::.. Witlingville ..::

Notes: Dark AU, Spander with Wesley.

The Assistant part 11

Sleep is a bully, knocking him down and holding his head under until he breaks free with a violent jerk. The alarm is beeping placidly, and must have been for some time. He set it for nine forty, and it's past eleven. He's covered in cold sweat.

Chewing ibuprofen tablets in the shower, he remembers vague details, like distant contrails floating apart from their centers. Angelus leaning over him. The lonely, depressing certainty that he deserved whatever he got.

He dries off in a hurry, wipes a clear strip in the mirror with his forearm, and studies his stubble and bloodshot eyes. He looks like death warmed over. It's appropriate, really.

It's strange to walk into the library and find Spike and Xander already there, hard at work. Spike gives him a cursory glance and goes back to his book. Xander's eyes latch onto him and don't let go. He looks better--more alert, less overwhelmed. There's gauze taped over his throat wound, which is a relief. The bruises on his face have faded almost completely. He doesn't look pleased to see Wesley, but he doesn't look hostile, either. He looks...interested.

"I'm sorry," Wesley says, going to his chair and pulling it out. "I overslept."

"You're exhausted," Spike observes, making a note on a piece of paper beside the book he's using. "Might as well go back to bed for a few hours."

"I'm fine." There's a cup of cold coffee on the table in front of him, untouched. "Is this for me?"

"If you like it two hours old, yeah."

With a sense of complete surreality, Wesley picks it up and tastes it. It's cold. "Thank you."

Xander is still watching him in silence. Wesley feels a faint prickling along the back of his neck, and tries to ignore it. He sits down and pulls over the nearest sheet of paper with Spike's handwriting on it. "Any luck so far?"

"Lots. Mostly bad, though."

"Hm." Wesley skims the list of counters Spike's made. In fact he seems to have made quite a bit of progress. There are several in the list that Wesley might not have thought of. "This is very good--the Hausa funerary rite is a very good idea."

"That was Harris." Spike nods sideways without looking up. "Not as stupid as he looks, apparently."

"Oh, well--" Wesley pauses, a little unnerved by the dark stare Xander is still giving him. "Thank you, Xander. That will be very helpful."

"No problem," Xander says flatly. Spike glances at him, frowns, and sits up, pencil in hand.

"You want to go back downstairs?"

Xander turns his flat gaze on Spike. "No."

"Then stop looking at him like that."

A faint smile touches the corner of Xander's mouth. "Sorry. Daddy."

Wesley freezes with the coffee cup halfway to his mouth. Did he just hear--?

"Cut that out," Spike snaps. Xander makes a moue of affected apology, widening his eyes and pursing his lips.

Wesley puts his cup down carefully and steadies himself with a deep breath. Again, he has the feeling that he's an intruder here, the tolerated child or village idiot. He's too literal, he has to keep reminding himself that Xander has no soul now, that everything has shifted. He's briefly, fervently grateful for Spike, who's keeping things under some kind of control.

Then he notices Spike's throat.

"That's very funny," Spike is saying grimly, while Xander bats his eyelashes. "You done now?"

"Sure." Xander drops his gaze back to his book, discarding the coquettishness suddenly, as if it's become boring. Spike looks back at Wesley.

"Sorry, he's a bloody--" Seeing Wesley's face, he stops. "What?"

Wesley looks down. "Nothing." There are bite marks in Spike's throat.

There's a pause, and then Xander chuckles. Wesley hears a sharp clank and a thump. "Fuck, ow!"

"You shut up," Spike says, his tone darker than it was before.

Wesley keeps his eyes on the page in front of him. The library is silent.

On the security screen, Angelus is a silent lump on the bunk inside his cage, no more than a bundle of very large clothes. Even evil sleeps, Wesley reminds himself, gripping the crossbow a little tighter in the elevator, heading down. Still, he's ashamed of how unnerved he feels. They have everything they need for the counters, and Angelus is locked safely behind bars. There's no reason for the cold sweat that's dampening his palms and upper lip.

"Seriously," Xander says, "just tie me to the table, I swear to God I won't go anywhere."

"No," Spike says, for the third time. He's got Xander's chain in his hands, and he's staring at the elevator doors, like an overtired parent. "You'll be fine, just shut up and do what I tell you."

"This is ridiculous." Xander rests his head sideways against the wall, then gives a sudden involuntary shiver and looks at Wes. His face is an open appeal. "Wes, come on. This is ridiculous, right?"

"It's the best we can do," Wesley says, glancing at the back of Spike's neck for support. "I'm sorry."

"Stop whinging," Spike adds. "I spent twenty-something years with the bastard, you think I like doing this?"

"He didn't spend three days cutting vents in you."

"Sure he did."

"Nobody likes this," Wesley says, as the elevator comes to a stop. "We're going to try to get it over with as quickly as possible. Xander, do as Spike tells you. And stay out of the way."

They walk down the hallway the way they go everywhere now--Spike in front, Xander in tow, Wesley bringing up the rear with the bow in his hands. Wesley wonders if he could bring himself to use it, if Xander did something violent or unexpected. He's slightly more than halfway sure that he could.

"Great timing," Angelus says, slipping off his bunk and coming to meet them at the bars of his cage. He's always taller than Wesley remembers. "Breakfast, right? I am starving."

"Take Xander back there," Wesley says to Spike, nodding at the cage Xander used to occupy. Spike nods and starts back that way, but Xander plants his feet. The chain draws tight.

"I'm not getting back in that thing," Xander says. "No fucking way."

Spike yanks the chain, and Xander's wrists jerk up, but he doesn't move his feet. "Harris, if you don't get over here right now--"

"Lovers' quarrel," Angelus says fondly to Wesley.

Wesley ignores him. He sets the crossbow carefully down on top of the metal folding chair, then takes the folded paper out of his pocket.

"I don't need a menu," Angelus says. "I'll have...let's see, I'll have the eggs with two strips of bacon, and a side of that sweet blue vein you've got running up the side of your throat, Wes. The one that throbs when you're excited."

Wesley starts the first counter, making the hand motions as well as he can with the paper still in his fingers.

"Like now," Angelus says, grinning.

"Omnia," Wesley concludes, and there's a pop in his eardrums, like being in a plane losing altitude. Angelus frowns and steps away from the bars of his cage. He seems just a little smaller now. Maybe just a little less self-assured.

"What was that?" Spike asks, still negotiating with Xander a few feet behind Wesley.

"That was Jagdash Neel's third ward, disintegrating."

Angelus rubs the back of his neck and says nothing. Wesley chances a look back over his shoulder. Both Spike and Xander look impressed.

"Spike," Wesley says, "I really don't care how you do it, but please get Xander back to a safe distance."

Spike tightens his mouth and yanks the chain so hard that Xander is jerked almost off his feet. Advantage gained, Spike drags him back to the far cage and chains him to it.

"Thank you," Wesley says, when they're done. He turns back to Angelus.

"You see those holes in Spike's neck?" Angelus asks, working back up to a smile. "What do you think those two were up to all last night?"

Wesley looks back down at the paper, and raises a hand in the formal gesture of undoing. "Utinam ne id accidisset."

Angelus grips the bars of his cage, and pulls hard. They don't move.

Forty-five minutes later, Wesley's voice is starting to fail, and he's having trouble concentrating on the words in front of him. There's a smell in the air, like ozone. His eyes may be exhausted, but he thinks there's also a faint fog accumulating. So much casting in such a small space, with no reprieve. It's not wise--the aftereffects can linger and interfere with each other. And the caster can become too depleted to be useful.

Still, he's accomplished a great deal. The wards are like clothes. It's as if Angelus has dressed himself up in a hundred different shirts, each one offering him anonymity or protection from something. Wesley's managed to peel half of them away, and now Angelus is just sitting on his bunk, smoldering. He isn't trying to provoke anymore; he's not amused. In a way, he's becoming more frightening, the nakeder he is.

"Omnia erant agenda nobis," Wesley intones, and there's a tingle in his forearms and groin. Angelus straightens slightly, as if someone has poked him with a pin. He gives Wesley a look of unconcealed hatred.

"I'm going to wrap your guts around your throat and pull hard," he says quietly.

Wesley realizes that the paper in his hand is fluttering; his hands are shaking. He folds the paper and puts it back in his pocket, then takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You okay?" Spike is suddenly beside him, slipping a hand under his elbow and pulling him back a step. That's intelligent; if he's going to faint, he shouldn't do it in reach of Angelus's cage.

"I'm fine," Wesley says, waiting for the world to right itself beneath his feet. "Just a little tired."

"Take a break." Spike hooks the chair with his ankle, scoops the bow up off it, and helps Wesley sit down. He's very thoughtful, for a vampire. For a few seconds, Wesley just sits still and tries to order his thoughts.

"Getting tired, huh?" Wesley can hear Angelus get up off his bunk and walk to the bars. "That's okay, Wes. I'm still ready to go. You just keep tossing those spells at me, and when you're done, you know what you're going to find?" Wesley looks up blearily; Angelus is smiling at him, with just a hint of fang. "Me."

Spike shoots him.

It happens too fast for Wesley to even understand what's happened at first; one moment Angelus is grinning, the next he's snarling, game-faced, and there's a dull brown shaft protruding from his shoulder. He yanks it out and snaps it in his fist, turning on Spike with a basso growl.

"I'm getting really tired of you," Spike says, letting the bow fall to his side.

"You," Angelus says, "I'm going to keep around for a while. You and your boy toy. It's gonna be fun, kicking you around." His eyes flash yellow, demonic inspiration. "Hey, maybe I'll break your back again, and you can watch like you used to with Drusilla. You like watching, right, Spike? I bet you'd love to see me bend that pretty boyfriend of yours over--"

He stops short, staggers back a step, and grabs his throat. His expression changes from fury to panic. His whole body convulses.

Baffled, Wesley turns on Spike. "What did you do?"

Spike's shaking his head in confusion. The bow is still lowered at his side. "Nothing."

"What's wrong with him?" Wesley stands up and starts for the cage, but Spike grabs hold of his arm and keeps him back. "What's going on?" Angelus is making choking sounds, but that's impossible, a vampire can't choke.

"It's a trick," Spike says, dragging Wesley back. "He's trying to get you in reach--"

"I'd like to leave now!" Xander yells, his chains clanking nervously. Angelus coughs, and flecks of white foam hit the floor.

"Spike, something seems seriously wrong--"

"One of those spells, then. Something backfired--what did you cast?"

Clumsily, Wesley paws the paper out of his pocket again. "A lot of things. Thirty, forty different counters. But none of them could do this to him."

"Any time!" Xander yells.

"Shut up!" Spike yells back.

Angelus isn't choking anymore; now he's wheezing, sounding like a man whose airway has closed down to a pinhole. A man who's gasping desperately for breath. He stumbles back and sits down hard on the bunk. One hand clutches at his throat; the other makes a fist and slams into the bars beside him. Blood flies.

"He's going to--" Wesley starts to say.

Then the wheezing stops, as suddenly as if a finger has come off a valve. Angelus's hands fall away from his throat, from the bars.

"What the hell?" Spike raises the bow again, warily.

Angelus lifts his head and gives them an astonished look.

"Wes?" He looks around. Lifts his bloodied hand and studies it. "What's going on? Why am I in here?"

Wesley sits frozen, staring. Angelus looks at Spike, opens his mouth, and then doesn't say anything. A shadow crosses his face--the look of a man remembering.

"Angelus?" Wesley hears himself say.

Angelus looks at him, his eyes widening in horrified confirmation.

"That's not Angelus," Wesley says numbly. "That's--"

"We're leaving," Spike says, and hauls him out of the chair before he can say another word.