miscellany n 1: a collection containing a variety of sorts of things.

"Mister Pryce?"

The voice was distant. Wesley wondered why voices in a dream always seemed faint or muted.

"Mister Pryce, if you can hear me, try to respond. We're very worried about you."

*Are they? Really, that's odd. No one's been worried about me for a very long time. Well, except in a rather annoyed way...*

"Mister Pryce?"

"Whydham-Pryce."

"Doctor, he's conscious!"

There was another voice. "Can you open your eyes?"

Wesley noticed how faint and rough his own voice was. "I'd rather not."

There was a pause, then the doctor spoke again, a tinge of reluctant amusement in his voice. "Please try, or I'll have to peel your eyelids up to check your pupil response."

Wesley managed to slit his eyes open, then immediately shut them again. "It's bloody bright in here."

"Nurse, turn off the overhead." There was a click. "Try now."

This time the room was dimly lit, and Wesley was able to pry his eyes open and keep them open. There was a man in a lab coat standing over him, and he leaned over, holding a penlight. Wesley glanced around, noting that he was, indeed, in a hospital room. "Mister Pryce..." Wesley started to speak, and the doctor said, "Wyndham-Pryce, please, look straight up." Wesley obliged, and the doctor flicked the light back and forth across his eyes. "Well, thank goodness they're even and responsive. How do you feel?"

"Quite frankly, like shit."

"I'm not surprised. You've been rather badly beaten. There are some police who want to speak to you."

"What am I supposed to have done?"

The doctor regarded him in surprise. "They want to find out who did this to you, and your friends."

Wesley sat up suddenly. It was as if a bolt of lightening had struck him. He clutched at his head, crying out softly. The doctor gripped his shoulders, easing him back onto the bed. "Please! You need to be careful sitting up, and on no account are you to try to stand without help. You have a concussion, and two broken ribs."

"I'm surprised. I would have thought he'd have done more than that."

"Then you do know who did it."

Wesley rested back on the pillows. His eyes were enigmatic as he gazed at the doctor. "How are Cordelia and Doyle?"

The doctor heard the dread in his voice. "You don't know?"

The doctor was a little surprised at the snarl in the patient's voice, "Don't play games with me! They were both battered but alive, the last I remember. I know damn good and well that they might be dead, or just as bad, so don't try to spare me anything. Give me the truth."

The doctor took a deep breath. "They're alive. The young lady is still unconscious, I'm afraid, but I think she'll pull out of it. Her brain waves and her vital signs are good and strong. Given your state, and that of the other man, the police were rather surprised that she didn't have any other visible injuries."

"That's because Doyle was knocked unconscious when he tried to protect her. He didn't see any point in beating her any more since Doyle wasn't awake to see her suffer. What about Doyle?"

"Lots of bruises, and a nasty bite mark. He had regained consciousness when the paramedics arrived. He'd lost quite a bit of blood, but he's out of danger. He'll be all right physically, but..." He trailed off.

"But?"

"I'm worried about his mental state. He's had several... episodes."

"Don't worry about those. It's just something that happens to him."

The doctor stared. "Is there some sort of medication we should get for him?"

"He wouldn't turn down a good, stiff whiskey, and neither would I, for that matter. I need to see him."

"Oh, that won't be possible for awhile. I'm afraid that he's been taken to the psych ward for observation. He was talking about vampires, demons, and out-of-body experiences."

"Christ. He must be suffering." Wesley muttered to himself. "Damn Powers That Be. You'd think they'd give the poor git a little respite. It isn't as if he can do anything right now."

"Excuse me, but are you familiar with these hallucinations?"

"Not as much as I might be, thank God." Wesley gave the doctor a hard look. "Please get that speculative look out of your eyes, doctor. While I am consummately fucked up in my own way, I'm not a danger to myself, or to..." he paused, "society in general. I need a telephone."

"If you'll give me the number, I'll call..."

"No, thank you. My finer motor skills may not be up to par, but I'll manage." He took the phone, then gave the doctor, and the nurse who'd been hovering nearby, a hard look. "Thank you."

"I'll tell the police that they can see you tomorrow."

Wesley hummed non-commitally as they left. Then he quickly tapped in the number for Carita's. A bright, cheerful voice answered. "I'm sure you're a sweetheart, but your timing stinks. We open at..."

"Lorne, it's Wesley."

"Well, one of my favorite English exports, right up there with Rupert Everet! What can I..."

"Lorne, please!"

The voice was instantly sober. "What is it, Wes? You aren't even singing, and I can still hear the trouble."

"We made a dreadful cock-up, Lorne. Doyle tried to tell us how dangerous it was, but Angel and I didn't think there was time for any more precautions." He closed his eyes. "Oh, God. We've fucked things up worse than that bint Pandora."

"Tell me, Wes."

"Doyle had one of his visions--a bad one. I've never seen anyone in that much pain who wasn't losing massive amounts of blood. He was barely coherent, and he thought he was blind for a couple of moments. Have you ever heard of Die Grausigkeit?"

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Lorne said quietly, "Wes, The Terror is what the more vicious demons use to scare their demonettes when they're bad. But I thought that the last of them had been stuffed back into their own grubby little dimension, and safely sealed there."

"That's what we thought, too. But Doyle got a vision that they were about to breach the seal--but we had less than an hour's notice, and the breach was to occur at Stonehenge."

"Oh, oo, ow. You'd need one of those sweet little port keys that that Rowlings babe invented. Boy, if those really existed, someone would be pulling down some serious loot. So tell me, why am I not currently being strangled with my own intestines? I'm not complaining, mind you, but I'm curious. There was no way anyone could make that trip in that amount of time."

"Physically."

"Ah. That would explain a lot. You sent someone over on the astral plane."

"Yes. The wrong person, it turns out. I should have gone. It would have been a simple spell to reseal the weak spot, and brace it so that we wouldn't have to worry about it in the future, but Angel..." He trailed off.

Lorne sighed. "Angel was being Angel--more guts than caution."

"Precisely. And there was something to the argument that he should be the one to go. If one of them managed to slip through, I suppose he would have had a better chance of beating it back. He does have more experience in things like that. I very well might have gotten my vaporous ass kicked, but..." He sighed. "I honestly believe that what we unleashed might be able to give Die Grausigkeit a run for their money."

"Don't keep me in suspense, Wes."

"Angelus." There was a long silence. "Lorne, I said that Angelus is..."

"I heard you. Give a person a minute of stunned horror, will you? How did that happen? I thought that Angel would have to experience a moment of pure, unshadowed joy."

"So did we. None of us took into account another perfectly logical way he could gain control of Angel's body. The son of a bitch simply waited till Angel was involved over in England, then slipped into his empty, unconscious body and took over. Even then we might have been able to contain him and figure something out, but we didn't know. Duplicity is in his nature, and he had us fooled for the first few moments. We erased the magic circle that would have contained him, because we simply thought that it had been an easier job than we'd expected." Wesley's voice caught. "The look on his face when the barrier came down... the smile. There was no doubt then, but it was too late."

Lorne hissed. "How bad is it? Tell me I'm not going to be a pall bearer."

"We're all alive--more or less. Cordie's still unconscious, and Doyle..." Wesley made a sound of exasperation. "Sod it! I didn't even ask the doctor. Lorne, what time is it?"

"It's just after eleven."

"AM or PM?"

"AM, cutie."

"That's about twelve hours, and Angelus wouldn't have been able to be out and about for at least half of that. Of course, knowing the damage he could inflict in that amount of time..."

"Wes? Kid, what day of the week was it that Angel took his little twilight zone jaunt?"

"Wednesday."

"Oh, dear."

"Christ, Lorne, you can put as much dread into 'oh, dear' as Giles can."

"That's because it is now Friday."

"Fuck."

"Yes, indeed."

"Look, can't that wait for a moment?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Not you, Lorne. There's a nurse here who wants to draw blood."

"Well, let her, Jeeves. Let them do all the little tests their hearts desire. You're going to be at your best when you..."

"Ow!"

"Well, some have the technique, some don't."

"I've got to get to Sunnydale as quickly as possible."

"You're sure that's where he'll head, what with the whole, wide world of throats laid out before him?"

"Buffy's there, and the other Scoobies. It's the demon's first instinct to destroy anyone cared for by its host. Frankly, I'm fucking shocked that any of us are still alive. It can only mean that he was in a fucking hurry to get to Buffy and the others. Lorne, I'd appreciate it if you could come down here, and bring me a change of clothing."

"Here's a suggestion. There's this little device called a telephone. In fact, you're using one right now. Why don't I give Giles a call and bring him up to speed on this?"

There was a pause. "All right."

Lorne blinked. "You mean that you're going to give up, just like that?"

"I'm being influenced by the fact that I'll be passing out in a moment. That wasn't a blood test, it was a bloody sedative." He raised his voice. "Don't you ever do that to me again!"

Lorne heard a nurse's voice. "Calm down, or you can room with your friend up on psych."

"Wes, chill out. I'll burn up the wires, I promise. You just let go and rest up."

"Not like I have any say in the matter, is it?"

"Wesley, before you pass out... Sing something for me, real quick."

"Lorne..."

"Do it for the man with the horns, kiddo."

Wesley's voice was faint, as if he was falling away. "I can feel it coming in the air tonight, Oh Lord. I've been waiting for this moment, all my life, Oh Lord." Lorne closed his eyes, concentrating, letting the music bring the truth. "But I don't know if you know who I am. Well, I was there and I saw what you did, I saw it with my own two eyes..." Lorne could see it, too, the pure evil shining from a familiar/unfamiliar face. The complete, vicious delight as Angelus reached for the horror stricken Cordelia.

There was the soft sound of something landing on cloth. A woman said, "I'm sorry, sir. You'll have to call back later, but please consider waiting till tomorrow. He really does need his rest."

"I understand."

"I've never heard a patient singing over the phone. I love Phil Collins. Now, sir, can I have your name, and a number where the police can reach you? These patients all referenced each other to call in case of emergency, and..."

"Oops! There goes the timer on the oven. Scuse me, or I'll scorch my sugar balls, and you know how painful that can be." He hung up, concentrated for a moment, then began to dial. He knew the number for the Magic Box by heart. He frowned when he heard the shrill beeping. "That's not right." He tried again, and got exactly the same sound. *It isn't busy, and there's no recording about 'this number has been changed' or 'please hang up and try again'. It could mean that the lines are down. Except that we've been having weather so fine lately that it's borderline freakish.* Another possibility occurred to him. "No, no, no," he said as he dialed one more time. "The Powers That Be wouldn't do that to us." *beepbeepbeep* He hung up and stared at the ceiling. "Or would you, you devious bastards?"

He tried to think of who else he could call. He couldn't remember Buffy's number, so he tried directory assistance, and learned that the number was unlisted. *What the fuck? She's a Slayer. Aren't they required to be available--like... I don't know--911?* He couldn't remember Willow's number, and assistance had a slew of numbers for Rosenburgs, but no Willow Rosenburg, and he had no idea what her parents' names were. Oz was out, because Oz hadn't had a phone since... Well, since forever, as far as he knew. He almost didn't get Xander's number, till he remembered to try 'Alexander'.

An answering machine picked up. //Hello, you've reached Xander. Well, really you haven't, since you're listening to a recording, but you know that already. The beep's coming up, so leave a message.//

*beep*

"Hi, Xander. You don't know me, but... Lord, that sounds like the start of a stalking, or an obscene phone call. This is neither. My name is Lorne, and I'm calling on behalf of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce." He hesitated. How much should he say over the phone? "Something has happened here in LA--something rather nasty. Don't panic. Wesley's not in terrific shape, but everything is still attached and functional, and he'll be there as soon as he wakes up from the drugs..." *wince* "And that sounds like he's been on a binge weekend. Lord, it's true--people trying to relay vital information do babble. This isn't something that needs to be discussed over the phone. "We'll probably be there sometime tomorrow, but in the meantime, if Angel shows up--it very well may not be Angel, if you know what I mean--and I think you do. I can't get hold of anyone else down there, so please pass this along. Bye."

He hung up, and found that he was trembling slightly. He was also sweating, and, *Tension is so bad for the complexion. I'd better do something to keep me occupied.* He got up. *First order of business--clothes for Wesley.* He clapped a hand over his eyes. "Yes, Lorne, and how do we plan to do this, given the fact that we do not have a key to his place of residence?" He briefly considered breaking in (you could learn all kinds of interesting skills when you ran a bar), but decided that with his luck, this would be one time when the LA police would be johnny-on-the-spot. And my own clothes would probably burst at the seams if he tried to wear them. Unless... There are those clothes that cousin Raynak gave me for my birthday. It isn't surprising that he got the wrong sizes, given the fact that we haven't seen each other for over a decade. And judging from the sizes he picked, Raynak figured that I was going to shoot up and out. They should just about fit.* He went up to his room and opened the closet, reaching far into the back to pull out the clothes. He tilted his head at them. It was a nice suit--burnt orange with a forest green shirt. *A little conservative, but not bad. What else? I suppose I should bring everything.* He dug out forest green socks to match the shirt, then opened his underwear drawer and peered inside. *Oh, I don't think so. I'm sure Wesley would not appreciate having the flow of blood shut off to his privates, but I just couldn't force myself to wear boxers.* He shrugged. "Well, Wesley, my friend, I hope you don't have a problem with the concept of 'commando'."