Fic: "All Roads Lead to..." (Angel/Wes)

Title: All Roads Lead To...
Summary: Post BtVS S3/Post AtS S3. Wesley searches for a purpose.
Rating: PG-13

When Wesley left Sunnydale, nobody noticed. After Graduation Day, he had tried to contact Giles, but the man never seemed to be home. He never bothered with any of the children, but he thought he should at least inform Giles that he intended to leave, in case anybody asked after him. But then, who would ask after him?

He spent a few quiet days in his small flat, considering his options. He didn’t have many. The Council refused to pay for his flight home. He had enough in savings to cover the cost of the ticket, but that was it. Once he arrived in London, he wouldn’t have the money to secure a flat, to feed himself, or even change to take the subway. Asking his father for help was totally out of the question, and he didn’t even consider the option. He had failed, and if he knew one thing, he knew that failure would not be tolerated.

Wesley knew he couldn’t stay in Sunnydale. The only thing keeping him that horrid little town was his duty to the Council and to the Slayer, and neither one of them wanted him or his sense of duty. His rent was covered until the end of the month, but after that, his lease would be up, and the end of the month was only a week away.

It didn’t take long to pack. He only had two suits, a few books, some weapons, and a smattering of personal items. He was able to fit everything into a single duffle bag—the fewer things he had to carry around, the better it would be.

Wesley didn’t like to dwell on mistakes that couldn’t be fixed. It would take entirely too much of his time. It seemed he could barely dress himself in the morning without making a mistake. But he couldn’t help but mourn for the lost opportunities, the chances he missed to connect to…

#
Angel.

When Wesley slipped through the dark allies of Los Angeles, nobody noticed. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Mainly, he just wanted to be out of his apartment, and somewhere Lilah couldn’t find him. He knew he was taking a huge risk with his life—he wasn’t strong enough to defend himself. He had target written across his forehead in blood and he didn’t care enough to fix it.

It didn’t help that he constantly drew attention to his neck. The white bandage would act as a beacon, even if he didn’t touch it, draw the eyes with his thin, pale fingers.

It didn’t take long to unpack. He had spent so much of his time at the Hyperion, and when it was time to leave, he had nothing to show for it except a small, cardboard box. They kept most of his books, and he would be annoyed by that later. He had a few changes of clothes in one of the rooms, but they wouldn’t have known about that.

Wesley knew why he left his apartment every night just before dusk and didn’t return until just after dawn. He wasn’t looking for Angel, he was looking for a…

#
Purpose.

The sullen young man glaring at him over his father’s shoulder reminded Wesley a great deal of Faith. He had the same insolent look around the eyes, and the same lazy, cruel smile. He also had the same barely disguised feelings of contempt and anger. Wesley could feel it rolling off him in waves.

“It is quite the deal,” Wesley said brightly, looking away from the young man to his Big Dog bike.

“I told my worthless son if he couldn’t get his grades up, it would be gone,” Ross said gruffly.

And suddenly, Wesley saw himself in the sullen young man.

“Yes. Well. Teenagers.” He offered a small shrug and smile. “They can be quite the handful.”

Ross eyed him critically. “You look a little too young to have teenagers of your own Mr…”

“Pryce,” Wesley said simply. “I recently had two teenage girls in my charge.”

“What happened to them?” This was from the boy. His lip was curled in a snarl.

“One is in a persistent vegetative state, and the other is starting college soon,” Wesley said, matter-of-factly.

“Cash,” Ross said before his son could ask another question. “I want it in cash.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Wesley said, pulling his wallet out of his jacket pocket. He had withdrawn the last of his meager funds that morning, and it pained him to part with it, but one couldn’t rely on public transportation in southern California. Furthermore, he had no intention of staying in southern California, and the bike was a far wiser investment.

“You’ll need a jacket,” the boy said. “And a helmet.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ll throw in mine for another two hundred.”

“That’s very generous,” Wesley said, the pain in his chest sharpening. “But I’m afraid I don’t have it.”

“Consider it part of the cost of the bike,” Ross said. “The boy won’t have any further use for it.”

“Oh, that’s…I…couldn’t. Really.”

“You need the proper…”

#

Clothes.

Though Cordelia thought he was a fashion reject, and though his closet hardly boasted a variety of choices, Wesley understood that ones appearance truly did make a difference. When he first arrived in Sunnydale, his suits were his armor—ineffectual and thin, but armor all the same.

Suits wouldn’t have worked for a rogue demon hunter, of course, and he still had his leathers in the back of his closet. He couldn’t look at them without feeling a pang of—nostalgia? Regret? Humiliation? Shame? It was worse now. Worse to remember the days before Los Angeles, worse to remember the way he rode into town and Angel’s life.

He had been sloppy in the past several months, relying far too heavily on his collection of t-shirts and jeans. He had been at ease, comfortable, and allowed himself to dress casually. But now he didn’t have anything proper to wear and he…

A fist came out of nowhere and connected solidly with his nose.

Wesley staggered back, blood flowing freely down his face and chin, staining his shirt. There was a high buzzing in his ears. He looked around for his attacker, naturally setting his body in a defensive position, but he saw no one. The gun in the shoulder holster seemed hot and heavy against his ribs, but he didn’t reach for it immediately. He had bought it for self-defense, and it seemed foolish not to have it at the ready, but he couldn’t see.

Wesley touched his face where his glasses should be and realized that they were broken, hanging from his ears into two pieces. “Bloody hell,” he murmured, before the same meaty fist smashed into his ear.

Now the buzzing turned into a ringing, and the fuzzy world began to grow dark. He hit his knees hard enough to send a series of shocks through his body. God, he ached. Somehow, he heard his assailant move again, and this time, he was able to block the blow. While he fended the attacker off with one hand, he brought his stake out with the other. It was impossible to know if he was being attacked by a vampire, but a pointy object in the heart would stop just about anything.

He slammed the stake home, and dust mingled with the blood falling from his nose, his mouth, and his ears, creating a thick mask. Wesley wiped it away with disgust and doubled over. What remained of his glasses fell from his face and…

#
Shattered.

Wesley stared at what remained of the demon’s skull with perplexity, horror, and a growing sense of satisfaction. Thick maroon blood coated his shirt and coat, but for the first time, it wasn’t his. It wasn’t his at all. His shoulder ached where the demon had hit him, and his head throbbed, but he was still standing. He was still standing and the demon’s skull was shattered.

He slowly lowered the axe, but he couldn’t drop it. His fingers wouldn’t open, wouldn’t budge. He held the handle as tightly as any treasure. There were splinters in his palm. He thought his hand would hurt in the morning but for now he was…

Shaking. Rather violently.

“Oh dear,” Wesley muttered, collapsing to the ground. “Oh dear.”

Perhaps he had been poisoned? Or injured more seriously than he first thought? He didn’t remember being injured. And the battle had been bracing, absolutely extraordinary. At first, he didn’t know if he would be able to take the demon by himself—the creature had been rather large, and smelly. But the moment he learned that the demon was using the casino as a smorgasbord, Wesley knew he had to do something.

And he had done something.

And he had won.

And he couldn’t stop…

#
Shaking.

Lilah was shaking in his arms, small tremors running through her body with each breath.
He couldn’t tell if she was asleep, though he pretended to be. He didn’t want to talk to her, though he had called her before he even bothered to wash the blood from his face. She only smirked when she saw his eyes were swollen, black. She didn’t want to talk to him, and he didn’t know why she was still there. Usually, she came, rolled away, and left.

But tonight she was shaking, and he didn’t understand why. He didn’t care much, either. Was it a bad dream? A bad memory? A ploy? If it were a trick, he couldn’t imagine what she wanted, and so he remained still and silent, and she remained silent, and he couldn’t help but note how soft she was.

Soft. You wouldn’t know it to look at her, of course. There could be many adjectives used to describe Lilah, and he doubted anybody would ever choose soft, but it was true. Her skin was moisturized and smoothed and smelled vaguely of peaches. Her slightly damp hair tickled his neck and chest.

Maybe she was cold, though their bodies were sticky with sweat, and she was hot to the touch. Like she had a fever.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lilah asked, lifting her head to meet his gaze. She didn’t look concerned, only curious, and a bit annoyed.

“Me?”

It was only then did Wesley realize he was the one shaking the bed.

“Are you cold or something? Or just in a weakened state?”

“Weakened state.”

She laughed, a deep, throaty sound. “Where are your…”

#
Glasses.

Wesley downed his third beer and fished a wad of bills out of his pocket. Rogue demon hunters didn’t make a lot of money, as a general rule, but sometimes he found a person willing to pay for services rendered.

It was getting easier, finding demons, killing demons, keeping himself together. It was getting easier. But he didn’t know where he was. He had been following a demon through the desert and was he in Arizona? New Mexico? Nevada? He supposed Utah wasn’t out of the question.

Wesley was tired. The exhaustion went bone deep. He hadn’t slept in a proper bed in weeks, and it occurred to him as he watched the traffic on the Interstate that everybody was going somewhere, and he wasn’t going anywhere. He slept at rest stops. Dangerous, he knew. Sometimes he slept in camping areas, which were common. Everybody had a destination, and he had nothing.

He wanted to go home. He wanted a warm bed. He looked at the brunette at the end of the bar, smiling at her. She smiled back. He moved to the barstool beside her. She lifted her purse and made room for him.

“What brings you to a place like this?” Wesley asked. Not the smoothest line in the world, but it broke the ice.

“I’m looking for…”

#
Angel.

Wesley shook his head. “You’ll not find him here.”

“Whatever, man. I just needs some vampires cleared out.”

Wesley didn’t look up. “Good luck.”

“Tonight.”

“I suggest you go find Angel then.”

Simon sighed with frustration. “We’ve worked together before, Pryce. It’s a nest of maybe four or five. Just clear them out for me and I’ll pay, ok?”

Wesley finally looked at him. “Is there a reason you can’t bring your business to Angel?”

“Yeah, nobody knows where he is.”

Wesley frowned, suddenly interested in the conversation. “Angel’s missing. Where is he?”

“Fuck if I know, man. Nobody knows. I don’t give a fuck, either. I just want those goddamned vamps out of my development. I’m trying to make some money here. I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Five hundred.”

Simon gaped at him. “Angel never charged that much.”

“I’m not Angel.” Wesley shrugged. “I can do it tonight and work can resume tomorrow, or you can wait to see if Angel ever shows. Your call.”

Simon hesitated, gave him a look that could strip wallpaper, then dug out his wallet. “When did you start working freelance?” Wesley silently watched Simon count out five bills. “Do you have backup?”

“Don’t need it,” Wesley said curtly. “I don’t need…”


#
Angel.

Wesley thought it odd that when he dreamt of Sunnydale, he dreamt of the vampire. The Slayers haunted him during the day. He ran through several states—half of the continent it seemed—and he couldn’t outrun them. They didn’t want anything to do with him when he was in Sunnydale, he couldn’t imagine why they wouldn’t leave him alone now.

But he could escape them in his sleep. Only to be haunted by a different sort of mistake. He never trusted Angel, always thought it was unseemly for a Slayer to be so close to a vampire, even if the vampire did have a soul. Even if the vampire never ruined everything. Even if the vampire had tried to save a Slayer’s soul when all he could do was push her away. Even if the vampire was better.

It was only later, much later, as Wesley watched the constellations travel across a black sky that he realized his missed chance. Angel had been distracted, obsessed with, Buffy. He had barely had time to spare a glance at Wesley, much less a second thought, and that had always been fine with Wes. The less time he had to spend near Angel, the happier he was. Buffy may have trusted him and Giles may have tolerated him, but Wesley wanted nothing to do with him.

Except….

Except Angel could have been an ally. Buffy resented him and Faith seemed to hate the world, but Angel never did anything unkind or cruel to him. Perhaps if he had tried harder, perhaps if he hadn’t been so frightened, Angel might have helped him?

The poetry of his dreams wasn’t lost on him. What he needed was a second chance, and Angel was the pure embodiment of second chances. And third chances. Angel was allowed to atone for centuries of murder, couldn’t Wesley have a chance to atone for his mistakes as well?

It was a stupid thing to think about now, but Wesley couldn’t dismiss the notion. Once it occurred to him, it infected his mind. Buffy listened to Angel. Faith listened to Angel. And Angel might have been an…

#
Ally.

A part of Wesley’s mind was detached as he dispatched of the nest, watching the fight with a critical eye. It was easy, though he kept expecting Gunn or Angel to jump into the fray. But of course, nobody joined him. He dusted one vampire after the other, working through the group systematically until he was surrounded by nothing but dust.

It wasn’t this easy before. It hadn’t been this effortless. His body had always refused to cooperate, as though he was unconsciously holding something back. Gunn or Angel would always be there, after all.

But they weren’t. And he was. And he wasn’t shaking, and he wasn’t even very tired. He looked down and noticed a bit of blood on his hand. It seemed to be seeping from a cut on his wrist. He could barely feel it, but he watched each crimson drop fall to the dusty floor.

Swords. He felt more comfortable with a sword. And he would need a crew. This fight had been easy, but not all battles were effortless. The city still needed help. If Angel was truly missing, truly gone, then somebody needed to pick up his flag.

And find him.

The blood continued to…

#
Flow.

Wesley knew Angel left Sunnydale the night the Mayor ascended. He had heard there was a vampire with a soul in Los Angeles. He never made the decision to find Angel, never made the decision to give into his dreams. Despite the months on the road, living on his own, with nothing but his own thoughts for company, Wesley could still tell the difference between reality and fantasy.

The reality was that Angel had nothing to offer him.

So he never made the conscious decision to return to California.

But as he tracked the demon through the desert and realized it was heading west in a steady, unmistakable pace, he couldn’t help the small twinge of relief. He never made the decision, because he didn’t have to. Fate, or destiny, or chance, or a blood-thirsty demon leaving a string of corpses behind it made the decision for him.

Wesley once believed in destiny. It was his destiny to be a Watcher, and he had destroyed it. He didn’t believe in destiny anymore, but the dreams became more vivid, the desire for a place in the world more demanding, and the demon he followed more brutal.

It didn’t matter. What were the chances of finding a single person in a city as large as Los Angeles? What were the chances of finding his…

#
Angel.

Disappointment. Fear. Horror. Defeat. Pain. Despair. These were emotions that were so common he barely felt them. They became his default state until he had no default state except numbness.

Until he finally pried the truth from Justine.

And then he felt only rage. That was comforting. Pure anger that reached from his very soul and spread through his entire body until he thought his skin would blister from the heat was comforting. He liked it. He held onto it. He nursed it. He fed it. He coddled it the way Angel coddled his sense of guilt. It settled over him like a blanket. He never acted on this rage, never lashed out, never hurt Justine, but he took it out on Lilah.

He took it out on himself.

The ocean was dark and choppy after sunset, and it was easy to believe that monsters could live beneath the waves. It was hard to believe that Angel was existing in its depths.

It was hard to believe in a world where Angel didn’t exist at all.

Wesley didn’t allow himself to believe that Angel was lost for good. He found him once, he would do it…

#
Again.

When Wesley arrived in Los Angeles, nobody noticed. Nobody was there to greet him, or give him a place to stay. Nobody wanted him. Nobody…

#
Cared.

Wesley didn’t know if he planned to stay in Los Angeles. It was difficult to be near everybody. It was harder to be away from them. But he cared about them. Cared about…

#
Angel.

“Hello, Angel.”