Fic: Night's Swift Dragon - aka another attempt to write Wangel...
Right, well this little bunny has been hovering in the background for some time now. I finally got fed up with it and a mixture of tea and no net access led me to sitting down and grimly scribbling down at least the basics. Sweet Eloise then helped me tweak it back in the direction of English...
Not a very long fic, more a ficlet. And be warned. Here be dragons, a creaking humour and a rather tenuous link with canon/reality/good taste.
Title: Night's Swift Dragon
Author: lonelybrit
Rating: PG
Content: A look at what happened when the credits rolled for 'Not Fade Away'. Angel/Wes.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Notes: Inspired by cleolinda's 15 minute summary of The Day After Tomorrow, the film itself, a conversation about said film with esmerelda_t and the lovely 'Lie To Me' fic by Poodle. Huge thanks and snuggles to eloise_bright for a wonderful beta-ing!
Oh, and the title and LJ-cut quote come from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act III Scene II.
Night's Swift Dragon
This. Is the worst apocalypse ever.
Angel again swung the broadsword, neatly ending the close relationship the demon's head had previously been enjoying with its neck.
No. Really. This apocalypse has no redeeming features at all.
This time a stab and a nice squelchy tearing sound as he pulled the blade free.
My coat's ruined.
Stab.
My cars are now buried beneath God knows how many tons of rubble.
Twist, hack, withdraw... lather, rinse and repeat.
Think of something else.
More screams, a dive to the side and the blaze of fire missing him by inches.
Don't think about...
The broadsword skittered across the ground, coming up against a large hoof that was unfortunately still attached to a fully functioning gigantic goat's leg.
As Angel rolled out the way of the first stamp, he decided that realising you are, or were, in love with someone who has just died, just moments before you yourself expire, was quite possibly one of the worst feelings to ever have the bad luck to feel.
Worst apocalypse. Ever.
*~*~*
"Do the words 'batshit insane' ring any bells?" Lorne asked helplessly, trailing after a very determined Connor.
"Plenty," said Connor coolly. He looked up at the cloud-cast sky. A sickly glow had settled along the skyline in the direction of the Hyperion. Blues and purples shimmered off the rain and crackled across what looked suspiciously like some kind of vortex or portal. "If we survive this I'm going to love seeing what the weatherman blames this on."
"Look, Connor," Lorne persisted, "I really think you need to be taking your sweet self back home. If you want work experience right this instant then I know a very nice lady does the same kind of thing, only over the phone. But this needs to be left..."
"Lorne." Connor stopped and turned to face his green and exceedingly damp companion. "My Dad believes in doing what you have to, to protect those you love. Which is why I'm going back there. I have little sisters back home and two great parents. My place is between them and... whatever the hell just flew out of that portal."
They watched it flap about a bit and then swoop down out of sight.
"Looked like a dragon to me."
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
"Well thank God." Lorne visibly relaxed.
Connor stared.
Lorne began inspecting the surrounding buildings with a calculating eye. "Now which would give us the best view..."
"Lorne!"
"Cupcake," Lorne said, suddenly very serious. "You really are speaking to the wrong demon. I'm not in that business any more. Got that? It's over, I'm out, farewell, so long and thanks for all the fish."
"You mean you just left them all to face that alone?" Connor looked stunned but now a tinge of anger began colouring his face. "You abandoned him?"
"I did my part," said Lorne, his own voice steely. "I helped Angel complete one battle, as I said I would. And I've tried to give him a foot up when it comes to his new one, but I can't be there when they start. I'm tired, I need to rest, Connor. One day when you're older, you'll begin to get that."
"I already do." Connor frowned and distractedly pushed his by now sodden hair more fully off his face. "Been there, done that. But it's different this time round... Hang on a sec," He fixed Lorne with a sharp look. "What do you mean, 'a foot up'?"
Lorne looked back up at the skyline. The flappy thing soared briefly back into view and then screeched back down, its intended path clear to the eye due to the searing white column of fire that preceded it. "Just a small one," he said with a grin.
*~*~*
Angel tumbled backwards, surprised to find cement crashing against his back rather than an armoured arm or poisoned talon.
The demons were fleeing, the alley emptying with surprising but not unwelcome speed.
Above them, the dragon came swooping back for another run. It rushed over them, lazily trailing a blazing path of death, destruction and glorious light along the way. As it reached Angel, one huge scaled limb lowered, a single curved claw hooking the vampire by the scruff of the neck. Angel saw the world flash past as he was tossed over a gigantic wing to land next to...
"It is good to see you again, Angel."
Angel blinked. "Erm..." Beneath them the ground and buildings were but a distant blur.
"Hold fast, Eric does tend to drop suddenly for these fast runs."
"Groo? What are you doARRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!"
*~*~*
"What's happening?" Gunn asked weakly.
Illyria considered the scene carefully. "Angel and a strange man-demon with white teeth ride the dragon, and the demons flee."
The rain pattered down into a pregnant silence.
"Illyria?"
"Yes, Charles."
"In the small hope I didn't just dream that, what's happening now?"
"Angel is screaming in terror and a group of men have appeared at the alley entrance. They are asking Spike for a light."
Gunn carefully digested these two snapshots of his surroundings. Well, the surroundings beyond his immediate surroundings. The dragon had only just appeared when Illyria suddenly announced she couldn't fight and be worrying about Charles at the same time. Gunn had found himself dumped, carefully and with minimal damage, but still dumped into a gap between the hardwood boxes stacked against one alley corner. His last view of the world had been the grey rain-blackened sky, and then Illyria stoppered up the gap with more boxes, sealing him in like some modern art form of the Russian Doll.
"Charles."
"Yes?"
"I believe we have won."
*~*~*
Connor reached the alley entrance at a dead run. He was rather surprised to find himself joining a crowd that had already gathered. Nearly thirty young men, most with hoods pulled up, jostled and pushed, apparently itching to get some signal that they were allowed to charge.
"Oh come on, Rondell! You must be done now!"
"Yeah, make tracks, man. Anne said he came looking for us, it must be urgent."
"Tick tock, Rondell."
In answer there was a small burst of flame showing over the tops of their heads. A ragged cheer arose.
"Right, kick their demon skulls in!"
Connor found himself watching the back of a thirty-man mob charge with much yelling into the rainy depths of the alley, the silhouette suddenly bristling so much weaponry as to resemble a rather bloodthirsty hedgehog.
"Interesting."
"Ain't it just," a voice replied from the shadows. There was the glow of a cigarette end and small cloud of exhaled smoke. Then came a rather damp fizzle and the red light faded. "Bugger."
"I... er... came to help," Connor offered weakly.
The mob slammed into the pathetic remnants of what one could only assume had once been an impressive demon army. Above them the dragon pulled up from its latest swoop, a final coughed fireball erupting where a last portal was just closing. Objects that had a vague limb-like quality sailed serenely through the air.
Spike gave Connor a rather weary look. "Well you might have gotten here a little sooner, mate. 'fraid all the fun ones have gone."
*~*~*
"Angel, are you quite well?"
Angel sternly told himself that he had often dropped over a thousand feet in less than five seconds and not felt queasy in the slightest. He couldn't remember such an incident at this precise moment in time, but that was beside the point.
"Fine," he managed with a ghastly grin, "just raring to go and get back on the ground and kill something."
Groo looked rather shamefaced. "I must apologise, Angel," he said, sounding and looking the very personification of contrition. "I am ashamed to admit all the demons have either fled through the portal or been slain. There are none left for you. This is a terrible turn of events, for a Champion to be cheated of what is his. Maybe if we open another portal and ask nicely..."
"No, no," Angel said hastily. "I'll live with the shame, really, it's fine. But get me on the ground; I have to look after my friends."
"The two unnaturally-coloured-haired creatures still stand and are safe."
"No, Gunn. He was injured, I muAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGH!!!"
The dragon dropped again.
*~*~*
"Gunn? Oh, he's gone, peaches," said Spike cheerfully.
Angel's face fell.
"To the hospital," Spike added dryly. He patted Angel on the shoulder. "Connor and Illyria had him out of here in a heartbeat. His pals followed on, said they'd call when they've got news." He proudly displayed a mobile phone of the most blinding shade of lime green.
"Oh... good." Angel looked up and down the alley. The dragon was curled up, happily munching on the last remains of the demon army, meticulously taking care of clean-up duty. "So, I... just wait here then."
"Looks like," Spike agreed. He pulled out a crushed and discoloured box of cigarettes and tried to coax out a white blobby shaped finger of paper and tobacco.
"Did Connor... Did he say anything? When did he get here?"
Spike gave up and dropped the sorry excuse for a smoke onto the ground. "Just said that this doesn't get you out of helping him with that application form tomorrow." He gave Angel a curious look. "This going to be your new business venture then? Helping the hapless student?"
Angel allowed himself a brief smile. "Go to hell, Spike."
"Love you too, gorgeous."
Angel felt his stomach plummet. "Oh God..."
"I was joking," said Spike hastily, with a faint look of alarm.
"No. Wesley."
*~*~*
One short dragonride later, during which even Spike realised that now was not the time for helpful advice, Angel peered up through the rain at the unlit mansion. Home of one Cyvus Vail.
"Wesley died a good death, Angel," Groo said solemnly, one hand resting on Eric's rain-sheened neck. "He is still remembered in Pylea, and he shall be here too."
"But I didn't want to have to remember him," Angel murmured. "I wanted..."
The interruption of the ringing phone might perhaps have been slightly more welcome had the dial tone not been the despicably cheerful 'Get Happy'. Although, Angel considered, it could have been playing Barber's Adagio and he still would have wanted to crush it into crunchy oblivion. Spike swore as he dug the thing out of his pocket, only to remember the rain. A problem quickly solved when Eric obligingly held out one wing. Crouching down, Spike held a brief muttered conversation, then re-ermerged.
"They're operating now, but the docs think he should be fine, apparently it's quite straightforward. Most were only flesh wounds." He looked at Angel uncertainly.
"You can smile about that, Spike."
"I'm pleased as punch for old Charlie," said Spike gravely. "But let's find out what we're dealing with before we go starting another Yay-We-Survived-The-Apocalypse party."
Angel turned back to the house, suddenly not wanting at all to go in. "Right."
*~*~*
The guards were all gone, doors left swinging open. As if they had all left in a great hurry. Which, considering the recent turn of events, was not that unlikely.
Angel followed his memory, carefully making his way along the twisty passageways to the central audience chamber. At first he hoped he was just being morbid, but as he got closer he could make out the definite smell of human blood. Recently spilt. And if his memories were also helpfully waving many past encounters with that scent, and that taste, then Angel was managing so far to stoically ignore them.
Instead, as he passed yet another smoky mirror and vivid portrait, Angel distracted himself by trying to sort through other memories. Trying to pinpoint the moment when he had fallen.
There had been, for instance, that odd twinge in the chest when, after stumbling up those still smouldering stairs through the charred office, he had seen that pale figure lying motionless and horribly quiet. It hadn't been love, but it had been concern. Real fright. A terrible endless moment of waiting to hear a heartbeat.
At this juncture his mind took a unexpected detour, pulling in the other senses to have their say. How Wesley's skin had felt under his hands, the feel of that warm body lying against his, how easy it had been to carry him...
'Hop on board, gorgeous.'
Angel stopped with a sharp sigh. Past memories uncoiled like a runaway reel of film, images and scents and colours and so many emotions cascading through him.
'He believes you'd make a play for my spot.'
'That's not very flattering.'
'It'll get you in the door.'
Was that really the last thing he had said? The thing was, he hadn't realised. That it would be the last time he would see him, speak to him... Was that really all he could offer? If he'd known, he could have told him, made sure he understood... There should have been more. Just one real, genuine conversation between the two of them, when neither had to pretend about anything, be it blue displaced Gods or trying to control Wolfram and Hart.
With a start, Angel realised he had kept on walking and now stood before two grand doors. This was not the audience room, but the dining room. And the now undeniable smell of blood sent a cold thrill through him.
"Alright then," he said softly, and pushed the doors open.
The first thing he noticed was a crumpled red-robed figure before a long dining table. The second was the chair leg sticking out of the stone-still chest. The third wasn't a sight at all, it was a sound...
Angel entered the room at a run, skidding a little on the stone floor as he curved round to see behind the partitioning columns.
His ears hadn't lied to him at all.
"Hey," said Wesley weakly, pale and exhausted, bloodied and bruised, but with heartbeat and pulse still strong.
*~*~*
"A glamour spell."
"Yes, Angel."
"A... a glamour spell. Illyria saw that because Vail just wanted more time with you."
"Angel, do we have to keep going over this?"
"I mean... seriously? He offered you the twelve cars, big house, private jets and all that if you'd be his apprentice?"
Wesley sighed and instantly winced as he moved a bruise. "More or less."
"Oh look, you clearly can't walk. Here, I'll carry you."
"Angel!"
"You've been through a lot; we don't want to make anything worse. Just let me-"
"Angel, I still have that other chair leg and I'm not afraid to use it."
"You really sure you can walk?"
"Yes... Erm... Could you give me hand up?"
Angel carefully helped Wes to his feet, watching anxiously as Wes swayed a little. There were several nasty looking gashes, but most had already stopped bleeding. Wesley had already assured him that they were all mostly superficial, nothing that couldn't be fixed by a stiff drink.
"Were you... did you ever think of saying 'Yes'?" Angel couldn't help asking, supporting Wes as they began their rather faltering process towards the exit.
"Angel," said Wesley patiently, "I had just awoken from the rather unpleasantly vivid illusion of having died from an extremely painful stabbing. I have to admit I wasn't really listening to much of what he said, much less giving it any thought."
Angel went silent for a few paces, then: "So you really thought you'd died."
"Oh yes. Had the whole life-flashing-before-the-eyes thing and everything."
"Wow."
"Indeed," and for some strange reason Wesley actually quirked a smile. "So not all bad." Then, in answer to Angel's quizzical stare, "It could have been worse. I got to see everyone I care about, even if they weren't really there, and tell them what I needed to. You have all the time in the world when you're dying."
"Oh. You mean with Illyria and Fred..."
"No, other people."
Again with that odd smile. Angel considered it for a moment and then gave up, returning to the other story in question. "So you told Vail no?"
"Obviously."
"He not pleased?"
Wesley gave Angel a look. "Well after a few minutes I hit that chair hard enough to break it. Although perhaps I added a few other words after the 'No' that upset him."
"And then you staked him?"
The answer was delayed as they negotiated their way round a fallen statue lying across the corridor.
"Yes," Wesley answered eventually. "He came over to gloat, but he was weak after that glamour spell. Well, weak enough." There was grim satisfaction in his voice. "And after that... you came." His tone changed again, but they had finally reached the main door and before Angel could respond, there was a loud 'Bloody hell!' from outside. And the moment, if that had been what it was, shattered.
Spike hurried up, looking from one to the other and shaking his head. "Lord almighty, is staying dead going out of fashion or something?" His lip twitched in the beginnings of a smile, and then he turned and hollered: "Groo! Better make room for another on Eric!"
"Spike, you're walking."
"What?" Spike looked indignant.
"Not enough room, wounded Watcher here, needs extra space," Angel continued firmly, moving past a fuming Spike.
"The Groosalugg?" Wesley wondered aloud, straining to see through the rain. "Good Lord, is that a real dragon?"
Angel grinned at him. "His name's Eric."
*~*~*
A few minutes sufficed to see Angel, Wes, Groo and Eric airborne and making their damp and soggy way back to the Hyperion. Wesley flatly refused to consider the hospital, insisting he just needed a few plasters and a whiskey and he'd be 'right as rain'.
Which, as it was currently still coming down in sheets, was not actually much of a comfort.
Groo sat cheerfully forward on Eric's long neck, apparently unconcerned at having his legs hanging over certain death and oblivion. He chatted about his exploits over the past year, and if Angel and Wes couldn't hear through the rain, Groo didn't seem to mind.
Wes was sitting, or to be more precise, slumped in front of Angel between Eric's two massive shoulder or wingblades, the exhaustion finally taking effect the moment Eric took off. Angel discovered he had no problem with letting Wes use him as a backrest, an armful of damp Wes unexpectedly turning out to be one of the unspoken perks of winning an apocalypse.
*~*~*
Well. Things could have been worse.
Angel shifted so Wes settled more snugly against him. The warmth soaked through his shirt and jacket.
"Angel, what are you doing?"
"You're shivering."
Which was true. Not shivering violently, more a slight tremble.
"Bodyheat. Sharing bodyheat. Need to keep you warm."
Well, technically this should help keep him warm. Insulation if nothing else.
Wesley's head, currently pillowed most comfortably by Angel's shoulder, turned and he gave Angel a faint muzzy smile. "How kind."
Don't try reading into that. It's just a smile.
Only then Wesley was gently folding his arm over Angel's, hand resting just above Angel's elbow.
Don't try reading...
Except for some reason Angel was lowering his head, his cheek grazing Wesley's. And Wesley was turning towards him and...
And then it was like electricity was mixed with the rain. Wesley's other hand squeezing the water out of his shirt, the other tangled in his hair. The warmth over Angel's fingers when they slipped under the old tan coat, that soft taste of salt, the feel of the curve of the jaw in the palm of his hand and breath grazing his own skin...
Screw reading it. He's stopped trembling. Must be doing something right.
Later, after Angel had politely asked Groo to take the proverbial scenic route, Eric lazily wheeled under the now cloudless skies. Stars glittered more clearly this high, the magnificent canopy of fretted fire helped out in the twinkling lights department by the passing planes. Angel put away his cell phone, having received an update on Gunn from a rather amused Spike. Charlie Boy was fine and craving lattes. Wesley dozed on, but when Angel whispered the news, he still smiled. Angel once again settled Wes against himself and let out a contented sigh.
Best. Apocalypse. Ever.
Not a very long fic, more a ficlet. And be warned. Here be dragons, a creaking humour and a rather tenuous link with canon/reality/good taste.
Title: Night's Swift Dragon
Author: lonelybrit
Rating: PG
Content: A look at what happened when the credits rolled for 'Not Fade Away'. Angel/Wes.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Notes: Inspired by cleolinda's 15 minute summary of The Day After Tomorrow, the film itself, a conversation about said film with esmerelda_t and the lovely 'Lie To Me' fic by Poodle. Huge thanks and snuggles to eloise_bright for a wonderful beta-ing!
Oh, and the title and LJ-cut quote come from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act III Scene II.
Night's Swift Dragon
This. Is the worst apocalypse ever.
Angel again swung the broadsword, neatly ending the close relationship the demon's head had previously been enjoying with its neck.
No. Really. This apocalypse has no redeeming features at all.
This time a stab and a nice squelchy tearing sound as he pulled the blade free.
My coat's ruined.
Stab.
My cars are now buried beneath God knows how many tons of rubble.
Twist, hack, withdraw... lather, rinse and repeat.
Think of something else.
More screams, a dive to the side and the blaze of fire missing him by inches.
Don't think about...
The broadsword skittered across the ground, coming up against a large hoof that was unfortunately still attached to a fully functioning gigantic goat's leg.
As Angel rolled out the way of the first stamp, he decided that realising you are, or were, in love with someone who has just died, just moments before you yourself expire, was quite possibly one of the worst feelings to ever have the bad luck to feel.
Worst apocalypse. Ever.
*~*~*
"Do the words 'batshit insane' ring any bells?" Lorne asked helplessly, trailing after a very determined Connor.
"Plenty," said Connor coolly. He looked up at the cloud-cast sky. A sickly glow had settled along the skyline in the direction of the Hyperion. Blues and purples shimmered off the rain and crackled across what looked suspiciously like some kind of vortex or portal. "If we survive this I'm going to love seeing what the weatherman blames this on."
"Look, Connor," Lorne persisted, "I really think you need to be taking your sweet self back home. If you want work experience right this instant then I know a very nice lady does the same kind of thing, only over the phone. But this needs to be left..."
"Lorne." Connor stopped and turned to face his green and exceedingly damp companion. "My Dad believes in doing what you have to, to protect those you love. Which is why I'm going back there. I have little sisters back home and two great parents. My place is between them and... whatever the hell just flew out of that portal."
They watched it flap about a bit and then swoop down out of sight.
"Looked like a dragon to me."
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
"Well thank God." Lorne visibly relaxed.
Connor stared.
Lorne began inspecting the surrounding buildings with a calculating eye. "Now which would give us the best view..."
"Lorne!"
"Cupcake," Lorne said, suddenly very serious. "You really are speaking to the wrong demon. I'm not in that business any more. Got that? It's over, I'm out, farewell, so long and thanks for all the fish."
"You mean you just left them all to face that alone?" Connor looked stunned but now a tinge of anger began colouring his face. "You abandoned him?"
"I did my part," said Lorne, his own voice steely. "I helped Angel complete one battle, as I said I would. And I've tried to give him a foot up when it comes to his new one, but I can't be there when they start. I'm tired, I need to rest, Connor. One day when you're older, you'll begin to get that."
"I already do." Connor frowned and distractedly pushed his by now sodden hair more fully off his face. "Been there, done that. But it's different this time round... Hang on a sec," He fixed Lorne with a sharp look. "What do you mean, 'a foot up'?"
Lorne looked back up at the skyline. The flappy thing soared briefly back into view and then screeched back down, its intended path clear to the eye due to the searing white column of fire that preceded it. "Just a small one," he said with a grin.
*~*~*
Angel tumbled backwards, surprised to find cement crashing against his back rather than an armoured arm or poisoned talon.
The demons were fleeing, the alley emptying with surprising but not unwelcome speed.
Above them, the dragon came swooping back for another run. It rushed over them, lazily trailing a blazing path of death, destruction and glorious light along the way. As it reached Angel, one huge scaled limb lowered, a single curved claw hooking the vampire by the scruff of the neck. Angel saw the world flash past as he was tossed over a gigantic wing to land next to...
"It is good to see you again, Angel."
Angel blinked. "Erm..." Beneath them the ground and buildings were but a distant blur.
"Hold fast, Eric does tend to drop suddenly for these fast runs."
"Groo? What are you doARRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!"
*~*~*
"What's happening?" Gunn asked weakly.
Illyria considered the scene carefully. "Angel and a strange man-demon with white teeth ride the dragon, and the demons flee."
The rain pattered down into a pregnant silence.
"Illyria?"
"Yes, Charles."
"In the small hope I didn't just dream that, what's happening now?"
"Angel is screaming in terror and a group of men have appeared at the alley entrance. They are asking Spike for a light."
Gunn carefully digested these two snapshots of his surroundings. Well, the surroundings beyond his immediate surroundings. The dragon had only just appeared when Illyria suddenly announced she couldn't fight and be worrying about Charles at the same time. Gunn had found himself dumped, carefully and with minimal damage, but still dumped into a gap between the hardwood boxes stacked against one alley corner. His last view of the world had been the grey rain-blackened sky, and then Illyria stoppered up the gap with more boxes, sealing him in like some modern art form of the Russian Doll.
"Charles."
"Yes?"
"I believe we have won."
*~*~*
Connor reached the alley entrance at a dead run. He was rather surprised to find himself joining a crowd that had already gathered. Nearly thirty young men, most with hoods pulled up, jostled and pushed, apparently itching to get some signal that they were allowed to charge.
"Oh come on, Rondell! You must be done now!"
"Yeah, make tracks, man. Anne said he came looking for us, it must be urgent."
"Tick tock, Rondell."
In answer there was a small burst of flame showing over the tops of their heads. A ragged cheer arose.
"Right, kick their demon skulls in!"
Connor found himself watching the back of a thirty-man mob charge with much yelling into the rainy depths of the alley, the silhouette suddenly bristling so much weaponry as to resemble a rather bloodthirsty hedgehog.
"Interesting."
"Ain't it just," a voice replied from the shadows. There was the glow of a cigarette end and small cloud of exhaled smoke. Then came a rather damp fizzle and the red light faded. "Bugger."
"I... er... came to help," Connor offered weakly.
The mob slammed into the pathetic remnants of what one could only assume had once been an impressive demon army. Above them the dragon pulled up from its latest swoop, a final coughed fireball erupting where a last portal was just closing. Objects that had a vague limb-like quality sailed serenely through the air.
Spike gave Connor a rather weary look. "Well you might have gotten here a little sooner, mate. 'fraid all the fun ones have gone."
*~*~*
"Angel, are you quite well?"
Angel sternly told himself that he had often dropped over a thousand feet in less than five seconds and not felt queasy in the slightest. He couldn't remember such an incident at this precise moment in time, but that was beside the point.
"Fine," he managed with a ghastly grin, "just raring to go and get back on the ground and kill something."
Groo looked rather shamefaced. "I must apologise, Angel," he said, sounding and looking the very personification of contrition. "I am ashamed to admit all the demons have either fled through the portal or been slain. There are none left for you. This is a terrible turn of events, for a Champion to be cheated of what is his. Maybe if we open another portal and ask nicely..."
"No, no," Angel said hastily. "I'll live with the shame, really, it's fine. But get me on the ground; I have to look after my friends."
"The two unnaturally-coloured-haired creatures still stand and are safe."
"No, Gunn. He was injured, I muAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGH!!!"
The dragon dropped again.
*~*~*
"Gunn? Oh, he's gone, peaches," said Spike cheerfully.
Angel's face fell.
"To the hospital," Spike added dryly. He patted Angel on the shoulder. "Connor and Illyria had him out of here in a heartbeat. His pals followed on, said they'd call when they've got news." He proudly displayed a mobile phone of the most blinding shade of lime green.
"Oh... good." Angel looked up and down the alley. The dragon was curled up, happily munching on the last remains of the demon army, meticulously taking care of clean-up duty. "So, I... just wait here then."
"Looks like," Spike agreed. He pulled out a crushed and discoloured box of cigarettes and tried to coax out a white blobby shaped finger of paper and tobacco.
"Did Connor... Did he say anything? When did he get here?"
Spike gave up and dropped the sorry excuse for a smoke onto the ground. "Just said that this doesn't get you out of helping him with that application form tomorrow." He gave Angel a curious look. "This going to be your new business venture then? Helping the hapless student?"
Angel allowed himself a brief smile. "Go to hell, Spike."
"Love you too, gorgeous."
Angel felt his stomach plummet. "Oh God..."
"I was joking," said Spike hastily, with a faint look of alarm.
"No. Wesley."
*~*~*
One short dragonride later, during which even Spike realised that now was not the time for helpful advice, Angel peered up through the rain at the unlit mansion. Home of one Cyvus Vail.
"Wesley died a good death, Angel," Groo said solemnly, one hand resting on Eric's rain-sheened neck. "He is still remembered in Pylea, and he shall be here too."
"But I didn't want to have to remember him," Angel murmured. "I wanted..."
The interruption of the ringing phone might perhaps have been slightly more welcome had the dial tone not been the despicably cheerful 'Get Happy'. Although, Angel considered, it could have been playing Barber's Adagio and he still would have wanted to crush it into crunchy oblivion. Spike swore as he dug the thing out of his pocket, only to remember the rain. A problem quickly solved when Eric obligingly held out one wing. Crouching down, Spike held a brief muttered conversation, then re-ermerged.
"They're operating now, but the docs think he should be fine, apparently it's quite straightforward. Most were only flesh wounds." He looked at Angel uncertainly.
"You can smile about that, Spike."
"I'm pleased as punch for old Charlie," said Spike gravely. "But let's find out what we're dealing with before we go starting another Yay-We-Survived-The-Apocalypse party."
Angel turned back to the house, suddenly not wanting at all to go in. "Right."
*~*~*
The guards were all gone, doors left swinging open. As if they had all left in a great hurry. Which, considering the recent turn of events, was not that unlikely.
Angel followed his memory, carefully making his way along the twisty passageways to the central audience chamber. At first he hoped he was just being morbid, but as he got closer he could make out the definite smell of human blood. Recently spilt. And if his memories were also helpfully waving many past encounters with that scent, and that taste, then Angel was managing so far to stoically ignore them.
Instead, as he passed yet another smoky mirror and vivid portrait, Angel distracted himself by trying to sort through other memories. Trying to pinpoint the moment when he had fallen.
There had been, for instance, that odd twinge in the chest when, after stumbling up those still smouldering stairs through the charred office, he had seen that pale figure lying motionless and horribly quiet. It hadn't been love, but it had been concern. Real fright. A terrible endless moment of waiting to hear a heartbeat.
At this juncture his mind took a unexpected detour, pulling in the other senses to have their say. How Wesley's skin had felt under his hands, the feel of that warm body lying against his, how easy it had been to carry him...
'Hop on board, gorgeous.'
Angel stopped with a sharp sigh. Past memories uncoiled like a runaway reel of film, images and scents and colours and so many emotions cascading through him.
'He believes you'd make a play for my spot.'
'That's not very flattering.'
'It'll get you in the door.'
Was that really the last thing he had said? The thing was, he hadn't realised. That it would be the last time he would see him, speak to him... Was that really all he could offer? If he'd known, he could have told him, made sure he understood... There should have been more. Just one real, genuine conversation between the two of them, when neither had to pretend about anything, be it blue displaced Gods or trying to control Wolfram and Hart.
With a start, Angel realised he had kept on walking and now stood before two grand doors. This was not the audience room, but the dining room. And the now undeniable smell of blood sent a cold thrill through him.
"Alright then," he said softly, and pushed the doors open.
The first thing he noticed was a crumpled red-robed figure before a long dining table. The second was the chair leg sticking out of the stone-still chest. The third wasn't a sight at all, it was a sound...
Angel entered the room at a run, skidding a little on the stone floor as he curved round to see behind the partitioning columns.
His ears hadn't lied to him at all.
"Hey," said Wesley weakly, pale and exhausted, bloodied and bruised, but with heartbeat and pulse still strong.
*~*~*
"A glamour spell."
"Yes, Angel."
"A... a glamour spell. Illyria saw that because Vail just wanted more time with you."
"Angel, do we have to keep going over this?"
"I mean... seriously? He offered you the twelve cars, big house, private jets and all that if you'd be his apprentice?"
Wesley sighed and instantly winced as he moved a bruise. "More or less."
"Oh look, you clearly can't walk. Here, I'll carry you."
"Angel!"
"You've been through a lot; we don't want to make anything worse. Just let me-"
"Angel, I still have that other chair leg and I'm not afraid to use it."
"You really sure you can walk?"
"Yes... Erm... Could you give me hand up?"
Angel carefully helped Wes to his feet, watching anxiously as Wes swayed a little. There were several nasty looking gashes, but most had already stopped bleeding. Wesley had already assured him that they were all mostly superficial, nothing that couldn't be fixed by a stiff drink.
"Were you... did you ever think of saying 'Yes'?" Angel couldn't help asking, supporting Wes as they began their rather faltering process towards the exit.
"Angel," said Wesley patiently, "I had just awoken from the rather unpleasantly vivid illusion of having died from an extremely painful stabbing. I have to admit I wasn't really listening to much of what he said, much less giving it any thought."
Angel went silent for a few paces, then: "So you really thought you'd died."
"Oh yes. Had the whole life-flashing-before-the-eyes thing and everything."
"Wow."
"Indeed," and for some strange reason Wesley actually quirked a smile. "So not all bad." Then, in answer to Angel's quizzical stare, "It could have been worse. I got to see everyone I care about, even if they weren't really there, and tell them what I needed to. You have all the time in the world when you're dying."
"Oh. You mean with Illyria and Fred..."
"No, other people."
Again with that odd smile. Angel considered it for a moment and then gave up, returning to the other story in question. "So you told Vail no?"
"Obviously."
"He not pleased?"
Wesley gave Angel a look. "Well after a few minutes I hit that chair hard enough to break it. Although perhaps I added a few other words after the 'No' that upset him."
"And then you staked him?"
The answer was delayed as they negotiated their way round a fallen statue lying across the corridor.
"Yes," Wesley answered eventually. "He came over to gloat, but he was weak after that glamour spell. Well, weak enough." There was grim satisfaction in his voice. "And after that... you came." His tone changed again, but they had finally reached the main door and before Angel could respond, there was a loud 'Bloody hell!' from outside. And the moment, if that had been what it was, shattered.
Spike hurried up, looking from one to the other and shaking his head. "Lord almighty, is staying dead going out of fashion or something?" His lip twitched in the beginnings of a smile, and then he turned and hollered: "Groo! Better make room for another on Eric!"
"Spike, you're walking."
"What?" Spike looked indignant.
"Not enough room, wounded Watcher here, needs extra space," Angel continued firmly, moving past a fuming Spike.
"The Groosalugg?" Wesley wondered aloud, straining to see through the rain. "Good Lord, is that a real dragon?"
Angel grinned at him. "His name's Eric."
*~*~*
A few minutes sufficed to see Angel, Wes, Groo and Eric airborne and making their damp and soggy way back to the Hyperion. Wesley flatly refused to consider the hospital, insisting he just needed a few plasters and a whiskey and he'd be 'right as rain'.
Which, as it was currently still coming down in sheets, was not actually much of a comfort.
Groo sat cheerfully forward on Eric's long neck, apparently unconcerned at having his legs hanging over certain death and oblivion. He chatted about his exploits over the past year, and if Angel and Wes couldn't hear through the rain, Groo didn't seem to mind.
Wes was sitting, or to be more precise, slumped in front of Angel between Eric's two massive shoulder or wingblades, the exhaustion finally taking effect the moment Eric took off. Angel discovered he had no problem with letting Wes use him as a backrest, an armful of damp Wes unexpectedly turning out to be one of the unspoken perks of winning an apocalypse.
*~*~*
Well. Things could have been worse.
Angel shifted so Wes settled more snugly against him. The warmth soaked through his shirt and jacket.
"Angel, what are you doing?"
"You're shivering."
Which was true. Not shivering violently, more a slight tremble.
"Bodyheat. Sharing bodyheat. Need to keep you warm."
Well, technically this should help keep him warm. Insulation if nothing else.
Wesley's head, currently pillowed most comfortably by Angel's shoulder, turned and he gave Angel a faint muzzy smile. "How kind."
Don't try reading into that. It's just a smile.
Only then Wesley was gently folding his arm over Angel's, hand resting just above Angel's elbow.
Don't try reading...
Except for some reason Angel was lowering his head, his cheek grazing Wesley's. And Wesley was turning towards him and...
And then it was like electricity was mixed with the rain. Wesley's other hand squeezing the water out of his shirt, the other tangled in his hair. The warmth over Angel's fingers when they slipped under the old tan coat, that soft taste of salt, the feel of the curve of the jaw in the palm of his hand and breath grazing his own skin...
Screw reading it. He's stopped trembling. Must be doing something right.
Later, after Angel had politely asked Groo to take the proverbial scenic route, Eric lazily wheeled under the now cloudless skies. Stars glittered more clearly this high, the magnificent canopy of fretted fire helped out in the twinkling lights department by the passing planes. Angel put away his cell phone, having received an update on Gunn from a rather amused Spike. Charlie Boy was fine and craving lattes. Wesley dozed on, but when Angel whispered the news, he still smiled. Angel once again settled Wes against himself and let out a contented sigh.
Best. Apocalypse. Ever.