Title: Unforeseen (1/?)
Author: Fia Reynne
Fandom: Angel
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: pre-Angel/Wes
Summary: (AU) Cordelia succeeds in passing the visions on to Wesley (Parting Gifts, 1.10) and his body doesn't handle the trauma with nearly as much grace as hers would have.
Disclaimer: Joss thunk them all up, I just play with them when I'm bored.


Wesley believed that if one worked hard enough - to do the right thing, to make the world a better, safer place - one could earn second chances, opportunities to not bugger up things one had royally buggered before. This belief, he decided, was well founded. There could be no other explanation as to why, as soon as he walked into Angel's base of operations, there was Cordelia Chase running up to him and nearly knocking him over with what, if he did say so himself, was a hell of a kiss. Clearly he'd done something right.

There was something almost magical about the kiss - and Wesley of course believed in such things, being trained in sorcery himself - and the look on Cordelia's face when she pulled away - reluctantly, he thought, congratulating himself - changed almost instantly from satisfaction to confusion, and just as quickly from confusion to pity. "Ha! It worked! Wesley? What are you doing here?"

~*~

"How are you feeling?" Angel asked quietly, placing a cool, damp cloth on Wesley's forehead before searching the desk drawers for a bottle of Excedrin he knew had to be there.

"I'm fine," Wesley insisted, but the pallor of his skin and the trickle of blood from his left nostril weren't exactly confidence inspiring. He swiped at the blood with the back of his hand, and Angel frowned. He tipped a few pain killers into his hand and offered them to Wesley, who took them with a look of pure gratitude. He swallowed them dry, wincing as they went down, and pushed himself out of the chair. He hefted an axe over his shoulder with perhaps more effort than it should've taken, and Angel reached out to steady him.

"They're getting worse," Angel said as they climbed into the Plymouth, making sure to keep his tone conversational, neutral. He didn't really want to get into it with Wes again. It seemed like the only time either one of them opened their mouths when Cordy wasn't around - which was more and more frequently, the more roles she landed - was to argue.

"I'm fine," Wes repeated, promptly going a bit green as Angel took a corner a little too narrowly.

"Yeah, I can see that," Angel snapped. For a while neither of them spoke, until Angel pulled up at the warehouse where the flavor of the month - evil of the week, whatever - was supposed to make an appearance. "I'm gonna go to the Oracles, Wes. There has to be something they can do. If they can't get rid of them, maybe they can... I don't know, but I don't think they're supposed to do this, you know? Doyle had the headaches, sure, but he didn't look like they were killing him."

Wesley smiled grimly. "Oh, yes, do let's compare me to Doyle some more, shall we?" Angel flinched as though struck, and Wesley's face softened by a fraction. "Let's just get in there, kill the Gerloth Beast before it spawns, and get home. I've a very pressing appointment with a bottle of Scotch and some much-deserved oblivion."

"Shndrnksmch." Angel muttered, and Wesley turned a sharp glare on him. "You shouldn't drink so much," Angel repeated, clearer this time. "If the visions don't kill you, your liver might."

"And if not my liver, then Cordelia's cooking," Wes replied, rolling his eyes. "To be perfectly honest, I'm rather glad she's been too busy with filming to try to feed me up lately."

"She feels guilty," Angel said defensively. "She thinks it's her fault you're like this."

"'Like this,'" Wesley repeated. "Indeed. Well, perhaps it is. After all, I never met your sainted friend, let alone swapped saliva and mystical energies. That was all her doing."

Angel could see at least six vampire minions milling around. "Let's not argue fault, okay? You wanted to get in and get out, so let's kill things. I'll take the three on the left, you take the three on the right."

Wesley opened his mouth, as though he was preparing to argue simply on principle, when they heard the Gerloth start its mating chant. "Fine," he conceded, rushing into the fray with a stake in his hand. Angel spared a glance for Wesley's discarded axe before charging in to make sure Wes didn't get himself killed.

~*~

"Sometimes I wonder which of us is the more pitiful," Wesley said, as he sat on Angel's bed, allowing the vampire to clean his wounds.

"You're the one who ended up covered in Gerloth guts," Angel said noncommittally as he dabbed at a nasty gash that ran from Wesley's collarbone down over his ribcage. Wesley flinched, and Angel winced sympathetically. "That should probably have stitches. Will you let me take you to the E.R.?"

"Oh, of course," Wes deadpanned. "And surely I only stock the first aid kit with sutures in case someone's creepy leather nightstalker jacket is rent. I'll do it myself. And yes, I was the one with the goo, but I wasn't the one who nearly mated with it."

"There was no nearly!" Angel protested. "Not even close. And anyway, I was hypnotized. Here, I'll do it. Just stay put while I find the... thingies."

Wesley rolled his eyes, an action that caused a wave of nausea, and he lay back on the bed, wishing for a stiff drink. He felt a glass being pressed into his hand and stifled the mental image of Angel dressed as his fairy godmother.

"We don't have any anaesthesia," Angel explained. "Whiskey does the trick in a pinch - internal application, taken liberally. Drink up."

"I thought you said earlier -"

"Forget what I said earlier," Angel said, cutting off whatever Wes had been about to say. There had been significant blood loss, and Angel knew it would only take a few drinks to render Wes insensible enough that Angel wouldn't have to strap him down to keep him from decking Angel when he started sewing him up. "Whatever my personal feelings on the issue are, right now I need you drunk."

Wesley sat back up, the wound gapping painfully and spilling still more blood down his chest and abdomen, and knocked back the drink, holding it out for a refill. "You'll find no argument here, Angel."

~*~

"I'm almost finished," Angel assured a barely-sensible Wesley. "How are you doing? You okay?"

"I assume you're asking if it pains me much," Wes replied. "It doesn't. You're doing a wonderful job."

"You might not say that once you've actually seen the stitches," Angel teased, earning a drunken grin from Wes. "It's definitely gonna scar, but women like a man with a few marks on his body, you know? Adds mystery, or something. But what I really meant was in the long term, are you okay?"

"I'm dying," Wes said plainly. "I can feel it. And I've..." he trailed off.

"You've what?" Angel prompted. "Seen it?"

Wesley nodded morosely. "Not in the way you're thinking - it would be unlike the Powers to show their hand. But I've done my research. Your friend Doyle - he was half demon, correct?"

Angel frowned. "Yeah. What does that have to do with anything?"

"He was better suited to the visions than I. Few humans have lived longer than a year under these circumstances, and none longer than two. My days are numbered." Wesley smiled sadly. "I'm weak, Angel. I've got a pitiful human body, and it wasn't made to withstand this kind of abuse."

Angel's expression was unreadable as he tied off the nylon thread and sat back. "I've seen weak," he said quietly, standing to put away the first aid supplies, "and you're not it."