"The mortal Wesley is dying," Illyria said softly as she came upon the others in the alley. Angel swore they'd taken away her ability to slow time, but for him it screeched to a near halt. "I could not bear to watch his soul leave his body," she added. "He asked for you."
Wesley. Dying. Asking for him.
There was only one thing Angel could do, apocalypse be damned. He looked at Spike.
"Go on, mate," Spike said gently. "I understand."
"Hold as long as you can," Angel told the others. "I'll be right back."
When Angel found Wesley's battered body, his heartbeat had grown dim and the smell of his blood, metallic and tangy and so enticing, filled the air. "Wes," Angel breathed, cradling his friend.
"Angel," Wes croaked. "You... are a beautiful... delusion."
"No, it's not a delusion, Wes, I'm here. I came for you. I'm gonna make you okay."
"You can't... make me okay... Angel." Wes was struggling for the words, for the breath and energy to speak..
"I will," Angel said determinedly. He closed his eyes, letting the tears that had pooled there spill down his cheeks. "Wes, I love you. I won't lose you."
"Sweet words... to die to," Wesley whispered, smiling weakly. His body went limp as he lost consciousness, presumably for the last time.
"Fuck," Angel said. He didn't want to do it, but instinct took over, and he leaned over, sinking his fangs into Wesley's neck. Gods, he tasted amazing, Angel thought, pulling back. He sliced his forearm open with the very knife that had killed Wesley, and pressed the wound to his lips. "Drink, damn it," he urged.
Wesley's body lurched and his arms clutched at Angel's, pressing it harder against his lips for a brief moment, and then he went still as death again.
"I'm sorry," Angel whispered. "I'm so sorry."