God Bless the Child (That's Got His Own)
And before anybody asks, yes, I do want to write a sequel to this. Possibly several sequels, because de-aged Wesley is far too much fun.
Now with an incredible banner by alwaysjbj:
God Bless the Child (That’s Got His Own)
Author: enigmaticblue
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters; Joss Whedon & Co. do. Too bad, so sad.
Spoilers: Set in late S2
Pairings/Characters: Gen; Wesley, Angel, Cordelia, Gunn
Word Count: ~2500
Summary: Wesley really hadn’t enjoyed being a kid the first time around.
A/N: Written for the hc_bingo prompt “de-aged (physically)”, with thanks to zanthinegirl who encouraged the madness.
The job is supposed to be easy. Wizards, at least in Wesley’s opinion, are generally overrated, and not particularly dangerous. Not many can do more than throw a few rudimentary spells around, and those are easily counteracted with a simple charm.
This wizard is a different story, and he throws a spell at Wesley that blows through his defenses. Wesley doesn’t see what happens next; he goes down hard, the world whiting out around him, his body convulsing with pain.
As Wesley regains consciousness, he feels the cold, hard floor biting into his shoulder blades, but his head is pillowed on something firm and warm. He feels a gentle hand stroking his hair.
He groans. “Did you get him?”
His own voice sounds foreign to his ears. Too high, he thinks, and not right.
“We got him, Wes.” Angel’s voice is a familiar rumble.
He opens his eyes slowly, blinking at Cordelia’s face hovering a few inches from his nose. He puts a hand to his face, and Wesley notices his glasses are gone, but Cordelia’s features are clear. “Cordy? What happened?”
And his voice still sounds strange-too high, almost like-“What happened?” he asks again with more urgency. “What did he do to me?”
Cordy’s hand stops moving through his hair and touches his cheek. “It’s okay, Wes. You’re going to be okay.”
He struggles to sit up, catching sight of his hands as he pushes up from the floor. They’re too small-thin and fine boned, and Wesley feels his Oxford shirt slip down one shoulder. He clutches at the fabric, feeling his chinos slip around his hips as he tries to wriggle away from Cordelia’s grasp.
Wesley’s eyes go to Gunn, who is watching him with wide, sympathetic eyes. “It’s okay, Wes,” Gunn assures him. “It’s going to be fine.”
“I-I don’t-” Wesley stutters. He tries to scramble to his feet, but his legs refuse to hold him, and his clothing is so big that it’s like being wrapped in a tent.
“Wes, you need to take it easy.” Angel approaches him cautiously, placing gentle hands on his shoulders. “That curse took a lot out of you. We weren’t sure you were going to wake up.”
“Take deep breaths,” Cordelia says softly. “We’re going to figure this out.”
He struggles to calm his breathing, drawing in one lungful of air after another, focusing on Angel’s firm hand on his shoulder.
“What do you remember?” Gunn asks.
“Everything,” Wesley replies, but his mind is racing. What if the spell hadn’t just affected his physical form? What if he ends up with no memories of his time as an adult? What if everything that makes him who he is just slips away?
“You look about eleven or twelve,” Angel observes quietly.
He can’t move very well; Wesley had been small and wiry until age sixteen or seventeen, when he shot up almost overnight. Right now, he’s a good two feet shorter than he had been fifteen minutes ago.
“Angel,” Cordelia says softly. Wesley tries not to watch her too closely, not wanting to see the fear or concern or anything else in her expression.
“We need to get you off this floor, Wes,” Angel says with a squeeze of Wesley’s shoulder.
He swallows, trying to get his roiling emotions under control. “I don’t think I can walk right now.”
“Not a problem,” Angel replies, but he doesn’t move until Wesley looks up and meets his eyes. “Okay?”
Wesley nods. “Okay.”
He’s spared the humiliation of being carried to the car by passing out as soon as Angel scoops him up, and when he regains consciousness again, he’s in a wide, soft bed. The dim light of the bedside lamp illuminates faded floral wallpaper, and he recognizes Angel’s room.
When he turns his head, he can see Angel sitting in a chair next to the bed, feet propped up on the mattress, reading a thin, battered volume.
“Hey, you’re up,” Angel says with a smile.
“I guess I am,” Wesley replies and pushes himself to a sitting position. Someone, probably Angel, has stripped him of his outer clothes, although he’s still in his boxers and undershirt, at least. “How long was I out this time?”
“An hour or so.” Angel sets the book aside. “Cordy and Gunn went to get dinner and a few other things. Is there anything I can get you?”
“I’d like to use your bathroom,” Wesley replies carefully. “Do you mind?”
“Do you need any help getting there?”
Wesley pushes back the covers and stood in lieu of response. His legs feel a little shaky, but they hold him. “I’ll make it.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” Angel replies, his expression inscrutable in the dim light.
Entering the bathroom, Wesley’s reflection catches his attention-jaw and cheeks still round and smooth with youth, no trace of acne yet, his eyes wide and blue and scared. His skin is almost the same color of his undershirt, the splash of freckles across his nose standing out in stark relief.
He knows that face-he even knows that expression-although he hasn’t seen it in nearly two decades.
He closes his eyes and keeps his eyes off the mirror while he goes to the bathroom and washes his hands and face.
When he comes out, Angel and Cordelia are standing in the middle of the room, talking quietly but intensely. Cordelia pastes a patently false smile on her face as soon as she sees Wesley, though, and she stops speaking. “Hey, Wes. We grabbed takeout, and I picked up a few things for you to wear-just until we get you back to normal.”
She holds out a plastic bag, and Wesley takes it from her, keeping one hand firmly on his boxer shorts. “Thank you.”
“If you need anything else…” she begins.
Wesley manages a quick shake of his head before disappearing into the bathroom again. His face flushes deep red as he digs through the bag; Cordelia has even picked up boxers for him. Necessary, Wesley admits, but it makes him feel like the child he now resembles.
He lets out a low, hoarse chuckle, and for the first time, he’s grateful that Virginia broke up with him. Wesley has no idea how he would explain this, and he can’t begin to imagine how awkward it might be.
A knock makes him jump. “Wes?” Angel’s voice carries through the wooden door. “You okay? Do you need any help?”
“I’m fine,” Wesley replies quickly. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Pushing his embarrassment and discomfort aside, Wesley pulls on the clothing-boxers, jeans, and a button down shirt, all stiff with newness. The clothing looks much like what he wears every day, and he’s grateful that Cordelia hasn’t tried pushing her taste onto him.
Angel is lounging by the door when Wesley emerges. “Cordy and Gunn got takeout,” he says. “If you’re hungry.”
Wesley manages a shaky nod. “I think I could eat.”
He knows Cordy and Gunn are worried about him when he sees two containers of his favorite twice-cooked pork and enough egg rolls and crab rangoon to feed an army. The three of them usually fight over who gets the last one.
Wesley allows their words to wash over him as he picks at his meal. He hasn’t eaten much before he feels full, and his eyes begin to slide shut.
“It’s getting late,” Cordelia announces abruptly, “and it’s been a long day. I’m going to head home.”
“Same here,” Gunn says. “Wes, do you want a ride home?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Angel rumbles. “It’s not safe.”
Wesley stiffens. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” Angel replies equably. “You’ve got the knowledge, but you’re not physically capable right now. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”
He knows Angel is right, but he doesn’t want to admit it.
“Angel’s right,” Cordelia chimes in. “It’s just until we figure out how to get you back to normal.”
Wesley shakes his head. “I know, but-”
“Let us watch your back,” Gunn says softly. “You’d say the same, and you know it.”
He gives in because he has no other choice, feeling slightly resentful and guilty for feeling resentful. Wesley knows they’re just trying to help, to protect him, even from himself.
“I’m going to get another room ready,” Angel murmurs, heading up the stairs. Cordelia and Gunn begin to clear away the food, sticking it in the mini-fridge in the office. They refuse to let Wesley help, and he starts to doze off again.
When Angel returns, Wesley says goodnight and allows Angel to usher him upstairs. He’s grateful that Angel hasn’t turned the bed down, leaving him that much independence.
“Call if you need anything,” Angel says softly, hovering for a moment before closing the door behind him.
He gets ready for bed, stretching out on the queen-sized mattress that feels impossibly large to him now, and he slips down into sleep.
His eyes open to complete darkness-darkness so thick he can’t see the hand he waves in front of his face. He knows this place; he’s been in this cupboard too many times before not to recognize the smell, the way the floorboards creak under him as he shifts his weight, the cramped quarters as the odds and ends press in on him.
Wesley can’t remember how long he’s been shut inside, but it feels like an eternity, and fear rises up to choke him. He’s suddenly certain that his father has forgotten him, or has decided to leave him there, and just not let his disappointing failure of a son out.
His father will tell people that Wesley disappeared, that he ran away, and no one would look for him because no one cares. His father has said it often enough that Wesley believes it, and he loses his head completely.
Lungs burning as though he’s running out of air, Wesley pounds on the door, screaming, “Please, Father! Please let me out! Please! I’ll be good. I won’t do it again.”
He has no idea what he’s promising not to do, or what the infraction had been, but he’s willing to do just about anything to see daylight again.
The sound of his name being called over and over again breaks through the panic, and Wesley wakes up with a gasp. Angel’s hands are wrapped around his upper arms, and he’s shaking Wesley gently, wearing an expression that clearly conveys his concern.
So often, Wesley can’t read him, but right now, he can see Angel’s worry, and that warms him and frightens him, almost in equal measure.
If Angel is worried, Wesley thinks, perhaps there is no hope for him.
He sags in Angel’s grip like a puppet with its strings cut, so tired he can’t stop the tears as they trickle down his cheeks. Wesley feels like a child in this moment, small and helpless, the nightmare stripping away what few defenses he has left. Wesley hasn’t dreamed of being trapped in that closet for years, not since right after he was booted from the Council, and it’s probably no wonder he dreamed of it tonight.
Angel hesitates a bare moment before pulling Wesley to him, as anyone might do a crying, frightened child. Wesley struggles for a moment before giving up completely. He’s shaking, sick, and weak, and he wonders how long this has been coming.
Wesley feels as though he’s been shouldering impossibly heavy burdens for months now, ever since Angel went off the deep end and fired them. He’s been shot, and his girlfriend broke up with him, and he’s nearly died at the hands of some very nasty demons.
Wesley thinks that maybe Angel can pull his share of the load for a while.
Wesley finally manages to get his breathing under control, and Angel releases him instantly when he pulls back. His eyes are gummy with shed tears, and Wesley draws in a deep, hitching breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Angel keeps one hand on Wesley’s shoulder. “Trust me, I’d be freaking out if I got hit with that spell.”
It’s kind of Angel to say, but Wesley doubts that’s true.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Angel asks slowly. “You were screaming pretty loudly. You kept calling out for your father.”
Wesley knows he’s dropped hints as to what sort of upbringing he had, but he’s never told anyone about the closet, or the punishments that could go on for days. The few overtures he’s made have been largely ignored, and Wesley knows enough about Gunn’s past, for example, to know that Gunn probably wouldn’t be terribly sympathetic.
Not that Wesley blames him; they each have their own scars, and their own burdens to bear.
He wipes the tears away with the hem of his t-shirt and takes another deep breath. “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” Angels says agreeably.
Wesley can’t say whether he’s disappointed or relieved when Angel doesn’t push, and so he blurts out a different sort of truth. “I’m afraid I’ll get worse.” Angel just looks at him steadily, and the light from the hallway illuminates Angel’s features clearly. “I’m afraid I’ll forget everything after the age of eleven, and I’ll be-I won’t be me.”
“We aren’t going to let that happen,” Angel promises, but Wesley’s not stupid. No matter how he looks, he wasn’t born yesterday, and he’s aware that some curses pay out over time.
“You don’t know that,” he argues. “I might-I might become a child again.”
Angel shakes his head. “Wes, you don’t get it. It doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, we’re going to look after you.”
“Even if I’m no use?” he asks, because he never did know when to leave well enough alone.
Angel looks up at the ceiling, and Wesley wonders if he’s praying for patience. “You’re important to us, no matter how old you are-or how old you look,” Angel finally says. “I promise, Wes. Don’t worry about it.”
Angel’s arm is a heavy, anchoring weight across his shoulders, and Wesley allows himself a moment to lean against Angel’s solid bulk. Angel has always been larger than life, but he seems even bigger now. It’s comforting in a way that Wesley really doesn’t want to think about.
Even without the body heat and heartbeat, Wesley is soothed.
“We’re going to figure this out,” Angel promises again. “But even if we can’t fix this, you aren’t alone.”
Wesley takes a breath and nods. He will believe Angel because he knows that Angel, at least, believes it, and because he has no other option. “All right,” he says, but he stays where he is, because he just needs to lean a little longer.
Now with an incredible banner by alwaysjbj:
God Bless the Child (That’s Got His Own)
Author: enigmaticblue
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters; Joss Whedon & Co. do. Too bad, so sad.
Spoilers: Set in late S2
Pairings/Characters: Gen; Wesley, Angel, Cordelia, Gunn
Word Count: ~2500
Summary: Wesley really hadn’t enjoyed being a kid the first time around.
A/N: Written for the hc_bingo prompt “de-aged (physically)”, with thanks to zanthinegirl who encouraged the madness.
The job is supposed to be easy. Wizards, at least in Wesley’s opinion, are generally overrated, and not particularly dangerous. Not many can do more than throw a few rudimentary spells around, and those are easily counteracted with a simple charm.
This wizard is a different story, and he throws a spell at Wesley that blows through his defenses. Wesley doesn’t see what happens next; he goes down hard, the world whiting out around him, his body convulsing with pain.
As Wesley regains consciousness, he feels the cold, hard floor biting into his shoulder blades, but his head is pillowed on something firm and warm. He feels a gentle hand stroking his hair.
He groans. “Did you get him?”
His own voice sounds foreign to his ears. Too high, he thinks, and not right.
“We got him, Wes.” Angel’s voice is a familiar rumble.
He opens his eyes slowly, blinking at Cordelia’s face hovering a few inches from his nose. He puts a hand to his face, and Wesley notices his glasses are gone, but Cordelia’s features are clear. “Cordy? What happened?”
And his voice still sounds strange-too high, almost like-“What happened?” he asks again with more urgency. “What did he do to me?”
Cordy’s hand stops moving through his hair and touches his cheek. “It’s okay, Wes. You’re going to be okay.”
He struggles to sit up, catching sight of his hands as he pushes up from the floor. They’re too small-thin and fine boned, and Wesley feels his Oxford shirt slip down one shoulder. He clutches at the fabric, feeling his chinos slip around his hips as he tries to wriggle away from Cordelia’s grasp.
Wesley’s eyes go to Gunn, who is watching him with wide, sympathetic eyes. “It’s okay, Wes,” Gunn assures him. “It’s going to be fine.”
“I-I don’t-” Wesley stutters. He tries to scramble to his feet, but his legs refuse to hold him, and his clothing is so big that it’s like being wrapped in a tent.
“Wes, you need to take it easy.” Angel approaches him cautiously, placing gentle hands on his shoulders. “That curse took a lot out of you. We weren’t sure you were going to wake up.”
“Take deep breaths,” Cordelia says softly. “We’re going to figure this out.”
He struggles to calm his breathing, drawing in one lungful of air after another, focusing on Angel’s firm hand on his shoulder.
“What do you remember?” Gunn asks.
“Everything,” Wesley replies, but his mind is racing. What if the spell hadn’t just affected his physical form? What if he ends up with no memories of his time as an adult? What if everything that makes him who he is just slips away?
“You look about eleven or twelve,” Angel observes quietly.
He can’t move very well; Wesley had been small and wiry until age sixteen or seventeen, when he shot up almost overnight. Right now, he’s a good two feet shorter than he had been fifteen minutes ago.
“Angel,” Cordelia says softly. Wesley tries not to watch her too closely, not wanting to see the fear or concern or anything else in her expression.
“We need to get you off this floor, Wes,” Angel says with a squeeze of Wesley’s shoulder.
He swallows, trying to get his roiling emotions under control. “I don’t think I can walk right now.”
“Not a problem,” Angel replies, but he doesn’t move until Wesley looks up and meets his eyes. “Okay?”
Wesley nods. “Okay.”
He’s spared the humiliation of being carried to the car by passing out as soon as Angel scoops him up, and when he regains consciousness again, he’s in a wide, soft bed. The dim light of the bedside lamp illuminates faded floral wallpaper, and he recognizes Angel’s room.
When he turns his head, he can see Angel sitting in a chair next to the bed, feet propped up on the mattress, reading a thin, battered volume.
“Hey, you’re up,” Angel says with a smile.
“I guess I am,” Wesley replies and pushes himself to a sitting position. Someone, probably Angel, has stripped him of his outer clothes, although he’s still in his boxers and undershirt, at least. “How long was I out this time?”
“An hour or so.” Angel sets the book aside. “Cordy and Gunn went to get dinner and a few other things. Is there anything I can get you?”
“I’d like to use your bathroom,” Wesley replies carefully. “Do you mind?”
“Do you need any help getting there?”
Wesley pushes back the covers and stood in lieu of response. His legs feel a little shaky, but they hold him. “I’ll make it.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” Angel replies, his expression inscrutable in the dim light.
Entering the bathroom, Wesley’s reflection catches his attention-jaw and cheeks still round and smooth with youth, no trace of acne yet, his eyes wide and blue and scared. His skin is almost the same color of his undershirt, the splash of freckles across his nose standing out in stark relief.
He knows that face-he even knows that expression-although he hasn’t seen it in nearly two decades.
He closes his eyes and keeps his eyes off the mirror while he goes to the bathroom and washes his hands and face.
When he comes out, Angel and Cordelia are standing in the middle of the room, talking quietly but intensely. Cordelia pastes a patently false smile on her face as soon as she sees Wesley, though, and she stops speaking. “Hey, Wes. We grabbed takeout, and I picked up a few things for you to wear-just until we get you back to normal.”
She holds out a plastic bag, and Wesley takes it from her, keeping one hand firmly on his boxer shorts. “Thank you.”
“If you need anything else…” she begins.
Wesley manages a quick shake of his head before disappearing into the bathroom again. His face flushes deep red as he digs through the bag; Cordelia has even picked up boxers for him. Necessary, Wesley admits, but it makes him feel like the child he now resembles.
He lets out a low, hoarse chuckle, and for the first time, he’s grateful that Virginia broke up with him. Wesley has no idea how he would explain this, and he can’t begin to imagine how awkward it might be.
A knock makes him jump. “Wes?” Angel’s voice carries through the wooden door. “You okay? Do you need any help?”
“I’m fine,” Wesley replies quickly. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Pushing his embarrassment and discomfort aside, Wesley pulls on the clothing-boxers, jeans, and a button down shirt, all stiff with newness. The clothing looks much like what he wears every day, and he’s grateful that Cordelia hasn’t tried pushing her taste onto him.
Angel is lounging by the door when Wesley emerges. “Cordy and Gunn got takeout,” he says. “If you’re hungry.”
Wesley manages a shaky nod. “I think I could eat.”
He knows Cordy and Gunn are worried about him when he sees two containers of his favorite twice-cooked pork and enough egg rolls and crab rangoon to feed an army. The three of them usually fight over who gets the last one.
Wesley allows their words to wash over him as he picks at his meal. He hasn’t eaten much before he feels full, and his eyes begin to slide shut.
“It’s getting late,” Cordelia announces abruptly, “and it’s been a long day. I’m going to head home.”
“Same here,” Gunn says. “Wes, do you want a ride home?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Angel rumbles. “It’s not safe.”
Wesley stiffens. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” Angel replies equably. “You’ve got the knowledge, but you’re not physically capable right now. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”
He knows Angel is right, but he doesn’t want to admit it.
“Angel’s right,” Cordelia chimes in. “It’s just until we figure out how to get you back to normal.”
Wesley shakes his head. “I know, but-”
“Let us watch your back,” Gunn says softly. “You’d say the same, and you know it.”
He gives in because he has no other choice, feeling slightly resentful and guilty for feeling resentful. Wesley knows they’re just trying to help, to protect him, even from himself.
“I’m going to get another room ready,” Angel murmurs, heading up the stairs. Cordelia and Gunn begin to clear away the food, sticking it in the mini-fridge in the office. They refuse to let Wesley help, and he starts to doze off again.
When Angel returns, Wesley says goodnight and allows Angel to usher him upstairs. He’s grateful that Angel hasn’t turned the bed down, leaving him that much independence.
“Call if you need anything,” Angel says softly, hovering for a moment before closing the door behind him.
He gets ready for bed, stretching out on the queen-sized mattress that feels impossibly large to him now, and he slips down into sleep.
His eyes open to complete darkness-darkness so thick he can’t see the hand he waves in front of his face. He knows this place; he’s been in this cupboard too many times before not to recognize the smell, the way the floorboards creak under him as he shifts his weight, the cramped quarters as the odds and ends press in on him.
Wesley can’t remember how long he’s been shut inside, but it feels like an eternity, and fear rises up to choke him. He’s suddenly certain that his father has forgotten him, or has decided to leave him there, and just not let his disappointing failure of a son out.
His father will tell people that Wesley disappeared, that he ran away, and no one would look for him because no one cares. His father has said it often enough that Wesley believes it, and he loses his head completely.
Lungs burning as though he’s running out of air, Wesley pounds on the door, screaming, “Please, Father! Please let me out! Please! I’ll be good. I won’t do it again.”
He has no idea what he’s promising not to do, or what the infraction had been, but he’s willing to do just about anything to see daylight again.
The sound of his name being called over and over again breaks through the panic, and Wesley wakes up with a gasp. Angel’s hands are wrapped around his upper arms, and he’s shaking Wesley gently, wearing an expression that clearly conveys his concern.
So often, Wesley can’t read him, but right now, he can see Angel’s worry, and that warms him and frightens him, almost in equal measure.
If Angel is worried, Wesley thinks, perhaps there is no hope for him.
He sags in Angel’s grip like a puppet with its strings cut, so tired he can’t stop the tears as they trickle down his cheeks. Wesley feels like a child in this moment, small and helpless, the nightmare stripping away what few defenses he has left. Wesley hasn’t dreamed of being trapped in that closet for years, not since right after he was booted from the Council, and it’s probably no wonder he dreamed of it tonight.
Angel hesitates a bare moment before pulling Wesley to him, as anyone might do a crying, frightened child. Wesley struggles for a moment before giving up completely. He’s shaking, sick, and weak, and he wonders how long this has been coming.
Wesley feels as though he’s been shouldering impossibly heavy burdens for months now, ever since Angel went off the deep end and fired them. He’s been shot, and his girlfriend broke up with him, and he’s nearly died at the hands of some very nasty demons.
Wesley thinks that maybe Angel can pull his share of the load for a while.
Wesley finally manages to get his breathing under control, and Angel releases him instantly when he pulls back. His eyes are gummy with shed tears, and Wesley draws in a deep, hitching breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Angel keeps one hand on Wesley’s shoulder. “Trust me, I’d be freaking out if I got hit with that spell.”
It’s kind of Angel to say, but Wesley doubts that’s true.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Angel asks slowly. “You were screaming pretty loudly. You kept calling out for your father.”
Wesley knows he’s dropped hints as to what sort of upbringing he had, but he’s never told anyone about the closet, or the punishments that could go on for days. The few overtures he’s made have been largely ignored, and Wesley knows enough about Gunn’s past, for example, to know that Gunn probably wouldn’t be terribly sympathetic.
Not that Wesley blames him; they each have their own scars, and their own burdens to bear.
He wipes the tears away with the hem of his t-shirt and takes another deep breath. “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” Angels says agreeably.
Wesley can’t say whether he’s disappointed or relieved when Angel doesn’t push, and so he blurts out a different sort of truth. “I’m afraid I’ll get worse.” Angel just looks at him steadily, and the light from the hallway illuminates Angel’s features clearly. “I’m afraid I’ll forget everything after the age of eleven, and I’ll be-I won’t be me.”
“We aren’t going to let that happen,” Angel promises, but Wesley’s not stupid. No matter how he looks, he wasn’t born yesterday, and he’s aware that some curses pay out over time.
“You don’t know that,” he argues. “I might-I might become a child again.”
Angel shakes his head. “Wes, you don’t get it. It doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, we’re going to look after you.”
“Even if I’m no use?” he asks, because he never did know when to leave well enough alone.
Angel looks up at the ceiling, and Wesley wonders if he’s praying for patience. “You’re important to us, no matter how old you are-or how old you look,” Angel finally says. “I promise, Wes. Don’t worry about it.”
Angel’s arm is a heavy, anchoring weight across his shoulders, and Wesley allows himself a moment to lean against Angel’s solid bulk. Angel has always been larger than life, but he seems even bigger now. It’s comforting in a way that Wesley really doesn’t want to think about.
Even without the body heat and heartbeat, Wesley is soothed.
“We’re going to figure this out,” Angel promises again. “But even if we can’t fix this, you aren’t alone.”
Wesley takes a breath and nods. He will believe Angel because he knows that Angel, at least, believes it, and because he has no other option. “All right,” he says, but he stays where he is, because he just needs to lean a little longer.