Wesley Wyndam-Pryce

the emotional maturity of a blueberry scone

neg: pained (eyes closed)
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce wesleynotponcy
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Wesley's Office at the Hyperion Hotel | Los Angeles, CA | Very Late Monday Night, Fandom Time
It had been a long few days for Wesley since Warren and Karla's visit.

First there had been certain difficulties with Fred and Gunn since the start of their relationship. Wesley had been raised as a Watcher and had been taught all his life to respect women; he knew better than to suppose that Fred had ever owed him any attention or affection, and he knew that it would be unfair to hold her choice of partner against her, particularly when he had never made his feelings known to her. But it hurt all the same when she inserted herself into dangerous cases that Wesley had rather hoped Gunn could manage alone, then consequently (as he'd predicted they might) botched the job due to the understandable distractions of working with one's significant other. The implication that she valued Gunn more than their work, and would go against instructions in order to be with him regardless of the increased danger -- Wesley didn't like that at all.

But that was a minor grievance compared to what he unearthed very late Monday night, an unsettling, disturbing revelation tucked away in a line of the Nyazian scrolls that had already foretold so much about baby Connor and his birth: The father will kill the son.

The next thing Wesley knew was the hesitant shifting of one of the pages pinned between the desk and his forehead, and that was enough to jolt him awake with a start.

"Don't touch that," he said sharply as he looked up to meet the blurry outlines of Gunn and Fred. He hadn't so much as removed his glasses before falling asleep, apparently; he could feel them askew on his forehead. As he reached up to adjust them, he realized the sharpness of his tone might raise concern; softening somewhat, he explained, "They're just -- in a specific order; I'll be lost."

Where Gunn looked pleased with the dedication, Fred looked... worried, almost? Wesley didn't know what to think of that. He shut his eyes, wondering how much time he'd actually wasted on sleep. "What time is it?"

Before one of the others could answer, he received what he supposed must have been intended as an answer in the form of Angel's jovial, "Time for Wesley to wakey-wakey!" as he strode into the office, baby Connor in hand.

Connor. Wesley felt a painful jolt. The father will kill the son. He hastily shuffled his pages into a single pile, keeping his eyes on his work rather than on Angel or the baby. "I must have lost track of time," he said. "I meant to, ah. Go home."

"Road to hell, right?" Angel asked -- still rather cheerily for someone who'd actually been to the place in question. He bounced the baby in his arms, looking to Wes with something like expectancy in his eyes. Wesley didn't know what it was that Angel expected.

"So, Wes," said Gunn, reaching to flip through a book at random, "find any answers in these stuffy books of yours?"

Cryptically, Angel chided, "He knows the answer. He's just looking for the question."

Wesley wasn't entirely certain that that was true.

"So," he said, grappling for words, "have we heard anything from--"

"Say," Angel interrupted him. "Do you want to see Connor do something cool?" Wesley very much did not, but Angel smiled toothily -- and then suddenly, doubly toothily as he shifted into his true, vampiric face. Even as Wesley gasped, "Don't," Angel grinned and tilted his head down toward the baby. "I'm teaching him how to die."

Gunn and Fred merely smiled, and Wesley felt a sudden gushing of viscous fluid between his hands as Gunn remarked, "Tick-tock, Wes. Running out of time."

Panicked, Wesley looked down to see that the substance between his fingers was blood, thicker and deeper red than even the coating of Connor's blood around Angel's upturned mouth -- but it was the visual of his hands rather than Angel that jolted him awake to a room that was considerably brighter than the version of his office that he had just dreamt.

The real Connor was wrapped in a different-colored blanket and cradled safely in Angel's arms when Wesley awoke, with Fred and Gunn nowhere in sight. "Morning, Wes," Angel said mildly, undeterred by Connor's tiny hand grabbing at his chin. "Been here all night?"

[[nfb, nfi, ooc is delightful as always, eeeeeeee, the usual. taken from angel 3x15 "loyalty." FINALLY BEING UP TO THIS ARC MAKES ME SO HAPPY.]]


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