behind the counter's. The man was currently staring at Wesley with his mouth open, rooted and frozen to his spot.
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was, to put it succinctly, changed.
Gone was the well-groomed, starched-up Watcher that first graced their presence with irritating probing and upper-lip snobbery. Gone was the well-trimmed hair, the suit, the glasses, the –
Everything. The man before him wore a dusty leather coat, a not too well-ironed shirt and tattered jeans. His hair looked as if it had never met the end of a comb (or scissors) for months.
My word. He looks…
Roguish came the thought from Willow. Giles gave her a discreet puzzled look, which she returned with an apologetic look. Apparently, he wasn't supposed to have heard that.
Yes, there was something wrong with Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. A lot can happen to change a man in four years, but the man he remembered was not this violent. Nor was he this strong.
Or that skilful in dispatching four vampires in a few minutes.
"Wesley. I believe he is right. His species is quite harmless really. More of the merchant class-"
Wesley glared at Giles. Willow gasped when his eyes glowed green.
"I need to cleanse this city from filth," he said, his voice guttural.
"Please man! I swear I didn't do anything! I've got kids-" the demon choked out.
Wesley lifted the demon higher. It squealed and kicked his legs. "Where's the Mother?"
"What? M-my mother? Well, she's in-"
Angry, Wesley threw the demon aside. He threw him so hard that he flew through the wall to land on the street outside. The man behind the counter yelped and ran out of the door.
"Wesley. Stop it," Giles said firmly, stepping forward. He felt Willow's cold hands on his – possibly trying to restrain him.
Wesley narrowed his glowing eyes, his expression saying that he wasn't quite pleased with his suggestion.
Green. Glowing green. Heat. Melting ice-cream. Familiar, so familiar.
"Tell me what happened," he said as he slowly walked towards him, his hands up in a placating gesture.
"Giles," Willow whispered.
"It's alright, Willow. We're old friends, aren't we, Wesley?"
Wesley's green eyes narrowed further to glowing slits. "Don't talk to me like I'm a git," he hissed.
"Then tell me what happened," Giles replied, unperturbed.
Wesley tilted his head aside at that and after a while, gave him an amused smile.
"It won't work with me, Rupert. This circling and probing. This teasing," he drawled.
"I just want to find out what happened, Wesley," Giles murmured in the reassuring way of his. Willow tensed when she saw the peculiar magic swirling more violently around Wesley. She didn't think Wesley bought into Giles's reasoning.
"Giles, be careful," she whispered. Mentally, she prepared herself to chant a protection spell – even if it meant losing control of magic once more.
"I'll tell you what happened," Wesley said bitterly. "My life has been a lie."
Giles remained quiet, staring at the man.
"Haven't you wondered why we are Watchers, Rupert? Don't you feel cheated of your true destiny?"
"Being a watcher is my destiny," Giles replied firmly.
"Don't lie, Rupert. If you had a choice, you wouldn't choose this destiny."
"No. I am not lying. It is my destiny."
"Oh, balderdash. This coming from the man who was called Ripper!"
Giles flinched. "That was in the past," he muttered.
"I'll tell you what's in your past, present and future, Rupert Giles. Your destiny is to be a tool for the Powers that Be! Just like the bleeding rest of us!" with that, Wesley threw his fist into the wall next to him. The wall crumbled apart like paper and then exploded in a sudden burst of green fire.
Wesley cried out at that, his knees buckling. He fell to his knees, clutching his head and moaning.
Now Willow! Willow told herself. Chanting quickly, she unfurled a barrier around Wesley. It built up astonishingly fast – faster than she had ever done before. The effortlessness of it all scared her, but it served her now.
Wesley reached out to touch the barrier. When he found it there, his eyes glowed a furious green.
"What have I done to you, Willow?" he asked, his voice sounding hurt.
"Wait – you're still sore that I suggested you be sacrificed for the greater good, aren't you?"
It took Willow a while to remember the horrific graduation day where so many were killed at Sunnydale High. She just shook her head in denial. "We're here to help you, Wesley. You're – you're not well."
Giles came to her side to study the ex-Watcher. She could see the question in his eyes, the amazement. The last time they saw Wesley, he was being wheeled into the ambulance, not exactly Mr Action Man after being taken out at the first stroke. Now he apparently had Slayer strength, skills, plus more. He had been annoying, yes, but then he was wholly dedicated to the Watcher's cause, with clear knowledge of what was acceptable and what's not when it came to dealing with the supernatural world. This was not acceptable. Worse, he's not making a whole lot of sense.
They say LA can do that to people.
"Maybe we should ask Angel what happened to him?" Willow suggested, her voice soft.
"Angel?" Wesley interrupted before Giles could formulate an answer. "I think you better not. I think he still has too much water in his system," he gave them a big smile before breaking into laughter. It was high and uncontrollable, the laughter of a madman.
Giles placed his hands in his pockets to prevent them from reaching for his glasses. "I think you're right, Willow. A visit to Angel Investigations seems appropriate right now."
Wesley rose to his feet, giving them a piercing stare with his glowing eyes.
"Its rude to talk about people when they're around," he snapped. With that, he hurled a fist into the barrier-
"He shouldn't be able to-" Willow began.
- and it shattered, sending a backlash of energy that whipped into Willow. She fell to the ground, her head impacting the ground hard.
Quickly, Giles went to her side. Willow looked dazed but otherwise unhurt. Quickly, he shifted his eyes back to Wesley. The ex-watcher was walking towards them, but Giles saw something different this time. His eyes were now normal – no longer glowing. His expression – serious and … sad?
"Giles?" Willow breathed, struggling to get up. He could sense her trying to build her energies to formulate a spell. He placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.
"It's alright Willow," he reassured her.
Was it really alright? As Wesley stopped two feet away from them, he prayed that he was right.
Wesley stared at them for a long time before replying. "I'm sorry," he said flatly. This voice, Giles recognised.
"Wesley. You must stop," he said softly. Stop what? Giles wasn't really sure, but he had a feeling that it was sound advice nevertheless.
Wesley gave him a sad smile. "I'm sick, Giles. And there's no cure," he said, averting his eyes from them. "And if you try to help me, you'll only get burnt."
"Sick? Perhaps you can tell me-"
Wesley gave him a low laugh. Giles feared the return of the instability that he saw earlier, but when their eyes met, he saw a calmness that was both reassuring and frightening.
"I have work to do. I must find the Mother. Only she can release me from this prison," he replied calmly. With that, he walked away, stepping over debris and ash.
"Wesley!" Giles called out. What was going on? He wanted to shout out, but somehow he knew that Wesley wouldn't answer that.
Wesley halted, gave him a sidelong glance and then a small nod. "Goodbye Giles." Then a look at Willow. "Good to see you again, Willow."
Then he was out of the shattered remains of the glass door, his figure slowly receding into the inky darkness.
"The Mother? Something tells me he's not referring to his mom," Willow murmured after Wesley disappeared from view.
"No. He is certainly not. Because I know *what* the Mother is. Every watcher does," he said gravely. "It's time for a little tête-à-tête with a certain vampire with a soul."