Wes

He’s upstairs. Angel’s staring up at the ceiling as if he could see through it and divine Spike’s intentions, which he feels sure aren’t good.

I didn’t know who it was when he walked into the hotel, of course. I’d just come downstairs with Fred and was planning on an early stop at the gym before work when he came in, looking shabby and tired. At first I thought he was a client, someone who needed our help. I mean a client for Angel Investigations, of course, which is still the sign on the door, even though we haven’t done any such work in months.

Taking down the sign would mean something none of us wants to admit.

Angel, of course, recognized him immediately. His whole body tensed and he shot across the lobby as if to drive this apparition from his home.

Because Spike couldn’t be there. Spike was dead. I knew that much, I knew it from that little sleepover we had in June, when Buffy and Faith and Giles and an entire busload of squealing girls pulled up to hotel and piled out like they’d just arrived from Des Moines for cheerleading camp. They were tired, they were dirty, and some of them were injured. A man I’d never seen before, whom Faith hovered over, was fairly seriously wounded. There were sundry breaks and cuts, and Buffy had been run through by a sword, or something to that effect.

The first thing she said was, “Spike saved us.”

I really wish that hadn’t been the first thing she said.

Would it sound self-pitying to note that I seldom get what I want?

Seeing Buffy is never easy for Angel. No matter how much he moves on—and, indeed, I believe he has moved on, when she is not there to embody the past—it is painful for him, a reminder of what he cannot have. When she said that, he was unable to suppress a flinch.

She didn’t seem to notice.

She was excited, I think—excited about the future. Because the existence of so many Slayers, all over the world, has freed her. She no longer has the burden of being one in all the world, which weighed so heavily on her in the past.

Of course, when I was her Watcher, she was also not the one Slayer. However, a sociopathic boon companion is less comforting than you might expect. Now Buffy is looking forward to a life that is without the isolation she once felt so keenly.

One in which Angel has no part.

She didn’t say anything like that, at least not in front of me. But her eyes, it was clear to me, were focused on the future. She was looking forward, not to the past. As, indeed, Angel has been doing for the last few years.

And then this morning. Spike walked into the Hyperion, and Angel’s past and future—expected future—unexpectedly collided. Spike, living and breathing. Spike, the recipient of the Shanshu I’d translated years ago. The prophecy I’d—we’d all—expected to be Angel’s.

Now Angel’s re-evaluating everything. All of his expectations in life have effectively been destroyed.

So Buffy is gone; Cordelia, in a hopeless coma, is gone; his Shanshu is gone; and he’s effectively sold his soul to Wolfram and Hart … just like the rest of us, of course … and upstairs is a man he regarded as his nemesis, an eternal symbol of his crimes. One who would not exist except for him. One, whether Angel or Angelus, he firmly regarded as beneath him.

And he is rewarded by life, while Angel’s punishment continues.

This will not be a pleasant few days in the hotel, as everyone settles in.

I think I may stay in my apartment for the next several nights. Fred can visit me there.

Of course, we really do see each other enough at the office. I’m not sure of wisdom of working with someone you’re seeing; of course, when I was still with AI, Fred and I were not involved with each other. Admittedly, that was not my choice.

I don’t believe the strain of working and living together helped Fred and Gunn’s relationship. That was one of the reasons I insisted on retaining my own apartment, to Fred’s surprise. Apparently she thought I’d just move in and take Gunn’s place.

It’s bad enough that I’m sleeping where he used to. And yet he and I continue to see each other every day, and try to pretend as if it isn’t awkward.

I never had that problem with Lilah. There was no question of my cooperating with Wolfram and Hart during her lifetime, despite her repeated offers; despite the temptation, I was obstinate—that was the tenor of our relationship. Neither of us would ever give in.

No, that’s not exactly true. She showed me a more vulnerable side, occasionally. I tried to ignore it; it disturbed me. I told myself that she was doing it only to manipulate me, much as she deliberately dropped bits of information to gauge my reaction. It was easier to think of her that way, as a user. Because that made us equal. Cold and professional and obdurate. Not needful and desperate.

Those are terrible things to be, and neither one of us wanted to admit it.

I don’t know why her continued presence in my life disturbs me so. I have a sense of— obligation, when I’m around her. As if instead of chopping off her head, it was I who plunged the dagger into her throat.

Oh, my. If my father heard me say that overwrought phrase I’d never hear the end of it.

She’s a living reproach, much like my father. Except for the not living part, that is. She, urging me to give into my passions. He, mocking me for the same. I really rather wish they could have met. I think Lilah was the one person who might have been able to put the old bastard in his place, and laughed while doing it.

I regret that I’ll never see that.

I regret a lot of things, really.

I wonder how different things would turned out if we hadn’t … become involved. I never would have consented to tour Wolfram and Hart, certainly—the only reason I did was to grasp the opportunity to free her. The elusive, or should I say illusive, opportunity.

Of course it didn’t work. What does? Despite the enormity of the resources at our fingertips, I am more inclined than ever before to believe Yeats was right, that the center does not hold. Everything is so carefully balanced in this world—exquisitely on edge. And that fine balance is enough only to keep us in life, but not enough to allow us happiness.

Do you want an example? Why, a year and a half ago, did Fred chose Gunn over me? Certainly I can find no fault with her choice, other than the small fact that it was not me. Yet their relationship faltered, even as I fell into a relationship with Lilah. A relationship that was supposed to be nothing more than the oblivion two bodies could give each other, with the added incentive of possibly gaining a professional advantage due to our intimacy. That’s how it began. It ended with me taking an axe to her corpse, as her spirit lingered around me.

Her spirit lingers around me still, now corporeal, yet no more alive. She’s gentler with me now than she was when she was alive, and that only makes things more painful.

So Fred went with Gunn, and I with Lilah, although that wasn’t how I thought of it at the time. And now both relationships are dead. Fred and I have been seeing each other for some months now, yet the hope I once felt in her presence has been quelled by what went before it. Our relationship is tainted by what might have been.

Yes, I do believe I will stay in my apartment until things settle down. Fred can visit me there if she likes, but we really do see a lot of each other at the office; she’s forever popping in and out of the research wing, bringing her bright smile and sunny ways to a place more accustomed to gloom.

Actually, now that I think on it the most valuable use of my time might be to spend the next few days interviewing Spike about his experiences. He told us bits and pieces today, but I believe his description was restrained by exhaustion and, possibly, by Angel’s presence. During the day Angel will be sleeping and the hotel will be quiet, and Spike will want something to take up his time. Lilah can spread the word at work.

She always knows where to find me.