Disclaimer: I don't own Angel, all rights belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.
But that don't mean I'm not trying.
Anywho, on with the story.
"Wesley's dead."
Two words. Two words, that, just over 5 years ago, would have meant nothing to me.
But not now. There had always been a part of me, a piece of me, locked away somewhere in my deep subconscious that had expected to hear those words every day since the day he aimed that crossbow at me over 5 years ago.
"Hello, Angel". Those were his words, not words of shock or fear or distaste like most people in his position would have used, but just... plain. No emotion. He held that weapon like a man in control, a man who had nothing to fear, when in fact, he had everything.
Idiot, bastard, son of a bitch, it was that attitude that got him killed, couldn't he see that? Didn't he understand was he was doing? What was at stake? But, of course, the simple answer is "no". Because that's not how he thought. He didn't think about the consequences, at least, not at first. For those first two years he was oblivious to the world around him, pompous English bastard with his immaculate suits and steel rimmed glasses, not exactly your average "rouge demon hunter" as he so eloquently put it.
I think that it was pylea that did it, made him see the world around him, really see it, made him understand that the good people don't always come out on top, that people like Fred, innocent, pure people like Fred, existed the world over. So many ordinary people being tortured and held and beaten by evil demons like that, who do it for fun, and nobody knows what's happening, nobody cares.
That was an eye opener for him, I saw that look in his eyes when we came back through the portal with Fred, that empty, haunted look of a man who doesn't know his place in life - I know that look, because, even though I could and can never see it, that's the look, that feeling, that my eyes, my face, my entire being, has been cursed with ever since my soul was restored.
So I respected him, left him alone to sort out his head, figure out who he really was. I suppose I should have sensed something, my vampire instincts should have been able to pick up his fear, his uncertainty, especially after Cordeila and Groo left LA to enjoy the bright sun of some wild exotic country. He was my best friend in LA then, I thought I could trust him, I knew I could trust him, and yet I couldn't even see past his false image that he fooled everyone with. I thought that our friendship, our bond, our family, our life, I thought that it would last forever.
But I was wrong.
He stole Connor. My son. He stole my son, my flesh and blood, my life, the only thing in my entire unlife that has only made my heart feel like it could beat again.
"You took my son. YOU TOOK MY SON!"
"I'll never forgive you, never... I'LL KILL YOU!"
"You're a dead man. YOU HEAR ME!! DEAD!"
But the threats were empty, just like my heart, my dead, unbeating heart. God, I never wanted to see him again, I never wanted to hear his name, never wanted to even remember the man who caused me so much pain.
But I did.
I welcomed him back with open arms, with an apology, when he pulled me out of the lake, wishing so many times that he would do the same for me, trying so hard to forget, to blank out all of the thoughts and memories that kept swarming around in my head, like a forever hanging cloud of wasps, stinging me, hurting me, torturing me.
And this is where is got me. A filthy back alley in the slums of LA, soaked to the skin and being told by the processed former body of that scared little girl from Pylea that Wesley was dead, hearing the cries of a thousand strong demon army ready and willing to tear me to pieces, bit by bit. So I moved into the centre of the alley.
"In terms of a plan?"
"We fight"
"Bit more specific"
"Well, personally, I kind of want to slay the dragon. Let's go to work."
I had a death to avenge.
