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Disclaimer: The following is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe of the rights of Joss Whedon, the WB, Mutant Enemy or any other copyright holders of Angel.

One of Those Things
by The Brat Queen

Spoilers: Up to Epiphany, after which Joss and I go separate ways.

Rated: R

Summary: Angel finally faces his problems. (Part of the Epiphany series, takes place after "A New Direction")

Thanks to: Mer & Wolfling for the beta read.

PROLOGUE

[Excerpt from one of the many journals of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce]

The end, I suppose, was very obvious when it came. Signs and portents had been there all along, ready for anyone willing to notice them.

Unfortunately, as is well documented by now, observation is not, nor has it ever been, my greatest skill.

The elevator was quiet as Wesley took it back to his room. He absently wondered if it had ever had some form of music playing in the background, or even softly piped in advertisements for things inside of the hotel itself, but couldn't recall any offhand nor did he care enough to try.

The lunch with Andrew sat warm in his belly, and in a way he found himself almost aroused by it. He'd spoken honestly - or as honestly as he could, all things considered - about his relationship with Angel. To someone who knew him. To someone who mattered.

Wesley pictured how he would tell Angel about this. Teasingly perhaps. Giving out the information in tiny, easy to misunderstand details that he knew full well the vampire's own insecurities would quickly assume to mean one thing, then watching as that wonderful, far too rare smile spread across Angel's face when he realized, albeit after some prompting, that Wesley had in fact done the opposite of Angel's fears.

He's my partner, Wesley thought, smiling to himself as he walked out of the elevator and down the hall. That man there? The handsome one? No, no, sorry. He's not available. Why? Well you see, he is my -

Wesley halted when his door came into view.

Hotel security was standing outside of it.

END PROLOGUE

He screamed. Screamed as he hadn't in years. And he'd taken pride in that, damn it. Stupid, foolish pride in the fact that nothing had done that to him. Not the trial, not Darla, not even Buffy when it had come right down to it, although in an abstract, sword through your chest kind of way, she'd been the one to start him screaming like this in the first place.

But he should have remembered.

He wasn't allowed pride.

There were people. Flashes of scent and sound. With a Herculean effort he leapt away from them, straining against every muscle that told him to go towards. To grab them, tear them open, drink his fill as he wanted to. As he was meant to.

"No," he moaned. There were more flashes and this time he reached out, grabbing a chair as though it were nothing and throwing it across the room where it exploded like a bomb against the far wall. "No!"

They stayed back. He was grateful for it, but didn't linger on the thought too long. He couldn't linger on anything. He had to be sharp. Be vigilant. Something was wrong and he couldn't fix it. He could only feel the cruel, constant pain within him that before only gypsy curses and centuries spent in Hell had been able to rival.

This was bad. Worse than bad. He didn't even know what it was, only that something felt jarred within him. As though he'd dislocated a joint without being aware of it, and now could only feel the pain.

Thought was impossible. He pressed hands to his forehead as though he could hold his brain in and make it work through sheer force alone. His mind kept turning in circles and he wept with the dizziness of it.

"Stay away," he whispered, making his lips repeat the words even when he couldn't remember the meaning of them. "Stay away." He hoped it would keep them from coming near. From getting too close to -

"Angel?"

He sobbed, the sound spasming through his chest. That voice he recognized. Hell, he could be knee-deep in one of Cordy's visions and still know who that accent belonged to. He heard it as though from far away, sounding calm and commanding, ordering the flashes of scent and sound to go away. Angel thought he could fall in love with the speaker all over again for that alone.

"Wes?" he groaned. He reached out, greedily seeking Wesley's touch. He shouldn't, he wasn't allowed, but God it hurt and everything was wrong and he couldn't see. Were his eyes even open? Panic gripped him as he couldn't remember, and the world spun again and -

"Shh." There Wes was. Cool hands touched his brow and shoulders, soothing him. The sobs came in earnest now. Pride was completely forgotten. There was Wes. If he could just have Wes it would be okay. He'd give up everything else. Everything, as long as it meant -

More pain shot through him.

"Angel?" Wes's voice again, worried now. "Angel?"

I'm sorry, he wanted to say, but his lips were no longer his own. The world became cool, leaden. His body felt heavier than it had in ages.

Than it had felt, depending on the calendar you kept, for just over two hundred and forty-eight years.

Back when Darla had taken him in an alley, and he'd woken up in a grave.

He wanted to swear but even that was taken from him as everything faded to black.

"Get up whenever you're ready. This really is one of those 'all the time in the world' deals."

Angel felt dirt underneath him. The air held the kind of stillness that only came from being far below any danger of drafts. In the distance water dripped.

It would have been enough to get him on his feet and attacking, if not for the fact that the voice had been so familiar.

"Whistler?"

The short, badly dressed demon appeared as Angel opened his eyes. He gave a grin, as though satisfied with himself. "Actually, not really."

Angel sat up. Belatedly, he realized that he, too, was clothed. He wondered when and how he'd had the time to put on his usual uniform of black on black. "You look like him."

"Very true," the demon said. "This is what we would like to call an astute observation. This is also what we would like to call a - what's the word? - metaphor."

"Already bored," Angel said. He got up to his feet and immediately started looking for the exits. They were in a cave of sorts, lit by torches. Jumping shadows suggested a lot of possible escape routes. He began to explore them one by one, relying on his senses more than anything else in the room.

"What do you want?" the demon asked. He followed along but at what Angel thought was a good distance. "You're in charge of the show. I mean I could show up to you as - " the air changed, and in spite of himself Angel turned around and watched as the demon shifted and reformed into Buffy "- this but can we say hello to the issues? Half this conversation would either be you apologizing for screwing up my life while the other half would be you yelling at me for dating Spike once you decided to embrace the dumping me lifestyle. And while there's time, believe me, there's not enough in the universe for that."

"What is this?" Angel asked. He came forward, his hands ready to deal a blow.

"Big stuff. Important stuff," the demon said, turning back into Whistler. "Huge."

"Could we throw a real noun in there somewhere?" Angel asked, then one of his own suggested itself. "Wesley."

"Heh, yeah," Whistler said. "Funny thing about - "

Angel grabbed him by the throat and slammed him up against one of the rock walls. "Where's Wesley?"

"Easy! Easy, tiger!" Whistler said. He squirmed in the embrace, and Angel was annoyed to find out that cutting off his air supply was apparently not a threat. "He's right where you left him!"

"I didn't - " Angel started to say, but abandoned it for the more pressing topic. "Prove it."

Whistler held up both hands in the universal gesture for "Don't snap my neck, I'm weaponless" - or at least that's how Angel translated it - and then nodded with his head to draw Angel's attention elsewhere.

Angel spared a glance in that direction.

A faint light came from one of the shadows, then popped into existence as though the bulb had needed a second to become sure of itself. And then, as though it had been there the whole time, the image of Wesley appeared as though the stalactites or mites or whichever one the bottom ones were called were little more than frames for a really big flatscreen TV.

Wes was in their hotel room and he looked like shit.

He was also looking down at Angel's prone form.

"What the Hell is this?" Angel demanded.

"It's a crossroads," Whistler said. He shoved at Angel's arms and, tempted though he was to keep a hold on him, he let the demon go.

"Crossroads," Angel said. "More metaphors."

"Ding! Let's give the man a cigar." Whistler dusted himself off. He then launched into what was obviously a prepared speech. "What we have here is a moment. A crucial one, in which - "

"Take me back to Wesley."

Whistler flashed him a look of annoyance. "You know you have no sense of drama."

"No patience either," Angel told him. "Wesley. Now."

"Fat. Chance." Whistler shot back.

Angel raised his hand to strike.

"You think you know what's going on here?" Whistler asked, dancing away from Angel's reach.

"No, I think I don't care," Angel replied, closing the distance again.

"Well you have to, buddy," Whistler told him, "because believe me you don't want the other options."

Angel stabbed a finger in the direction of Wes's image. "That is my option. That is my choice. And if this is some new trick by the Powers you can tell them to go fuck themselves because - "

"They are doing you a favor," Whistler snapped. "You don't want intervention? Fine. Enjoy the sudden diet of wood. I hear it's not too tasty when it goes through the chest but not like that's going to be a worry for long, right?"

Angel paused. "What?"

"You wanna go back?" Whistler asked, pressing his advantage. "To what? Take a good look at yourself, Angel. What do you think's going on here?"

Angel looked over to the image. He was lying down on the floor of the hotel room, his eyes wide open and unseeing. "Tricks."

"You really believe that?" Whistler asked.

"Take me back to - "

"There's no back," Whistler said. He stood in front of Angel, locking eyes with him. "Back has left the building."

Angel finally admitted it. "I don't understand."

"And now we have this year's winner for Captain Understatement," Whistler said. "Look, can we talk without you going Cro-Magnon?"

Angel gestured for him to go ahead.

"Okay then," Whistler said. "It's like this - the universe has various forces, right? Good and Bad and all that kind of thing?"

Angel actually felt there was Good, Bad, Bad that thought it was Good, Good that didn't mind doing Bad as long as it happened to other people, Bad that enjoyed taking Good and ripping it apart until it begged for mercy, joined up with Bad and never looked back on Good again and that was just to start. But, for simplicity's sake, he nodded. "Right."

"And these forces are constantly in battle," Whistler said.

"More or less," Angel said, wondering when this was going to get somewhere near a point.

"And there are, shall we say, certain players in said battles?" Whistler asked. "Certain important figures who have a key part?"

Angel groaned. "No. No. I'm not doing this again. I did it already. I'm on good. I chose Buffy, I fight for the Powers and those god-damn visions, I've got that stupid prophecy, I - "

"Ran like a girl once the visions showed your pretty face," Whistler interjected.

"I know plenty of girls who could kick your ass."

"I'll keep that in mind if I meet them," Whistler said. "But since right now I'm mostly a metaphor - "

"Of what?" Angel asked.

"I'm a spokesman on behalf of the Powers," Whistler said. He rolled his eyes. "More or less."

Angel folded his arms. "So. Speak."

"What you have here is a chance," Whistler said. "And that's 'a' as in one. Singular. Although I guess you could call it a second if you wanted it to."

"Whenever you get around to speaking in English lemme know," Angel said. "Because I'll want to pay attention."

"You lost," Whistler said. "That English enough for ya? If you go back that boyfriend you're all hopped up about is gonna have to stake you. Because those forces? That good and bad? They can't exist at the same time. Now, you tell me what you think happens when you take one evil vampire and add in one good soul. And not just any evil vampire, but you."

Angel glanced back at the image. He remembered the pain that had taken him. The feeling of being broken.

"Right," Whistler said, as though reading his mind. "Bye-bye sanity, hello Vampire, Interrupted."

"I was fine,," Angel snarled, whirling back on Whistler. "I had a handle on it. I can deal with it."

"Yeah," Whistler said. "Here."

Angel watched him warily.

"You want your chance?" Whistler asked. "Well this is it, Angel. And believe me, they're pulling out all the stops to give this to you in the first place. The rules they are breaking -"

"I don't care about rules," Angel said. "Get me home. Get me back."

"Can't go back without going forward," Whistler said, looking as though he were fully aware that he might as well have gone ahead and added "also please hit me in the face". He held his hands up like a shield. "You said no Cro-Magnon!"

"You said you would explain," Angel shot back.

"Okay, okay," Whistler said. He spoke quicker. "Bad. Good. War. Warriors in the war. Blah blah ding dong. We got that, right? Well that was how it started. But then things started mucking it up. Bad started to do good, good started to do bad."

"Sky is blue and down's where things go when you drop 'em," Angel retorted. "Can we skip to the part where the butler did it?"

"Free will," Whistler said. "You remember that, right? Free will mucks everything up. It takes the lines of good and bad and - "

"Really getting tired of the metaphors."

"They don't know what you are!" Whistler snapped. "Vamps skew evil. Souls skew good. You've got both. Where do you fall? Ah ah - watch the interruptions. Let's remember the running like a squirrel."

"I thought you said I ran like a girl," Angel replied.

"Point is you don't run when somebody says 'Hey, you!' unless you've got a guilty conscience," Whistler said.

Angel tried not to be thrown. "Everybody's guilty of something."

"Yeah, no kidding," Whistler replied. "But what did you think you were guilty of?"

Angel didn't answer, but a flicker of his eyes betrayed him.

"Yeah," Whistler said. "The boyfriend."

"I don't want to hurt him," the mantra that had been his guide through his entire relationship with Wesley seemed the safest thing to say.

"Duly noted for the record," Whistler replied.

"I won't hurt him," Angel said, glaring at anyone who felt like challenging this.

"See above," Whistler told him. "Nobody's asking you to."

This was it, Angel thought. He'd dealt with lawyers long enough to know when they'd gotten to the part where they laid out the deal. "So what are you asking?"

"By all rights you should be dead," Whistler said. "You used up more chances than any vamp's ever had. But you being who you are - "

"If Wes dies of old age before I get back to him, I'm coming back here and kicking your ass personally."

"The Powers are giving you a chance to choose," Whistler said. "Actually, more like a chance to prove yourself."

Angel sighed. He knew this language. "A trial."

"Yep," Whistler said.

"Fine, bring it on," Angel said. "Do I get to keep my shirt on this time?"

"You get to keep whatever you think you've got a right to," Whistler said, "but it's not that easy."

"Which is why they call them 'trials'," Angel said, "and not 'blowjobs'. Look, what's left? The Powers have decided yet again that I need to dance to amuse them, you already said there's no other way for me to get back to Wesley - trial me already."

"Powers didn't decide this," Whistler said.

"You just said - "

"You did."

Angel blinked.

"Free will," Whistler reminded him. "Everybody's got it. Except you - "

The image of the hotel room changed, shifting into that of a nightclub.

Shifting into Wesley, being fucked up against the wall of a staircase.

With an all-too-familiar vampire plunging his cock inside of him.

" - you've got two."

Angel took a step back.

"Powers were fine letting you have the soul," Whistler said. "Heck - it was actually kind of interesting. You having it, losing it, having it again - better than most soap operas. And you having it meant you fought on the side of good. Until lately."

The image changed again. Angel watched himself breaking the bones of men in an alleyway, throwing them contemptuously down onto the ground beside Wes's unconscious form. A random thought told him that that was the last night that Cordy had had a real, proper vision.

After that all she'd seen was him.

"You chose this," Whistler said, again as though he were a mind reader. "Not the Powers. You."

"I'll unchose it then," Angel said, turning back to Whistler. "I'll take a different path. I'll - "

"Yeah," Whistler said, "that'd be the problem." He looked up at Angel. "Right now you're at fifty-fifty. The Powers can't decide if you're bad or good."

The victim or the attacker, Angel thought, remembering Wes's point about how Angel had been the only thing Cordy had seen in her vision.

"Fine. I'll pick," Angel said. "I've done it before."

"With spectacular results," Whistler replied, gesturing around them, "as you can tell."

"So that's why there's a trial," Angel said.

"Yep," Whistler nodded. "If it was just me? Hey - I like ya. I'd take your word for it. If, you know, I wasn't a metaphor. But the Powers? They need a little more. They need you to prove which side you're on."

"Fine."

"Now the thing about it is - "

"Fine."

"But you want to - "

Angel snaked a hand out and wrapped it around Whistler's throat. "Fine. I can't get back to Wes unless I do this, right? So shut up and start already."

Whistler shook his head. Or did as best as he was able to. When he spoke, his voice was the croak of a man whose vocal cords were being slowly crushed. Angel made out the word "death".

He let Whistler go with an impatient flick of his hand. "I know. I've done these before. Kill or be killed. I get it. Now can we hurry it up?"

Whistler swallowed, rubbing his throat gingerly. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

With that he vanished. Angel knew better than to think he was completely gone.

He flexed his arms, readying himself. The light of the image caught his eye and he found himself looking at Wesley. He was wrapped in a robe, just as he had been on the night of their anniversary. Actually, it was their anniversary. He recognized the dinner dishes, and the bits of butter they hadn't been able to entirely clean off of the floor.

He moved forward, watching Wes as he sat still, his eyes looking down at something in his hands. Angel squinted, and recognized the journal that Wes had tried to give to him.

"Why didn't you let me help you?" Wesley asked, and Angel jumped back, wondering if the image really had just looked at him directly.

"Wes?" he asked softly.

"No," a voice said from behind him. "Not even close."

Angel closed his eyes, cursing himself.

He really should have seen this coming.

Angel didn't have much time to think before a blow like a jackhammer knocked him to the ground. He rolled, taking the momentum for what it was worth and using it to buy himself some time.

And, sure enough, he felt it. Heartbeat. Breath. The overall warmth that only a human body could have.

A human body, like the one he now had.

Looking up at the form of Angelus, Angel thought that this really was too damn perfect.

"Fucking metaphors," he muttered.

"Hysterical, huh?" Angelus asked. He placed a booted foot - and Angel was annoyed to see that they were wearing the exact same outfit, for all that people bitched at him about his evil leather pants - on Angel's chest and squatted down, resting his weight on top of him. Angel was given a crash course in not just breathing, but needing to breathe. "Two go in, one comes out - just like in the movies."

"Spike's right," Angel said, "you are a ponce."

The backtalk was unexpected and Angel took advantage of it to hit Angelus in what was now a much more vulnerable spot - specifically his crotch. A punch from a mortal hand wasn't nearly enough to make the vampire pass out, but it was enough to make him move. Angel pushed himself away, leapt to his feet and immediately searched for a weapon.

Or, at least, that was the plan. The reality was that Angelus moved, Angel pushed away, then found the world spinning when the blood rushed to his head after standing.

He wondered if his mortal body had kept his mortal weaknesses - like no fighting skills and a near-constant state of drunkenness. But he could remember fighting. That had to count for something, right?

Angelus laughed. "You know, I'm glad it came to this. I really don't appreciate having to do time share."

"You're not me," Angel said. He moved away, eyes darting around for a weapon. There had to be something he could fashion a cross with. "I'm not letting you out of here."

"Big talk," Angelus replied. He moved, as always, slowly. Angel knew that had always been the horror for his victims. Not only would he hurt you, but he didn't even care enough to rush to do it. "Looks like I'm not the only poncy one. Still - do you really think you have a chance?"

"It's a trial, asshole," Angel said, glad that he, at least, was never going to be overly impressed with the vampire's posturing. "Not a foregone conclusion. If you'd already won I wouldn't even be here."

"I dunno," Angelus said, game face slipping on as easily as breathing, for Angel, was not, "you could be my prize."

"Jerk off, it'll have the same effect," Angel retorted.

Angelus's hand shot out faster than mortal eyes could see and lifted him by the lapels. Angel's feet dangled beneath him, then twisted as he was tossed end over end. He crashed into one of the whatever-the-bottom-ones-were-called, feeling the point of it jab into his ribcage.

"What?" Angel panted. "I hit a sore spot? Can't see why. Not like you had the curse that kept you from - "

Angel immediately shut himself up. Even so, it was too late.

"Oh yeah," Angelus said. He smiled as though the idea had just occurred to him. "Curse'll be gone once I get out of here. Nothing to stop me from - " he moved over to the still image of Wesley, tracing a hand down it as though it were real " - taking what I want."

It was bait. Pure and simple. But Angel couldn't stop himself. "You won't touch him."

"Oh I think I will," Angelus shot back. "I mean, I would be all in favor of your pure, unadulterated, oh so sweet lovemaking - " and here Angelus added a mocking, mincing step to his walk before resuming his usual predatory prowl " - except you and I both know I've already tasted the goods."

"Fuck off," Angel snarled.

"Fuck me," Wesley's voice said. Angelus's lips curled in a satisfied smile as the image changed. Over the vampire's shoulder he could see Wes, kneeling on a bed, hands up against the wall as he begged "Fuck me. Angelus - fuck me please."

"Liar!" Angel launched himself at the vampire, the memory of fighting quickly turning into the action of punching and kicking and hurting.

Angelus took every blow, laughing all the way. "Like you're the one with the kinky side? I'm surprised you didn't make Buffy fuck you through a hole in a sheet."

The laugh opened up another vulnerable spot. Angel punched the vampire right on the nose. He heard a satisfying crunch, but suspected he'd done his own bones more damage than Angelus's ridged, protected ones.

With a twist, the room turned and Angel's back was right up against Angelus's chest, the vampire's marble-like arms wrapped around him and his fangs teasing near Angel's neck. Angel felt a sudden, keen sympathy for Willow about three years back.

"You can't have him," Angel said.

"I think Wes might have something else to say in the matter," Angelus replied. Angel felt the pinpoints of teeth skirting up and down his veins. "He's got such a lovely dark side. Once I turn him I'll - "

Angel, knowing that Angelus was likely to know his every fighting move, ignored anything he might do and instead stole a page from one of Cordy's self-defense classes. He went limp, the sudden boneless movement more than enough to force Angelus to jockey for a new hold on him. The vamp struggled. Angel dropped lower, then threw his hands up, thumbs first, into the vampire's eyes.

There was a tiny squish of connection, then Angelus dropped him before any real damage could be done.

Thank God for vanity. Angelus would never win a battle that forced him to go eyeless. Cause it in others, yes, but never in himself.

"Okay, for that you don't get to watch me turn him," Angelus said. He walked the opposite perimeter of the cave, rubbing eyes that were shut and watering.

"I wouldn't anyway," Angel retorted, starting to feel fairly certain that out of the two of them he, at least, was the smartest. "It's a contest. You or me. You win, I'm not around anymore."

"Oh yes," Angelus said, still wiping his eyes but coming closer now. "No wonder I feel so happy."

"Can't be that happy," Angel muttered. "I'm still here."

They fought again. Angel's memory struggled to catch up and he finally gave in to the zen-like sensation of letting his body fight for itself. Thinking only slowed it down and Angelus, toying with him though he was, was still faster. Every second counted. So he let pure, mortal instinct protect him as he tried to figure out what to do.

It wasn't easy. He still didn't entirely know what this was. How would it end? If Angelus won, that outcome was certain. The Powers were amazingly literal about things like that. If Angelus proved to be stronger, then he would take control. Evil would have another number in its population and the chips would have to fall accordingly.

But if he won...

Hell, who was he?

He felt like Angel. He wanted to be Angel. But, all things considered, who the Hell was that? And with mortal body and weaknesses he might as well fall back and call himself Liam, except he hated that name and every memory associated with it.

Would he be mortal if he won? Would Wes have a mortal boyfriend after all?

Would - he stumbled here, and Angelus took savage advantage by slicing an elbow into his kidneys - would Buffy?

Angel fell to the ground, panting.

How much was at stake here?

Before he could ponder the academic potential of the whole thing, a whip lashed out and ripped open the back of his shirt, taking the back of his back along with it.

Of course. Give the vampire a weapon. Not like the deck wasn't already stacked against him.

"I want you to die slowly," Angelus said, never one for acting when talking a subject to death was still on the table. Angel wondered if his own stoic nature had grown out of a natural desire to be nothing like his former self. Or if it was just that his former self had used up all the damn words. "I want you to feel pain for every minute I felt pain. And the great thing is that here, I can make that happen."

Here. Where weapons could happen. What was it that Whistler said? You get to keep whatever you think you've got a right to. God-damned Powers and their god-damned word games.

Fine.

Angel's hand clenched around something small and slight that he did not, actually, know the real feeling of but he could imagine it.

He whirled around, tearing the gashes in his back open further, and slammed Buffy's silver cross into Angelus's face.

The resulting hiss and scream felt so good.

"Son of a bitch!" Angelus shouted, falling back.

"You and me both," Angel told him.

He got up, his legs shakier than he would like, but he refused to get down on his knees again. Tiny vials of Holy Water appeared in his pockets because he felt that they belonged there, and he palmed them all one by one and threw them onto his enemy. The cave reeked of smoke and burnt flesh. Angel breathed deep, savoring it.

"I'm," Angel said, his voice unsteady but his eyes cold, "going to kill you. Just so we're clear."

Wrist stakes were on him, because those belonged to him too, and a flick brought them forward. He felt the rough edges of the weapons, then brought the one in his right hand down in a single, well-aimed strike.

Angelus blocked it. Which was fine. Angel had expected that. The block made way for the stake in his left hand.

Which would have hit, had not every bone in his right suddenly broken.

Angelus smiled, letting go of him. "You know, I never get tired of that sound."

Angel fell to the floor. He sobbed in air, thinking to himself how fucking appropriate it was that he should feel this, that he should know how much this pain hurt, since he'd inflicted it on so many others in his time.

Since he'd been more than ready to do it in the name of protecting Wes.

"You know, it's been fun," Angelus said. "But let's face it - you're a fad."

Angel tried to get up. Angelus, no longer playing games, kicked him back down. The rubber soles of his boot pressed into Angel's right arm until a snap rocketed through the room, the sound echoing much as the pain did through Angel's body.

"You want clear?" Angelus asked. He picked up one of the fallen stakes. "Here's clear, sunshine: I was here first."

The stake plunged into Angel's left thigh. He bit his lip to keep from screaming.

"Wesley was wrong," Angelus said. He picked up the second stake and twirled it in his hand like a baton. "The soul doesn't add. It annoys. It gets in the way. But it doesn't - didn't - ever change us."

Stake through the right thigh now. Angel couldn't stop himself from crying out. Abstractly, he was surprised Angelus didn't go all-out and crucify him. Then he realized that nothing was stopping the vampire from doing that later.

"This is what we are, boyo," Angelus said. He straddled Angel's waist, rocking his hips in a parody of a lover's motion, then gripped Angel's throat just tight enough to almost cut off his oxygen. "You know it. I know it. Hell, even Wes knows it."

Angel thought about his dream. About the one thing he hadn't had a chance to ask that form of Wes.

You're not going to fail, Angelus, and I'm going to be so proud of you in the end.

Had the Wes of his dreams given up on him too?

Tiny needles appeared in Angelus's hands. Angel remembered them. They'd been a gift from Darla back in 1823. She'd gotten them off a seamstress whose daughter he'd had his eye on. She'd been seven and tasted delicious.

Angelus wielded them with a surgeon's skill. He skirted the edge of one along Angel's lower eyelid, tracing it as though it were nothing more than one of Cordy's eyeliners, except instead of leaving his eyes smoky gray it brought up a bead of blood.

"You know how slowly this is going to go," Angelus purred, and it was true. Angel knew this mood. The mood that said that even in the old days he could torture a human for days and days, and now with modern medicine being what it was -

He didn't even feel it when his neck snapped.

His breathing. He heard himself breathing. He thought of that. Taking one breath in, letting it out. He hadn't breathed in so long. He savored it, thinking to himself that at least he had that. The broken neck hadn't totally paralyzed him. Just left him unable to move. He lay on the floor, his head tossed to the side in the exact position that Angelus had left it in, the light of the torches and whatever image of Wes had last been shown flickering in his peripheral vision. From somewhere far, far away he heard Angelus laughing. Undoubtedly saying something about how he wasn't going to drink, because the blood was too weak.

Too worthless.

And he thought, abstractly, maybe this was it. Maybe this should be it. Because the fantasy of life with Wes had been just that. Fantasy. Wes needed someone better. Someone human. Hell, maybe even Gunn if he swung that way. Sure, everyone would be upset, but it would be okay in the end because it was the life Wes should have. And it was the final, honest admission. Angel was nothing. Angelus was all he ever was. Born evil, soon to die evil.

Because Angelus... Angelus didn't know what he was getting into. He didn't know about all of Wes's failsafes. Angel didn't know about all of Wes's failsafes. He just knew that Wes had them, and at the mere sight of Angelus up would come the gun or the crossbow or the whatever and the bastard would go down. Wesley would do it himself.

It was an end. The end he probably should have had over a year ago, when he'd fucked Darla damn near into the floor, trying to drive the self out of him as though it was his last and only hope because, frankly, it was.

He breathed again.

And again.

His eyes closed.

It was finally over. The pain would stop. The agony of all those years -

Wait.

Angel replayed everything.

He double checked it just to be sure.

Then he started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Angelus said, his voice crystal clear again.

"Us," Angel told him. He turned his head. He smiled. "Me."

Angelus took a step back. "What?"

Angel laughed, and hopped up onto his feet. His body was fine, and completely uninjured. "You know what else is funny?" he said, closing the distance between them, "math. Math is funny."

"Okay," Angelus said, "I think we just answered the question of which one of us is the psycho."

Angel ignored him. 'Because you know what? One plus one? Doesn't equal eleven."

"You and Dru," Angelus muttered. He held up two crossed fingers. "Like that."

"You said it yourself, sunshine," Angel told him. "Two go in, one comes out."

"And you think it's going to be you?"

Now Angel truly smiled. "No."

He leapt on the vampire, knocking him to the ground. He pinned him down with arms that felt stronger, that were stronger.

Because Whistler hadn't needed to breathe. Because the whole damn thing was a metaphor.

Because Angel only had to lose if he wanted to.

A knife appeared in Angel's hand. It was one of Wesley's. Angel felt that was apt.

"That won't kill me!" Angelus told him.

Angel raised it for a killing blow anyway. "I know."

The knife started to come down.

The sound of applause interrupted him.

Angel and Angelus both turned towards the arrival. Whistler was there, looking pleased.

"I gotta admit," Whistler said, "I was worried there. But you did it. You really did it. You should be proud. And the Powers? Whoo boy. Are they impressed. They've never had anyone who - "

"I'm not done yet," Angel told him.

Whistler hesitated. "What?"

Angel flipped the knife in his hands. The motion was the exact same twirl Angelus had given his stake before. "Not done yet."

"Angel, it's okay," Whistler said. "I know I told you it was to the death but, really, it's fine. The Powers - "

"Are you real?" Angel asked. "Metaphor I get, but are you real? Actually from the Powers?"

"Yeah," Whistler assured him. "I am. Messenger from the Powers, just like I said."

Angel gave Whistler a long, slow smile. "You know how I can tell you're not lying?"

"How?" Whistler asked.

"You're nervous."

"Angel - "

The blade lashed out, slicing Angelus's neck clear open. Blood spurted out, and Angel laughed, remembering that cuts to the throat did that, when you sliced in just the right way.

Remembering, because those were his memories.

He bent down to the prone vampire's neck and began to drink.

He'd tasted his own blood often enough. Games with Darla. Fights. Drops that spilled into his own mouth after a long night getting the shit kicked out of him by a demon. He knew his own blood.

Still, this tasted different. Deeper. Stronger.

Which made sense, considering it was a metaphor.

Angelus twitched, but didn't struggle. Angel wrapped his lips around the cut and drank his fill, feeling himself grow warmer as the vampire beneath him grew still.

Then, finally, there wasn't a vampire underneath him at all.

Angel stood up, alone, and wiped the last drops of blood off of his fangs.

Whistler shook his head. "Angel, that - that wasn't... You weren't supposed to - "

"If the Powers ask," Angel said, advancing on the demon, "I want you to tell them something. You know, just on the odd chance they haven't been paying attention."

"You made the wrong choice," Whistler insisted. "Angel, you gotta hear me - "

In a flash Angel was on him. He brought his fangs down to Whistler's neck, then stopped, placing nothing more than a kiss on his bare flesh.

"Angelus?" Whistler asked, as though he himself wasn't sure.

"If they ask," Angel repeated, "tell them I've got a side."

He let Whistler go. Somehow he knew just the way to turn to get out of there.

He walked towards the image of Wes.

The room was bright when he opened his eyes again. He gasped, his body feeling heavy and shocked. He was on a bed. Time had passed. He didn't know how much, only that it had.

He tried to stand. Things seemed familiar yet not familiar and he decided that all he cared about was finding one thing.

Scent guided him towards Wesley

He blinked, his eyes focusing as his other senses painted the picture he wanted to see - Wes, there and strong as always, looking perfect. Looking -

Looking down at a dead body.

Somehow he felt like he should be able to give the body a name. But something else caught his attention first.

The scent of smoke. Attached to the gun. Which was in Wes's hand.

Angel looked up at Wes and smiled.

Wes looked back at him in sheer disgust.

[Excerpt from one of the many journals of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce]

Even now, many years after it happened, I wonder to myself how on earth I could have thought that Angel waking, that Angel returning to me, would be the thing that ended all of our problems. That, for that matter, losing Angel would be the worst of it.

I suppose in life two of the greatest sins are arrogance, and naiveté.

TBC