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Pyrophobia
by Ins
Wesley only wanted a cup of tea.
He put the kettle down on a burner, rust-laced water sloshing as it moved.
From there, it was a small matter. One simply reached out for the knob, turned
the heat on high. A flick of the wrist.
But he could not. He could only rest his hands on the stovetop, and consider
the potential. The potential for flame, for fire.
He never should have come back to his apartment. Not that remaining at Cordelia's
was a better option. The scenario was too comfortable, especially with Angel there,
increasingly restless with the anticipation of sunset. It would have been no good
to latch on out of a knee-jerk sense of guilt. But there was an entire city outside,
and here there was nothing but disorder, laundry and dirty dishes that he hadn't
had the energy or the inclination to clean up. Even the kettle had seemed unusually
heavy -- there were still muscles in his back and chest, torn open and then burned
over, that protested every motion.
A spoon, a saucer, a mug sat on the counter. The formica was pocked with slight, dark
impressions, thoughts of previous tenants' carelessness with knives and cigarettes.
And what was it exactly that he was waiting for? Someone to walk in, reassure him that
a gas burner was, in fact, entirely safe? Remind him that there were controls on these
things, that not every spark lead to an explosion. He didn't need that. That was
logic -- ingrained and unhelpful.
He had been left with skin that would never heal quite the same. That much he had
expected. But there was this new thing -- this persistent hesitation.
You think about that stuff? Fate and destiny...
Faith seemed to provide some sort of justification. He had lied for her as well. Lied
to her. After all, if it hadn't been for Faith, he never would have been involved in
the first place. He never would have failed so utterly and arrived at the point of
needing...not quite forgiveness -- he would never look to Angel for that -- but
something close. Understanding. A second chance. The opportunity to be seen and to
see himself, perhaps for the first time, as a likable man, a nonzero. Someone who
possessed potential.
Then again, Faith had been his obligation. Angel, on the other hand, was...a
different sort of responsibility, a challenge willingly undertaken. With Angel, he
had something to prove, and he had taken his first real chance to break through that
afternoon. Like a gift, the plan had created its place in his mind as soon as he woke
up to the buzzing fluorescent light above his hospital bed. He spent days waiting,
arguing with himself, searching for a moment that seemed right, and it had come down
to Angel's casual acceptance of a cup of blood.
Wesley knew he wasn't the imaginative type. Only in desperation did he risk picturing
situations better than the ones that surrounded him. He didn't like to make up stories
for himself except in emergencies -- it was the one trick that he still had up his
sleeve and he was afraid to devote thought to the possibility that it might one day fail.
Today, he had decided to make believe. It was in their best interest.
That was how Wesley convinced himself, constructing commonality where it had no right
to exist. Their best interest. He wanted to pretend that meant something else, that he
was protecting the oblivious stumblers, the people who needed Angel's help, or that he
was aiding the distant Powers, even as he shrouded their impossible, merciless designs.
He had felt calculating, but only before he spoke. Once he stopped thinking, it had
been simple. He made it sound plausible.
To live. To die. Self-afflicted amnesiac, he no longer recalled the difference. There
were times when he felt himself close to death inside, times like this when he was totally
immobilized by life, when everything seemed beyond him. And there was Angel, who at moments
seemed more real, more alive than any living, breathing man he had ever met. So he had
perceived none of the spurs and barbs of a cruelty. It had felt so true, so much like
he thought things should be, felt so much like justice and other sham ideals, that he
found himself wishing he could believe it.
But part of him realized he couldn't afford to lose himself to his own fantasies.
Someone had to deal in truths. Someone had to translate. Shanshu. To die, to cease, to
end. There was no cycle, merely one life weighted with two deaths. The prophecy left no
flipside, no ambiguity.
Angel would die, never having regained his humanity. That much Wesley had no power -- no
right -- to change. But he made sure that the word itself didn't kill Angel. And, in the
wait, he could keep Angel from freezing any further with the expectation of an unfulfilled
existence.
Of course, he had been far from selfless. Allowing Angel to hold onto hope, even under
pretense, meant that Wesley could hold on too. He called it a tiny mistake, and that much
they all had admitted was false.
There was no mistake. It had been in his power, for once, to protect Angel, and he had done
exactly that. He had deceived, and had made Angel into his unwitting accomplice. Angel
smiled. And Wesley seized upon that victory: he had made Angel truly smile.
What could be wrong with misleading Angel when so much good could come of it? It would be
a long time before Angel would, with expert instinct, learn what he had done. But even that
inevitability didn't bother him. It was a private exchange assigned to the last possible
instant, an instant when it could finally be them.
Wesley would wait. They were both patient. Not even the Oracles were around to call his
bluff, and maybe he wouldn't survive long enough to see Angel die. Whatever Angel's eyes
might finally hold -- blame or disappointment or gratitude -- and whether he would witness
were irrelevant. Angel would understand, and that was all Wesley hoped for, everything he
needed to prove himself. He could never look to Angel for forgiveness.
He only wanted a second chance.
He wanted to reach out, turn the heat on high.
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