Chapter 14

Dark Ages

A/N: Chapter fourteen of the series.

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Joss Whedon and the parties responsible for airing the show. Original characters are mine.

Feedback: Sure.

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Cleveland, USA

December 2017

Ten years had gone by since Wesley Wyndham Pryce had set foot on American soil.

He had never been to Cleveland in his life, so the place was as alien to him as it was to his companion. Illyria, on the other hand, seemed to have mimicked again the Fred persona in order to blend with all the humans crossing their paths. Together, they made a strange couple, the irony of which didn't escape him. Even if she'd been Fred, they would still look odd. He stared at his hands as he lit on a cigarette. They had not always looked ashen, or cold. That had been a new development caused by his unnatural and unholy return to the land of the living.

A failed attempt of rebuilding the Circle of the Black Thorn had been the cause of his Lazarus impersonation. Fortunately, or unfortunately for him, Angel had caught wind of the news but had been unable to stop his resurrection. As usual, something had gone wrong and it wasn't just the fact he'd been cremated and shipped off to his parents in Britain. His odd skin coloring had been one of the many additions to his resurrected persona. He was sure he didn't have a soul anymore, but aware of his co-workers unnatural obsession with souls, he felt safer about not making a deal about it. His nerves had gone MIA and he couldn't feel anything at all.

Not a thing.

Finally, something else had been brought back with him. A thing he didn't understand and didn't know what it was. More accurately, he didn't want to know what it was.

It whispered dark and obscene thoughts to him, urging him to do things he didn't want to do; making him dream things he found sick and revolting.

It had one advantage, after all, for the thing granted him strength akin to that of a vampire, and a certain degree of invulnerability, useful when Illyria grew tired of his antics.

"I am not amused."

The female voice broke Wesley's concentration and brought him back to reality.

"You spoke of violence. Where is it?"

Wesley took deep breaths and tasted the nicotine in his throat. He didn't even bother to answer.

'Damn you.' He thought. 'Damn you, you awful monster who looks like the only good thing that ever happened to me.'

Illyria sensed something strange in him, so she stopped and looked at him in the weird way she did.

"I sense something different in you." She spoke. "The thing is back?"

Wesley chuckled.

'Leave it to her to point the obvious.'

"I am the thing." He replied. "We have work to do. Stop talking and let's get this done."

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Dublin, Ireland

December 2017

Angel walked around the old streets of Dublin.

Having found no other place to go, he returned to a place he thought could give him answers. He'd grown tired of his own misery and discomfort and had tried to find something to cheer him up. He knew he'd ditched the Council in a dire moment, but Cordelia had been clear about it. There was no war coming up and he wasn't needed back there. He was just a lame watcher looking over lame slayers.

He remembered the slayers of the past, fierce warriors feared by the intelligent vampires. It was the stupid ones, like Spike, who actually sought slayers.

Angel kept walking, looking for something to give meaning to his life. The last time he'd felt so lost had been in the early 1900's, when he still missed being a deadly vampire and still wasn't used to the soul in him. He'd been confused, and he'd tried to lose the soul many times, but those damn gypsies had anchored the soul deep, the happiness clause a cruel trick. How could he achieve a moment of perfect happiness if he was miserable in every way? He couldn't kill because the soul burnt him, so he couldn't be a happy vampire, and he couldn't try to live like a man because he still needed to feed. He'd been thrown into a vicious circle that had almost left him a broken shell until Whistler had appeared. Buffy had been a lifeline, thrown at him when he'd reached rock bottom.

These days, he felt she'd turned into an anchor, dragging him down into her misery. She was nothing like the girl he'd fallen in love with. That girl had been sweet, a bit naïve and wanted a normal life. He'd seen in her the promise of future, a chance to redeem himself and have the peace he'd longed for years. But things had changed, and the sweet girl had turned into a hardened woman, and all hopes for normalcy disappeared when she embraced the slayer in her.

Couldn't she see how he hated that?

Couldn't she understand slayers weren't meant to have families or friends?

She couldn't have both, of that he was sure. Either she was a family woman or a killer, there was no in between.

How could she take care of a child if she was fighting for her life in a dark cemetery?

How could she take the mission seriously if she had friends and family to worry about?

It was insane; she'd taken the road less traveled but instead had turned his own road to hell. He didn't know when it had all fucked up, but he knew he wasn't happy anymore. He didn't like his life and he didn't like what he was becoming. He put his hands in his coat's pockets and found empty scotch bottles inside.

Angel sighed. When he'd been Liam, he'd been headed down a path that could only have ended in an alcoholic congestion or in syphilis induced madness. He chuckled, realizing he was heading down the same path, almost three hundred years later.

He felt disgusted with himself. He'd begun sleeping with other women behind Buffy's back, trying to fix his wounded ego. He'd once been her hero, her savior and her protector of all bad things. He'd been her friend when she needed one the most, and he'd been madly in love with her. As the years went by, he found himself in the sidelines, looking at a woman who asked nothing of anyone. She did things her way and fuck all those who didn't agree with her or didn't want to help. The clueless girl he'd loved had disappeared and in her place stood a tough as nails slayer who hit first and asked questions later.

He hated that.

He hated the feeling of not being needed. He hated the fact she didn't take into consideration his words or his advice.

He hated the fact he'd become the sidekick to his own wife.

Anger filled his being and he once again heard the sick, twisted laughter that appeared every time something angered him.

'Come on, Angel, old dog. Don't tell me you're feeling a bit left out?' The voice whispered. Angel cringed, knowing that voice all too well. He tried to shake it off, and knew the only way it would be silenced.

He spotted a bar and began walking towards it.

'You can't always shut me out with booze and whores, m'boy.' The voice sneered. 'I'm here, whether you want or not. You know sooner or later you're gonna ask for me help.'

Angel covered his ears with his hands and ran inside the bar, still hearing the infernal laughter inside his head.