TITLE: In Perfect Love

AUTHOR: Eloise

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel.

SUMMARY: Set on 28th of December, mid AtS season 3. Angel Investigations back at work after the Christmas break…

NOTES: Title and quote from "Holy Innocents" by Christina Rossetti. Information and quotes concerning Childermas festival from and Line from"The Tay Bridge Disaster" by William McGonagall. Huge thank you hugs to Willa for the wonderful beta, and to Lonely Brit for patiently discussing this with me and supporting me in my Wesley obsession.

In Perfect Love

'The Love which doth not sleep,
The eternal Arms surround thee:
The Shepherd of the sheep
In perfect love hath found thee.
Sleep through the holy night,
Christ-kept from snare and sorrow,
Until thou wake to light
And love and warmth to-morrow"

(Holy Innocents – Christina Rossetti)

"Honestly, I don't know why we bother." Cordelia tossed the crossbow onto the counter in disgust, the recklessness of the action triggering the firing mechanism. Wesley ducked as a bolt flew past his ear and bounced off the lobby wall, while Gunn only just managed to dodge the rebound.

"For God's sake, Cordelia!" Wesley's voice was anguished. "Be careful with that! That's a very delicate piece of weaponry." He lifted the crossbow reverently and laid it on the table to inspect for any permanent damage to the device.

"Oh, please. It's a crossbow. Like we don't have a million crossbows already." She gestured to the weapons cupboard where Angel struggled manfully with the child proof lock. Without success.

He looked up forlornly. "Show me again?"

Cordelia breathed a sigh of patronizing exasperation and stomped over to the cupboard, twisting and pushing in sequence until the lock gave way. "There." She humphed again in a well-rehearsed display of infinite patience. I don't know why you're bothering with that. He's not even on his feet yet."

Angel replaced his axe in the cupboard and turned his attention to the lock. "We've got to get into good habits. Start now, so it's second nature by the time it's necessary."

Wesley looked up from his crossbow inspection. "Speaking of good habits, Angel, don't you think you should clean that axe before you put it away? Se'lev demon blood is notoriously corrosive when allowed to dry in."

Angel's shoulders slumped in resignation, and he fiddled again with the lock. "Yes, Boss," he muttered, but not unkindly.

Cordelia removed her plum velvet jacket and stared mournfully at the stains on the back and down the lapels. "Bet it's nothing compared to dried-in egg."

Wesley had satisfied himself that the crossbow had suffered no lasting damage, and was contemplating his own clothes rather ruefully. "You can see it from their point of view, though. There they were, enjoying a Christmas pageant complete with Santa Claus, his reindeers and all his little helpers, when we arrived on the scene and hacked the elves to pieces."

"They were demons! They were going to eat the little kids!" Cordelia squawked in indignation.

Wesley shrugged and brushed feebly at his sweater, which was variously daubed with desiccated egg and the now obviously corrosive Se'lev blood, lending the striped garment a somewhat moth-eaten air. "My sweater's ruined," he said sadly.

"Never mind your sweater, just look at my jacket." Cordelia held it up for inspection, poking her finger through an ever-widening hole in the lining of the sleeve. "I'm guessing this is why the Powers That Be don't include a clothing allowance in their benefits package."

Angel looked up, his attention caught. "There's a benefits package? No one told me there was a benefits package."

Gunn finished wiping his own axe blade clean and carried it to the weapons cupboard, undoing the child lock with an effortless skill that made Angel stare in envious admiration. "Oh, yeah, that benefits package. No thanks, no pay, no social life…" He glanced at his own slowly disintegrating jacket. "No clothing allowance. And no medical or dental." He gave a rather wry grin and wandered over to examine the crossbow.

"Well, considering the nature of their employees – " here Wesley did a passable impersonation of Nosferatu, "- the lack of a dental plan is understandable."

Gunn snorted and tapped his fist against Wesley's, while Angel scowled furiously at them. Cordelia was still mourning the demise of the plum velvet. "This wasn't just any jacket, you know. It had sentimental value."

Wesley looked over the top of his glasses. "Cordelia, you bought it yesterday. How much of an emotional attachment can you have formed in one day?"

She flashed him a well-practiced and rather overly sincere smile. "I bought it with the gift certificate you guys gave me. That makes it special."

"And that would be the gift certificate from the Christmas wish list you had prepared in descending order of desirability, typed up in triplicate, and delivered to us all a month ago?" Wesley folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrows archly.

Cordelia huffed impressively. "Well, aren't you glad you got me something that made me so happy? I was only thinking of you."

Angel frowned and ran his tongue over the top of his teeth fretfully. "You think I need some work done, then?"

"Oh, get over yourself, Angel. Your teeth are fine. Not like you're going to get cavities or anything." Cordelia flopped disconsolately onto the couch. "I don't know why you're complaining. You're the only one who managed to survive the Se'lev encounter sartorially unscathed."

Angel peered over each shoulder to confirm her assessment, and failed to hide his smug grin of satisfaction.

But Cordelia wasn't finished yet. "Though in Wesley's case, it wasn't that much of a disaster."

She indicated the discarded pullover with distaste. "God, Wesley, what possessed you? Really, you shouldn't be allowed to dress yourself. You make Xander Harris look stylish."

Wesley drew himself up and laid a protective hand on the rapidly disintegrating garment. "I'll have you know this was a Christmas present. From my Aunt Mabel."

Cordelia eyed him with something approaching pity. "Your family really doesn't like you very much."

Wesley's indignant retort went relatively unremarked, largely due to the squeals of delight that greeted Fred's arrival downstairs with a drowsy Connor in arms.

"Oh, how cute is he in that outfit?" Cordelia was already cooing over the red and green sleep suit with the reindeer on the front that she had bought Connor for Christmas. "He looks just like one of Santa's little helpers."

Wesley was still smarting from Cordelia's earlier jibe. "This from the woman who criticizes my fashion sense. I'd have thought after tonight's little episode you'd have had enough of elves."

"He's a baby, Wes. On him it's cute. It's cuddly." She waved her hand towards the striped pullover. "On you it's just incredibly sad."

Angel stepped up and scooped Connor out of Fred's arms, cuddling him close. The baby snuggled against his shoulder, then burped deeply, regurgitating most of his last feed. The back of the previously uncontaminated black duster was now decorated with trails of semi-digested milk.

Angel groaned softly. "Ah, Connor, you couldn't have waited till Aunt Cordy had you…"

He lifted him off his shoulder and wiped Connor's face with the bib Fred offered.

Cordelia's smile was triumphant. "See, he knew you were feeling left out. Give him here." She gathered Connor in her arms and Angel removed his duster, eyeing the milk stains sorrowfully.

"Oh, you're a clever boy, yes you are!" Cordelia nuzzled the baby's tummy and Connor burped again softly, then gurgled with contentment.

"So how did it go? You know, with the hacking and slicing and demon killing…" Fred sounded almost wistful.

Gunn grinned. "There was indeed much hacking and slicing and killing of demons."

"And pissing off of small children." Wesley added, opening the filing cabinet and pulling out a file.

Fred's mouth opened in a tiny 'o' of surprise. "What did you guys do?"

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "We slaughtered Santa's elves. Well, okay, they were actually Se'lev demons who were planning to ritually sacrifice and eat all the pre-teens in the audience, but you try telling that to a bunch of ten year olds." She shrugged and cuddled Connor against her shoulder.

"Oh. So the hacking of Santa's elves into tiny pieces didn't go down all that well…" Fred fought hard against the grin that wanted to spread across her face.

"There was crying." Angel attempted to dab off the back of his duster with Connor's bib.

"And yelling." Cordelia rocked back and forth gently, and Connor began to drift off.

"And throwing of egg and flour." Gunn leaned back against the counter top.

"That was the crappiest luck, guys."

Wesley paused at the filing cabinet. "Of course, I've been so stupid!"

They all turned to him, equally puzzled by his non-sequitur. He closed the drawer and went over to the bookcase, pulling out a thick leather bound volume and flipping through it quickly. After a few moments he found the page he was looking for.

"It's obvious now. I don't know how I overlooked it before."

"Translation please, Wes. For those of us who don't speak self-flagellating Englishman."

Wesley shot Cordelia a withering look. "As Fred pointed out, it was all about luck. I should have realized earlier on."

"Oh, no, no, no! This isn't the birthday thing again, isn't it? Don't tell me you actually believe you've personally managed to jinx the entire festive season?"

Wesley scowled; Gunn snorted softly; Angel shook his head, and Fred just looked bemused.

"What birthday thing? Is it your birthday today, Wesley? I haven't got you a gift or a card or anything…" Fred garbled.

"It's not his birthday, not that he'd tell you if it was," Cordelia poked her tongue out at Wesley, and Connor giggled sleepily. Angel gave a loud and rather pointed sigh, but refrained from commenting on her manners.

"Wesley thinks he's jinxed. Well, his birthday, anyway." Cordelia rolled her eyes heavenwards. "It's superstitious nonsense, of course, but he won't listen. Not with some people around here enabling him." She shot Angel a daggered glare.

"This has nothing to do with my birthday jinx." Wesley pointed to the calendar. "It's Childermas." He nodded decisively, as if that explained everything.

Gunn looked confused. "The Professor guy, from the DVD? With the aliens, and the pit, and the cheesy effects?"

"That's 'Quatermass'." Wesley was wearied patience incarnate. "And that was a seminal science fiction televisual experience…"

"Yeah, whatever. Like we need details of your teenage nerdihood." Cordelia interrupted his musings.

Wesley curled his lip and then drew himself up, his hands folded behind his back, in full lecture mode. "Childermas is the festival of the Holy Innocents. It's the last in a sequence of commemorations that theologians regard as the three descriptions of martyrdom."

There was a collective almost-sigh; a resigned exhalation of breath as they recognized the signs of Wesley warming to his subject.

Gunn braved a tentative query. "Holy Innocents, Wes?"

"Ah." He barely missed a beat. "It's a rather antiquated festival, I have to admit. Doesn't quite have the popularity of St Stephen's Day. Angel, surely you must be aware of it? It was still celebrated when you were a boy."

Angel gave him a look. "That was over two hundred years ago, Wes."

Wesley sighed quietly. "Herod realised he'd been tricked and ordered the massacre of all male children in Bethlehem. The slaughter of these innocents became celebrated in the medieval Christianity as an instance of martyrdom in deed and not in will. The children lost their lives, although involuntarily, on account of the Saviour, and it was generally accepted 'that God supplied the defects of their will by his own acceptance of the sacrifice.' "

"That's horrible!" Cordelia huffed indignantly, then lowered her voice as Connor stirred in her arms. "And there's an actual festival for that? Really?"

Wesley nodded. "It's also considered to be the unluckiest day of the year. Until recently, in some parts of rural Britain, it was considered unwise to transact any business on Childermas. It was, incidentally, the day that the Tay Bridge blew down, as immortalized in William McGonagall's excruciatingly awful poem. 'Which will be remembered for a very long time'."

"You really are a font of useless information, aren't you?" Cordelia couldn't help the awe in her voice.

Wesley tutted softly. "The Se'lev were commemorating Childermas, albeit in a rather literal and fairly grisly manner, and you can't deny that each of us suffered our fair share of bad luck during the battle." He eyed Angel's leather duster. "Or indeed after it."

Gunn sent him a broad grin. "Only you could have worked out that connection, English."

Wesley blushed, then fumbled with his glasses for a moment. "I think I'd like to write this up for the casefiles."

"You are a sad man; you know that, don't you?" Cordelia bent over and laid a sleeping Connor in the cradle by the door. "Well, I'm going home to shower and wash pancake batter out of my hair."

Gunn grabbed what was left of his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. "Anyone else feeling hungry? I'm in the mood for turkey tacos."

Wesley grimaced slightly and indicated the file laid out on his desk, while Angel shook his head and pointed to Connor. Fred, however, was almost bouncing with anticipation. "We can get cinnamon crisps, right? And maybe we'll meet more of those elf demons?"

Gunn grinned. "My kind of girl. Slaying and salsa. You can't deny it's a great combination."

Wesley cleared his throat pointedly, and Gunn nodded. "Kidding, English. If we do come across any more of Santa's little helpers we'll be sure to let the boss know." He winked conspiratorially and led Fred across the lobby and out the front door.

Angel checked Connor, then lifted his duster and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "He got me good this time." He looked over his shoulder in dismay. "Do you think he does it on purpose?"

Wesley shot him a look. "Of course he does. It's the sworn duty of every four month old to throw up over his father."

Angel looked down at his shirt again, then over at the sleeping baby. Wesley sighed dramatically. "Go on and get changed. I am actually able to babysit and write case notes simultaneously."

"They run classes in that at the Watcher's Academy?" Angel retorted.

"Oh yes, that was fifth period on a Wednesday, right after "Vampire fashion through the centuries – a study of sartorial narcissism." Wesley's grin was smug. "Honestly, I can assure you nothing will happen to Connor in the whole ten minutes it will take you to get changed."

Angel smiled in spite of himself. "Sorry, can't help it. Mind's always thinking of what could happen, a thousand and one things that could go wrong while he's out of my sight… hot bathwater, electric sockets, stray weapons in unlocked cabinets…."

"Well, if it's any comfort to you, I wasn't planning on giving him a bath, and I've decided to reschedule my Korean throwing star practice session." Wesley rolled his eyes, but there was sympathy in his voice. "You can't spend his life worrying about things that will never happen."

"I know, I know." Angel looked down at the sleeping baby. "Overprotective dad, huh?" His grin was a little sheepish.

Wesley looked at him over the top of his glasses. "You're a good parent, Angel," he said firmly, then gave a decisive nod, as if the matter was settled. "Now go and get changed."

He came down half an hour later, having taken advantage of Wes' offer of babysitting to add a shower to the change of clothes. He heard it as he was coming down stairs, a soft half-hummed lullaby that made him stop at the door of the inner office and peer inside surreptitiously.

Wesley was standing with his back to the door; Connor nestled in the crook of his elbow, rocked by the gentle sway of Wesley's body in time with the lullaby.

"No spirit can come near
Nor evil beast to harm thee;
Sleep, Sweet, devoid of fear
Where nothing need alarm thee."

Wesley seemed unaware of his presence. He cradled Connor's head carefully and moved over to the bookshelves. "I know what you want," he said and Angel could hear the smile in his voice. Wesley reached up with his free hand and lifted something down from the shelf, and Connor reached out to grab it. Wesley turned slightly and Angel saw one of the tin soldiers in Wes' hand, Connor's tiny fingers wrapped around its sword. Connor was pulling it towards his mouth, and Wesley rescued it rather regretfully.

"No, sweetheart, not for eating. Your dad would slowly eviscerate me if he caught you chewing that." Wesley set the toy back on the shelf. "I don't think it would actually do you any harm… I played with them when I was little, and I'm sure the paint is lead-free." Connor was staring into Wesley's face, fascinated. "Despite my defects, my father never actively tried to poison me. As far as I'm aware." He turned and caught sight of Angel in the doorway. "See? He's absolutely fine."

Connor had given up trying to reach the little soldier and was watching Wesley's lips intently, then moving his own mouth experimentally. He managed to produce a loud raspberry.

"That a comment on Uncle Wes' babysitting abilities?" Angel came into the office and leaned against the desk, grinning broadly.

"Or perhaps a criticism of his father's overprotective nature?" Wesley said dryly, settling the baby more comfortably against his chest. Connor squirmed, his little legs jerking in tandem. Wesley brought his hand up and pressed it firmly against his back, until a surprisingly deep burp resounded through the tiny frame. "Ah, there we are. I knew you had wind." Connor now snuggled into the crook of his neck, snuffling contentedly.

"I notice he didn't spit up on you," Angel crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look disappointed.

"Of course not. We have an understanding. I explained to him how much funnier it would be to throw up over Dad after he'd got cleaned up. I think Connor appreciated the irony." He patted the baby's back soothingly, his hand moving in a gentle rhythm. Connor's eyes closed, and the snuffles became deeper as he drifted into sleep. Wesley carried him over to the crib, and settled him there so gently that he did not stir.

Angel shifted position and glanced down at the books which lay open on the desk. There was a buff folder; he recognized it as one of the files that Wesley faithfully filled out after each case. Beside it lay a hardback exercise book filled with meticulous handwritten notes. The faded indigo ink was very neat and even; it reminded him of the copperplate script he had been made to learn back when he was a boy. He leaned over, and a passage caught his eye.

"v. 13 says Herod "sought to destroy" the Christ child; the word used here is particularly gruesome, meaning to "smother or to slaughter"; v. 16 says Herod became "furious"; the word here is ' thomoo', literally "enraged". Macrobius (Saturn., IV, xiv, de Augusto et jocis ejus) relates that when Augustus heard that amongst the boys of two years and under Herod's own son also had been massacred, he said: "It is better to be Herod's hog ous, than his son houios", alluding to the Jewish law of not eating, and consequently not killing, swine."

And then there was a small ink blot, where the fountain pen had leaked onto the page. There was a slash of red next to the mark, what looked like 'unacceptable – rewrite five times', then a scrawl of initials which could possibly have been RWP. Angel turned over and found the same page written out again on the next five pages, only without the ink blot.

He looked up and saw Wesley watching him guardedly, his hand resting on the side of the cradle.

"This is the Childermas festival, right?" He gestured to the notebook and Wesley nodded and moved to the desk. "You studied this when you were a kid?"

"My father had something of a passion for medieval religious history." Wesley lifted the notebook and set it to one side; closing it absently, as if lost in remembrance.

"He really did that to his own son?" Angel asked, and Wesley's head snapped up suddenly.

"Did what?" His tone was initially accusatory, then his face softened with realization. "Oh, you mean Herod."

Angel nodded. "Killed him, I mean."

Wesley gathered the other papers on his desk and piled them on top of the notebook. "Oh, he killed him. But the son wasn't an infant; he was decapitated on Herod's command for having conspired to kill his father."

"Nice." Angel grimaced sympathetically. "And this was considered suitable bedtime reading for you?"

Wesley sent him a pitying look. "I attended a school which featured such delights as 'Angelus – Scourge of Europe' on the second year syllabus. I was used to reading this sort of thing."

"But still, it's kind of creepy, don't you think? What with today being the Holy Innocents day or whatever." Angel shivered involuntarily.

Wesley leaned over and poked him in the ribs, then extricated another book from under him. "And I'm supposed to be the superstitious one."

"You really studied me?" Angel couldn't help asking.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself. The early modern vampire course was last two periods on a Friday afternoon with Professor Bruner, who had an alarming propensity towards narcolepsy. We had to pinch each other to keep ourselves awake."

Angel stood up in indignation, dislodging a large volume from the desk. It hit the floor with a resounding bang, and almost immediately Connor woke, wailing forlornly. Angel lifted him out of the crib.

"Sh, little guy. Didn't mean to wake you." He rocked the baby against his chest, and Connor relaxed a little, his ear-splitting squeals gradually becoming the more familiar snuffles.

"Your Dad's a twit." Wesley commented to Connor conversationally, retrieving the book from the floor.

"And your Uncle Wes is wise-ass," Angel retorted without any great malice. Connor sniffled quietly. "I think I'd better take Connor upstairs to bed."

"Probably best. Unless you're planning to throw books around up there too."

"Like I said, wise-ass." Angel hefted Connor against his shoulder and nodded to the pile of books on the desk. "You're going to work tonight?"

"As good a time as any." Wesley settled himself at the desk. "These prophecies aren't going to translate themselves."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but Cordelia is right. You are a sad man."

"Someone around here has to work." Wesley sniped back.

"Let me know if you find anything about Connor in there." Angel was already headed towards the stairs.

Wesley opened his notebook, and turned his attention to the Nyazian Prophecies, which now lay open on his desk.

"Of course. You'll be the first to know."