Jan. 7th, 2004

[identity profile] wesleysgirl.livejournal.com
Continued from here.

Wesley'd woken at his usual hour and taken what was possibly the most awkward shower known to man, attempting to wash himself without getting the bandage on his arm wet. In the end it was rather a failure, so he unwound the damp gauze and threw it away, putting on a short sleeved shirt for the time being.

His cursing, even though it had been under his breath, had been enough to wake the sleeping vampire on the couch. Spike had, despite an obvious hangover, insisted on rebandaging Wesley's arm, and then had sent Wesley back into the bedroom to change shirts twice before he'd pronounced the wound well hidden.

Then Spike had returned to the couch and gone back to sleep.

Wesley had left a clean towel and a blue long sleeved t-shirt that had shrunk in the wash -- and therefore no longer fit him -- on the sink in the bathroom, a note next to the phone that included Giles' phone number in case Spike wanted to get in touch with Buffy, and had gone to work with the Kroisos blade under his arm.

He'd spent the day trying to work out exactly what those few words of Angel's spoken weeks before might have meant, but nothing he could find shed any light on the situation, and he'd gone to Angel's office and knocked on the door.

Angel had been thrilled to hear that Spike was corporeal again, and made no attempt to hide his pleasure. But when Wesley questioned him about the vague mention of the prophecy, "The father will kill the son," the vampire had started to stammer. He'd said something about there being millions of prophecies, and who could keep track of them all, and anyway, plenty of them weren't true. Wesley was sure the look he'd given Angel had been one of disbelief, because Angel had looked down at the desk, then back up at Wesley. "I don't know what to tell you," Angel had said. "I say stuff sometimes, you know? Stupid stuff. Heck, you know me. I don't know what I'm talking about half the time. Don't listen to me. Um, you know, except for the part where I'm the boss."

At the end of the day, Wesley went back to his flat with blood and a fresh bottle of whisky for Spike and a selection of Indian take-away from the restaurant at the end of the block. He juggled the packages and unlocked his door, shoving it open with his shoulder and going inside.

January 2011

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