TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 2 of 8. Thank you for your lovely reviews, it makes the writing even more enjoyable! This chapter is based on 'Sleep Tight' and has lines of dialogue and scenes from this ep and from 'Loyalty'. Goes a bit AU though…

Big hugs and thanks to Lonely Brit who is just a perfect beta. Chapter title and quote from Wen Yiduo - 'Confession'

But remember that my food is a pot of bitter tea.

And there is another 'I'. Will you be afraid to know it?

The flylike thought crawling in the garbage can.'

Chapter 2: Bitter Tea

The lobby seemed deserted. He moved towards the cradle, noticing for the first time a splash of crimson on the wall; its spatter pattern arcing downwards. That was new. He had surveyed most of the earthquake wreckage this morning, and the blood had not been there.

Or maybe it had, and he was just too obsessed with the prophecy to have noticed. He was, in fact, beginning to doubt his own sanity. What he was considering was sheer madness. That Angel would kill his own son, his beloved baby? He adored him, doted on him, for God's sake! There was no way…

And then that other voice, the logical, analytical, cold hard truth voice started in on its closing arguments. Presenting as evidence the prophecy. He had spent several sleepless nights trying to disprove or discredit the statement, yet each time he came back to the same bitter conclusion – 'The Father will kill the Son'.

The Loa had confirmed it. The events of last evening had fulfilled the prediction, as the world had literally crashed in around them. He had almost convinced himself that he was wrong. Until that moment in the hallway, crouching on the floor in stupefied terror, watching as the blood dripped delicately onto the baby's blanket. Had heard his friend utter those terrible words.

'At least I would have had something to snack on...'

He stared for a moment at the arc of dried blood peppering the wall.

There had been too much blood recently. The nightmarish vision of Angel nuzzling Connor, then raising a bloody mouth to smile at him; the horror he felt at that was only matched by the realization that he could have prevented it. Connor's blood would be on his hands.

He moved to the centre of the empty lobby, and was surprised to find the child fussing softly in his cradle. In the back of his mind he knew that this wasn't right, that they wouldn't leave Connor alone, but he had to act now, when the opportunity presented itself. He lifted the child's changing bag and began to stuff it with random soft toys and baby clothes he found on the sofa.

'What are you doing?'

He swung to face an accusatory Lorne, bottle of baby formula in hand. Managed somehow not to gasp out loud.

'I'm taking Connor.'

No lies there. His mind whirring. He and Angel had talked about this, keeping Connor overnight, the park in the morning… and Lorne was falling for it. Believing him. He felt a strange giddiness, a terrible absurd desire to giggle at the lunacy of his situation.

The baby gave a small cry, his little legs kicking out in frustration. He bent over the cradle, lifting Connor gently, hushing him with little whispered platitudes, a half-remembered lullaby.

'How long do I have?

('Tick tock, Wes. Running out of time, running out of time…')

'One day. After that, everyone gets hurt…'

Time slowed.

His heart stopped, then hardened.

He knew. Lorne had read him, and he knew.

He placed the baby back in the cradle ever so carefully; met Lorne's eyes. He saw uneasiness, changing to disbelief, and then blind terror, as if Lorne had understood his intentions before they had fully formed in his own mind.

And he ran. He brought him down hard, tackling him with fists and feet and utter desperation. Dragging them both over the desk, collapsing in a tangled heap on the floor, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He mustn't be allowed to tell. He swung his fist, connecting with the demon's cheekbone, hard; then repeated the action. And still Lorne struggled wildly beneath him, needing to be silenced. He reached up, fingers closing around a statuette, and he brought it down with frantic brutal force, opening a gash in the green cheek, sending Lorne crashing into oblivion.

And there was no time. Not for regrets, or guilt, or self-loathing. There would be time enough for that later.

'I imagine it's easier to hate Holtz than yourself'

'There's enough to go round for both him and me.'

He hurried back to the baby, cradling him against his chest as he balanced the changing bag on his shoulder and turned and…

'Angel.'

Dear God. How could the vampire not hear his heart thump against his ribcage, hammering much too quickly, betraying his terror and his guilt? His betrayal. How could he not sense the distaste, disgust; the absolute despair? It was obvious; he was obvious, and the child was lost.

And still he did not give up. He handed the precious bundle to Angel, who kissed his son tenderly, and Wesley could barely meet the other's eyes.

'Love can be a terrible thing'

'Used to think it would swallow you whole….'

And then came the others, Fred and Gunn, smiling and laughing and eating; supremely ignorant of the magnitude of the situation. Of which, of course, he had made sure.  And now Angel was talking about some demon, Sahjhann, and could he hit the books before he headed home?

The thought of researching in his office, over the prone body of the friend he had just beaten unconscious, caused that horribly inappropriate bubble of insane laughter to float in his chest again. He bit down on his lip, and held out his arms to Angel, to kidnap his baby.

For some unfathomable reason, Angel handed him the child, his palm lingering on the tiny dark head, brushing across the little shoulder, a touch so full of tenderness that he had to look away. Could not bear to witness this. Not with his deceptive heart.

'I guess… I'll see you all tomorrow…' he lied.

And suddenly Angel jumped up, called his name. He half-turned back, waited for the accusation, almost welcoming it. But his friend knew nothing, suspected nothing, and Wesley was surprised by the lucidness of his reassurances. He hadn't realized he was such an accomplished liar. He cradled the tiny body protectively against his chest.

'Don't worry.'

I'll keep him safe, I promise.

*~*~*~*

He made a little nest of cushions on the sofa for Connor, still not too sure if the child could roll over, wriggle off the edge of the seat. It hit him then, the enormity of what he had done. He was now solely responsible for the safety of this infant. Not just the protecting him from prophetic dooms, but from the mundane dangers of everyday life; hot bathwater, fingers in sockets, bumps and scrapes and measles and…

A wave of helpless terror engulfed him. It had been different before, back at the hotel, with Fred and Cordy and Lorne around. He had done his share of babysitting Connor, changed his nappies, fed him his bottle, but he always knew that the others were coming back. It was different now. He was on his own. He had no younger siblings; he was an only child; his own childhood his only experience of parenting. Not the healthiest of examples, he rather supposed.

The baby gurgled contentedly, blissfully unaware of the gravity of his current situation. He stuffed a small fist into his mouth and sucked noisily, but did not seem inclined to actually cry for milk.

Wesley lifted the suitcase he had packed when he had first translated the prophecy and opened it. A few clothes, his wash bag, crossbow, books, and a small album of photographs. He threw his translation of the prophecy and his notes on top of the album and closed the case again.

Took out his gun, checked that it was loaded, and clicked the safety. Slipped it into his inner pocket, and patted the jacket lightly, touching the stakes and knives for reassurance. Wallet and passport were there also, though how the hell he would get Connor out of the country was rather beyond him at the moment.

'Well, Connor, I suppose we're ready to go.'

Tried not to think about the fact that he had no idea where.

The baby perked up at the sound of his voice, and he kicked both legs together, positively bouncing with the anticipation of being picked up. Wesley leant over and scooped the child into his arms, and Connor wriggled himself into a comfortable position, his head snuggled into the hollow between Wesley's shoulder and neck.

'That's a boy, that's a boy,' he whispered, placing one hand across the tiny back and lifting the suitcase with the other. He stood in the doorway, glanced round the flat for the last time. He would not be coming back. Locked the door behind him and headed for the car.

The locking mechanism chirruped brightly, and he opened the back door, set the suitcase on the floor. Opened the side door, to access the baby seat, and there was a soft moan. He clutched Connor tighter to his chest, turned in the direction of the sound.

It was a black night, the moon obscured by clouds, and he wasn't about to take any chances. He kept his left hand on the baby's back, and drew his gun with the right.

'That's close enough.'

He didn't immediately recognize the figure that limped out of the bushes, hunched over, arms wrapped around its midriff. Then the light from the street lamp threw her battered face into sharp relief.

'Justine?'

Someone had clearly done quite a number on her. The lower half of her jaw was swollen and discoloured, the bruised flesh in varying shades of red, purple and black. From the way she moved, held her arm tight about her stomach, it was possible that ribs had been broken.

'He's everything you said… it's true.'

He lowered the gun, fractionally, took a tentative step towards her.

'What happened?'

And now she was telling him, how Holtz had betrayed them all, gone looking for Connor at the hotel. And when she had questioned his tactics…

He felt slightly queasy. He had known that the man was driven by hatred and revenge, but he had truly believed that at the core, Holtz was basically a good man. That he would beat this young woman so badly as to make her almost unrecognizable was quite disturbing.

Before he knew it, he had slipped the safety on again, sliding the gun into his pocket. She stumbled towards him, her arm curved into her side protectively.

There was a slight whisper of a breeze in the air, rustling the leaves of the trees in the park opposite. The chill wind shifted the clouds in the dark sky, and she was abruptly lit by moonlight. A sudden flash of silver hidden in her palm raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

He couldn't believe he had almost fallen for it.

She was too near him now; he would not be able to fire the gun without endangering the baby. He stepped away as she drew the blade from the folds of her jacket, sidestepping her lunge at him. He tightened his grip on Connor, ignoring the small wail of protest from the child, and kicked out with his right leg. The tip of his shoe made sharp connection with her wrist; she let out a tiny gasp, but somehow managed to maintain her hold on the knife.

A horribly familiar anger flooded him; he slammed his fist into her face, intentionally hitting the already damaged jaw line. She reeled backwards, disoriented, and in one fluid movement he swept his foot under her legs, bringing her crashing to the ground. The knife twitched in her open palm, her fingers curling around the hilt a little. He did not think. Simply brought his heel down on her forearm, shattering the bone.  She made a strange little sound, a hysterical half-sobbing laugh, her fingers slackening.

He bent over, and retrieved the knife from her smashed hand, then straightened again. Calmly, he removed his foot from her arm, then pressed it onto her injured hand, grinding it into the pavement, as if stubbing out a cigarette.

'Tell Holtz his little plan backfired.'

She writhed in pain, and he eased his heel up, just a little.

'Tell him that if he comes after me, I'll kill him.'

She was watching him warily, clearly under the impression that he was completely psychotic. He wondered if that impression wasn't far from the truth.

'Do you understand me, Justine?'  A cold hard voice, one he recognized from his youth.

She seemed to realize that some sort of affirmation was required, managed to nod her acquiescence.

'Good. I won't be seeing you again, then, will I?'

Again she signalled her understanding with a tiny shake of her head.

He lifted his foot from her hand and strode over to the car. Connor was whimpering in his firm embrace; he placed him carefully in the travel seat, and drew his gun again. She had rolled onto her side, curling her body around her wounded arm. He was fairly sure she no longer posed a threat, but he kept the gun trained on her as he climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. Pulled away from the kerb and drove into the night.

*~*~*~*

He realized he had been driving for an hour with no clear idea of where he was going. He had no plan. All he had thought of was getting Connor away, taking him somewhere safe until he had time to make sense of the prophecy. The getting him away part was complete, that just left the taking him somewhere safe problem.

He looked around at the baby, snuggled in the safety seat, fast asleep. Oblivious to the drama that was unfolding around him. A car passed on the other side of the freeway, its lights flashing silver in his vision, recalling a moonlit blade. His knuckle throbbed; the skin had split when his fist cracked against her jaw. The image of a twisted limb under his heel sickened him.

'It wasn't something in you, Wesley. It was something that was done to you.'

He had always known that Fred was wrong. There was a darkness inherent in him, a capacity for ruthlessness that he could not deny, no matter how much he wanted to. He hadn't derived any pleasure from the infliction of pain, not the way he had enjoyed hurting Fred, but the knowledge that he was capable of this kind of cold-hearted violence did nothing to improve his sense of growing desolation.

He flexed his fingers against the steering wheel, the skin tightening white around his bruised knuckles. He possessed enough self awareness to acknowledge the source of his concerns, especially in view of the role he had taken upon himself. Glanced in the rear view mirror at the sleeping child, an innocent thrown into chaos because of some prophecy written centuries before his birth.

The baby snuffled slightly, then relaxed against the cushioned straps, his dark little head drooping to the side.

There were words for what he was doing; kidnapping, abduction; stark horrible truths that took no account of motive. And there would be no understanding; nothing he could say would absolve him of this crime. He thought he had accepted that, could live with the guilt, knowing it was done for the safety of the child, but suddenly he wasn't so sure. What if his actions were in some way fulfilling the prophecy, if his abduction of Connor would somehow result in the child's death at his father's hands?

He was so sick of bloody prophecies. Circles within circles, endless double meanings and possible translations that diverged wildly. And always he was relied upon to figure it out. He was tired of it, tired of being the only one. If he could just talk to someone else, share his fears.

He gradually became aware of a feeling of déjà vu, as he drove through the strangely familiar countryside. This was a road he had not travelled in almost three years. He had run from his past then, and now he was running from the present, from a terrible future. He was not wholly unaware of the irony of his situation, returning to the scene of one of his most blatant failures, to seek help from those who had rejected him. But he needed time to work on the prophecy, perhaps a fresh perspective, and he knew that the older watcher would agree at least to shelter him.

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, it was approaching midnight. If he drove steadily, he would be in Sunnydale by morning.