The cellar beneath the hangar was a dark place, lit by a single caged light bulb hanging from a long wire. There were boxes piled against the walls, and jars and bottles lined up in coloured rows. Wesley's practised eye identified many of the liquids and powders that they contained, as well as recognising their many uses. Henry Walsh, as if further evidence were necessary, was clearly a serious practitioner of the magical arts.
"I was hoping that you wouldn't escape. Or at the very least that you wouldn't escape for another couple of hours." The voice came from further down the room, where Walsh was just visible amidst the gloom. "You people never play by my rules."
"Sorry to disappoint." Wesley took a few steps towards him, trying to work out what he was doing. Walsh might appear to be quite severely disabled, but with his magical skills to help him he was probably not at nearly so great a disadvantage as it appeared. Walsh laughed.
"Oh, I'm not disappointed. Just intrigued." He frowned suddenly. "And what's this? An angel? No, no, perhaps not yet. Now I really am impressed. I warrant angelic intervention, do I?"
"Not exactly, no." Angel moved up to stand alongside Wesley. "But you do warrant intervention, yeah. Give up or get stopped, Walsh. Up to you."
"Really." Walsh looked disdainful. "He's not up to the usual Watcher standard, Mr Pryce. Is he just here for muscle, or does he have hidden depth?"
"Angel has many uses, but fortunately none of them involve Watchers." Wesley looked over at Angel, trying to gauge how ready he was for action. Fortunately, being Angel, he was almost always ready. "Look, let's not beat about the bush any longer, Walsh. We're here to stop you."
"So I'm to consider myself stopped? My dear boy, it's going to take more than an enthusiastic ghost and an angel with no social graces to make me give up my plans. Leave, Mr Pryce. I would say 'leave or die', but that would be rather pointless, wouldn't it. You escaped my little trap, so you must have seen what lay beyond it. I could send you there. Both of you. And you would never stand a chance of being brought back."
"I don't think you'll be sending us anywhere." Eyes bright, Wesley moved forward, trying to block Walsh's view of Angel. "Give it up. Now."
"Or what?" The arrogance in the older magician's eyes was enough to infuriate the most patient of men, and Wesley was by no means that patient. His eyes flared, and with a sharp movement of his hand he sent a bolt of pure energy flying across the room. It glanced off its target, and Walsh laughed at him.
"Do you think I'm a fool, boy? I'm protected by spells you've only ever read about. Spells that'll deflect any magic you try to throw at me. Now get the hell out of here. I have better things to do that waste my time playing games with you."
"You think?" Wesley called up another couple of energy bolts, but this time aimed them directly at Walsh's head. They failed to make contact, but as they struck the magical shield that protected him, for a moment they shone powerfully in his eyes. It was unlikely that he was blinded completely, but in that brief moment Angel knew he had his best chance of a surprise attack. Leaping for the wheelchair, he lashed out with his fists - and found himself flying backwards through the air. He crashed against a pile of wooden crates, and tumbled to the floor.
"Angel!" Wesley threw him a concerned look, as his confederate scrambled back to his feet. "Are you alright?"
"Ow." Angel brushed the dust from his clothing. "I'd forgotten how much that hurts."
"Parlour games." Apparently disgusted, Walsh looked away. "You're wasting my time with your foolishness. Leave, before I get angry."
"Before you get angry?" Angel's answering glare was hot. "You haven't seen anything. Wes? Cover me."
"Right." Wesley didn't need telling twice. Abandoning the apparently useless energy bolts, he drew two automatic pistols from somewhere about his person, and began firing them at the furious Walsh. Magic might not affect him, but bullets were somewhat different, and the wheelchair sparked and spat under the assault. It was clearly well shielded, and nothing too serious appeared to have been hit, but it was enough to make Walsh draw back his hand and hurl a might bolt of red light straight at Wesley. The Watcher was catapulted backwards, vanishing into the midst of the boxes, shelves and crates, an almighty crash signalling his precipitate landing. Walsh laughed aloud, but by then Angel was almost upon him. The vampire reached out for the chair, wanting to unseat his opponent and perhaps overpower him that way, but before he could make contact there was a flash of yellow and red. Angel yelped, shocked by what felt like a bolt of electricity arcing towards his fingertips. The yelp became a growl, and he felt his game face turn itself on for the first time since his recent death. His fangs clicked together, and the growl became one of fearsome strength. It did him no good. With a wave of his hand, Walsh sent him flying away to join Wesley. He watched the vampire disappear into the carnage that had been his neatly arranged collection of magical ingredients, and frowned in genuine curiosity.
"Interesting. A vampire angel. Somewhat unique, I'd say."
"Ow." Sitting up, Angel looked around for Wesley, eventually spotting him sitting half inside a large crate. The parts of his face that were visible were fixed upon Angel, with an expression of fascination similar to that of Walsh.
"Interesting," he echoed. Angel rubbed his forehead, and ran his tongue down the familiar length of his fangs.
"Should that happen?" he asked. "Do angels usually have fangs?"
"They're not known for it, no." Wesley stood up, his non-corporeality making it far easier for him to extricate himself from the tangle than it was for Angel. "But then you make quite a habit of supernatural firsts."
"Supernatural lasts, the way things are going now." Angel struggled with the boxes that covered him, glaring all the while at Walsh. The magician was watching them with an expression of amusement now mingled with the anger of before. He showed no interest in fighting them unless they made the first move; secure in his superiority. "Plans, Wes? Magic is your department."
"I made an impact with my guns." Wesley looked down at his hands, from which the two weapons had long since disappeared. "They just weren't powerful enough. Give me a moment, Angel. Then come out fighting. I'll take the chair out of commission, and you get hold of him. We can do this."
"Yeah Wes. You keep charge of the group confidence." Wincing, Angel made it to his feet at last. "Ow. This shouldn't hurt as much as it did when I was still alive. Or - you know. Sort of alive."
"Tell me about it." Wesley straightened his shoulders, and tried to convince himself that he was as confident of success as he had just appeared to be. "Are you ready?"
"I'm ready." Angel brushed the last specks of grime from his beloved coat. "Whenever you--" But Wesley was already walking forward, through boxes, through bottles, pausing only, very briefly, to kick a jar of coloured powder out of his way, as though to prove his own occasional corporeality. Walsh laughed at him.
"Back again so soon? You know I can destroy you."
"I know." Wesley slowed to a halt no more than a few feet away from his enemy. Angel wasn't sure what he was planning, but he could see the electricity that crackled from Walsh's fingertips. Their enemy was through with playing, that much was clear. Angel gathered his muscles, ready to spring. There would very likely be no time to waste if they were going to get this done.
"You want to die, Pryce?" The mocking tone of Walsh's voice was insufferable. Wesley's back was to Angel, but in his mind's eye the vampire could see the hard set of the expression; the coolness of the eyes. He knew Wesley well enough to know the subtleties of his face, even when he couldn't see it.
"I'm already dead." The Watcher took another step forward, showing all of the easy grace that he had had during the last few years of his life. "Anything else is just window dressing. I'm ready for you now."
"You think?" The lightening flared up in Walsh's one remaining hand. Angel flexed his fingers, and knew that his eyes had just flashed yellow. Knew that Wesley had just smiled, quick and cool and sharp.
"Yeah."
And suddenly Wesley was walking forward, and there was a sawn-off shotgun in his hands, although where it had come from Angel didn't think he would ever know. And the shots were firing themselves off, one after the other, incredibly loud in the underground space. Walsh was yelling, in fury and in fear as the powerful gun ruined his customised wheelchair. His magical barriers had apparently not been designed to protect his chair nearly so well as they protect him. He wasn't discouraged though, and even as his chair was flashing and sparking and sputtering in its dying throes, his hand was blazing with the lights of forces about to be released. Angel shouted out a warning to Wesley; running, leaping, snarling, his fangs pushing his mouth open into a hungry looking sneer that was almost more Angelus than Angel. He saw Walsh's hands come up; saw a blinding, burning flash of white and blue and gold--
And Wesley hit the far wall of the building with more force than he had ever thought possible, the pain and nausea and disorientation hitting him the way it had no right to do now that he was dead. He tried to move; managed to sit; realised that his instinct to defend himself had already kicked in. He was firing off bolts of energy; balls of cold blue flame that with luck should deflect something of the force and the fire that was being flung at him. There was too much of it; far too much. Too much of his own power, and Walsh's, and the room was too small, and there was rubble collapsing from the ceiling. He shouted out for Angel, trying to warn him that the room was collapsing without remembering that his friend was could not really be harmed by falling masonry. He couldn't see Angel, though; couldn't hear him; couldn't see him anywhere, save in his memory. Angel, being hit by a blast from Walsh; Angel, being enveloped in gold and white and blisteringly bright haloes of concentric blue. Angel, no longer being there when the colours had gone. Wesley tried to get up.
"Angel?!" He was oblivious to Walsh then; oblivious to the dangers of his energy bolts, and not caring about the great crack that bisected the ceiling. He slipped and stumbled on broken crates, tripping over some and through others, successfully hauling some aside, but unable to get a grip on the rest. "Angel!" But Angel was not there. He wasn't under the crates, or behind them. He wasn't anywhere in the underground room. Wesley wiped dust and spatterings of magical powder from his forehead, blinked it from his eyes, and watched more of it tumble straight through his body without making contact at all. "Angel!"
"He's gone. Gone to where you both belong." Walsh pointed at him. "And where you're going."
"I don't think so." He looked around, but there was no inspiration; nothing that gave him cause to hope. He saw the gold and the white and the blue, and thought about the flash that had obliterated Angel. Briefly he thought about ducking, or dodging, without believing that either option would work. In the end, as his eyes filled up with light so bright he couldn't see or think at all, he raised both his hands and let the powers he had worked upon for so long rise up through him. They burned in his fingers, and made his legs shake; made his head buzz and his teeth feel like they might be about to shatter. Finally, as the heat of the bright colours began to make his head spin, he let the gathered energy surge through his arms and blast across the limited space. With a sound like thunder; like racing horses and screaming wolves, and the worst of electrical storms, he sent streams of pure magic flowing across the room and into Walsh. There was a crack like breaking ice, a scream in the depths of his mind, and the furious bellowing of Henry Walsh, as though from a thousand miles away. Wesley's legs gave way and he crashed to the ground, as above him the ceiling broke in half. Stone and dust rained down upon him, and it was all that he could do to drag himself into its cover, trying to hide from the enraged magician nearby. Huddled in the shelter of a chunk of concrete, exhausted beyond all measure, he didn't hear Walsh's curses and cussing; didn't hear the footsteps coming his way. He didn't even know that Buffy had arrived until she was crouched in front of him, calling to him in her usual forceful way.
"Wes! Wesley, damn it!"
"Buffy?" He blinked up at her, clearly amazed to see her back so soon. He had lost all track of time, trapped beneath the earth with a furious wizard for company. "Buffy... Walsh."
"Has to be stopped. Yeah. Got that. Any ideas?"
"Brute force. Only way." He looked around. "Where is he? I can't see him."
"He's over the room a-ways. I don't think he can have seen me come in. Either that or he doesn't care. Arrogant type?"
"You could say. Though I suppose he has good reason. He can obliterate all of us."
"Okay." Buffy's matter of fact approach was refreshing - encouraging. "Then I'll hit him high, and Angel take low. Make it fast, and don't give him time to work any magic." Buffy broke off. "Angel do you still have that ribbon? I like to know where you are."
"He's not here." Wesley saw the worry flare in her eyes, and the anger it sparked into life. She turned on him then, directing her growing ire toward the ghost.
"Not here?" Her voice was like ice. "Where is he?"
"Gone. I think. Walsh--"
"Don't give me 'gone', Wes. Where the hell is Angel? Tell me, or I'll twist your head off whether it'll kill you or not. Gotta be uncomfortable either way, right?"
"I'm a ghost, Buffy. Only the dead can touch me, and right now I--"
"Where's Angel?" She had him by the shoulders, lifting him clear of the ground, slamming him backwards into the pile of fallen masonry behind which he had taken cover. Stone showered down, and he blinked at Buffy, wincing and frowning in equal measures.
"You're dead?" he asked her. She scowled.
"Not anymore. Now where the hell is Angel?"
"Nowhere." She started to haul off as though to hit him, and he held up one hand to stall her. "No. Seriously Buffy. He's nowhere. I think. Walsh has sent him to the other side, or one of them at least. He's gone."
"Then we have to get him back."
"We have to deal with Walsh." Extricating himself from her hold, he winced as he moved away from the rubble against which she had thrown him. Corporeality could be a bugger, at times. "Deal with him, and Angel might come back. Cordelia can get him back, so long as Walsh's magic isn't still holding him there. I'm sure of it."
"Are you ireally/i sure?"
"No." He touched gingerly at his head, glaring at the blood on his fingers, then shot an equally fierce glare up at the invisible sky. "I'm supposed to be dead, Cordy. Could we lose the damage?"
"Forget it." Buffy looked around at the carnage. It had been easy for her to find out where the battle was taking place, for the first hangar had been almost completely destroyed, and she had arrived to find it glistening with coloured flame. Now that she was here, though, she was more than a little unsure as to what should happen next. "Where's Walsh?"
"Here. Somewhere. He came down here to get equipment that he needs for the spell set up in the second hangar. He's probably trying to find it all. There's quite a mess down here right now."
"I'd noticed." She nodded. "Okay. Same plan as before, just without Angel. We hit him fast. How do I stop him?"
"With his powers? With difficulty. The only way to be sure is to end it for good. It's not like a prison could ever hold him."
"What?" She couldn't believe the insinuation. "I can't kill him. He's human!"
"Buffy..." He shook his head, frustrated by her morals. "You... all of you people. You think that humans are untouchable. Above everything else. A higher life-form. You'll happily kill a demon, but never a human, no matter how lethal he or she is. I was the same myself once. But the last few years I've counted a demon amongst my closest friends. I've spent much of my leisure time in demon bars. And if there's one thing I've learnt, it's that humans aren't better than demons. If you'll kill one of--"
"I iwon't/i kill a human." She pushed him away from her, climbing over the rubble. She could see better now, as the dust began to settle, and thought that she could distinguish a shape on the other side of the room. A broken, twisted shape, in a broken, twisted chair. It took her by surprise. "That's Walsh?"
"A wheelchair never stopped somebody being evil, Buffy." Wesley came over to her, walking through the mess in a rather disconcertingly non-corporeal manner. "He's dangerous. He may not be able to use his limbs the way that we can use ours, but he has power enough to do other things instead. Don't underestimate him."
"I never underestimate anybody." She eased her way forward, watching the curious, long ago injured man using magic to sort through his scattered ingredients. In a way it fascinated her to watch him at work. Part of her sympathised with him, for the loss of his limbs, even as she found herself revolted by the sight of a man who would have innocent girls killed for a piece of magic. Squaring her shoulders, and stretching herself up to her full, not hugely impressive height, she cleared her throat. Walsh turned towards her.
"Hello?" He was obviously interested by the sight of a young woman appearing before him. "And you're another of the hero squad I suppose? You look solid, but then appearances can be deceiving. Are you more or less dead than the last bunch?"
"Less." She shrugged. "Currently, anyway. Still - all been dead at some time, haven't we."
"Actually, no." He smiled. "They should have sent you in first. Far more appealing as a rival than the vampire or the Watcher."
"Thankyou." She took a few more lazy steps forward. "Your chair seems to be broken."
"It had a run in with a sawn-off shotgun."
"Oh." She smiled. "Yeah, I'd guess that'd do it. Were you hit?"
"Me? No." He shrugged. "I don't think he was aiming at me; and anyway, it wouldn't have done any good if he had been. I've been wearing a bullet-proof vest ever since the Watcher Council sent a pair of their assassins after me in 1974." He laughed shortly. "As though blowing off most of my limbs five years earlier wasn't enough."
"I doubt a bullet-proof vest would be much use against a sawn-off shotgun," she pointed out. He shrugged again.
"Mine would be, believe me. So anyway, my dear. What now?"
"I stop you." She smiled quite charmingly. "Sorta why I'm here."
"Oh, quite." His own smile was almost rakish, although she didn't like the glint in his eyes. "Where's the ghost? I managed to get rid of his so-called angel friend, but the ghost eluded me."
"The ghost is pretty much done for. Which, gotta say, impressed me rather. That's quite some power you've got."
He gestured dismissively. "It's a talent."
"One you can't be allowed to use any more. Magic is too dangerous in some hands."
"Magic is my only chance to get my life back." He flexed the fingers of his remaining hand, and coughed hard. "I'm running out of time. Now, don't take this personally, but you look just about right to join our five dead friends upstairs beside my cauldron. Don't you think? And since it's looking increasingly as though my Kra'ash friend won't be returning... it seems oddly fitting that the person who very likely killed him should get to take the place of his intended victims. Something tells me that you could easily count for two ordinary girls. Wouldn't you say?"
"Can't let you do that." She shrugged. "No hard feelings."
"Oh, not at all." He moved his hand, quite lazily to all appearances, though she couldn't help but see the lightening that sparked between the fingertips. "Tell me where the ghost is. I have my suspicions that he's about to jump out at me."
"And do what?" Trying not to keep too overt an eye upon his crackling fingers, she moved a little closer. "I think you've already proved that he can't hurt you. Not with magic. Not with a gun."
"True. But it's nice to know where one's enemies are." He raised his hand, apparently in a casual and innocent gesture. "And now..."
"Now?"
"I have a spell I'd like to get underway. No hard feelings, you understand, and it seems like such a shame when we've only just met, but... Well. I didn't come here for the views."
"Neither did I." She wasn't sure how to go about attacking a man with no legs and only one arm. It seemed to go against her personal sense of fair play, even if he was evil. Still - it had to be done. He couldn't even turn his chair towards her, so great was the damage done by Wesley's shotgun, but she knew that Walsh had to be magician enough to still get around, especially if he was serious about killing her to facilitate his spell-spinning. She closed on him, moving cautiously, slowly, keeping an eye on the hand that still crackled with waiting energy.
"Be careful Buffy." Wesley had emerged from the rubble, standing on the edge of her vision. He didn't seem to be standing right, and his image flickered as though displayed by a broken projector. "He's got tricks you won't be counting on."
"You should listen to him," Walsh told her. Buffy smiled.
"I have a history of not listening to him. Kind of a character flaw. Mine or his, one or the other."
"Really." Walsh's lazy smile broke off briefly for a coughing fit. "You might wish you'd fixed that flaw, by the time I'm through with you."
"Really." Her own tone mirrored his. He smiled. She smiled back. She wasn't sure, later, which one of them moved first.
Buffy leapt forward with the speed and agility to which she was accustomed, hands reaching for the broken body, eyes bright and alert. She heard Wesley cry out a warning, and saw a bolt of light burst from Walsh's hand. It didn't fly towards her though, and she saw, in the corner of her eye, as Wesley sent his own ball of fire to intercept the first. There was a flash and he staggered back, falling, his figure as clear as glass for a second, then Buffy was reaching out to grapple with Walsh. She never made contact. As soon as her fingers seemed about to seize hold of that one, deadly arm, something gripped hard at her throat. Something real and yet not real; something that had fingers, and fingernails, but didn't really exist. Something far too strong for her to resist, that pushed her backwards up against the nearest wall, and held her there, unable to move, her feet barely touching the ground. She choked.
"Buffy!" Wesley was struggling back to his feet, wobbling, uncertain, fading in and out of view as she watched him. Walsh was laughing and coughing, and Buffy could hear her own tortured breathing in gaps between his. Her eyes widened as the pressure on her neck increased, and she looked towards Wesley, wondering if there was any chance of help from that quarter. Her own strength seemed as nothing compared to the impossible, unearthly grip upon her neck.
"Wesley--" She could say nothing more. "Wes--"
"Don't look to him for help, my dear. He has nothing that can stop me." Walsh turned his head to watched the weakened ghost, his smile one of utter triumph. "You're both mine now."
"Is that so?" Wesley's voice was loud and clear; far more so than seemed to fit given his condition. Buffy turned her head as far as she was able to see what he was doing, trying to keep her blurring vision in focus. He was walking forward, and as she watched him, a sword appeared in his hand. It glowed faintly, but as he walked the weapon passed uselessly through the chunks of stone and broken boxes through which his feet also passed. The sword was as non-corporeal as was he; useless. The 'hand' gripping her throat tightened, and she struggled helplessly.
"You expect to defeat me with a sword that doesn't even know it exists?" Walsh was laughing; at Wesley, at Buffy - at the whole world. "I'm protected, Pryce. By spells, by barriers. Your magic couldn't hurt me, your guns couldn't hurt me. That sword definitely can't."
"Want a bet?" He was so far removed from the Wesley that she knew; so ramrod straight, but with determination now, rather than the officiousness of before. Strong, assured, hard as nails. His eyes flared, with a supernatural blue light. Walsh laughed, coughing with almost every breath.
"I'm more powerful than you could ever dream of being. No sword can break through my barriers. No weapon can hurt me."
"Wesley." Buffy could barely get the word out. She could hardly breathe now, and part of her refused to believe that any human could do this to her. She was so used to being the strong one; the one who could always fight back. The Watcher didn't even look at her. She was trying to tell him to drop the act; to forget about the useless, phantom sword, and try to do something else. She couldn't say it all, but she managed to spit out a few words. An unpleasant smile lit Walsh's eyes.
"You should listen to her, my boy. Why risk oblivion? You can't hurt me." He raised his hand, and once again the lightening danced between his fingertips. "One spell, boy. One move from me, and you're gone forever."
"Go ahead." Wesley spoke with cool precision, standing tall and firm now, even though the room was visible both through him and his sword. He took another step forward, and Walsh drew back his arm and flung a ball of light. At the same instant, Wesley threw his sword.
It sped like a spear, passing through the ball of light, and Buffy saw then what would happen even though she didn't entirely believe that it would be possible. The sword, non-corporeal as it was, passed harmlessly through Walsh's magical barrier - before turning solid even as it was passing through Walsh himself. He gave a great gasp; a great shudder; and his eyes widened in fear and disbelief. Blood gushed from his neck and his mouth.
"No--" The word had hardly any volume. "I--" His eyelids fluttered and his body convulsed. "No." His body toppled sideways. Almost immediately, Buffy was free.
"What the hell-?" She ran to the dead body, looking him over, staring in amazement at the gleaming, long - and definitely corporeal - sword that was driven so powerfully through his throat. Even as she looked at it, the sword faded away. It left only the hole of its own making; jagged and horrible, and still running with blood. "Wesley, what the hell did you do?"
"What had... to be done." He sounded as though he were in pain, and she turned to him in surprise. He was lying on the floor, clearly having been hit by Walsh's last ball of fire. Almost transparent now, it was clearly costing him all of his energy just to stand once again. "Just because you... can't kill humans, Buffy... doesn't mean I can't."
"We, Wesley. We can't kill humans. We're supposed to be the good guys! It's not just me."
He smiled at that. "No, it's not just you. It's... it's Angel, and... and Gunn. Faith. But I'm not a hero, Buffy. I just... I just do what I have to. What you others can't." He smiled painfully. "Like now."
"Now?! Just who else do you plan to kill?"
"Nobody." He made it to his feet at last, and his form flickered in a brief return to greater translucence. "But there's something else... only I can do. Upstairs. That cauldron."
"Wait!" She grabbed for his arm, but this time her hand passed through it. It only caught on the second attempt, gripping his wrist when he turned back towards her. "What about Angel?"
"He'll be back." He smiled, almost endearingly. "You could wait for him. He'll see you."
"And I'll never know it." She cast a look back at Walsh, slumped dead in the wreck of his chair. "You didn't have to kill him, Wesley."
"Maybe." He turned away, and this time she let him go. "But he's dead now. It was all that I could think of in the end, Buffy. And it saved you. Now it's over. I'll see you upstairs." And taking two or three steps away, he disappeared into thin air.
When Buffy clambered out of the ruined cellar, the world seemed lighter than before, though it was still far from dawn. The second hangar stood open, purple smoke drifting slowly into the wind, the smell of burning disturbing the otherwise quiet night. Wesley, apparently have regained some of his strength, was no longer transparent, and his eyes were once again glowing with the supernatural spark of blue that seemed to mean strong magicks were afoot. Clearly he had just finished dismantling Walsh's spell, and had required some considerable amount of power to compete the task. His fingers sparked occasionally, with a blue that matched the lights of his eyes, just as Walsh's own hand had crackled with similar telltale lightening arcs.
"Buffy." All trace of his earlier harshness had gone. "Are you alright?"
"Better." She rubbed at her neck. "What about Angel?"
"He's over there." The Watcher pointed, apparently at their mutual friend, but as far as Buffy was concerned just at a fallen tree. "Seems a little subdued."
"Oh." She stared at the fallen tree, wondering where exactly the vampire was, and wishing that she could see him. She had hated the idea of a guardian angel to begin with, but now that she was growing accustomed to the idea, she found that she almost liked it; she just wished that it meant she could see her old boyfriend when he was nearby. Whatever she had had with Angel was over - had been over even before he had died. She had her own life now, and a new relationship in the form of the Immortal - on an occasional basis, anyway. But she wanted to see Angel, and she wanted to see his smile, and more than anything she wanted to see the warmth in his eyes that had always showed the human soul held inside. She tore her eyes away in the end, and looked back to Wesley.
"Everything dealt with?"
"I think so." He stretched, obviously exhausted, and apparently in some considerable pain. Being a ghost was no protection against such things, then, obviously. She wasn't surprised. Everything changed, when magic was involved. "The accumulated energies have been dissipated, the central potion is gone. It just looks like the work of a serial killer now. The authorities can find the bodies and return them to the relatives. It's unpleasant, but it's better than never getting the bodies at all."
"What about Walsh?"
"He's gone." The ghost looked skyward for a moment, as though to indicate. "My employers. Or whoever or whatever they are. They've dumped his body elsewhere. It wouldn't do to have it found here. There are awkward questions that would be asked, and some enterprising somebody might find things that are best left unfound. It's better this way."
"I'll take your word for it." She looked him up and down, from his scuffed shoes, his filthy black jeans, and his ruined crimson shirt, to his bloodied face and much awry hair. "You look like hell."
"I'm dead. It's nothing serious." He shrugged. "I'll be alright, in a little while. I just need to rest."
"And Angel? I mean, since I can't see him. Is he... is he okay?"
"He's fine." Angel was standing behind her now, although of course she knew nothing of it, and hadn't heard his words. He didn't look fine to Wesley whatever his claim, for he was as bedraggled as his confederate, and there was a troubled look in his eyes. Wesley didn't need to wonder why - Angel had been sent to that same dark, empty place that had so nearly claimed him, and that was more than cause enough for a thousand nightmares. "Everything's fine now, Buffy."
"Is he still over by the tree?" Buffy turned her head towards the place at which Wesley had pointed earlier. Wesley seemed about to speak, but a quick shake of Angel's head stopped whatever answer he had been about to give. He shrugged instead.
"He's probably wandered off. He looked tired. He hasn't got the hang of his new status yet, I don't think."
"Only thing weirder than being dead is not being dead anymore." She sighed and nodded. "It's just that I'd like to say goodbye. I know Angel will be around, but he won't be around. Not like now. We've almost talked, but only because he was sent to properly help me this time. It'll be business as usual from now on, won't it."
"Yes, I suppose it will. I'm sorry Buffy."
She shrugged. "Not your fault."
"No. Maybe not." He sighed. "Look, I... I might be able to do something. Not permanently, you understand. There are certain rules that can't be broken. It just might be possible to bend them a bit, provided the universe will look the other way for a moment."
"What?" She didn't understand him, not that that was unusual; he was a Watcher, after all. Behind her, Angel shook his head hard.
"Wes..." he said, with meaning. Wesley looked straight past Buffy, into the clear eyes of his closest friend.
"It's alright, Angel. Cordy will understand. I'm too tired to make it last for more than a few minutes anyway, even if it does work. And besides..." He trailed off, and both Angel and Buffy saw the sudden sadness in his eyes. "If I had a way, Angel. Any way, just to see Fred again, for a moment. For the briefest of moments..." He almost shook himself. "I want to help."
"Cordelia will have you working with Spike for a month as punishment."
"Spike's not so bad." Wesley reached out, taking Buffy's hand. "It's only a glitch in Fate that will allow this to work, anyway. If Buffy were any other person on the planet, I couldn't do this. It's almost as though somebody somewhere wanted this to happen."
"I doubt that." Angel didn't object further, though; didn't resist when Wesley reached out for his hand as well. He heard the Englishman mutter something, that sounded like the ever present Latin - then faintly the ghost began to glow. At first it was the same blue light of his earlier spellcasting - then, inch by inch, the blue turned to red and the red turned to green, until finally the Watcher was surrounded with a corona of bright white light. A second later both he and the light had vanished, and Angel found that the hand he now held in his belonged to Buffy. Wesley was no more than a blurred outline several feet away, hovering just above the ground with his eyes closed and his lips moving faintly. Angel whistled.
"He's getting good. I never even knew that he was practising before we died. Not seriously. And now look at him."
"Yeah." Quite clearly, though, Buffy was not looking at Wesley. Instead her eyes were fixed upon the man standing right beside her; the man holding her hand. The man who was not a man at all. He looked just as she remembered him, albeit with a few more bruises. The same dark clothing; the same long, leather coat; the same half spiked hair with its coating of gel. She realised that she was grinning like an idiot.
"Angel."
"Buffy." It gave him extraordinary pleasure just to say her name, and know that she would hear him. Reaching out, he tentatively brushed some stray strands of hair away from her face. "I've missed you."
"There seemed to be two hundred things I wanted to say to you, and now..." She smiled. "There isn't time to say any of it, is there."
"I shouldn't think so." He took her shoulders, beginning to draw her near. "Keep fighting, Buffy. Stay strong. Whatever happens, I'll never be very far away."
"I know. In a way it's kinda cool." She grinned up at him, delighting in the sight of his faintly goofy smile, and his honest, dark eyes. "I'm proud of you, Angel. You deserve this. You never belonged in hell."
"Thankyou." After the years searching for redemption; the years of uncertainty; they were the finest words she could have said to him, and she knew it. On a sudden impulse, for old times sakes, he pulled her towards him, and drew her into a powerful hug. For one, short second she relaxed in the welcome embrace, then realised that she was alone. Angel and Wesley had gone. She stood there for a moment, imagining that the arms were still about her, then smiled a secret smile and turned away. She had a Kra'ash corpse to dispose of, and the rest of her life to live.
"Thanks Wes." They were alone in the hotel, which was a welcome surprise. Angel had half expected to get pounced upon by a Spike eager for news of Buffy, but the lobby was bare. Cordelia must have sent the other vampire on a mission. She was probably out in the garden herself, enjoying the sunshine. Angel felt a sudden desire to be out there with her.
"Where's the point in having a magician about if you don't make use of him?" Wesley smiled at his companion. "When you go back, she won't be able to see you again."
"I know. I just wanted one more chance. We haven't really spoken in far too long, and our relationship was hardly at its best when we all died. Buffy was pretty mad with me for joining Wolfram & Hart."
"Yes, I remember." Wesley stifled a yawn. "She seems less cross with you now, anyway. And we did some good work today." His eyes strayed towards the door that led out to the garden. "I think we've earned a little relaxation." His inference was clear. Wesley had lost his girlfriend - he didn't want Angel to risk the same. The vampire looked rueful.
"You did good work. All I did was get banished to some other dimension. Some sort of hell, or nowhere land." He almost shuddered. "It was horrible, Wes. So cold, and dark. Like… like nights alone, when I was a proper vampire. All those nights thinking of the terrible things I'd done all those years. Worse than that. And it felt like home."
"It felt like everything you deserved. Like the place where your soul was destined to rest. Like everything you had ever done in your life had fated you for just such a place in your death, and for an eternity afterwards." Wesley looked away. "I know. That's where I went, too. I thought it was where I belonged, and maybe it is. But it's not where I am. Not today."
"Yeah." Angel nodded, and gripped his friend's shoulder. "Not today. Not any day, Wes. That's what I realised. We don't belong in hell, because if we did, that's where we'd be. We'd have gone to that place when we died, and we wouldn't have any of this now. It's a crazy feeling. Like… like curtains lifting. For the first time since the gypsies gave me back my soul. It's like…" He frowned, looking for a simile or a metaphor, but unable to find one. Wesley smiled at him.
"Like dawn," he said in the end, finishing Angel's sentence with a gentle word. "After all those years, Angel, you're finally getting your own sunrise. And you deserve it. Don't you see? You think you didn't do much today, but maybe that's not why you were supposed to be there. The universe is telling you things. It's time you listened to it. You've got your redemption, Angel; if you really want it."
"Yeah." Angel looked away, his eyes seemingly focused upon something far away, "Maybe."
"Definitely." Wesley looked back over at the door to the garden. "Now go on. She's waiting for you. Chances are she's been wondering if she'll ever get you back, now you've had the chance to spend some real time with Buffy. This must have been one hell of a difficult mission for her to send you on."
"Yes. Yeah, I guess it was." Angel drew in a deep, unnecessary breath, a habit he hadn't lost through several hundred years of being dead. "Thanks Wes. I'll see you later." Clapping his friend on the back, he strode away towards the garden. There seemed a lightness in his tread, although the century of brooding was too much of a habit to be dispelled by one quick pep talk. Wesley smiled at him nonetheless as he went; hearts were warming; brightening - even long dead hearts once believed cold and hard. The world looked better every day. It was the most curious piece of luck that had seen them all die.
But for the one member of Angel Investigations who had seen the true reality of a Wolfram & Hart contract, there was one worry that would always remain. Wesley was happier than he had been in years, but he couldn't shake the fear that gnawed away at the back of his mind. The memory of Lilah's contract, sealing her to her employers even after death; a contract that could never, ever be broken - a secret that Wesley was determined to keep. If there was to be one small patch of darkness that marred this newer, happier existence, it would be endured by Wesley alone. He could do that for his friends; for Angel. It was the sort of thing he did, and the sort of thing he felt that he needed to do. For Wesley, just as for Angel, salvation and joy were difficult lessons to learn.