Notes: Yet another short story focusing upon Illyria, though Gunn also plays a large part as well. I feel a little uncertain, while I've watched Angel for years, I've never written Charles Gunn as a character. Any mistakes caught or possible criticism in that regard would be of great help. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Angel: The Series is property of Joss Whedon and the WB. No copyright infringement is intended.

The Devil's Due
By Frozen Phoenix

Gunn wasn't sure how long he had been out of it this time. The strength of the medication he had been given for the pain seemed to vary. Or perhaps it was the weight of the guilt that was pressing down upon him that interrupted his slumber.

The depth of the mind-numbing loss and self-hatred coursing through him made the stitched and bandaged wound in his stomach feel like little more than a dull ache in comparison.

Gunn was hardly a stranger to despair. He had fought against vampires in his life's entirety, buried allies and killed loved ones. But what had happened…what was happening…was something utterly different. After so many years of being the "muscle" it was his brain that had damned him.    

"You didn't see her die!" 

Wesley's words were a constant echo in Gunn's mind. They spoke louder and meant more the scalpel he had stabbed him with hours beforehand. He had ignored the possibility since he last saw her, looking pale and listless. The warmth and lightness that had always been present in her eyes had dimmed and her voice had sounded so faint.

Yet he wasn't willing to give up on her so quickly. They were heroes and something had to change, things would be made right.

Except this time they weren't. 

There was no miracle. Angel on a white horse with Spike as his knight beside him couldn't-wouldn't change things. Wesley's magical books weren't worth the mystical text they were printed with and him? He made the deal and paid for it in full with Fred's life.

Gunn shifted in the hospital bed, trying to at least sit up again. He had grieved early with Harmony of all people and he wasn't finished. He would never be finished. But lying flat on his back and crying reminded him too much of Fred's former position, it seemed almost an insult. She had been strong throughout it and here he was falling apart again.  

With an exhausted sigh, Gunn closed his eyes and ceased moving. The medication was too strong and he was too groggy to attempt any movement. Probably due to the portly nurse who had shooed Harmony away earlier and reprimanded the blond vampire for "agitating him." She had no idea how wrong she was and once the medication kicked in, Gunn didn't have strength to tell her.

Guilt and pain aside, he felt hollow. So many "if-only" scenarios were running through his enhanced brain that it was almost maddening. If only he hadn't gone into the White Room, if only he'd been less insecure, if only he had looked at the destination of the sarcophagus on the inventory sheet…

The last possibility made him pause and sigh in dejection. After all that had happened, the selfishness was still a part of him. Wasn't Fred's sacrifice enough to silence it? Would anything ever be?

The sound of the door slowly squeaking as it opened interrupted Gunn's thought abruptly. He hadn't been expecting any visitors, Harmony had brought papers stripping him of his Executive capabilities and Wesley, Angel and Lorne didn't want to look at him. Not he blamed them. He didn't want to be Charles Gunn, let alone see him, either.

There were no further sounds, no footsteps hitting the tile and Gunn was about to drift off once again and pass the noise as off as something in his imagination, when he heard a voice. Her voice.

"Charles?"

Gunn's heart nearly stopped. She was one of the few he let use his real name, rather than the last name he used to earn street cred. She was always the exception in his eyes.

Unable to focus upon anything but that single word and momentarily forgetting the impossibility of it, Gunn turned his head to the source of the sound as quickly as his bleary state would allow. It was then that it all came crashing down.

It is Fred and yet it isn't. She stands scant feet away from the hospital bed, the blueness of her skin and hair a startling contrast to the stark whiteness surrounding her. Her cobalt eyes seem to glow in the bright lighting and her body has a slight twitch beneath the form-fitting attire, as though she isn't completely comfortable in her own skin.

Gunn has only seen her once before and he remembers her voice then. Emotionless and empty, colder than anything he's heard. But that moment ago, it wasn't his imagination; he had heard Fred, no question.

Maybe Wesley had found a way to return her soul to her body, the doctor could have been lying, and her soul still existed. One way or another, Gunn has to know.

"Fred?" He asks tentatively. There had to have been a way, some kind of an answer…

She cocks her head slightly at the inquiry, yet her face still remains impassive.

"No longer."

In that moment, those singular words eliminate the little remnants of hope that had clung stubbornly within Gunn. Were he capable of sitting up, he would have sagged in defeat, instead he settles upon closing his eyes and sending her image away.

"Why are you here?" He asks dejectedly.

Illyria-not Fred-walks closer to the bed, Gunn can now hear her perfectly. And though he doesn't want to see, he has a feeling she's now hovering over him.

"Wesley has told me it was through your doing that I was returned to this…mockery of a world. The shell-" She pauses momentarily. "Winifred Burkle also had thoughts of you. Memories, that intrigue me."

The urge to scream at her rises within Gunn almost instantly. This thing, who had killed Fred, was giving her memories some kind of postmortem mind-rape? Wasn't it enough that she had crawled inside her and walked around in her body?    

Gunn grits his teeth and opens his eyes, fixing Illyria with a glare of intensity. Losing his temper here would be an especially bad decision. He knew she was capable of immense damage and he didn't want to be responsible for any other innocent live she took. He tries another approach.

"What do you want from me?" 

Her expression never changing, Illyria raises her left hand slowly. Separating two of them before her face, she closes her eyes and seems to gasp softly.

Gunn expects to be shocked as electricity flows between her fingers. Vengeance against him for helping to return her to a world that doesn't need her. A part of him almost wants it, he more than deserves it for what he's done. What he gets is far worse than any execution.

"The light is dimming?"

Fred's voice fills his ears again and his eyes widen. Those words, that night, he remembers it clearly even after so much time. The response is on his lips, just as they were on hers for the first time...

"And all I ask…is one…last..."

The emotion is almost agonizing as Gunn breaks down. His chest is tight as a repressed sob makes its way to his mouth and mingles with his words.

"Don't say that! Those were Fred's words and you're not her!"

Illyria's eyes open and she lowers he hand, her expression unwavering. She's seen the display of grief before and come to expect the anger. She is…curious. Through the implanted impulses she had come to realize the connection between the shell and this human. Similar to that of Wesley and yet…different. Perhaps a test is in order.

She quickly scans the many memories until she finds one best suited to her goal. The process is becoming easier; Illyria predicts that she will soon no longer need to call upon the electrical impulses with physical gestures.

Illyria raises her left hand once again, as the charge flows between her outstretched fingers. She has chosen her statement so very carefully…

"What is it about you that makes me melt?"

Gunn looks away from Illyria, wishing not for the first time, that he had been made a vegetable or Wesley had aimed the scalpel a bit higher. Anything would be better than hearing loving reenactments from a soulless monster.  

"You're not her!" He repeats, the vehemence at an even greater strength.

This impudence causes Illyria to sneer.

"Yet you wish that I was, as he does." She states coldly. "Because I resemble Winifred Burkle, you think that she lives on within me. Her speech and memories are but remnants of soul long dead. Neither desired nor escapable, try as I may." 

She leans over him stiffly, her mouth at Gunn's ear and lips parted slightly. Yet there is no breath, no warmth to hint of her presence as she whispers. 

"Wesley would also to request that I cease…at first. He now comes to me late in the night…asking to hear her."

Gunn shudders. He had known Wesley had feelings for Fred, even took a shot at him when he found out they were an item. For him to be doing…whatever it is he was doing with Illyria because she resembled Fred…was beyond twisted.

He had enough.

"Get out."

His words are quiet at first, but the quickly build with intensity and loudness as he repeats them.

"Get the hell out! Get out!"

Soon Gunn doesn't know whom he's shouting at. The demon in the room, Illyria within Fred, the knowledge in his head…it's become a blur of hate.

Illyria stands and stares at Gunn, her expression once again placid. Within her however, the grafted traces of Winifred Burkle stir. She would have believed that the loss of her army, her purpose had removed any possibility of sympathy. She had never before cared for the suffering of humans, yet the presence of such vivid pain was beginning to disturb her. She is unused to it now that Wesley has become more silent.

The doctors and nurses enter the room warily and unsure. The patient was left resting comfortably a few hours ago and no visitors had entered the room since.

His abrupt outburst of screaming had frightened the other patients and led to talk of restraint and possible psychological analysis, treatment not unheard of among the Wolfram and Hart Executives.

He didn't seem to notice them as they entered, his eyes were closed and his body thrashing wildly. Yet his screams seem to harbor some strange knowledge otherwise.

"Get out!"

The patient ignores calm reassuring and it is only after the hypodermic needle enters and exists his arm that his voice becomes slurry and his body slumps against the sheets.

His ranting quickly becomes murmurs and whispers, which will soon be silenced by medicated sleep.

As she finally exits, the head nurse can't help wondering what has brought the patient to such a state. She also ponders the reason why the door she had shut behind her during her previous round had somehow been opened…

~The End~