// Eurydice
Disclaimer: The characters of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer and Angel are not mine and belong to Warner Brothers, Twentieth Century Fox, Mutant Enemy. They are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.
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Feedback is incredibly welcome.
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Angel post-"Not Fade Away." Wesley, Angel, and Faith. PG-13.
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It's not death, he's sure. He knows what death looks like. Death is the shining thing he couldn't have, because he had to live; he had duty. Death is the absent face, the golden touch, the word of grace.
And it's not death because there is no sunlight or fire, heaven or hell. He has hands. He has a mouth; he thinks it is not smiling.
And it's not death because he wouldn't come through the shadows into a mausoleum to find a woman and a man, a Slayer and a vampire, anima and animus. (For some reason he expected Lilah, alter to his conscience.) Angel wears a black jacket, white shirt half-buttoned--it makes him look younger. He has Faith pinned to the wall, mouth too near hers, or the other way around.
Wesley can hear what they're saying to each other, voices like smoke. He averts his gaze, gut clenching. He's not a part of that fire. He wants to be, he knows that now, can admit it. Angel's pale, pale skin unmarked by knife or bullet or anything Wesley could mar it with. Faith with breasts and belly half-exposed, more than half--the two of them together, moving closer yet, hand meeting wrist meeting hand, mouth against mouth.
Ghost-light moves through the empty spaces, leaving undulant shadows. Perhaps they are drowning, the three of them. Perhaps it's just him. His gaze returns. He can't stop it, or the quickening of his breath.
Angel is wearing his demon's face, Wesley sees now. And Angel sees him--saw him before this, no doubt, demon's senses. His face shifts back; he straightens a little. His eyes hold a hint of yellow. "You should have come," he says. "Illyria said you weren't coming."
Blue like crystal, blue like ice, blue like the color of veins through skin. Shells and faces. Disappearances. He says, "Angel, I--" No excuses left. He's always been a failure. Even in Faith's dark, sharp gaze he sees his failure. She tilts her head backwards, cocks a hip in his direction. He knows she sees his response.
Their eyes are so dark as they look at each other, white and growing whiter. "We both wanted him," Angel says, a little wonderingly.
"Wesley," says Faith, very proper. Then, a shift of inflection: "Wesley. Say what you have to say while you can, Angel."
When was the last time Angel's eyes held that expression, that absolute loss? Cordelia? Connor?
He understands, then, that he's not the Wesley they knew him to be, but the Wesley they wanted beside them; that he's not here in this shared dream (Orpheus, Orpheus), which means he's--
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