A/N: Hello again to all! Welcome all (or, if you've already come to this story once before, then welcome back!) I'm surprised this chapter came so quickly, but I guess I just had inspiration for it. Warning, there's a bit of Wesley-emoness in here, so yeah...

Anyways, thank you to SpeedDemon315, Rabidreject, and The Brat Princess for the reviews!

Disclaimer: Still don't own Angel. Boy would I have fun if I did, but sadly, these toys are just on loan...

"How can you end my affliction

If you're the sickness and I'm the cure?

Too long I've faked this addiction

Another sacrifice to make us pure

You tear me down

And then you pick me up

You want it all

But still it's not enough

You try to tell me

You can heal me

But I'm still bleeding

And you'll be the death of me."

-"Death of Me" by Red

Chapter One: Better Off Dead?

There were many words to describe the present mood of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, the two best of which both started with a 'd': Drunk and depressed.

Presently, he was sitting in the room he had claimed as his office, not at Wolfram and Hart, but instead at the old Hyperion Hotel. Wolfram and Hart was no longer standing, having been demolished in the midst of the apocalyptic battle. Not as though there'd been much to demolish anyway; the employees had fled once Angel and his crew had started to take on the Circle of the Black Thorn and incur the wrath of the Senior Partners. Not to mention a fair portion of the lobby had been destroyed in Angel's fight against Marcus Hamilton, the liaison (well, now former liaison, as he was killed). The Senior Partners had probably found the building worthless after that.

But Wesley wasn't mourning the loss of that damned place. Matter of fact, many times, he'd wanted to take a torch to the place, burn it to the ground and hope that the memories burned along with it. There were too many memories there, most of which were now painful to him. There were all those memories of Lilah (who, no matter what anyone said, he had actually been rather fond of), the memory of the incident with his father and the cyborgs (that one still haunted him frequently), and, of course, all the memories of Fred. Watching her work, seeing how much she cared for others, how she believed in what she was fighting for…kissing her for the first time in his office after bringing closure to a very unusual case.

And then, those memories of watching Illyria hollow her out, of listening to Knox confess that he'd had Fred virtually destroyed so he could bring his precious Ancient One back to the world, of learning that Gunn had essentially traded Fred's life for a brain-boost.

He still hadn't forgiven him for that.

And probably never would.

So as far as he was concerned, taking a torch to Wolfram and Hart and burning those bridges for good would have been the best damn thing in the world.

Sighing heavily, he lifted his glass to his lips, only to find it was completely empty. Scowling, he snatched the bottle-a half-empty bottle of whiskey-from his desk and refilled his desk. Staring into the amber liquid, he heaved another sigh, then raised his glass as if he had something to toast or someone to toast with.

"To being alive when you're supposed to be dead," he muttered, taking a deep drink.

Wesley spoke the truth-by all rights, he should have been dead. While passing out hit assignments for members of the Circle of the Black Thorn, Angel had assigned him to take out Cyvus Vail, a demonic-and extremely old-sorcerer. Unfortunately, Cyvus's magic overpowered Wesley's magic, and he found himself with a long, curved dagger shoved into his gut. Illyria had arrived just in time to see him stabbed, and she had declared his wound mortal. Knowing she couldn't do anything to help him, she had done the only thing she could think to do to ease his pain a little: shift into Fred's persona one last time, allow him to, in a sense, say one last goodbye to the woman he loved.

"It's gonna be okay," she had promised him. "It won't hurt much longer, and then, you'll be where I am. We'll be together."

What a load of rubbish that turned out to be, Wesley thought bitterly, draining his glass.

As it would turn out, Cyvus's magic may have been impressive, but his aim left much to be desired. When he stabbed Wesley, he missed his stomach, instead driving the dagger into Wesley's spleen. Painful, yes, but by no means a death blow. The pain of such a blow had caused Wesley to lapse into unconsciousness, and he could only assume that Illyria had mistaken his unconscious state for death. He had awoken several hours later to find himself alone, laid carefully on his back, covered in dried blood (and still bleeding a little), miraculously alive. Cyvus's body was nearby, his entire skull reduced to nothing more than dust.

He had gotten the hell out of there as fast as he could, and, with no other idea as to where to take refuge, he had made his way back to their old office, at the Hyperion, hoping to God they kept a first-aid kit around somewhere. He had been in the midst of looking for one when Angel came in, followed by Spike and Illyria, both of whom were supporting an exhausted, bleeding Gunn.

Needless to say, there'd been quite a big surprise-particularly because Wesley was believed to be dead-and a bit of poking and prodding to make sure he was really Wesley. After waspishly informing them he was still bleeding on the floor, they brought him to the Los Angeles hospital on the back of none other than Angel's new pet dragon, named, of all things, Cordelia.

Three weeks, one emergency surgery, four days recovery time, and a souvenir scar later, here he sat, an empty glass of whiskey in his hand, thinking he was better off dead. It didn't seem as though the brush with death had done anything to change his ways-he'd more or less gone back to the habits he'd picked up after Fred's death.

And he wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

"Why is it you've gone back to how you were?" Illyria asked from behind. He swiveled his chair around and found her standing in the doorway, blinking her shockingly cerulean eyes at him, her head cocked to the side like a curious bird.

"Because I can," he replied simply, refilling his glass.

"What point does it serve, the drinking?"

"It makes me forget, among other things. I can forget the pain, the suffering, her loss-for a while, I can stop feeling as though I'm better off dead."

"It also serves to make you unstable," Illyria reminded him bluntly. "You walk strangely, and call me a smurf, and vomit your feelings and your words to whoever will listen. And you sometimes vomit the contents of your stomach as well."

Wesley gave a sad, bitter smirk. "That part doesn't always make things better. But other than that, I see no bad side to drinking."

"You will destroy your body with that poison. It will kill you."

He lowered his glass, glaring at the demon. "Don't you understand?" he growled. "Dead is where I belong, Illyria. There's nothing left in this world for me now, nothing but you, and-"

"-I am not what you want. It will always be the shell you want, always Fred that you want." She stepped towards him. "You know I can become her. I can lie to you for a while, become Fred." Her features, which were normally so composed, hardened, perhaps out of anger, perhaps out of disgust. "But you would never ask it of me."

He sighed. "I've told you once before, Illyria, the first thing a Watcher learns is how to separate truth from illusions. I can't keep pretending Fred is still alive. That'll kill me faster than drinking will."

Suddenly, Spike charged into the office, disregarding Illyria completely. His platinum-blonde hair was oddly rumpled and disheveled, while surprise and shock twisted his face.

"Oi, Percy-I mean Wesley-you've got to get into the lobby and get in there quickly. There's someone here to see you and you're not going to believe who!" He glanced at Illyria. "You're not going to believe it, either, come to think of it."

Confused and extremely curious, Wesley placed his glass on his desk and followed Spike into the lobby of the Hyperion, where Gunn, Angel, and Nina (who had become a frequent visitor of the hotel) all stared, openmouthed, at a point somewhere near the front doors. Wesley wasn't aware of what he was seeing until he was suddenly and abruptly shoved forward by Spike. He found himself staring deeply into a pair of chocolate-brown eyes, and suddenly swept into a passionate kiss. Too caught off-guard to do anything, he simply stood stock-still until the kiss was broken and he could see who kissed him in the first place.

"Hello, Wesley," Fred murmured lovingly.

*cues dramatic music* And she's ba-aaaaaaaaaack!

Well, hope you enjoyed, and please come back for more!