Ok, I decided to add an extra bit about Angel in this chapter as well as the resurrection of Wesley to as a bit of an explanation to the state that Wes soon discovers his vampire hero in, so here we go.

And yes, there will be lots of lovely slash in the next chapter, promise, so just try to be patient.

Angel stumbled weakly down the seemingly never ending expanse of the alley way that stretched out before him like the entrance to some deadly cave where he would be sure to meet his doom. The full extent of his injures had started to set in after the adrenaline rush of the battle, and as his wavered steps became increasing feeble he was dimly aware that his legs seemed to be broken in several places.

After what seemed like around 10 minutes but what, in reality, was really only 30 seconds, Angel soon realised that this obvious disadvantage to a quick getaway was hindered further by another, until now, unnoticed injury. The copious amount of blood which seemed to be trickling its way slowing down the vampires body from an unidentified gash located somewhere near his head, was the presumable the cause of his slowly blurring vision, also serving as a dull reminder that soon his once powerful and basically indestructible stature would no longer be able to support his dilapidated limbs.

He gritted his teeth in frustration, determined to make it to the end of the never ending passage way, tensing his muscles in case of any undiscovered foe lurking in the shadows though quickly relaxing them again when a sudden burning sensation shot through his body.

A gasp of pain suddenly escaped his tightly sealed mouth and was suddenly aware that his legs seemed to have given way and his was now lying in the middle of formidable alleyway, the rain beating down hard on his writhing, blood soaked form.

He hung his head in defeat, his battered limbs allowing him enough strength to stumble to stone wall of the alley on his right against which he now collapsed, aching muscles giving in to the call of sleep as his heavy eyelids closed by their own will, and there was nothing that Angel could do to stop the sleep engulfing him.

He might as well sleep; it wasn't like he had anything else left in his life. Doyle, Cordelia, Fred, Wesley, Gunn, Spike: they were all dead now, forever gone out of his already miserable existence, and Buffy would never trust him again, never want to see him, not once he had started to work for Wolfram and Hart.

So, as Angel lay, bloody and soaked from the rain that was pounding down on him he realised the truth, the God awful truth:

He had no - one.

Wesley was alive.

At least, that was what he had just decided, after all, he certainly felt alive. He heart seemed to be beating, he hoped that was what was thumping in his chest, and he was breathing; short, shallow breaths, which made him feel even dizzier than he already did.

So he was alive. Alive. It sounded good, but Wesley was having trouble figuring out what was good about it, to him being alive just meant more suffering and pain. Pain. He remembered pain, the ripping of his muscles and the lusty cry that escaped his lips, yes, pain was certainly one of the few things that he could remember in this odd, half conscious state.

Where was he again? He wasn't quite sure, but from the cold hard texture of the floor that he could feel beneath him he didn't think it was where he was supposed to be.

Could he move? That was the next question. Wesley attempted to tense his muscles and was surprised when it worked. Slowly, he brought his right arm around to feel the floor on that side, his fingers eventually landing on some sort of thick, sticky substance which, as he moved his hand further around his body, seemed to surround him. But what was it, he couldn't tell, he didn't think he could tell anything. Who was he, what was he going here? Why was - ?

But it was then that the coppery tang reached his nostrils, and he remembered what the sticky substance was.

Blood

His blood

He was lying in a pool of his own blood

His memories hit him like a ton of bricks

He was dead

Wasn't he? Wasn't he supposed to be dead? Wasn't death what this was about? Kill Vail, defeat him, avenge Fred's death, die doing it, and maybe, just maybe, see her in heaven.

But here he was, living and breathing, he couldn't have possibly lived through that, the only way he could would have been -

Magic

He was surrounded by magic. It engulfed him, he could feel it now, pulsing through his veins like the blood which now lay clotting around him, letting him know the reason for his existence.

And as these thoughts swam around Wesley head, his thoughts started to come together, make more sense than the snippets of sentences that had been there before. He had heard about this type of thing happening before; some magicians surrounded themselves by magic so that even if they died in the most horrific circumstances they would come back to life.

Vail was still alive when Wesley died, wasn't he? Only knocked unconscious by the fire ball that Wesley had shot at him, a magician as powerful as him couldn't be killed with magic like that, Wesley knew. But wouldn't Illyria have killed him afterwards? Avenged Wesley's death? After all, Wesley knew the tears she cried where hers, not Fred's.

Which meant that...

Wesley's eyes snapped open

Cyrus Vail was standing in front of him, weiding the crowbar that he had stabbed through Wesley's stomach.

'I was wondering when you would wake up, Mr Wyndam -Pryce', Vail grinned manically at Wesley with his rotted, yellowing teeth 'I wanted to say goodbye'.

He swung the metal pole at Wesley's head.

Do do do! Oh no! What will happen to little old Wes! Soz this chapter took so long to post, so much hwork lol.

Promise plenty of slash in next chap, please R and R!

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