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Shadows, Part One

Giles looked around at the cardboard boxes still left to be unpacked and sighed. He had been determined not to do this – come back to Sunnydale, become Buffy’s surrogate father again; and not just Buffy’s; he now seemed to be Willow, Xander and Dawn’s too. Tara, thankfully, made for another grown up.

His heart had turned over when he’d had the frantic phone call from Dawn at the hospital. Buffy had been shot. Tara had been shot. They were both undergoing surgery and would he come, please, come now.

Of course he’d had no choice. Dawn had lost her mother, and her father was absent and unavailable. Buffy and Tara were probably the two people in the world she was closest to and there was a chance she was going to lose them both. It had helped to do that on the flight over; all those interminable hours waiting in airports; to concentrate on Dawn’s situation rather than to think about his own, or what it would do to him to lose Buffy again.

By the time he had arrived at the hospital, Dawn had been able to greet him with tears of relief. Buffy and Tara were both out of surgery. Both had survived by a whisker but they had survived. Their attacker was now under lock and key and his sometime accomplices seemed almost grateful to have a chance to admit to their crimes and perhaps obtain some absolution. They had seemed genuinely shocked by how far Warren had gone in his hatred for Buffy and how close they had come to being accomplices in another death.

Another blessing was that Spike had departed for pastures…other. Giles was definitely not up to dealing with irritating vampires right now, especially as Spike appeared to have gone far beyond irritating into blatantly stakeable some time since. Buffy had not told him too much about what it was Spike had done but she had quietly used the word ‘unforgiveable’ and made it clear that they could never be allies again.

“I made a mistake,” she said. “I think I… I did things to him. I couldn’t give him what he wanted, I only took from him what I needed. I think I made him a worse person than he wanted to be.”

“Yes, because soulless vampires with a century of serial killing behind them, not to mention the murder of two Slayers on their non-existent conscience, so often need a final push from a twenty-two year old girl to tip them over the edge into real wrongdoing.”

He had meant to be so patient, too, but to his surprise she had looked up at him from her wheelchair and given him a tired smile. “I missed that. The sarcasm. The impatience. The complete refusal to be nice even when I’m still hooked up to…drippy things and beepy things.”

Giles had inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I do my best.”

When she had hugged him, she had felt so painfully fragile, those smudges under her eyes, still in shock from how nearly she had died, how nearly Tara had died, and perhaps too from the realization that she wanted to live.

That had been four weeks ago and things were now getting back to some kind of normality. Buffy had astonished the doctors with the speed of her healing and Tara had admitted ruefully that it made her feel inadequate. Willow, who had only got Tara back after their estrangement, just before so nearly losing her, was so eager to wait upon her that it was almost funny. Almost. It was also very touching.

Tara was, of course, convalescing in Buffy’s house, waited upon anxiously by Dawn and Willow, and was definitely the sanity anchor for the household. It made Giles feel cold on average twice a day to think how close the two girls had come to dying. That was a great improvement on the twenty five times a day when the chill of horror had gone through him after first arriving at the hospital. He liked to think that sooner or later he, Dawn, and Xander would make a full recovery. He was not quite so sure about Willow though. People were suggesting surgery might be necessary to separate her hand from Tara’s – she hung onto it so grimly.

Buffy was well enough to go on patrol again and was showing surprising patience about being fussed over and shadowed by Xander and Dawn every time she left the house by herself.

“Uh – guys…? Daylight. Hence – total absence of vampire threat. Not to mention only person I know who wanted to shoot me – totally locked up in jail right now. And how dangerous is it really going shopping for shoes even on a Hellmouth…?”

As they quietly picked up their coats and stood next to her, she looked across at Giles with a rueful shrug. “I really think they’re learning to deal.”

“Oh, absolutely.” He held up his cup of tea in acknowledgement. “A couple of years and they may even let you shop by yourself.”

“Don’t bank on it,” Dawn told her as the three left with Buffy flanked by Xander and Dawn.

Giles shook his head, wondering if there were any other Slayers in the history of demonology who were forced to go on patrol with a schoolgirl and carpenter guard of honour.

That had been several hours ago and he now had his own place to himself – well, apart from the cardboard boxes. He knew there were useful things in there, but he hadn’t packed any of it; that had been done by the removal firm, whom he had hired to pack up all his belongings in England and ship them back to Sunnydale. He just wished he’d paid someone to unpack them all, dust them, and rearrange them in an aesthetically pleasing manner for him at this end; then he wouldn’t be faced with doing it. He had unpacked the most important books. And the tea set, obviously. And with an uncanny instinct, Xander had managed to find the box in which the biscuits and Cadburys chocolate were packed. But there were still far too many boxes left to sort through.

He knew it was fortunate that he had been able to rent his old place again. Although it was perhaps a little depressing that no one else had wanted it on account of the ‘bad reputation’ it had. Just because a previous occupant was regularly the target of demon attacks and multiple concussions seemed no reason not to want to rent a place.

It was dark when he heard the knocking on the door. It was quiet but persistent and he picked up a stake as he went to answer it. It was a mild night but that meant nothing, of course; unlike in the horror films, demons didn’t obligingly wait until there was a thunderstorm before trying to rip out your spine while you were still using it.

“Who is it?” he called.

“It’s Wesley.”

That surprised him even more than someone calling back ‘I’m an evil demonic fiend come to crack open your skull and scoop out your brains’, as that seemed almost par for the course in Sunnydale, whereas he had never thought Wesley would be making any return visits to the place of his not-so-shining debut. The voice sounded different too – deeper and quieter.

He opened the door, saying, with no particular pleasure: “Wesley, what a surprise.”

Despite the mildness of the weather, the man was bundled up in an overcoat. He was also leaning against the wall outside in a way that immediately rang Giles’ alarm bells, and he stepped back to let him in but made no move to invite him in, not out of rudeness, just because one could never be sure, and Wesley did work for a vampire after all. Wesley waited for a moment and then, realizing why Giles hadn’t invited him, stepped over the threshold.

“I’m sorry to bother you.” The voice was definitely different and as the light fell on him, so was the appearance. No glasses, no brylcreem, no immaculately tailored suit, but rather unshaven, haggard, shadows under his eyes, including the one so badly bruised that it was barely open, more bruises on his cheekbone and jaw, and, as he took another step, that horrendous healing gash at the left side of his throat.

Giles winced. “What happened to you?”

Wesley looked wretchedly pale in the lamplight and appeared to be staying on his feet only due to a focused effort of will. His focus, however, was extraordinarily concentrated. “I hope you don’t my showing up here without an invitation?”

“Not at all,” Giles lied. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

“Wait.” Wesley caught his arm, grip unexpectedly intense, fingers digging into Giles’s skin through his jacket. “We need to be honest with each other. I have in my possession an amulet and a scroll, both of which are being urgently sought by forces that certainly aren’t too fussy about how they obtain them. I’ve come here because they were watching my flat and I didn’t… I didn’t know where else to go. I was careful to deposit another amulet of equivalent size and weight in a safety deposit box last night and they certainly observed me doing so. I’ve spent today trying not to lead them to you and I believe I’ve shaken them off, but it maybe only a matter of time before they work out where I’ve gone. If you don’t want me here, just say, and I’ll keep going.”

Giles realized he had been waiting subconsciously throughout Wesley’s little speech for that pompous note to creep in that was meant to tell all listeners that what Wesley was saying was terribly important and should be listened to. All those little grimaces and nods that invited one to share his view that he was really a very clever fellow indeed. But there was nothing like that, just a flat hoarse retelling of the facts by someone who seemed wearied to death with having to explain any of it.

Giles took a good long hard look at him and then said carefully, “Do sit down, Wesley.”

Wesley sank onto the arm of his couch and Giles saw the exhaustion flicker over his face. Still choosing his words with care, Giles said: “I suggest that you stay here tonight and we discuss this matter with Buffy and the others tomorrow. See how they feel. You may have heard that Buffy and Tara were both recently shot while in Buffy’s house. Nerves are still a little frayed.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t think I know Tara.” Wesley looked up at him gravely, giving Giles an even better view of his black eye and bruised cheekbone and jaw and that vicious gash at his throat. He looked worse than he had after his attempt to cart Faith back to England – a lot worse.

“She’s Willow’s partner and a very sweet young woman. It was touch and go for a while with both her and Buffy, but they pulled through.”

Wesley rose unsteadily to his feet while Giles watched him narrowly. Wesley had not once taken his right arm from around his waist and he was moving like someone who was not only on the point of collapse but who was in considerable pain. “Then the last thing they need is me bringing more trouble to Sunnydale.” There was nothing dramatic about his pronouncement. It was more like something he murmured to himself. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’ll…”

Giles caught his shoulder and pressed him back down onto the couch. “You’ll stay the night, Wesley, and we’ll talk over the best plan of attack tomorrow. I insist.”

Wesley looked as if he would have liked to argue but Giles had gambled that his residual respect for masculine authority would still have an effect. It did appear to carry some weight as Wesley sighed and then capitulated. “It’s very kind of you.”

“Let me get you that tea.” Giles went into the kitchen, keeping an eye on Wesley as he did so. He had too much experience of injuries not to be able to infer one from that kind of careful body language. Wesley was breathing around something, a stab wound or a cracked rib. Something that hurt when he breathed in and hurt again when he breathed out.

As he handed him the tea he said firmly, “Drink that and then we’ll see about getting you patched up, shall we?”

Wesley darted him a quick look, clearly thought about refuting it, and then sighed. “It’s not serious. I had a run in with the demons who work for – whoever it is who wants this amulet. Probably a man called Venturi.”

“How did you get hold of the amulet?” Giles continued to assess him as he sat down opposite him and took a sip of his own tea. Wesley had clearly not slept in days. He seemed to have been playing hide and seek with his pursuers for some time now and it had certainly taken a toll; or something had anyway. He was barely recognisable as the young man who had been inflicted upon them all by the Watchers’ Council three years previously.

“Have you heard of Wolfram & Hart?”

“Yes. A pan-dimensional law firm with a finger in most of the muddiest pies out there. They tend to represent the sort of clientele the Watchers’ Council would like to see dead.”

Wesley nodded. “That pretty much sums them up. One of the associates there, a woman called Lilah Morgan, has been trying to recruit me to the firm. On the last occasion we met up, she seemed agitated. She said that the Senior Partners didn’t like people muscling in on their apocalypse, and, according to one of her clients, that was exactly what was going to happen. She asked me if I’d do some translation work for them for money – a scroll. I refused, obviously. But the following evening, a man called Larry Vane turned up on my doorstep, saying that Lilah Morgan had given him my address, and that he was being pursed by demons for an amulet he’d stolen. He told me that he had to steal it or a man called Venturi would bring about the end of the world but he couldn’t do it without this amulet – which he then showed to me. I told him I didn’t have the resources to help him and he should contact someone who could. I gave him the address for the Hyperion and sent him on his way. Two days after that I read in my morning paper that his mutilated corpse has been pulled from the river, and as I was reading this the postman delivered a parcel addressed to me, which contained the amulet Vane had shown me and the scroll to which Lilah had made reference.”

“It sounds like a cross between The Thirty Nine Steps and Night of the Demon.”

Wesley was distracted. “Goodness, I haven’t read any M.R. James in years.”

“Well, I suppose there’s less interest in reading ghost stories when you too often inhabit one. Take off your overcoat, will you? And tell me what happened next while I patch you up.”

Wesley was either too tired to disobey or had reached a point where he was relieved to abdicate some responsibility to another. Giles winced as the coat came off and he saw Wesley’s right hand was clasped across his side, blood staining shirt and fingers. The shirt was a ripped blood-stained mess, with more red-stained tears across the arms and back. As Giles fetched warm water and disinfectant, Wesley told him a somewhat tangled story of beginning to translate the scroll, only to realize that it dealt with a summoning of a ‘destroyer of mankind’ that could be called forth when three amulets were fitted together, the blood of an innocent poured onto them, and the incantation contained in the scroll read over them, while the planets were in a particular alignment. The alignment unfortunately seemed to be happening now.

Giles gently removed Wesley’s hand and winced again at the wound; a vicious claw mark which looked both deep and nasty. “Take your shirt off,” Giles ordered, then realized he was going to have to help him as Wesley was seizing up from his injuries. He peeled off the shirt carefully, revealing bruises all over Wesley’s torso and more claw marks across his back and arms.

“In what language is the scroll written?”

Wesley sighed. “It’s a deliberate mixture of obscure demonic languages. Proto-Bantu, Fallorian, Sengalan, Uriachi and Minithian code text.”

Giles groaned inwardly. “The Fallorian and Uriachi I can make a stab at but the other three aren’t ones that I’ve studied.” The ordinary Minithian written language was pictographic, not alphabetic, and to study it a scholar had first to commit to memory the four thousand different characters that could be found in an average text. Minithian code text was a separate language again, which used elements of Minithian and another even more obscure syllabic writing system evolved by demon monks. Minithian priests had evolved the code text as means to keep safe their most sacred writings and translating even a shopping list written by them could take the best part of a month. One glance at the scroll had shown it to be complicated and lengthy.

“With the right reference books and a safe place to work I can translate it. I’m just not sure that I can do it in time.”

Giles doubted that he could, if he were honest, which meant that another means to hold off the end of the world would probably have to be found. “We’ll think of something. We’re rather good at that.”

“I think they may be able to sense the amulet. I found some references to a spell to bind Hukkarish demons to particular objects of power. It made me wonder if Tolkien may have come across it while researching Lord of the Rings. Apparently there are references to the spell in some Scandinavian texts dealing with the summoning and binding of demons. If that’s the case then the Hukkarish will almost certainly arrive in Sunnydale before too long – for which I apologize. I just…didn’t know where else to go.”

He had been wearily matter-of-fact before that point but with the last words he looked abruptly…lost. Giles glanced up at him sharply. “What happened between you and Angel?”

“I made a…very bad mistake. It did Angel great harm. We’re no longer working together or in any kind of contact.”

“Nevertheless, wouldn’t this be a lot more up his alley than yours?”

“I tried to send Vane to him, but the more I’ve looked at this, the more I’ve come to believe that the only solution to this problem is to destroy the amulet, and the only references I’ve seen to that spell are in languages that no one who currently works with Angel would be able to translate. I’m sure he and Gunn could deal with the Hukkarish for a little while, but I think they’ll just keep coming unless the amulet itself is destroyed. The other two amulets are useless without the third so it would be enough to avert the summoning of the beast that’s referenced in the scroll.”

Giles began to sponge the blood from Wesley’s wounds, shaking his head over the depth of the one in his side. The demon appeared to have been making a serious attempt to scoop out his innards and the gouges were deep, while the blood loss had clearly been considerable. “How long do you estimate we have before these Hukkarish arrive?”

Wesley sighed. “A couple of days, perhaps. Three if we’re very lucky. I believe they can only move by night.”

Giles straightened up, looking at the reddish water in the bowl. “I think you need hospital treatment. The others are nasty enough but this wound looks serious to me.”

Wesley shook his head. “Venturi seems to have an even more efficient hacking system than Willow’s. If I use my credit card to buy a bus ticket, he knows I’ve done it. It would be the same for signing into a hospital. Just pack it with some disinfectant.”

“I may know someone who can help. A friend from my Oxford days has been visiting me recently. He specializes in the history of medicine but he’s also a qualified GP. He’s been staying at the local hotel to avoid my clutter but I’m sure he could stitch you up with rather more efficiency than I can. May I call him?”

Wesley sighed. “Whatever you think is best, Giles.”

The acquiescence gave Giles another little chill of concern. There was something broken-spirited about Wesley. He was going through the motions of resistance, certainly, risking his life and focusing on the translation of this scroll and the destruction of the amulet with great concentration, but he seemed to be doing it on some kind of moral automatic pilot; just because it was the right thing to do. He reminded Giles uncomfortably of Buffy after she’d come back from the dead.

“What happened to your throat?” he asked as he reached for the phone.

Wesley turned his head to conceal the ugly gash a little. “I made a mistake. There was a woman whom I knew to be dangerous and affiliated to an enemy but she appeared to need medical assistance and I dropped my guard.” He shrugged but there was a look in his eyes that seared Giles. Something damaged and defeated.

Giles carefully bandaged the worst of Wesley’s wounds and then forced a smile. “Right. Well, I hope that will at least slow the bleeding until Roger can get here and hopefully do a rather better repair job. Why don’t you get some sleep? You look as if you could do with a rest.”

He helped Wesley limp painfully up the stairs to his bedroom and indicated that he should get under the sheets. Wesley said in confusion, “Isn’t this your…?”

“Don’t worry about that now, Wesley,” Giles told him briskly as he pulled the duvet over him. “Just get some rest.” He gave him a bright and probably not very convincing smile but Wesley’s eyes were already closing. He had evidently been exhausted for a while now and the seduction of clean sheets and a firm mattress, not to mention of someone else taking some of the burden of responsibility from his shoulders, proved too great for his exhausted body to resist. Giles suspected he was deeply asleep before Giles was halfway down the staircase.

Once in his box-filled sitting room again, Giles took a deep breath and then picked up the phone. He had already mentally made a call list: Call Roger. Call Buffy. Call Angel.

***

They were all feeling a little subdued and Xander was frankly pretty angry with Wesley. Buffy and Tara had only recently come out of major surgery and that doofus was bringing extra scary demons down to Sunnydale. As if they didn’t have enough extra scary demons of their own without importing them from LA. As watchers went Wesley still seemed to be a complete wash out.

Giles had called them over that morning, explained the situation, and then asked them to wait while someone surprisingly untweedy had been ushered upstairs to tend to Wesley, to whom, bizarrely, Giles had given up his bed. They had all looked at the amulet in turn, and it looked pretty much like every other amulet they’d encountered, except for the broken edge along one side which presumably fitted to the next amulet. They had also all looked at the scroll, Willow had tentatively offered that some of the illustrations were quite…pretty, until Xander quietly pointing to a place a little further down the scroll had made her go a little green around the gills. They had rolled that back up and stuffed it back in its little telescope holder in record time. As Willow had pointed out, they could see ritual dismemberments any time in the other zillion books Giles had without having to look at them in specially dangerous scrolls too.

“We have to help,” Buffy offered tentatively. As they all looked at her, she shrugged. “Well, we do. This is what we do. What I do anyway. Wesley was right to come here.”

“Wesley was a jerk to come here,” Xander hissed back. “Which is no surprise really, as he was a jerk all the time he was here before. He’s Angel’s problem. He should have taken it to him.”

“He and Angel broke up.” Buffy frowned. “That didn’t come out right. I mean they’re not working together any more.”

“I don’t get why they were working together in the first place. What did Angel need a fired Watcher for anyway?”

“They seemed to be friends when I was there. And Wesley seemed…pretty useful really.”

“So, if he was useful why did Angel get rid of him?”

“I’m not sure. Something about a prophecy and a decision Wesley made that turned out badly. I don’t know the details. Giles didn’t know himself. He needs to know more before he calls Angel.”

“Well, I need to know more before I’m prepared to work with Wesley.” As they all looked at him in surprise, Xander returned their gazes levelly. “I’m serious. We don’t know anything about Wesley except he was a complete waste of space when we knew him before. Angel took him in and Buffy says they were friends so I don’t suppose he would have got rid of him unless Wesley did something…bad. And if he did do something bad I think we should be told about it.”

“We’ve all made mistakes,” Willow pointed out.

Buffy nodded. “Some of us really major ones. Whatever else Wesley’s done I’d lay good money he didn’t sleep with Spike and he didn’t make Angel lose his soul, so he’s two up on me for a start.”

“You didn’t know about the curse,” Willow pointed out. She grimaced. “And I was going to say ‘sleeping with Spike could happen to anyone’ but I can’t get the words to come out.”

The door upstairs opened and they heard the sound of footsteps and then the door closing again. The hushed conversation upstairs was clearly supposed to be confidential, but Giles’ place was not exactly large and they could make out every word.

“I’ve stitched up the worst two wounds and dressed the others, but he has lost quite a lot of blood and he certainly needs to rest for several days. What did you say his profession was again?”

“He’s a researcher. He was working in Los Angeles.”

“A researcher? Into what exactly?”

“Philology, I believe. Comparative linguistics. He specializes in old manuscripts.”

“I see. I’m asking, Rupert, because I couldn’t help noticing that he had recently had his throat slashed. Not to mention the old bullet wound scar perilously close to his appendix. The burn scars on his back, and what appears to be torture scars on his chest and shoulders.”

“Well, you know the antiquarian book trade, Roger. It’s a cut throat business.”

“Rupert…”

“It’s really better if you don’t know. That’s why I didn’t tell you his name either.”

“Is he a political prisoner?”

“No. And he’s here on a valid passport and with a work permit that’s entirely in order. And he’s certainly not involved in anything criminal. He’s…one of the good guys.”

“I believe you. But I still think he should be in a hospital, or failing that he needs someone to at least change his dressings and nag him into resting.”

“I can nag and change dressings. I’m actually quite practised at both.”

“You always were a strange fish, Rupert.” The one referred to by Giles as ‘Roger’ came down the stairs with his medical bag in hand. He put a bottle of antibiotics into the man’s hand. “I’m heading back tomorrow night. Call me tomorrow morning if his temperature goes up or he starts coughing up blood. I don’t think the cracked rib has damaged the lung but if there’s a problem in that area it’s going to be a major one. I’ll phone you when I get back to London to ask how he’s faring.” The man seemed to notice their audience for the first time. “Good morning.”

Giles made the introductions and there was a rather lack lustre shaking of hands all round. The man was around forty-something, not bad looking, thin and balding with a narrow intelligent face and bright blue eyes. He caught sight of the amulet they had entirely failed to put back into Wesley’s man purse and they exchanged grimaces while Giles gave them one of his patented ‘you try my patience beyond all bearing’ looks.

“What’s this?” Roger picked it up and examined it under the light. “Fascinating. Did you get it at an auction, Rupert?”

Giles hastily stepped into the breach. “Yes, quite recently actually. I haven’t really had a chance to check its provenance.”

“What are these symbols? Sumerian?”

“I’m still investigating but I’d say that was a good guess. And you told me you always used to sleep through Ancient History, Roger…”

The amulet was reluctantly replaced on the table and Giles ushered the man to the door, murmuring platitudes about keeping in touch and meeting for dinner in London that sounded pretty unconvincing to Xander. Then the door was closed and Giles was glaring at them.

Dawn held up a hand. “Before you say anything – we know.”

“Well, if you know, why do you keep doing it?”

“To stress and annoy you?” she offered with a grimace.

“Well, it’s working,” he assured her.

“How’s Wesley?” Buffy asked.

Giles pushed the amulet back into the shoulder purse. “Not in the best of shape. He’s clearly been running on empty for a while now and he’s frankly exhausted and quite badly mauled about. He’s managed to kill three of these demons so far but he says that for all he knows there could be an inexhaustible supply. He’s made a start on translating the scroll but he needs to do more work on it. He’s hoping he can do that here and frankly if it keeps him in one place and gives those wounds a chance to heal, I think that’s a very good idea.” Giles broke off as the door upstairs opened, and rolled his eyes. “Of course chaining him to the bed is also looking like a good idea right now.”

“Could have done without that mental image,” Xander murmured, earning another glare from Giles.

It was a shock to see Wesley. Xander wasn’t sure exactly what he had been expecting. Giles had said the guy was in pretty rough shape, but somehow he’d still been thinking of him as the guy in the tailored wool suit with his hair greased over just so and the eyes blinking at everyone from behind those glasses. This guy was a wreck. He was also a stranger. Xander had to look twice and then twice again to even be certain it was the same person.

Wesley – if this really was Wesley – limped down the stairs awkwardly, holding on tightly to the handrail. Giles hurried to help him, saying in exasperation, “Didn’t we just talk about you getting lots of bed rest?”

“I thought that was just for your friend’s benefit.” Wesley looked genuinely surprised. “I can’t research the amulet in bed and we need to know how to destroy it, Giles. Time is of the essence.”

As Giles helped him to the base of the stairs, he saw them for the first time. He looked taken aback and less than thrilled, then managed to rally a little and say: “Buffy, Willow, Xander, Dawn, how nice to see you all again. I don’t believe you and I have met. Are you Tara? I’m Wesley.” He held out a hand and Tara awkwardly went forward to shake it.

“Pleased to meet you, Wesley,” she murmured.

“And you.” He glanced around at them again and Xander had a sudden inkling into how oppressive he’d found them in the past; how much he’d had to steel himself to walk into a room which they were already in.

In the unforgiving light of the room, Wesley looked half-dead. He was pale and unshaven, with horrendous shadows under his eyes. He had a nasty-looking wound at his throat with a thick ugly scab over it, and smelt of disinfectant and pain. Xander understood why Giles had described him as ‘running on empty’. He looked as if that had been his situation for a while now, and he didn’t even believe any longer that the light at the end of the tunnel could ever be more than the headlights of an oncoming train.

Xander found himself pulling out a chair, saying roughly: “Why don’t you sit down before you fall down?”

As the others looked at him in surprise, Giles have him a glance of approval, and Wesley, to his astonishment, obeyed. “Thank you.”

Xander stepped back, looking him over in disbelief. “What happened to you?”

“There isn’t time.” Wesley reached for the scroll and amulet in his purse.

“You need to make time.” Xander put a hand on his wrist and then at the feel of the bone under his fingers snatched his hand away. “I need to know what happened and why you’re here and not in LA?”

Wesley gazed up at him unflinchingly, voice measured and deep, none of the defensive body language or empty posturing Xander was still subconsciously expecting: “I thought Giles’s expertise would be invaluable in translating this scroll and I needed a safe place to stay.”

Buffy came forward. “I think what Xander means is why wasn’t the safe place in LA? What happened between you and Angel?”

Giles said shortly, “I don’t think Wesley needs to be interrogated about…”

Wesley shrugged. “It’s fine, Giles. I’m on their turf. They always made it very clear how they felt about strangers trespassing there.”

Buffy sat down opposite him. “You’re not a stranger and you’re not trespassing. We just want to know.”

“Maybe we can even help,” Willow offered, pulling out a chair for Tara and then sitting on the arm of the couch next to her.

Wesley looked across at Willow, an expression of amusement and pain and…bleakness in his eyes. “No one can help.” He lowered his gaze quickly and Xander had an uncomfortable feeling that he might be very close to tears. “I mean – what I did isn’t something Angel can forgive. Ever. And he’s made that abundantly clear. I came here instead of going to the Hyperion because if I’d gone to the Hyperion Angel would have killed me. And although I’m sure he would have brought the scroll and the amulet down here eventually, by then it may have been too late.”

“And you’d have been dead.” Buffy gazed at him intently.

“Yes.” Wesley gazed at the squares of light coming through the glass panels around Giles’ front door and he looked almost wistful. “I would have been dead.”

“Life can be exhausting.” Buffy was still looking at him and her voice was unusually soft. “But it’s worth sticking with it if you possibly can.”

“What did you do?” Xander demanded. “To make Angel want to kill you?”

Wesley sighed. “The long version is too long. I don’t have time. The short version: Angel had a son whom he loved more than anything in the world. I translated a prophecy that said he would kill his son. I kidnapped his son to try to save him from Angel and Angel from himself but had my throat slit and the baby taken from me by Angel’s enemies; one of whom then carried the baby into a hell dimension in which he presumably died. Angel, unsurprisingly, didn’t take my interference well, particularly as the prophecy turned out to be a lie.” He looked up at them. “Is that clear enough?”

They all needed a moment to absorb that. Dawn said, “Where were you planning to go?”

“Canada.” Wesley shrugged. “I needed some time to make more enquiries, work out what was the trigger for Angel changing.”

“Why didn’t you stay at the hotel until you had more information?” Xander demanded.

“Why did you believe the prophecy was true anyway?” Dawn added. “Why would you ever think that Angel would kill his own son?”

Giles intervened, surprising Xander who had been expecting him to tell them all to leave Wesley alone: “Wesley, I really think it will save time and trouble if you give us the long version. Not leaving anything out.”

Wesley sighed as if even the thought of telling such a story wearied him beyond all bearing, and then began to speak: “In 1764 Angelus and Darla visited the family of a vampire killer called Daniel Holtz…”


All the time he was listening, Xander was thinking about how different Wesley seemed. It wasn’t just that he looked nothing like the man he remembered, that his voice was so different now, even his accent like stone that had been smoothed down by an angle grinder, but all the body language he remembered had gone, the self-justifying little wriggles and gestures and nods and hand waggles that had been almost as annoying as the man’s pompous platitudes and lofty pronouncements. Wesley was all stillness now. Someone had taken all the dork out of this Watcher and the guy left was a stranger. Life had also seriously crapped on him.

Wesley was trying so hard to tell this story in a matter-of-fact way but it was impossible to miss the tension in his body as it got nearer and nearer to the point where he took the baby; that inward shudder as he described telling Angel he was going to take him home for the night, and all the time Xander was looking at the reactions of the others to what Wesley was telling them. He’d seen that shock on Giles’s face when Wesley had mentioned the Loa. He guessed from his expression that summoning that thing wasn’t exactly recommended by the health and safety guidelines. And there was the whole thing about going to see Holtz – in his own den, with all his heavies there, when the guy had already made it clear he saw any ally of Angel’s as being as guilty as Angel himself. You didn’t spend as much time as Xander had done with a post-resurrection Buffy without being able to recognize someone working his way through a good solid death wish. And Buffy had got it too. He’d seen her nod then, when Wesley talked about his conversation with Holtz. Wesley so quiet and straightforward and clearly determined to give them the facts and nothing else; no defence; no justification; and that nod from Buffy, just out of recognition of what it meant when you walked into a situation like that and why you did it.

So, Holtz had definitely been dangerous, and being followed by Justine had turned out to be a really bad thing, and dinner for two with the Loa appeared to be high on the stupid list too if Giles’s expression was any barometer – and Xander had majored in reading Giles-face for years now – and Wesley had positively sought out all of those situations. Because he didn’t want to have to make that decision. That was obvious. He hadn’t said it and he didn’t need to. He had tried a lot of ways to disprove it and then tried a lot of ways to get himself killed so he wouldn’t have to act on it, and then he’d gone ahead and done it anyway because he really thought he had no other choice. And everything had gone as badly as it possibly could. Even worse, in fact, than Wesley had feared. He had clearly been scared of Angel finding out and stopping him and had evidently expected that the price he was going to pay for saving that kid was going to be losing a place in the world and friends that he loved – and it was obvious how much he loved them. The more he tried to button himself down and give nothing away, the more it shone out of him. Holtz’s people had tried to kill this Gunn and Fred pair and Wesley had gone there to try to protect them from Holtz’s unjust wrath, and kept them out of the loop to try to protect them from Angel’s unjust wrath – and when you were dealing with people from the eighteenth century, Xander figured that only a word like ‘wrath’ would cover it. This was Biblical rage; not the common or garden kind. All that effort and agonizing and mental torment and at the end of it, the worst of all worsts had happened – the baby had been lost and was almost certainly dead and all the people he cared for most in the world hated him and would never have anything to do with him again.

Much as it went against his personal philosophy to feel sorry for Wesley; that really did hit Xander where he lived. He thought about when Dawn had been the possible means of destroying the world and Buffy wouldn’t hear it; wouldn’t let any of them do anything about it. Even though one sure way to save everyone and everything would have been to steal Dawn away somewhere and kill her where her blood wouldn’t open any gateways to another dimension. What if Giles had done that and saved them all but killed someone they loved in the process? What if Giles had been out of the picture and the only person available to do it was Xander? What if however many times he tried to find another way out of it, he couldn’t, and the end of the world was getting closer and closer every day…?

Xander shuddered and abruptly rose to his feet. It hadn’t happened. And he couldn’t have done it anyway. He wasn’t made of the kind of stuff that could always do the Right Thing with the shoulders back and the stiff upper lip. He was made of human parts. Parts with feelings and weaknesses and fallibility, and oh Christ, so was Wesley, which was why he looked like this now. He’d done what he perceived to be the Right Thing and it had nearly killed him, literally and metaphorically, and his reward had been abject failure and the hatred of all the people he cared for most. Whatever mistakes he’d made; whatever errors of judgement he’d made, that had to suck beyond all suckage.

“I don’t mean to sound self-justifying…” Wesley looked at Buffy; perhaps he thought she was the toughest crowd but her eyes were surprisingly compassionate.

“You don’t…”

“But I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what was the right thing to do. There didn’t even seem to be a ‘right thing to do’ after a while. If I did nothing there was a chance Angel would destroy both of them by killing Connor and if I did something I knew it would be a betrayal of someone who trusted me. There were probably other options but I couldn’t see them or anything in the end. And now Connor is lost.”

“What did Angel say exactly?” Willow pressed and Xander could see her already trying to find some wriggle room to prove that whatever Angel had said hadn’t been as final as Wesley thought it was.

The glance Wesley gave her was partly-amused, partly-compassionate, partly resigned. “Exactly? That would be: ‘You son-of-a-bitch, you took my son. You’re going to pay for what you did. You’re going to die. You think I’d forgive you? I’ll never forgive you. You’re a dead man, Pryce.’” He shrugged. “Repeated several times, obviously, and in between the attempts to smother me with a pillow before he was bodily dragged away by orderlies.”

Giles said shortly: “Yes, because it’s not as if Angel has ever made a mistake in his entirely blameless life.”

Xander looked up at him in shock and saw Buffy, Willow and Dawn doing the same thing. No one, however, looked more shocked than Wesley.

“As I told Holtz, those crimes weren’t committed by Angel, they were committed by Angelus…”

“I appreciate the distinction, Wesley, but I don’t think those two are quite as separate as you like to think.”

“I don’t think Angel bears any responsibility for the crimes committed by the demon that took over the corpse of the human being he used to be, or that…”

Xander let it flow over him, like new plaster over a scraped off wall. He knew all these arguments and he couldn’t do what Buffy and Willow, and apparently Wesley, could do, and separate Angel entirely from Angelus. He tried to ignore it and to spend the time processing what they’d learned but the words kept seeping through and out of nowhere he heard someone saying crossly: “For Christ’s sake, Wesley, put down the damned Kool-Aid, will you?” He looked accusingly at Giles, because even though it was exactly what he’d been thinking it was a little harsh to just say it out loud, and then seeing Wesley looking at him in shock, and Willow and Buffy with the shocked eyes too, realized that perhaps it hadn’t been Giles who’d just voiced the innermost thoughts of Xander Harris, after all. Grimacing at their expressions, Xander waved a hand. “Sorry.”

“I don’t mean to…” Wesley broke off as his cellphone rang, plucking it wearily from his pocket, looking at the number with a complete lack of enthusiasm and then putting it to his ear. “What is it, Lilah?”

Her voice was clear: “Well, for a start that’s no way to greet an ally.”

“We’re not allies, we’re enemies, we just happen to have a common enemy at present.”

“‘The enemy of my enemy…’”

“Is still an amoral harpy who works for Evil Incorporated. Get to the point, Lilah.”

“You have incoming. Our seers just picked it up. Big hairy scaries on their way to you now. We’re offering the full resources of Wolfram & Hart to help…”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, just because we’ve plotted against you and your little friends – well ex-friends now – from time to time, it’s no reason to be…unreasonable. What’s on its way to you now – that’s just a scouting party. When they report back – and we think they’re psychically linked, by the way – you really are going to have an army of darkness on your doorstep. Of course, that’s nothing to what’s going to be overwhelming the world if you can’t work out a way to destroy that amulet before Zero Hour.”

“I know that. What I don’t understand is why you sent Vane to me in the first place. Don’t you have scholars of your own?”

“You’re better. Way better. Your translation of that Nyazian scroll – left our guys standing. Pity it was a fake and all…”

Xander watched Wesley grimace and wondered how many little digs the woman on the end of the phone managed to get in on an average conversation.

“I’ll get back to you,” Wesley said wearily.

“You really should think about my offer. We can send you a SWAT team and I’d really hate to see something happen to that handsome face of yours.”

“You can keep the SWAT team, Lilah, but if there is some way you can assist the prevention of the end of the world apart from Wolfram & Hart committing corporate hara-kiri I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Is that him…?”

Xander’s hackles automatically bristled at the sound of that officious male voice from the other end of Wesley’s cellphone.

“Yes, sir, it’s Wyndam-Pryce. I was just offering him the full resources of…”

“Give me that. Pryce? This is Linwood. Do you know who I am?”

“I don’t care,” Wesley assured him.

“Look, we’re letting you live right now because you’re slated to do something useful in the apocalypse. More useful than screwing up our attempt to get our hands on Angel’s kid, that’s for sure. Incidentally, next time you’re planning a kidnap could you be a little more competent about it? Not to mention the fact that we would have given you a very tidy sum for that baby if you’d just negotiated with us first. And before you get all moral high ground, thanks to you, the baby is in a hell dimension and we didn’t even get a chance to find out how he ticks. Now, that kid was bound to be evil. You know it. I know it. The money we would have paid you for him could have been put to good use. Bought your Watchers’ Council a new wing or a few more mouldy books.”

Wesley sighed wearily. “Fine. The next time I kidnap the child of a friend I’ll be sure to obtain sealed bids from any evil cults that might want to buy him first.”

“At least that way someone would benefit from you betraying people who trusted you, eh?”

Giles took an automatic step towards the phone and Xander saw that Buffy was also stretching out a hand imperiously. Wesley turned around so his cell was out of grabbing range and said tersely, “Get to the point, Linwood.”

“The point, Mr Wyndam-Pryce, is that if you screw this up the way you screwed up ‘rescuing’ Angel’s kid, the Senior Partners are going to personally see to it that you spend the post-apocalypse sucking demon dick in hell. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Fine.” Wesley held the phone closer to his mouth. “Now, is this clear enough for you? Don’t call me again. If I want help from Wolfram & Hart I’ll call Lilah Morgan on her private line. Now, get lost.” He switched off the phone and looked up. “Apparently there are more Hukkarish on their way here and they’re only the beginning.” He sighed. “Lilah’s right about one thing, I do think we may need reinforcements, and Lilah may be able to help us with one of those but it’s something I need to discuss with you first. Especially you, Buffy.”

Their eyes met and she grimaced. “You mean Angel?”

“No.” He looked as if he was steeling himself to say it. “Although I’m sure we’re going to need him, too. No, actually I was thinking of Faith.”