The Assistant

by
Witling

Part Thirteen

"I do not dig this," Xander says, watching the numbers light up in descending order. He's standing with his back in the corner of the elevator, instinctively guarding himself. In just the couple of hours since Wes last studied him, he seems to have healed more and taken on a leaner, more predatory look. His teeth seem very white, his eyes very dark. It's unsettling.

"Nobody's asking you," Spike says, without turning around. "Your job is to shut up and keep out of the way."

"So leave me upstairs, I'll be out-of-the-way-guy in the extreme."

"What part of 'shut up' do you not get?"

"I'm just saying--"

Spike turns around and hits Xander hard in the face. It's so fast Wesley barely sees it, although he startles and half-raises the crossbow in automatic self-defense. Xander's knocked back against the wall.

"Shut up," Spike intones, his tone so low it's almost a growl. Xander glares up at him, his teeth beginning to lengthen into fangs. Spike sees it, and wraps the chain around his fist an extra time. "Try me."

Wesley finds himself pressed back against his own wall, the crossbow tight in his hands, his heart beating double-time. For the first time, Spike seems to be fraying. For the first time too, Xander seems prepared to challenge Spike's authority. It seems like a very bad moment to be in a small metal box with the two of them.

The elevator stops, and the bell dings. Spike doesn't break Xander's gaze. For a little eternity, while the doors open and wait patiently for them to exit, they all stay where they are.

Finally Xander drops his eyes and wipes his lip with his knuckles. There's no blood, Wesley notices with relief. More blood seems like a bad idea for everyone.

"Right," Spike says, rocking back onto his heels and settling his shoulders. The little hairs on Wesley's neck lie down flat again. "Let's go."

They walk down the corridor in single file, Xander in the middle. It's silent except for their footsteps. Spike stops at the first cage and threads Xander's chain through the bars, then locks him in place. Wesley continues on to the end.

Angelus is still on the floor, still in the same awkward, disjointed position he's been in for over an hour. His head is lowered, but he lifts it when Wesley nears the cage. His face is pale and puffy and expressionless.

"Wes."

Wesley stops and tries to decide whether he can hear anything useful in that tone. After a moment, he decides he can't. He hooks the metal folding chair with his toe and drags it back until he can put the crossbow on it. Angelus watches him do it. Then his gaze shifts, to just over Wesley's right shoulder.

"Spike."

Spike doesn't say anything, just walks up and stands there with his left hand hanging down more or less near to the crossbow. Angelus studies him, studies the crossbow, then drops his eyes back to his hands. He's turning the bolt over and over.

Wesley pulls the paper out of his pocket again, glances at Spike, and begins.

"Mihi parendum est--"

"The Verran Cycle," Angelus says dully, staring at the bolt. "That's the big one."

Wesley pauses. Again, he looks at Spike, who's looking back at him narrowly. "Pardon me?"

"The Verran Cycle. That's the biggest ward; if you counter it, the others should break on their own."

Wesley lowers the paper. "You cast the Verran Cycle on yourself?"

Angelus presses the bolt against one fingertip, and nods. Spike's shaking his head, but Wesley ignores him for the moment.

"The Verran Cycle is an extremely powerful ward," he says. "One of the strongest. Countering it can be dangerous for both the caster and the subject."

Angelus looks up, a hopeless smile at the corner of his mouth. "I know, Wes. I'm sorry."

"Handy, that." Spike lets his hand rest casually on top of the chair. "Too bad for us if the Watcher gets his teeth knocked out, I guess."

"If there was any way to make it safer, I'd do it."

"There isn't." Wesley folds the paper neatly over on itself, and creases it hard between his fingers. "But you know that."

There's a clank behind them, and they all look back at Xander, who's watching them intently from the far cage. He's half in game face, Wesley realizes--it gives him a disturbing, distorted look. He seems unable to control his features while he's around Angelus.

Seeing them all looking at him, he says quietly, "I really think this is a bad idea."

"Noted," Wesley says, and turns back to Angelus. "Why are you telling me what wards you've cast on yourself?"

Angelus gives a hollow laugh and latches a hand through the bars above his head. Slowly, as if he weighs a ton, he pulls himself to his feet. "Wes," he says, leaning on the cage like an exhausted man, "you know why."

"I don't."

"You know who I am."

Wesley pauses, then wets his lips and says, "I don't."

Angelus lifts his head and looks at Wesley. He looks awful. He looks like a man in the last stages of a terminal illness, one who's given up his hold on life and is simply waiting for his body to do the same. He seems past grief. Though not, perhaps, past pain.

Wesley drops his eyes. "If I counter the Verran cycle, will Xander be able to sense whether your soul is in place?"

"I don't know."

"I'm not sensing any souls, here." Xander calls helpfully.

"Shut up," Spike says.

"If countering the cycle injures me, you'll have gained an advantage."

"Not really." Angelus's expression softens slightly. "Wes, it's me. Angel."

"Angel would understand why I can't believe that."

"Yeah. But think about it, Wes. I just told you how to break the wards--why would Angelus do that?"

"Because you're stuck in a cage," Spike says.

"Angelus would bide his time. He'd bait you and try to force your hand. He wouldn't help you expose his weakness." Angelus turns his head and studies Spike. "He taught you that much, didn't he?"

Spike rolls his eyes. "Angelus taught me to never trust Angelus."

"If you counter the cycle," Angelus says, turning back to Wes, "I'm still in the cage. But the wards will be gone. You can cast whatever you want on me. And you'll know I was telling the truth."

Wesley stands still, trying not to betray anything with his expression. His brain feels overloaded, thrust into fifth gear at a crawl. There's a flaw in the logic somewhere, he's sure of it, but he can't see it. He looks sideways to catch Spike's eye.

Spike sees him do it, and his own eyes narrow in frustration. "Conference." He turns, grabs the crossbow up off the chair, and stalks back down the hall toward the elevator. Wesley follows.

When they pass Xander, he raises his hands and pulls the chain taut. "Hey, whoah, where are we going?"

"Stay," Spike says, walking past.

Xander's eyes widen and turn gold. "'Stay'? Where the fuck are you going?"

Spike ignores him, and slaps the button for the elevator. The doors open, and he steps inside. Wesley does the same, and when the doors close, Spike turns the key.

"Fuck this," he snaps, as soon as the doors are shut. "This is bloody ridiculous."

"Yes," Wesley agrees, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. "I agree, the situation has been well out of hand for some time now. But countering the cycle may help in one major respect."

"What, in getting your head ripped off?"

"Determining whether that really is Angel in the cell."

Spike laces his hands suddenly behind his head and pulls hard, as if he can't stand to be still. "I'm not keen on being the only one left standing with a soul."

"If the counter goes wrong, it probably won't kill me. It may knock me out temporarily, but as long as I'm at a safe distance from Angelus, that won't change anything."

"You said 'probably'."

"There are two cases on record of a Verran counter turning fatal, and in both of them, the caster was an underprepared junior."

"As opposed to you."

"I'm not a junior, Spike. I've studied casting since I was in training at the Council--"

"Studied it. Not done it."

Wesley shrugs and puts his glasses back on. "The difference is academic. I can do this, and I can probably do it without getting anyone hurt." As he's speaking, he's relieved to feel their course of action become clear to him. "We have to try this. If it works it will be a huge step toward putting things right again."

"It's going to bring Harris back to life and give him his soul back?"

Wesley says nothing. After a second, Spike grabs his own hair in fists and pulls from the scalp. "Sorry."

"I'll need your support," Wesley says, reaching past Spike to turn the key. The doors slide open. "It's relatively simple to set up, but you may need to help me after it's done."

"Help you how?" Spike asks, following Wesley out and hesitating when Wesley turns right instead of left. "Where are you going?"

"To the refrigerator. I need blood. Go back and make sure Xander is securely chained, please."

Spike's feet pause a moment longer, then go the other way down the corridor. Wesley goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a bag of blood at random. It's like carrying a dead spleen back down the hall toward the cells. Slick and cold and heavy. He notices it with the part of his brain that remains devoted to minor physical details, while the rest of his attention is on remembering the sequence of the counter. Every first-year student learns the Verran cycle and its counter; it's a classic. It's strangely reassuring to hear the sequence in his head, as if he's back in school and is going to be tested. He always liked being set tests. He always did well at them.

Xander stares as Wesley walks past, his face more human now but his hands twisting uncomfortably in the chains. "Did I already say this seems like--"

"A bad idea," Wesley says, without breaking stride. "Yes, you did. Please don't interfere."

Spike is standing by the wall with the crossbow cradled in his arms. He's moved the metal folding chair out of the way, leaving a wide bare stretch of floor in front of Angelus's cage. It's dramatic, but unnecessary. The circle only needs to be big enough to encompass the caster's feet. In this case, Wesley plans to make it very small indeed.

"Be careful, Wes." Angelus has moved back to the middle of the cell, and he's standing with his hands dangling loose at his sides, watching closely. "Don't make it big, okay? A small circle works just like a big one."

Wesley pauses, the blood bag held out in front of him. Angelus looks slightly embarrassed.

"Sorry. Go ahead."

"Thank you." Wesley has a pen knife in his pocket; he takes it out and uses the tip of the small blade to puncture the bag. Blood wells out, and he balances it carefully so it doesn't fall, while he wipes the blade clean and puts it back in his pocket. "Vereor ut amicus venerit." He takes a deep breath and glances at Spike, who's straightened up and has the crossbow pointed more directly at Angelus. Good.

Wesley turns the bag and lets the blood fall to the ground. "Timeo abire. Tibi impero ut venias. Venite mecum." He moves the bag to the left, counterclockwise around his body, undoing. Blood patters to the floor, drawing a solid uneven line. In the back of the room, Xander's chains clank. "Tu, quicumque es. Antequam finiam, hoc dicam." He transfers the bag from his left hand to his right and continues the circle behind his back. There's a strange sinking sensation in his feet and legs, as if he's being pulled down into the floor. "Mihi parendum est."

The circle is complete now, and he turns the bag over in his hand, neatly stopping the flow. He looks up; Angelus is still standing in place as if he's rooted there. His mouth is downturned in a scowl of pain or fear. In the corner of Wesley's eye, Spike is at full attention, clearly wanting something to shoot.

Wesley lifts the bag. "Verere." He twists his wrist sharply, and flicks blood through the bars and into the cage. It hits Angelus across the face and chest. He's already closed his eyes in anticipation.

For a second nothing else happens. Then Wesley recognizes the heat building in his stomach. He braces himself; accounts say the stronger the cycle, the greater the heat. He won't be burned, it's not that kind of combustion. He tells himself that several times--it won't burn him, it's not real.

It feels real. In a few seconds it's white-hot, like a shovel of coals in his gut, climbing into his chest. He feels himself stiffen, feels his eyes widen and his hair lift. The circle holds him in place; it's a safety. Through the wash of tears in his eyes he can see Angelus straining inside the cage, suffering the same effects.

It isn't real, he tells himself again, as the fire spreads down his arms and legs and up into his brain. It's not real heat; from the outside he looks like a man having a seizure, nothing more. He isn't smelling his own guts charring, he isn't going to faint, he isn't going to die. He just needs to stand it for as long as it lasts. The stronger the cycle, the longer it lasts.

It goes on for hours. He arches up on his toes, trying desperately to get away from it, step out of the circle, anything, but he can't move. That's why the safety exists, because no one would complete the counter without it. He'd give a million dollars for it to stop. He'd give years of his life for it to stop. He's being roasted in an oven, burnt from the inside out. He can't think, can't see. All he feels is pain and terror that he's been foolhardy and wrong, that he's going to die.

Then it stops, and he hardly feels the floor when he hits it.

He loses track of things for a minute. When he comes back, he's lying on the concrete in front of Angelus's cell, covered in blood from the burst bag. Spike is somewhere, yelling. For some reason, there's a large hole in the bars of Angelus's cell. It's the first thing Wesley sees, even before he sees Angelus slowly picking himself up off the floor in front of him.

He has a sense of movement, something approaching him fast from behind, and with a last feeble effort, he rolls to face it. It's Xander. He's in game face, leaning over, grabbing Wesley's arm. It's like a dream of being taken by monsters. Wesley tries to yank himself free, but he's made of lead and he's sinking.

"Hey," Xander says, and then Wesley has the sense of being lifted easily, like a sleeping child taken from its bed.

Part Fourteen

He comes to with a disorienting sensation of weight traveling down his body and centering in his feet. He's in the elevator, he realizes. They're going up.

"What--" He finds strength in his legs, and reaches for the wall to support himself. Someone's holding his elbow, keeping him upright. "What happened?"

"Fucked if I know." That's Spike. Wesley turns his head and finds that Spike is standing beside him, looking taut and holding the crossbow. "The building's still sealed, yeah?"

The building... Wesley realizes he can't feel his hands or feet. He's beginning to shiver. The wards sealed the building as soon as Angelus entered. The only person who can remove them is Wesley, and they're still in place, but for some reason it's freezing in the elevator. His blood is turning to ice. He's going to faint.

"Wesley." Spike sounds very far away, and angry. "Is it still sealed?"

He thought he'd said so. He nods.

"Fucking hell...Watcher. Is it sealed or not?"

He didn't nod; he only meant to. He's floating inside his own body, unable to make the connections work. It shivers on its own. He can hear a quick clacking sound, like teeth chattering. Suddenly, he remembers the hole in Angelus's cage. But the building is sealed, he can't get out.

Something smacks him in the face, which brings things back in a roar. He opens his eyes and finds Spike standing in front of him, the elevator doors open behind him, everything blurry and familiar.

"It's sealed," Wesley gasps.

"I know," Spike says, looking concerned. "You said that."

"Then why did you...you hit me."

"You wouldn't bloody shut up about it."

Wesley blinks dumbly. Spike's gaze moves from his face to a spot over his shoulder. "Come on."

"Where are we--what--" Wesley tries to make his legs work, without success. He's shivering so hard he can barely speak.

"And don't be stupid," Spike says, walking out of the elevator and down the hall. "Or I'll drop you down that shaft and let Angelus have you."

Wesley turns his head. Xander is standing behind him, holding him up by his waist and elbow. It doesn't appear to cost him any effort to do it.

"Jawohl, mein Fuhrer," he mutters, and glances at Wesley. "Nice job, Wes. Way to liven things up around here."

"Where I can see you!" Spike yells from the hallway. Xander rolls his eyes and hauls Wesley out of the elevator before he can say anything to defend himself.

They go to the security room. Spike flips switches until everything's online, then stands back and studies the screens. Xander drops Wesley into a chair and goes over for a look.

"Where's the basement?"

Mutely, Spike points at the screens. Xander frowns. "They're dead."

"I see that." Spike tries the switches again, then shrugs. "He killed them. Or they went out when the Watcher blew everything up."

Blew everything up? Wesley tries to ask, but his mouth still isn't working. Spike looks over at him anyway, his expression assessing now.

"You going to live?"

Wesley concentrates on making his mouth work properly. He's getting some feeling back in his fingers and toes. Pain, mostly. "Yes."

"Good." Spike looks back at the screens, running a finger over them in rapid sequence, then coming to a sudden stop. "There--what the hell is he in, a service elevator?"

"That is some crappy reception." Xander leans in and studies the screen, then runs a hand nervously over the back of his head. "So, we're leaving, right?"

Spike gives him a you idiot look. "The building's sealed."

Xander stands up fast, his whole body tensed. "Wait, whoah--you mean nobody can leave?"

"We need weapons."

"We need to unseal." Xander turns to Wesley, his face a little askew, his eyes wide. "Wesley, hey, how about a little unsealing? For old time's sake?"

Wesley wraps his arms around himself and squeezes, for warmth and to make the shivering less obvious. He's covered in blood, he realizes. From the bag he used to counter the cycle. It's wet and cold, and it stinks. "I can't."

"Weapons," Spike says again, starting for the door.

"Fuck weapons!" Xander snaps. "You already shot him once, and notice him enjoying the Muzak. Wesley--" He turns and leans over to give Wesley a direct, pleading look. "Come on, Wes. There's gotta be some way to do this."

Even Spike seems to pause, listening and hoping. Wesley shakes his head. "It doesn't work like that. I'm sorry."

"Don't be such a nance," Spike says to Xander. "Come on. And bring him."

"Where?"

"The training rooms." Spike's halfway out the door. Xander grabs Wesley under his arm and starts to follow. Wesley forces his jaw to unclench enough to let him speak.

"No--the library."

Spike and Xander pause. Spike raises an eyebrow.

"There are...weapons there. A few. And I need books." His fingers are cramped into hooks against his ribs. He has no idea how he'll turn the pages.

"Nice thought," Spike says, mind-reading. "But you're not in any shape to do more mojo."

"Xander's right. Weapons won't help."

"They will if we use them right."

"Spike. We don't have time."

They stand looking at each other, Xander holding Wesley up, glancing anxiously back and forth between them. Spike looks worse than Wesley's ever seen him. He supposes he must look about the same.

"Okay," Spike says at last. "But you'd better have some really good books."

They run. Xander carries Wesley, awkwardly but with no indication of difficulty. Spike makes slightly better time, carrying only the crossbow. As they pass the door to the training rooms, he pauses long enough to bend the handle into a silver tangle.

"What the hell--?" Xander stops short, staring at it.

"You want him in there, picking and choosing?" Spike starts off again, full tilt. Xander lingers a moment, Wesley dangling off his arm.

"We have to go," Wesley says. Xander gives a single, full-body shudder, like the one he gave in the elevator a millennium ago. It feels like a horse, shaking off a fly.

"If this doesn't work," he says, turning his head and meeting Wesley's eyes, "I'm going to try to kill you, okay?"

Wesley swallows. "Xander--"

"Yeah, thank me later."

They set off again.

The library door is standing open; as soon as they cross the threshold, Spike barks, "Shut that!"

"Shutting! Jesus." Xander kicks the door closed, slaps the deadbolt on, and heads for Spike, who's rifling the drawers of Wesley's desk. "Where to, Wes?"

"German, fourteenth century." He tries to nod at the shelf, but Xander's already walking. Of course he knows the floor plan. It seems like years ago that he worked here, but it was hardly more than a week. "The Schwarzhund girdle book."

"Check." Xander lets Wesley fall into a chair, and continues on to the shelf. Wesley feels himself sag inward, like an old man propped up and abandoned. The pain in his hands and feet is the pain of feeling returning after frostbite. It tingles and aches. He's still shaking, but his mind feels more orderly now. The girdle book has an offensive that might work, if he can make the gestures properly. He's not sure he can. He tries flexing his fingers, and the pain brings tears to his eyes.

"Here." There's something shiny in front of his face--a flask. Spike's found whiskey in the desk. Gratefully, Wesley takes it. "Got a blanket around here anywhere?"

He shakes his head, then tips the flask up for a drink. Whiskey spills down his chin, but some goes down his throat, half-choking him. His sinuses feel scalded. He coughs, wipes his mouth on the shoulder of his shirt, and waits. Warmth blooms in his belly. Better.

"There's a coat--" He gestures vaguely at the wall behind the desk. The closet there has a few leftovers, mainly things of Fred and Gunn's that he's never had the time or heart to throw away. Spike roots through and comes back with the heavy old pea coat. It was Gunn's, once upon a time. Spike helps Wesley get his arms into the sleeves.

"Schwarzhund girdle book, who gets it?" Xander slides the book onto the table in front of Wesley, and undoes the leather ties with fast, trembling hands. "Okay, Wes. Work your magic."

"Turn to the diagrams--" Wesley reaches out, but Xander's already flipping.

"Not going to blow up again, is it?" Spike's keeping a wary distance, still holding onto the crossbow. Wesley looks at him.

"What happened down there? What did you see?"

"You went spastic, Angelus went spastic, then suddenly there's a big hole in the floor and everyone without a soul gets out of jail free."

Wesley frowns. "I don't understand."

"Harris's chains fell off, and the cage blew up."

"Blew--" Wesley stops short, realizing.

"Um, not to interrupt." Xander's pushing the book at him. "But could you maybe get on this?"

"It was the blood," Wesley says. "The blood is the key, it creates the breach."

"Uh-huh." Xander inches the book closer. "Casty-cast, yeah?"

"There was blood on the bars of Angelus's cage," Wesley says to Spike, already turning to consult the diagram. "From the bag Xander threw. The counter uses blood to break the ward. The bars must have broken as well."

There's a pause. When Wesley looks up, Spike is giving Xander a narrow look. Xander is studying his feet.

"If we get out of here in one piece," Spike says heavily, "We're going to have a little talk about impulse control."

"There must have been blood on Xander's chains," Wesley says, going back to the book. "From his wrists, or..." He trails off, absorbed in the offensive. "I need your lighter, Spike."

Spike drops it onto the table without asking what it's for. Wesley fumbles it up with numb fingers, and strikes the flint experimentally. The first try doesn't work, but the second one catches. Good enough. He needs--

"My knife. In my pocket. And a bullet, I need a bullet."

"In my desk," Xander says, heading for the smaller desk against the opposite wall. "I had a few in the drawer."

"You had bullets in your desk?" Spike asks, rooting through Wesley's pocket without hesitation. "What the hell for?"

"They were cool." Xander jerks the desk drawer open and rummages through. Then suddenly he stops. His head lifts, and he looks toward the door. The skin of his face rumples.

At the same time, Spike draws his hand out of Wesley's pocket and stands up. He puts the pocket knife quietly down on the table, and picks up the crossbow. His eyes are trained on the door.

"Sorry, Watcher," he says. "Looks like you're not going to get your chance after all."

Wesley swallows. In the thin space between the floor and the base of the door, he can see a patch of darkness.

"Get over here," Spike says softly, and Wesley realizes he's speaking to Xander. "Get the Watcher behind me."

Xander doesn't move. Wesley forces himself to put his hand out and pick up the pocket knife. It's small and heavy, warm from his own body heat. That's strange, when he feels like he's freezing.

There's no possible way to complete the spell in time now, but he bends his head anyway, and starts making the gestures.

There's a knock at the door. Three solid taps. Xander jumps.

"Get over here," Spike hisses, taking a step forward. "Harris. Xander."

Xander whimpers.

Beyond the door, Angelus says, "Hello?"

That starts Xander moving, back across the floor to where Spike is, dropping the bullet on the table in front of the book. Wesley tries to ignore both of them. He's halfway through the gestures, and he can feel the building energy.

"Wes?" It sounds like Angel. He ignores it. "Wes, Spike...open the door. I'm not...I'm not Angelus. I'm Angel."

"There's a stake in the Watcher's desk," Spike mutters. "Get it."

Xander gets it and comes back.

"I don't know what's going on," Angelus says. "I don't know what happened. I'm sorry. I can't even... Wes, I don't know what happened. I swear to God, it's me."

It's distracting, and he can't afford to be distracted. He glances at the door. It's just wood; Angelus could have broken it in by now. Why wouldn't he? Why would he stand in the corridor, begging for entrance, when he knows they must be laying plans against him?

Wesley's hand pauses, and he stares at the door.

"What?" Xander's voice is rough, demonic, fearful. "What's going on, why are you stopping?"

Wesley frowns and picks up again. "I'm not." It's hard to make his hands do what he tells them to. The coat helps, but he's still freezing. He might be botching it anyway, the way he's shaking. No point in thinking like that, though. "Give me the lighter."

Spike reaches down and hands it to him. Wesley takes it on the gesture of supplication and strikes it neatly, miraculously, changing weakness to strength. Then it's useless, and he drops it. "The knife."

He uses the knife to cut the air in the direction of the door, three times each direction. Little precise strokes, amazing if you know how little he can feel his fingers. Behind him, Xander shifts anxiously.

"Wes. I don't know what I can do to convince you. I told you it was the Verran cycle. I don't know why the bars broke. I didn't plan it. I swear to God."

"The bullet," Wesley whispers. Spike gives it to him. Wesley puts it in the air, pointing at the door. It hangs there, building force.

Now it's just a matter of a few words, a final gesture. Wesley takes a deep breath, glances up at Spike, and calls, "Angel?"

There's a long pause. The air seems to shiver.

"Wes." He sounds defeated, exhausted. "Please. Let me in."

"I'm injured," Wesley calls. "I can't move. Break the lock."

Xander gives a low, bubbling snarl. Spike smacks him in the back of the head, and he stops. The doorknob turns, then stops.

"Okay," Angelus says. He sounds like a man who's accepted the terms of a long, damning contract. "Okay, Wes. Whatever you want."

The doorknob turns again, and keeps turning. There's a loud crack. Then the door opens with a jerk, and Angelus is standing on the threshold. He looks at Wes first. His face is white, drained, miserable. He looks at Spike, then at Xander. The sight of Xander seems to give him intense pain.

Then he looks at the bullet, hovering in midair. His expression changes to something like gratitude.

It's Angel. Wesley knows it is. But he can't know it is, not really, so he says the final words and makes the gesture, and the bullet becomes a blinding spear of light, hurtling into its target.