FicWad

Title: Deduction Preserves the Truth
Author: LillianMorgan
Rating: Mostly R but NC-17 in one or two places
Setting: mid-/Spin the Bottle/, AtS Season 4
Pairing: Wes/Angel
Disclaimer: I don't own Joss' and ME's toys.
A/N: Thanks to yourlibrarian for the wonderful beta job.
The story starts as Wes, Gunn and Fred are searching for the 'vampire' in the Hyperion kitchen.....

Deduction Preserves the Truth

Wesley still couldn't get over the fact that he wasn't wearing braces. He kept reaching for them, plucking at their non-existence, but instead he found the jacket - a sort of older man's jacket. What with the stubble on his face, and his new apparel, he wasn't quite certain what had become of his identity, of the way he had transformed from what he knew, Head Boy, to something completely different. He felt, overwhelmingly, that trouble, with a capital T, had forced this change. Weeks, maybe months, spent away from England trapped in this hotel, with these American strangers, seemed to be just the beginning of his newfound turmoil.

And as he followed after his two other partners, comrades in confusion, searching the passages for the evil vampire who sought their destruction, he clung more feverently to his coat lapels. He wished he had thought to pick up an axe; not that he knew especially how to use it, because axe training was one of his weaker disciplines, and they hadn't really moved from rapier training at school. But an axe would make him feel ... more ... safe.

Still, he wouldn't be one to dwell too long on a confusing situation - his motivation now was to discover the truth behind this perplexing conundrum in which he found himself. 'Correct summation, my man!' he thought - revelation was the only way out of this. Flicking the collar of his jacket, he lowered his head in his best Philip Marlowe impression and attuned his thoughts in the way of a hard-boiled dick; and then the explanation was so clear. He was living the dream and now just had to put his mind into action (and his fists only if necessary), crack a few jokes, drink a few whiskeys, seduce a countess but save a virgin and the case would be solved. After all he wasn't Head Boy for nothing, and he could always karate his way out of a tight spot and there were those menacing implements up his arms. He was still Wesley Wyndham-Pryce - dashing poster-boy for the lads in the Lower and Upper Fourth and many in his own class if Spencer's glances and shy smiles were any evidence.

Yes, that's right, he was a Watcher - well a Watcher in training, but still, he possessed the burgeoning excitement that one day he might lead a brave Slayer into the fray, fighting those dastardedly vampires, and keeping the world safe from the forces of evil, nasty things! - so let's not be too pedantic on semantics, Watcher, Trainee Watcher, the most important word was still in the title and that was what made him what he was and after all ... what was he saying again?

"I'm a Watcher!" Wesley exclaimed to the bald man, whose name was, most amusingly, Gunn, and the petite girl with the ever-so-slightly grating Southern accent, as if she were a displaced Margaret Mitchell heroine, as they searched through the hotel kitchen. "I'm a Watcher, and that must mean that somewhere about the place there should be books or documents aiding us with more information about our predicament. The Watchers' Council would not just leave us floundering in this situation without the necessary tools of research that would-"

"Hold up," said the boy again, "whatcha talkin' about now? I started blocking you out when you opened your mouth."

The girl sniggered and Wesley drew himself up tall. He knew very well how to deal with insubordinates after all.

"Research, my good man, research. There must be a library that would give more clues to our situation. Come on, follow me."

Naggingly, it took them too long to follow after him, and as he led the way back to the hotel foyer, where they'd all started the search, their giggles and whispers echoed as loudly as their footsteps. Wesley tiptoed past the sleeping Karathmama...nyuhg demon, not quite willing to admit that it was easier to ignore the demon when it was slumbering, head securely resting on its chest.

Sure enough, in the antechamber, was a cupboard filled with books and ancient tomes on demonology. He started pulling out books by age and perusing them, handing the less descriptive ones to the girl, and the more frightening ones to the boy.

In vain they searched for some kind of clue, some evidence that the Watchers' Council had provided for him (perhaps even in code) so as to help piece together what the situation was and how best to find their way out of it. The boy complained too much about why they were reading when they could be, as he so eloquently put it, "busting some vampire ass," so Wesley said, "Why don't the two of you search the rooms around the foyer? I'll continue the research and we should meet up in 30 minutes, report back on the progress we've made."

"Suits me," said Gunn.

The girl looked at Wesley with large eyes, filled with fear, and to comfort her, he patted her on the head. "There, there, miss. Never fear, I'm sure something can be found from the books and we'll know just what we're up against and how best to destroy it."

The two of them wandered off, commenting about something Wesley was not sure of, and he walked around the room, looking for hidden compartments, anything that could help him regain their equilibrium.

***

Sitting amongst a pile of books and records, that he would most certainly return to their rightful order upon completion, Wesley discovered what he'd been looking for - at least he didn't realise it at the time - but it was a treasure of emotions buried so deep that only his subconscious could recognise its importance.

It was a large, thick A4 textbook with the words "Log of Angel Investigations" emblazoned on the front. He opened to the front page and read the first few words, recognising the tight, centred lines and twists of his own script:
I, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, former Watcher, current employee of Angel, hereby intend to chronicle all cases undertaken by the Angel Investigations Team (We Help the Helpless). This log acts as a source of reference for all clients, situations, demon activity, rates of pay and unsolved cases that Angel Investigations has undertaken since 18th December 1999 (when I joined the firm).

First meeting of the Angel Investigations office team called to order.

Present: Wesley Wyndham-Pryce

Apologies: Angel, Cordelia Chase

Well, this most certainly was interesting - a clue no less - for here was Miss Chase's name in his own handwriting and that of the mysterious stranger, Angel, perhaps a cohort or friend. Where was he though? There had been no mention of an Angel when they'd earlier introduced themselves in the foyer.

He continued to read about various situations this team (his team?) had investigated, each measured and full of detail in his peerless style, until he came to an entry, about a quarter of the way in, that seemed to discuss an underground demon fight club.


There were a group of demons captured by Darin MacNamara which I later identified as the following:
Washmarii,
Xingloff,
Kratzenyagoo
Sqagthaff
Muo
Fdstohy Sxez
among which Angel was imprisoned.

But the intriguing thing in this entry was that alongside the list of demons were, in a flowing, ornate script, the words:
Not Muo, but its close relative, Zqa

Wesley sat up, a little disquietened. He never let anyone read or comment in his logs that he kept at the Watchers' Academy. How could this be possible? Had some rogue read through his entries and decided to graffiti his perfect annotations? Or perhaps it was this elusive Angel (his employer? confidant?) who had gone over the records and made additions? Wesley strained to locate pictures of any of the demons listed here from his memory banks, but the information would not surface.

He continued reading about the boxing scam, although his mind was now searching for the ornate script once again.

We were penned in by electrical restraints, Wes, there was no magic about that sting.

The account continued in the same style but in the margin were pepperings of another type of commentary.

You looked pretty hot in that tux, though.

Why should I stop? It's much more fun to tease you.

You're very cute when you try to ignore me. Makes me want you more.

Why don't you put your tux on again, and I can watch you slowly disrobe? Or maybe I'll tie you up in my bed, clothed in that tux so I can have you, hard, and punishing you for how good you look.

Do you think you're pleasing me by writing in this book when I'd rather you sucked my hardening cock? Why don't you stop scribbling like the callow schoolboy you know you're not and wrap your heated, human, gorgeous lips around me-

The words wobbled off the page, as if interrupted, and Wesley slammed the book shut, a little bit of horror, a little bit of something else reddening his cheeks. Well, it seemed this Angel fellow was a bit more than what Wesley had originally thought. He put the book aside, his mind asserting he certainly wouldn't find the answers to their current situation in /there/, and wandered around the annex some more.

But sooner rather than later he went back to the book, opened it at random and found the entries had changed a little in style to something akin to a diary:

Late one night, in the office, whilst I was researching portents for the new moon and the demons that might surface thereafter, Angel sat across from me reading Nietzsche. At least I was trying to research, for my mind couldn't help wandering: what might happen should Angel invite me down to his bed, tell me to strip or even ask me for some tea? But instead in the middle of my note-taking he said, "You should go home, Wes." A little taken aback, I mumbled, the hurt possibly too evident in my voice, "Really? Is that what you want? Because, I could stay and we could go down........" And he looked me directly in the eye, and said, "I've lost people. People that I care about. Devotion to the cause is a heavy price to pay. Go home. Get some rest. Research will be here tomorrow."
If nothing else, I am dutiful to those I care about. So I did.
It was not long after that I was kidnapped and realised the intent behind his words.

~

All through the ever-lasting torture at Faith's hands I kept thinking "Stay strong, stay strong. Believe yourself to be Angel, believe that he would get through this too, believe that this will only last so long and then it will be over." And I could hear his voice saying the words to me as she began to cut my face with the broken glass.

~

I lay in that hospital bed, the burns pulling at my will to live, and the first face I saw, when I opened my destroyed eyes, was his. And I thought I was in heaven, because I was beyond joy. He had come to me and he kissed and held me and whispered that he would take care of me, now and forever, and I knew this couldn't be heaven because no creature of such beauty would ever be allowed to take attention away from the other angels.

~

The first time Angel actually took me, it was in the Hyperion. On every other occasion I had given him fellatio or masturbated him to climax, and I gathered his cum in my mouth or hand as if it were a boon. It seemed as if he wanted me to go through a rite of passage before he could take me, in a bed, in comfort, to draw out the pain and pleasure of the first time. I never really sought to understand his intentions, deeply psychological as they were, for more often than not I would be far too swept up in what was happening to think straight. In my desire to please, I had still mumbled something about the possible danger of losing the soul (well if he loved me as much as I loved....), reverting somehow as if by rote to my former Watcher status, and he had laughed - a weary, knowing laugh. "99% of the best relationships are based on acceptable happiness. Do you think I never fucked anyone except Buffy in all those years?" And even though that stung ever so slightly, the feeling of Angel within me, overpowering me, descending on me made up for the unknowingly cruel words in a trice.

~

He let me call him "gorgeous". In bed.

~

The sex was never as joyful as it was in the weeks after he'd just moved to the Hyperion. It was as if a new beginning in his living arrangements, signalled a new beginning in his relationship with me. I felt adored, adulated, admired. And he must surely have recognised these feelings were returned back to him, tenfold. I told him often enough. He once read to me in bed, from a book of Celtic wisdom, and the one line that remained with me was this:
May you never be isolated; but may you always be in the gentle nest of belonging with your anam cara.
He never said it explicitly, but I took that passage to mean much more for the both of us.
When the change occurred, in my own inimitable, naive way, I thought it was retribution for the pink helmet. Looking back, I suppose I'm almost pleased it wasn't about me, but her.

~

Darla was back (God knows through what kind of black magic) and this meant that he came to me less and less. When he spoke it was purely about business or Cordelia or the evil lawyers. His voice never dropped to those dulcet tones that seduced me so. God how I hated her, that trollop. But he was consumed by her; the idea that she was alive and being held by Wolfram and Hart dominated his every intention, and I watched him wandering about the hotel, disconsolate, thinking only of her.

He did come to me once in that bleak time and he had me, hard and desperate, and all the while I kept thinking "I love him" but in his eyes I could tell that I was not who he wanted me to be, he was only trying to forget her.

~

The events in the alley outside the remains of Caritas are still so unbelievable. A vampire giving birth to a baby.

~

Angel is so happy with Connor. He takes care of him. Gunn, Cordelia, Fred all marvel at his natural instincts to protect, they laugh and joke with him "the big vampire softie" but I know he had it in him. When he looks at me his smile only enlightens how proud he is to be a father, proud to be able to express his love so unconditionally to another being with nothing but his heart and soul on offer. I know he can do this. He takes care of all his boys.

~

When I read the prophecy I knew what I had to do, it was my first instinct, my first reaction. Unfortunately, the reactions that followed swiftly afterwards made me doubt, made me waver so hard that I nearly fell apart. But I wonder what terrible thing would make him ... what terrible place he must reach to do that ... what unknowable, unending horror - and that was the desire that steeled me. I wanted to protect him from ever reaching that place of utter desolation that would force him to kill his son. I knew what to do.

The diary stopped there, suddenly, and Wesley was still at a loss as to what the words meant. Mention of a 'soul', and there were women - Faith, Buffy, Darla - and a baby boy who obviously meant /something/. He couldn't escape the tone, though, of that last entry, the desperation that seemed to imbue the words. And then there was the fact that he gave himself, willingly, to another man, for whom he seemed to have feelings. This was beyond anything he could ever-

Wesley started replacing the books in the proper order, troubled by what he had found. As he strained to put the last remaining textbook, a book on demons from Asia Minor, back to its rightful place on the top shelf, it slipped through his hands and fell awkwardly to the floor. A piece of paper flew out of it. Wesley turned it over and found it was a portrait of a man - his face covered with stubble, his eyes intense, his mouth formed a line in desolate grimness, a puckered scar drew its way across his neck - and he realised with a shock that it was a drawing of himself. He had hardly recognised himself! Turning it over again he found two words on the back, written in the ornate, flowing script he had found in the log, but in a language it took him a moment to place:

Anam Cara

Gunn and the girl returned, loudly, proclaiming they had found nothing. The couple drew his attention away from the sketching so he placed it in his inner coat pocket, surreptitiously, and realised then why he was wearing this jacket. It took a while for the other two to arrive, so Wesley decided to look at the Karathmama...nyuhg demon rather than think or discuss what he had found. When Miss Chase and Liam descended the stairs stating that they too had found nothing, Wesley realised it was dark outside, night had overtaken them and the vampire would come out to play. So they began to discuss the vampire, testing each other, until the green demon stirred awake.

**

As soon as Lorne had put the paste on his tongue that restored his memories, Wes departed the Hyperion. Fred would inform him, no doubt, of the events that followed. He didn't want to know, be around them all knowing; he just wanted to be away from them and this all-consuming drama. And not look at the anger that framed Connor's face - the way his eyes slitted in disgust at Angel - that he had nearly killed Angel, and it had been Wes' fault. Oh, the irony.

He entered wearily into his flat, wanting nothing more than to cast aside the futile boy that had been trapped inside him for the evening. The taste of innocence, now so utterly denied to him, was unbearable.

Frowning at the memory of the books, he reached inside his jacket for the picture Angel had drawn of him. He must have done it that day, or possibly a few days before. Even if their rapprochement might never be gained, at least, they now saw one another which gave Angel the opportunity to put pencil to paper. Wesley knew of the existence of others - many of Darla always wearing a different dress (or more often than not wearing nothing at all); a few of the teenage Buffy, the girl he recognised from Sunnydale High School, not the woman she had inevitably become; Baby Connor, often asleep or in Cordelia's arms; Drusilla, but only ever her face and hands, never full length pictures, as if Angel never wanted to forget her eyes; a curly-haired boy he later recognised as Spike. In all their time together, even though Angel had scribbled often enough in his log, lying naked, joined or apart, afterwards, sated, he had never known that Angel had drawn a picture of him.

Wes turned it over on instinct remembering the lines of Gaelic Angel had written. And then he smiled, his lips cracking in disuse, and, for a moment, he remembered how to believe in hope. Something washed over him and he recognised it belatedly as happiness. Had Angel forgiven him? Well, perhaps there was a way to go, but in this picture, in these lines, there was the kernel of hope that he would, some day.

Happiness was always found in the little things, the miniscule moments of life, that pass by so fleetingly we don't notice their importance until it is too late and we have missed revelling in the moment. But Wes took a moment, just a moment, to revel. And the dreams that came to him that night were peaceful, loving, restorative.

Finis

A/N
Anam Cara is Gaelic for Soul Friend