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 6 of 9.  Thanks to all of you out there who review, it's always lovely to get feedback. We're back to Wes POV this chapter (my favourite!) and I dedicate the Wes/baby Connor stuff to my beta babe, Lonely Brit – you go write the abandoned WIP, girl!

Italicized quotes at the chapter end from the ep. 'Loyalty'

Chapter title and quote from 'In Hardwood Groves' by Robert Frost.

'Before the leaves can mount again

To fill up the trees with another shade

They must go down past things coming up

They must go down into the dark decayed.'

Chapter 6: Down into the Dark

It was no good.

He had driven the last ten miles to the accompaniment of infant hunger wails, which had begun as pianissimo snuffles, but had now crescendoed to surprisingly loud and impatient screams. He turned to glance back at the baby seat, as Connor paused to draw breath before continuing with the aural assault.

The child's face was dark crimson, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his whole face screwed up in furious frustration.

'Connor,' he reasoned pointlessly 'it's only another thirty miles. If you could just hang on till then…'

The ear-piercing shriek that reverberated through his skull answered his question. He rubbed his hand across the strong beard shadow and sighed.

'Okay. There's a truck stop just up here. I'll stop and you can have some milk.'

He needed something himself. He had not slept properly since he had first translated the prophecy, and had been running on nervous energy for the last twenty four hours. It would be okay, he told himself, he would have time to rest for twenty minutes or so, even if Angel had discovered where he was going, and was headed after him.

He pulled the SUV into the truck stop and parked in the warm sodium glow of the diner lights. As he turned the ignition off, Connor's cries quieted a little, as if he sensed that food was on its way. Wesley lifted him out of the car seat and cradled him close to his chest. And could now feel the rapid flutter of the baby's heart against his own; the exhausted half sobs of hunger wracking his tiny frame.

'Oh, Connor, I'm sorry,' he whispered, gently rubbing his hand over the child's rigid back, in what he despairingly hoped was a comforting manner. He wished he could think of a lullaby that might soothe him, but his recent experience with Lorne filled him with such shame that no song would come. Tried to remember if his mother had ever sung to him as a child, to comfort him when he woke in the middle of the night, terrified by the shadows in his bedroom, but all he could recall was his father's cold voice telling him to stop snivelling and grow up.

'Hush, now. We'll be okay,' he whispered with a confidence he did not feel. He slipped the changing bag over his shoulder and entered the diner.

The place was almost deserted, as he had expected at this time of the, well, morning; and a waitress approached him as soon as he had found a booth. She smiled down at Connor, and flipped open her pad.

'What can I get you, hon?'  Her voice was soft and warm and welcoming, she was clearly touched by the sight of harassed Dad and hungry infant. He could barely meet her eyes.

Instead he lifted a bottle of formula out of the changing bag and she smiled broadly and nodded.

'Little guy's hungry? They don't have any sense of timing, do they? My youngest, he's fourteen now,' she added 'used to feed all night and sleep all day.'

He bit down the insane desire to compare her offspring's sleeping habits to those of the undead. Not the kind of comment that would be favourably looked upon, he reasoned; casual throwaway remarks on the vagaries of vampiric nature tended not to be bandied about by normal healthy individuals with paternal responsibilities. He caught a glimpse of his haggard reflection in the diner window and managed a not altogether faked yawn.

'Want me to heat this up for him?'

Wesley gave a grateful nod, as Connor shifted his position and gave another whimper.

'And coffee for you, hon? You look pretty beat.'

'Please.' Simply thankful for her lack of curiosity, he gave her a tired smile, and she bustled off to heat Connor's bottle.

A few minutes later Connor was tucked in crook of his arm, contentedly suckling. His eyelids were beginning to droop, so he ran his fingers lightly over the baby's tiny foot. Remembering a comment from Cordy, as she had observed Angel feeding Connor.

'He's playing you, you know. Gets the bottle and then uses it as a comforter.'

She had marched over and slipped off the little socks, running perfectly manicured fingers over the soles of Connor's feet. The baby had mewed in protest, but the sucking had begun again with renewed vigour.

'You've got to keep him awake. Tickle his feet,' she had explained, with the strange maternal wisdom she had seemed suddenly to possess.

He looked up as the waitress placed his coffee on the table, saw her smile in recognition, as his fingers traced little circles around Connor's toes. She leaned down a little, ready to do that thing that women did when they saw babies.

'Oh, your daddy knows all the tricks, yes he does.' She ran a plump finger along the curve of Connor's cheek.  'You're such a beautiful boy, yes you are. And you have your daddy's eyes.'

He was not prepared for this. He had expected the guilt in reaction to her well-meant words. But he was not prepared for the tiny horrible undercurrent of hope that accompanied the shame. The knowledge that he could do this, get away with it, and people would believe him. He was at once both satisfied and sickened by his thoughts.

'What's his name?' The waitress was still fussing gently over the baby.

'Connor.' And he could hardly believe he had been so stupid. That's it, Wes, old boy, just blab the child's real name to every passing stranger you meet. All those despicable feelings of satisfaction vanished instantly.

'Ah, that's a lovely name. Irish, isn't it?'

And now he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck lift, the sweat trickling down his sides, desperately willing Connor to finish the bottle so that they could get the hell out of there. He had been mad to stop here, Angel had obviously figured out where he was headed, had sent word that he was to be stopped. And he had fallen into the trap.

'- alright, hon?' She was upright again, eyeing him with worry. He realized dimly that she was asking him a question. 'You look very pale. You sure you're alright?'

He forced himself to remain outwardly calm. The woman knew nothing of Angel, or him. She was just a waitress, for God's sake. He was seeing conspiracies everywhere.

'I'm fine. It's been a long night, that's all. He cuddled Connor close to him, and the baby snuggled against his jacket, the movement producing a contented burp. The waitress giggled, a light bubble of sound which floated across the diner, shaking him out of his bleak mood.

'Well. Looks like someone enjoyed their food,' she smiled, and gave Connor's back a brief pat before returning to the counter.

Wesley drank the coffee as quickly as he could, without arousing any further suspicion, then gathered up the empty bottle and stuffed it into the bag. He walked to the till, desperate to seem nonchalant, and paid the bill.

The waitress bit her bottom lip, as if she wanted to say something, but wasn't sure how it would be received. He stood silently waiting, granting her tacit permission to speak.

'Look, I know it's none of my business, but you look worn out. Maybe you should think about getting a few hours sleep, before you go driving off again. I've seen too many accidents happen that way.'

He smiled sadly at her, reassured her that he was absolutely fine, and really he didn't have far to go.

'Well, I'm just saying, it won't kill you if you're a few hours behind schedule.'

And he could have laughed hysterically at the irony of her words.

*~*~*~*

He parked the SUV against the kerb, confident that there would be no one around at five am to give him a parking ticket. He looked over at the shop across the road. The blinds were drawn, but he was sure he could see dim light filtering through the wooden slats. He had already called at the address he had for Giles' flat, but had been informed by the somewhat irate new tenant that the British guy had moved, adding sarcastically that he really enjoyed being woken in the early hours of the morning by a squalling brat. Wesley had apologised profusely and done his best to placate Connor, who was now sleeping peacefully in his car seat.

He lifted the seat out, slung the changing bag over his shoulder and removed his suitcase from the back of the vehicle. If he was going to get Giles to help him, he would need all the details of the prophecy to give his arguments credibility. He closed the door quietly, and walked up to the door of The Magic Shop.

He pushed it tentatively with the palm of his hand, and was surprised when the door gave way. Swung into a wonderfully welcoming interior, reminding him of a second hand bookshop near his old college. Under other circumstances he would have revelled in the sensory stimulations he was experiencing, the strong scent of herbs and old parchment, the warm glow of the opulent and totally unnecessary wooden shelving, the delicate squeak of floor boards underfoot.

'Hello?'

His enquiry was tentative, unsure of his reception, considering his history with this man. Oh, he'd been an idiot, freshly promoted with only a year in the field, filled with a false sense of his own importance. And it hadn't taken them long to knock that out of him, to discover his insecurities, and play on them.

He'd expected to have problems with the slayer, he'd heard of her attachment to Giles, in fact, it was one of the reasons he had been assigned to Buffy. However, what he had not anticipated was the contemptuous dismissive behaviour of her former watcher. As a young man, Wesley had heard the stories of Rupert Giles, the rebel, the rogue, the Ripper, and had held a secret admiration for the man. To be on the receiving end of his sharp sarcastic tongue had hurt him more than he wanted to admit; had brought out the worst in him, as always. The man had a knack for exposing his (admittedly many) weaknesses, and commenting on them, causing Wesley to wonder idly if Giles had been in secret collaboration with his father.

They had, of course, been in contact since the disastrous events of the High School graduation day, mostly for business purposes, although the most recent had been after Buffy's funeral. Wesley had sent what he hoped was a reasonably informal letter of condolence, and Giles had written back to thank him, a very honest letter in which he expressed his regrets about how things had gone in Sunnydale. He had returned to England after Buffy's death, only to return when Willow and the others had resurrected Buffy, according to the few sources he still had at the Council. So it was not without a certain degree of trepidation that he entered the shop.

There was no answer to his quiet greeting. He set the suitcase and baby carrier down carefully and leaned over the counter.

'Nice view.' An unfamiliar female voice wafted across the room.

He straightened instantly, rosy with embarrassment, and turned in the direction of the voice. She sat at a table by a small bookcase, her fingers playing along the spine of a large book. He did not recognize her, but that did not necessarily mean she shouldn't be there. He had worked in Sunnydale long enough to know that the whole idea of keeping her identity as the  Chosen One secret had held little significance for Buffy. This woman could simply be another one of the many friends the slayer surrounded herself with.

'Ah. I was, er, looking for Mr. Giles. The owner, you know.'

She smiled, a soft tenderness lighting her eyes. 'I know. He's not here, I'm afraid. He had to go home.'

'Oh.' He moved close to Connor, suddenly wary of the stranger. 'Perhaps if you could let me have his address, then. I need to see him on a matter of some urgency.'

Again the soft smile, as if she understood much more than he was saying.

'Home, as in England.'

His heart plummeted. God, he was so stupid. He should have called first, checked with Giles, set up some kind of contingency plan. And now here he was, in probably the first place Angel would come looking for him, with no idea of what to do next.

'Oh.'

Idiot. Fool. Coward. Weakling. He could almost hear the cold voice echo across an ocean. Somewhere in the room a clock chimed.

'Maybe I can help.' She did not move from her seat, patted the chair next to her. 'You seem a bit – worried?'

Understatement of the year. He eyed her with growing suspicion, and lifted Connor's seat onto the counter, curving his arm under the handle protectively.

'I'm sorry, but who exactly are you? Do you work for Mr. Giles?'

She shook her head; her loose chestnut curls bobbing a little, and smiled apologetically. The light from a reading lamp was briefly reflected in a dark sapphire pendant, and he tensed automatically, recognizing the style of the amulet.

'Vengeance demon.' He whispered under his breath, wondering how Angel had figured out his whereabouts so quickly. The demon remained seated at the table; smoothed a hand over her hair and frowned slightly.

'You know, I keep telling people, Justice Demon, but no, you're all just fixated on the whole vengeance thing. A girl could get a complex…'

He remembered then, during his disastrous tenure in Sunnydale, the vengeance demon who had lost her powers.

'Anyanka? Anvenger of scorned women?'

She wrinkled her nose, and gave him the pitying look of a teacher who has been disappointed by the incredible dimness of a promising student.

'And have you scorned many women recently, Wesley? I mean, please! We're not even the same colouring!'

He felt at once obscurely ashamed and rather annoyed by her words. He hadn't paid much attention to the demon's appearance at the time; other matters had seemed more deserving of his attention. Pissing off one slayer, helping another on the road to the dark side, disobeying the council, getting fired. Stuff like that.

She rolled her eyes, and huffed out a small sigh.

'I'm Halfrek. Tend to do most of my wish work with kids…' Her voice grew soft and tailed off, as she began to find her fingernails incredibly interesting.

Wesley placed his palm on Connor's chest, and watched her warily.

'You're here for Connor.'

'Not specifically. He's part of the deal, yes. But I'm mostly here for you.'

'It may have escaped your attention, but I'm not a child. If you're here to avenge me, I'm afraid you're about twenty five years too late.' He could not prevent the acid that dripped from the words, the coldly sarcastic tone he hated in his own voice.

To his deep embarrassment she bent her head in obvious distress. And that meant she knew.

'I'm sorry. There's really no excuse, but I am sorry. I only found out about your situation a few days ago. I thought I might be able to help.'

'I'm assuming you're referring to my current dilemma, rather than my dysfunctional childhood.' God, he was beginning to talk like a bloody Californian. 'Unless you're planning on travelling back in time,' he added dryly.

She looked up at him, somewhat startled. Then ran her fingers over the open file on the table in front of her.

'I know about the prophecy.'

'So you know why I took him, then.' Keeping his voice light, unwilling to acknowledge the depth of pain these words caused.

'I know you tried to disprove it. I know how long and hard you tried.'

He felt the steady rise and fall of Connor's chest under his hand, and her voice was now the only sound in the room.

'But I'm afraid you were right. The Father will kill the Son.' Her finger tapped the file on the table. 'There are other prophecies, bound up with the Nyazian Scrolls, which support your translation.'

It hurt, an actual physical pain to hear it, the confirmation of what he had secretly still hoped might be false. He lifted the baby seat down and approached the table in resignation. He seated himself next to her, and she slid the file under his gaze.

These were documents that he had heard of only in legends, and he was suddenly aware of the risk this demon was taking in allowing him access to this. He raised his head to meet her eyes, filled with such sympathy that it made his throat ache.

'There are three prophecies here, Wesley, all linked by a common thread.' Her voice was soft, thrumming low in the warm air. 'You just need to figure out what that thread is.'

He slapped his hand down on the file hard, and the table rocked a little, setting the baby's seat in motion. He reached down quickly and steadied it.

'You know he's after me! You must know that! How the hell am I supposed to figure out the intricacies of interconnecting prophecies with a grief stricken and possibly homicidal vampire after me?  I just don't have time!'  His voice cracked on the last word.

She was looking directly at him now, one hand fluttering deliberately to the jewelled amulet around her neck.

'What if I could give you time? All the time that you need.'

It was obvious what she was proposing. And Wesley knew that this was madness, to even consider it. He knew the dangers of wish magic, had had that lesson drummed into him at an early age. Magic use in general was frowned on by his father, to be used only in extreme circumstances, and certainly not to satisfy some selfish whim or other.

He looked down at the sleeping babe, the horrific image of Angel's fangs buried in his son's neck suddenly strong in his mind.

'Wesley, please. Let me help you.'

'I can't – I don't' know what to do!' His voice rose on the last word, and Connor wakened at the sound, his bottom lip quivering. Wesley reached down and lifted the tiny baby, cradling him gently.

'It will be alright.' She passed him the file, then went to the counter and fetched the suitcase and changing bag, setting them down beside the car seat. 'Just wish it.'

He met her eyes once more, read there only care and concern. Then closed his own.

'I wish – I wish I had more time…'

Somewhere in the room a clock chimed.

'Tick tock, Wes, running out of time…'

'How much time do I have..?'

The dark question you harbour is only when…'

The slow measured tick of a grandfather clock outside a childhood prison in the darkness below the stairs…

Wesley clutched the little body tightly to his own as the world began to spin, fading to black.

Halfrek folded her hands on the empty table, her locket glowing faintly.

'Done.'