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That Billy Thing
By MeriBeth

“I’ll show you blood.” Wes backhanded Fred, knocking her to the floor. He stared down at her; the rational part of his mind was screaming in terror that he struck her while the portion infected by the blood sample was laughing for she had taunted him. Wes raised a hand, clenching it on the office doorframe, refusing to give in to the infection; he would not become him. 

She sprawled there for a moment before scrambling to her feet, stumbling across the floor toward the courtyard doors. Fred grabbed the door, jerking on it, looking over her shoulder at Wesley, worried that he was going to hit her again. As the door came open, she heard a metallic, jingling clatter on the steps beside her. She spared a moment to glance down, seeing a set of keys on the steps.  

“Take the keys,” Wes growled, standing at the end of the counter. “Get out, Fred.” He took a step toward her, his hand clenching by his side. He would not, could not, harm her. He was determined to fight this every step of the way.  

“Wes?” Fred’s soft voice questioned him, even as she crouched to snatch the keys to his car off the steps.  

“Bloody hell, woman, get out.”  

Fred whimpered, the hand holding the keys rising to her mouth as she backed toward the door.  “I don’t understand. Why?” Even as she asked the question, she continued to back up, going out the doors and watching Wesley with every step.   

Wesley stalked toward her, that perverse, dark, hidden portion of himself taking immense pleasure in the terror in her eyes. “Why? Haven’t you been listening to me? I told you to do something, now do it.”  He rested a hand on the stair railing and placed one foot on the steps, his other hand clenching harder by his side, the pain from his nails biting into his skin focused his mind again. “Go, Fred, please. Just go before I hurt you.” 

Fred stopped backing up, staring wide-eyed at Wesley. “You would never hurt me,” she stated with far more conviction than she actually felt. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t really want to leave him alone at the hotel; something told her that would be worse. Fred took a step back toward the lobby, raising a shaking hand to rest it on the edge of the courtyard door.  “I trust you, Wesley. I always have, always will.” 

Slowly, Wesley started climbing the stairs, heading toward her. “You’re a fool, Winifred.” He stopped, smirking at her. “Or is that what you want? For me to give you what you’ve been asking for with those provocative little outfits.” He watched her shiver, his smile deepening, knowing that he was getting to her.  Even as he voiced the words, Wes screamed in his own mind. She needed to leave, to get away before he did something they’d both regret. “Fred, love, listen to me. Get out of the hotel.” 

“No,” Fred spat. “I’m not leaving. “ She stepped back into the lobby, dropping the keys onto the landing and reaching out a hand to him. “I won’t leave you to deal with this alone.” 

Wesley reached out, grabbing her wrist and jerking her toward him, causing her to stumble and fall against him. “Is this what you want?” he growled, his arm going around her to pin her wrist behind her, using that grasp to hold her in place, pressed up against his body. His other hand rose, tangling in her hair to jerk her head back, forcing her to look at him. “Why are you making me do this?” he asked, smothering any reply that she would have made in a hard, heavy kiss.  

Pulling back, Wes stared down at her, shaking himself and shoving her away. He stood over her where she had fallen, panting, determined to not give in to the urges flooding his mind. Take her. You know you want to. She wants it. She had a chance to leave. Wes closed his eyes, fighting with himself, even as the voice continued to taunt him. She stayed. She needs to be taught her place. Give it to her--give her what she’s asking for. 

Fred lay on the floor, propping herself up on one arm. Now she was frightened. She panted softly, trying to not draw attention to herself as she scooted across the floor toward where she dropped the keys.  Of all the things she had thought he could possibly do to her under the influence of Billy’s blood, she had never even thought of that, of him assaulting her like that. Fred wrapped her fingers around the keys, trying to keep them from making any noise as she lifted them from the floor. She watched Wes as she kept scooting backward toward the doors and flinched when he opened his eyes to stare down at her with a dark, closed expression. 

“Going somewhere, sweet?” he taunted her, crouching down to grab a handful of her hair, using that grasp to drag her to her feet as he rose. Fred’s shriek of pain at his pulling of her hair caused Wesley to smile, even as his true self ran and hid, cowering in his own mind, unable to face what he was about to do to the woman he loved. If he was able, he’d kill himself before harming her, but he had no control anymore.  

The pain in her scalp from his grasp on her hair angered her, angered her enough to fight. She didn’t care anymore about helping Wesley. She just wanted to get away. She swung her hand, the keys in them smacking him in the face, just under one eye, leaving bloody scratches.  She stumbled, falling back to the floor as he suddenly dropped her, backhanding her again as he did so. 

“Bitch,” he spat. Stalking over to her, he grabbed her wrists, dragging her to her feet. “You are going to pay for that.” He dragged her behind him, hauling her up the stairs to the small second floor room that he had set up as a study and occasional sleeping space for when a case dragged on. Shoving Fred into the room, he slammed the door, leaning back against it and eyeing her with a mix of disdain and amusement. 

Slowly, he straightened away from the door, one hand reaching behind him to flip the lock. He eyed her where she was pulling herself to her feet, using the bed for leverage. He waited a moment, for her to be fully on her feet, one hand resting on the footboard of the bed, before he crossed the room with brisk, angry strides, shoving her backwards so that she fell sprawling on the bed. He followed, straddling her body, and reached up to pull his tie off, grabbing her hands and tying them together. Leaning over her, he wrapped the end of the silk tie around the support bar for the bed, tying it into another knot.  

Trapped in the shadows of his own mind, Wes struggled to regain control of himself. He could sense what this primal side of him wanted--the lengths it would go to show his mastery of her. The same dark, evil deeds that he’d seen so often as a child. As the realization dawned on his soul, Wes whimpered, sliding down the walls of the cage in his mind, crying the first of many tears for himself and Winifred; yet he wouldn’t hide. He would watch, know what he did to her, add it to the other sins he carried on his tarnished soul.  

Fred twisted, thrashing beneath Wesley’s weight. Her eyes stared into his, seeking Wesley, but not seeing him, seeing only the anger, she whimpered, suddenly very, very afraid.  

Wesley settled his weight on her, using it to pin her in place on the bed, hold her still. One hand went into her hair, tangling in it, holding her still as he forced his lips over hers, pressing hard, his teeth sinking into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The bitter, coppery taste of her blood further roused that primitive instinct to claim her, possess her. She was his: his to own . . . to destroy . . . his. His hands went to the neckline of her dress, grasping it as he stared down at her. Smiling, he gave a savage jerk, rending the fabric and exposing her body to his hungry gaze. 

Wesley smirked at the blush that stained Fred’s skin as he drew his eyes over her body. His hand in her hair tightened its grasp on her, pulling her head to one side as his mouth dropped to her throat, sucking on the soft skin he found there. The slightly salty taste of her skin reminded him of the taste of her blood, drops of which still shimmered on her lower lip, tempting him. He left her throat to reclaim her mouth, his free hand dropping to claim her breast. His hand kneaded the soft skin of her breast while he sucked on her lip, her soft, whimpered cries music to this dark side of his soul. 

“Stop. Wesley, please,” Fred whimpered, twisting as best she could, trying to fight him, even though she knew that it was useless to struggle against him. “I won’t tell, just please, please, let me go.” 

“Let you go?” Wesley laughed, the sound having a dark edge. “Why would I want to do that? Isn’t this what you wanted?” he taunted her as he lifted his hands from her, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing that aside. Wesley leaned over her, his mouth returning to her throat again, sucking on her skin. “I gave you every chance to get away, yet you stayed. So you must want this. Isn’t that right, Fred?” When she didn’t answer fast enough to suit him, he bit her throat, deliberately bruising her, marking her. “Well, isn’t it?” 

"Yes,” she stuttered. Fred didn’t want to anger him anymore, hoping that by not angering him, she’d at least live through this experience. The remarks from earlier in the evening, about how all the women near men infected by Billy had been murdered, flitted though her mind, and looking into Wes’ so cold eyes, she could believe him capable of killing her without a second thought. “You gave me a chance to leave.” 

“Better.” He shifted again. “You’ll learn soon enough.” Wesley rose, his hands going to his belt, undoing it and pulling it off. He held the ends of the belt in both hands, snapping the leather between them, smiling again as Fred flinched in response to the sound. “I trust I won’t have to ask you something twice again.” 

“No, Wesley.” Fred spoke softly, carefully, staring at him wide-eyed and trembling. 

He stalked around the bed, stripping off his clothes as he did so, carelessly tossing them away. Pausing on the far side of the bed from where he started, he knelt on the edge of the bed, laughing as Fred squirmed, curling as far away from him as possible, as far as the tether on her wrists would allow. Wes reached across the bed, one hand wrapping around her ankle, tugging on it. “Come here.” 

“No.” Fred struggled, kicking at him, trying to free her ankle. She knew what he wanted, what he was going to take from her, and she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “No, don’t. Wesley. Please stop.” 

Wes shuddered, trapped, helpless to stop what was going on. He forced himself to watch, even as he pleaded with her in his mind, Fred, love, please. Cooperate. It will be so much easier on us if you cooperate. Don’t hurt her, dear god, don’t. He knew his pleas would not be heard; yet he offered them up anyway, a futile attempt to stop himself from harming her. 

“I said come here,” he snarled, jerking on her ankle, causing Fred to cry out in pain. When she still didn’t move, he hit her, slamming his hand into her side. She screamed; he laughed and pulled her over onto her back. He forced her legs apart, kneeling over her and sneering at her. “Little Fred, this is what you get when you tease a man.” As she started to scream, both of his hands grabbed her hips, holding her still. She thrashed, struggling to break free even as he forced his way into her, her body fighting him every inch of the way. 

Fred sobbed, pain lashing her mind and body, causing her to still beneath him. She lay there, panting, trying to control the sense of betrayal she felt, the horrifying knowledge that he’d do this to her, that he could hurt her so deeply, emotionally and physically.  

Wesley’s focus was on the feel of her body around him. Some distant part of his brain noted the feel of her maidenhood giving way under his assault for future retrieval. He worked himself inside of her until he couldn't push even the smallest bit of himself any deeper into her.  It didn't matter what she did now; she belonged to him. He pulled out of her. She screamed as loudly from that action as she did when he thrust back into her. He began pumping his hips, slamming the whole of him into her body rapidly. She was sobbing and quivering around him, her pain and fear delighting him. 

One of his hands released her hips to trail up her body, pausing briefly to caress a breast before grasping her throat, constricting it, choking her. Delighting in the way her eyes darkened in fear, her soft begging gasps beneath his body. "I don't like disobedient little girls, Winifred. Do try to remember that, will you?" Wesley watched her struggle to nod around his grip on her throat and so he released his hold. She gagged on the sudden rush of air and lay there, panting and trembling under him. "I trust that I don't need to discipline you again, do I?" he rumbled, even as he drove harder and deeper into her.  

Wes cowered in his own mind, the haunted, betrayed look in Fred’s eyes mocking him. The knowledge of what he was doing, had done, to her. . . .  his sweet, innocent Winifred, drove him deeper into hiding, seeking that closet that his father had so often locked him in as a child. He couldn’t handle it anymore, the knowing driving him mad, the way this infection had twisted everything to its own ends. He could feel that sick, twisted side of him, laughing in triumph, heard an even darker laughter that was abruptly cut off, then everything went black as Wes’ mind and body finally shut down. 

Fred lay on the bed, her heart aching and her body screaming at her in pain. The bonds Wes had trapped her with were still on her wrists, pinned by his own body and that binding. He had collapsed, unconscious, when he’d finished with her. She whimpered and began crying, crying for him, for her and all the dreams that had been shattered this night.

*******

Images of her, bound and helpless, thrashing under him, flooded his mind. They were brief glimpses; crystal clear replays of her screams, her wide eyes staring at him, waiting for his next move, the feel of her lips being crushed under his, raced across his mind's eye. He moaned, trying to force the memories away, to convince himself it was all a sick, demented dream; yet Fred’s soft whimper as she shifted in the bed beside him, her arms still stretched above her head, dark bruises marring her fair skin, repudiated all of that. Wes bowed his head, creeping off the bed, sliding the drawer of the bedside table open, and carefully closed his fingers around the knife he kept there. 

Circling the bed, he found his discarded pants from the previous night, dragging them on, and leaned over Fred, the knife clutched tightly in one hand. Dragging the blade from the sheath, he set that on the table on her side of the bed, using the blade to slice through the knotted fabric on her wrists, freeing her. Wes reached a trembling hand toward her, tempted to touch her, smooth the lines out of her forehead, brush the hair off her face. Yet, even as his hand neared her, she whimpered in her restless sleep, begging him to stop, and his hand dropped to his side. 

Wes slowly backed away from the bed, his fingers tightening on the knife he still held.  He kept backing away from her, even as his own words and actions came back to haunt him at the sight of her, the blood and the bruises. Unable to take it any longer, he fell to his knees, one hand clenched on the knife, the other balling into a fist on the floor. “Winifred. Oh, dear god, Winifred,” he murmured, the knowledge of what had happened so very stark in his mind, another thing at which he’s failed. That failure, on top of the knowledge that he’d done to her the very things that had been done to him and his mother, broke something in Wes. That voice in his head, so eerily like his father’s, taunted him with the failure--that he’d done that to her, whom he loved so very much. 

Wes didn’t feel the pain as he brought the knife up, digging the tip of the blade into his wrist, twisting it into his skin. He didn’t notice that it was his own blood that made it hard to hold onto the knife when he switched it from hand to hand. That very same blood caused the slick hilt to slip from his hand and clatter on the floor. The only thing he noticed was that he couldn’t even get this right, like everything else he’d ever done. 

At the metallic clatter of the blade hitting the floor, Fred jerked awake, moaning softly in pain as she moved, surprised that she was able to move freely. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for the source of the sound that woke her and for. . . . “Wesley!” Seeing him, blood flowing freely from the cut on his wrist and his hand frantically trying to pick up the knife he’d dropped, spurred her into action and she scrambled to his side, uncaring that she was naked but for the remnants of her sundress. Dropping to her knees beside him, she pulled him toward her, dragging off the remnants of her dress and using that to wrap his wrist, trying to stop the bleeding.  

Wes fought with her, struggling to get away from her, from her soft, reassuring words.  He didn’t deserve her gentleness, her forgiveness. He had no right to be near her, to touch her, not after that. Wes gathered his strength, swaying slightly, and shoved her away from him as best he could. “Let me go, Fred,” he cried. His hand went to her makeshift bandage on his wrist, tugging on the fabric until it gave. He threw the bloodied fabric away, scrabbling for the knife he had dropped. “Don’t you understand?” he screamed at her. “This is the only way it will ever end.” 

Fred grabbed for his hand, twisting his wrist as best she could, forcing him to drop the knife again. As it fell to the floor, she grabbed for it with her other hand, flinging it across the room. “No, Wesley.” She wrapped her arms around him, forcing his head into her shoulder. “This wasn’t your fault,” she murmured, one of her hands wrapping around his bleeding wrist, trying to stifle the bleeding. 

The sound of the door crashing against the wall startled both of them. Wes wrenched away from her, his bloody hand going up onto the table, reaching for one of the weapons he had left there a few days before. Fred lifted her head, glaring at Angel who stood in the doorway like an avenging angel. Angel took in the room with a glance, crossing it swiftly, stripping off his leather coat to drape it over Fred, even has he grabbed Wesley to keep him from doing something else to himself. 

“Get out, Fred,” Angel growled, his grasp on Wesley’s arm tightening, causing Wes to cry out in pain.  “Go get cleaned up and dressed.“ He kept his eyes on Wes and the table behind him, watching Wesley with the keen eye of a hunter watching his prey. 

“It wasn’t his fault!” Fred cried, struggling to her feet and reaching for Angel. “Don’t hurt him,” she begged. “He tried to send me away. I didn’t listen to him.” Fred was almost in tears as she clung to Angel’s arm, hoping to penetrate the anger she could literally feel radiating off of the vampire. “Please, Angel.” 

Angel turned to Fred, his angry expression softening a bit as he looked at her. “I won’t hurt him. We just need to talk.” He stared at her, pausing before continuing, “It’s not something that you need to hear or see, so go get cleaned up before Cordy and Gunn arrive.” 

Fred’s hand dropped from Angel’s arm, her eyes widening in terror as she was reminded of the other members of the team. She pulled Angel’s duster closer around her, her eyes flitting between Wes and Angel for a moment before she whirled, all but running out of the room down the hall to her own. Slamming into her own room, she slid down the now closed door, giving into the tears that she had kept in while trying to help Wesley. 

Angel watched Fred go, and then dragged Wesley over to the bed in the center of the room, tossing him on it as he went for the door. Closing the door, he turned back to the Englishman, who was crumpled in on himself on the edge of the bed, his wrist still sluggishly bleeding.  He stalked toward him, trying to control the demon, which wanted to punish Wesley for daring to harm someone under his care. Angel fought to control the anger as he knelt on the floor before Wes, calmly reaching for his wrist to consider the wound there. “This is bad, Wes. Very bad.” He raised his eyes to meet Wesley’s. “I want you to get cleaned up and dressed while I call Cordelia.” 

“No.” Wes shook his head. “Please, don’t call her.” Wesley closed his eyes, bowing his head and sighing. “Isn’t it bad enough that you know?” Wesley shuddered, the memories replaying in his mind. “Angel, please.” 

“I’m calling Cordy,” Angel stated flatly. “Fred is going to need her.” Angel rose to his feet, heading for the cordless phone left on Wes’ table. Angel’s voice turned cold as he turned back to Wesley. “Or don’t you care about what this is going to do to her?” As Angel watched Wes broke down, something within the other man seeming to snap at Angel’s cold words. 

Wesley fell onto his side, curling in on himself, whimpering and crying. “I hurt her. The one person I swore I would never hurt, no matter what the circumstances. I’m no better than him. The only thing he did to me that I didn’t do to her was whip her. Oh god, Angel. How can I ever face her again?” 

*******

 Cordy quietly knocked on Fred’s door, still shocked over what Angel had told her had happened the previous night between Wes and Fred. If the statements had come from anyone other than Angel she would have said that they were lying. She knew Wesley, knew how much he cared for Fred. Her gaze went down the hall to the door of the small room that Wes used on occasion.  “Fred,” she spoke softly. “Fred, it’s Cordelia. Angel called me.” 

Cordy listened carefully, hearing movement on the other side of the door. She held her breath, hoping that Fred would let her in. Just as she raised her hand to knock again, the door was carefully opened, Fred’s red-rimmed eyes peering around the door at her. “Why’d he call you?” 

“He thought that you could use a female friend right now.” Cordy carefully wrapped her fingers around the edge of the door, slowly pushing it open and edging around it to close the door behind her.  Turning from the door, Cordy got her first real look at Fred, her hand going to her mouth in shock. “Oh, Fred,” she murmured, tears coming to her eyes. 

Fred ducked her head, using her hair to hide some of the bruises developing from Wes’ attack on her. “It’s all right.” Fred looked away, sighing. “I’m fine, Cordelia.” She moved slowly, carefully across the room, gathering some clothes that she hoped would cover the worst of the bruises.  

“You aren’t fine, Fred,” Cordy replied, crossing the room to stand next to Fred in front of the dresser. “You can barely move. We need to get you looked at . . .. ,” Cordy broke off as Fred began shaking her head in denial. “Fred, look at me.” She reached a hand out, grabbing Fred’s arm to stop her from moving away. “Fred, what if you’re pregnant? Do you really want . . . . .” 

“Cordelia!” Fred whirled on the younger woman, angered that Cordelia was treating her like an idiot. She drew in a breath, forcing herself to settle; yelling at Cordelia wouldn’t help anything. She leaned back against the dresser, drawing Angel’s coat closer around her. Then she spoke, in a soft, calm voice. “Cordy, I couldn’t do that. It doesn’t matter how. If I am pregnant, then that child deserves a chance.” She bowed her head, her mind replaying scenes from Pylea, scenes that she wished she could forget. Shaking her head, she picked up the clothes she’d gathered, heading for the bath.  “I’m taking a shower, then I’m talking to Angel. He should never have called you.” 

Fred slipped into the bathroom, reaching for the taps, spinning them to get the water as hot as she could stand it. Dropping her clothes on the closed toilet, she climbed into the shower, hissing at the heat of the water. She bowed her head, allowing the tears to come again even as the memories returned. She knew, no matter what else happened, that she’d never forget his eyes, their hard and steely blue, devoid of any emotion. She sobbed, slowly crumbling to her knees beneath the pounding water. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking in place and sobbing harder, here where she knew no one would hear. 

“Wesley, oh, Wesley,” Fred whimpered. Memories of Pylea mixed with those of the previous night. She clenched her eyes shut, holding her knees. She didn’t know how long she sat there, rocking and sobbing, letting out all the repressed emotions that she’d held in check until she was certain she was alone; however, it was long enough for the water to begin to chill. Fred forced herself to her feet, scrubbing her hair and beginning to scrub at her skin. Once she started, she couldn’t stop, she just had to get clean, had to erase his touch from her body. A hand grabbing her wrist caused her to shriek in fear, whipping around to face the person who had touched her.  “Cordy,” she gasped, collapsing against the other woman, sobbing again. “He hurt me.” 

Cordelia wrapped her arms around Fred, carefully helping the older woman out of the shower, wrapping her in one of her large, soft towels. She leaned back against the counter behind her, rocking gently, and letting Fred cry as she stroked her hair and her back. Slowly, Fred’s whimpering began to become sensible, much of it centering on how all this wasn’t solely Wes’ fault, that he’d tried to send her away. Cordy badly wanted to ask questions, but first she wanted to get Fred calmed and settled. 

*******

Angel stepped out of Wes’ room, pulling the door closed and heaving an unnecessary sigh. The sound of another door closing had him looking up, meeting Cordy’s angry eyes in the dim light of the hallway.  “Is she . . .?” 

“She’ll be fine.” Cordy met Angel partway between the two rooms. “Wesley, on the other hand. When I see him . . .. “ 

“Cordy.” Angel grabbed his seer’s arm. “Cordy, don’t.” He forced her to halt her angry stalking. “Wesley’s very fragile now.” He released her arm, startled by how rapidly she turned on him.

“Wesley’s fragile! Fred just cried herself to sleep, after nearly scalding herself and scrubbing herself raw.” Cordy stared at Angel, on the edge of tears herself. “I think the worse part is that she doesn’t blame him for this, keeps repeating that it was her fault for not listening to him.” 

Angel reached out and shook Cordelia, “Dammit, Cor, Wesley tried to slit his wrists this morning.“ As he watched, Cordelia’s eyes widened, both her hands rising to her mouth, disbelief written plainly in her eyes. “He did, Cordy.  He was so upset over what happened, that he allowed Billy’s blood to affect him, that he calmly knelt on the floor and dug a knife into his wrist. “ 

“Can I?” Cordy gathered herself, swallowing hard. “Can I see him?” 

“He’s sleeping.” Angel gathered her to him, allowing her to drop her bitchy pretense and given in to her emotions. She collapsed against him, crying quietly. Angel held her, stroking her back in much the same manner that she had Fred’s just minutes before, trying to get her to calm so that they could keep Gunn from discovering what had gone on. 

*******

Fred lay awake, unable to sleep, though she had pulled off a convincing act in order to get Cordelia to leave. Too many thoughts swirled in her head, a mix of memories and dreams. Tears gathered in her eyes and she stuffed a knuckle into her mouth to stifle her sobs as she began to cry again. She couldn’t deal with Cordy’s meaningless sympathy right now, with her subtle nudging to go to the hospital and get the pills. 

She couldn’t do that. 

How could she explain to Cordelia? How could she tell her that she knew she was pregnant? Just like her momma had with her other babies, even if none of her siblings had actually been born. The baby was innocent, a true innocent, not tainted by the forces that had controlled its father during its conception.  Fred whimpered, just the thought bringing back the memory of the terror and the pain. Fred forced herself to not allow the memories to control her. She had to think, really think. She needed to decide what to do, what to tell Wesley. Just the thought of his name brought both the dream and the reality crashing into her mind. 

She couldn’t even begin to recall when she had begun to dream about him, only that it was not long after she’d returned to LA. Yet she had never said a word, buried her feelings in a foolish crush on Angel, even as she imagined what Wes’ kisses would have been like, how it would have felt to lie in his arms. Now instead of the longed-for romance, candlelight and kisses, she had these harsh memories of him, of him tying her up and using her, like she was something--like the women she had seen once in Pylea, forced to breed another generation of slaves. Fred whimpered again, curling into a tighter ball on her bed, dragging the covers higher up, trying to hide from it all. 

Outside her door, Wesley winced as he heard that barely audible whimper, a pain-ridden reminder of the trust he had betrayed. He stared at her door, the fingers of one hand caressing the numbers of her room before dropping to his side with a sigh, turning away and heading back the way he had come, toward the stairs. 

Wes paused at the top of the stairs, the throbbing ache in his wrist a constant reminder of what he should have done, the ache in his soul a reminder of what he had lost. He gathered his dignity about himself, forcing himself to remain calm as he slowly descended the stairs into the lobby. His eyes scanned the room, looking for the others, hoping that they were gone for he dreaded having to explain things. Seeing no one, he headed for the counter, surprised to find his keys atop it. Scanning the room again, he reached a shaking hand toward them, only to watch in shock as a different hand covered them, pulling the keys off the counter. 

Wes slowly raised his eyes from the counter to the possessor of that hand, finally meeting Cordelia’s eyes. He stared into her eyes for several long moments, searching for something that he couldn’t even put a name to, and then spoke in a flat, emotionless voice. “Give me the keys, Cordelia.” When she shook her head, actually backing away from the counter and tucking them into her pocket, Wesley started speaking in a low, desperate voice. “Please, Cordy, give me the keys. Let me leave. It’s best for everyone if I left.” 

“Left?” Cordelia spat. “Left to finish what you started?” She shook her head, eyeing him with more than a bit of anger.  “In the three years that I’ve known you, you’ve never taken the easy way out. Why are you doing it now?” 

Wes’ voice was soft, hardly audible in the cavernous space of the lobby. “I raped her, Cordy. I love her desperately and I still did it.” Wes clenched a hand on the countertop. “I swore that I would never do to anyone else what I went through and I failed.” Wes bowed his head, forcing back the tears that were threatening. “Cordy, please, give me the keys.” 

“You son of a bitch!” 

The snarled words were Wes’ only warning before Gunn slugged him in the jaw, causing him to fall and cry out in pain as he used his bandaged hand to break his fall. He half-sat, half-lay on the floor, cradling his wrist and staring up at Gunn in surprise. He stayed there on the floor, panting from the shock of pain that had whipped through his body. Wes didn’t know what to say or do, could only stare at the man as Gunn reached down and dragged him to his feet, his arm cocked to hit him again. 

“Give me a reason, one reason,” Gunn snarled, two years worth of anger in the words.  He watched Wes, watched, as the other man seemed to just accept the fact that Gunn intended on beating the hell out of him for daring to lay a disrespectful hand on either of the girls. He couldn’t believe that the man who’d given him that ultimatum outside of Caritas was the same one standing before him with such despair in his eyes.  “Damn, Wes,” Gunn muttered, releasing his grip on Wesley.  “What the hell happened?” 

“Billy happened,” Cordy answered Gunn, circling the counter to join the other two in the main portion of the lobby.  “I don’t know the details, just that somehow Wesley got infected and went after Fred.” 

“The blood sample,” Wes muttered, crossing the room to drop onto the bottom of the stairs, his head in his hands. “Angel found a sample of Billy’s blood in a handprint near that accident. I touched it, realized that it was still wet, wet enough for me to get a sample to analyze here.” He slowly looked up, meeting Cordy and Gunn’s eyes. “I tried to fight it, to get her to leave. She refused, stayed here. And I. . . .” Wes trailed off, shuddering again. 

Cordy settled on the steps beside Wes, gathering him in her arms and rocking him gently.  “Shh. It’ll be all right.” 

“It won’t, Cordy,” Wes muttered through his developing tears. “It will never be all right again.” He fought with himself, trying to stop the tears that threatened. It would do him no good to cry, wouldn’t change what had happened. “I’ve lost her. Any chance I had with her. I’ve lost, all because of him. I just turned around and did the same things to her.” 

Cordy raised shocked eyes to meet Gunn and Angel’s, the vampire having just come into the lobby. She kept up her attempt at comfort even as she asked what was obviously a painful question. “What do you mean?” 

Wesley pulled away from her, his eyes going from Gunn to Cordy to Angel. “I know it doesn’t excuse a thing, but I acted just like my father did.  Did to her the same damned things that he had done to me and my mother.”

“What things?” The softly spoken question had everyone looking up the stairs, Wesley whirling around and staring upward in disbelief. Fred stood there, dressed in a pair of jeans, a long, loose sweatshirt and sneakers, a far cry from her usual attire of slip dresses and sandals. She came down the stairs slowly, repeating her question as she did so. “What things, Wesley?” 

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Wes reached out a hand toward her, dropping it and stepping back toward the courtyard doors as Fred flinched away from him, edging closer to Gunn and Angel. Wes turned away, resting his bandaged hand on the glass in the courtyard doors, staring unseeing out them, finally answering the question she had asked, and giving voice to what Angel and Cordy had long wondered. 

“I believe, Angel, that I told you once that a father doesn’t have to be possessed to terrorize his children?” Wes didn’t wait for an answer, instead continuing almost as if the others weren’t there. “I know you heard me when we were discussing parents after Fred left with hers. I saw the looks.” He sighed softly. “We were never good enough for them. Mother seemed to take a perverse pride in relating our mistakes to Father. It wasn’t until later, when I was older, that I understood that more attention he paid to our failures, the less he went after her.” 

“We?” Cordy asked softly, almost afraid to interrupt now that Wes seemed to be talking about himself, something about which she had always been curious.

“My sisters and I,” Wes replied. He cast a glance at her over his shoulder before returning to his contemplation of the courtyard. “I can remember one night in particular . . . ” Wesley paused to gather himself. “Father tied one of the girls to the billiard table, much the way I did Fred, and threatened her. If I didn’t give him what he wanted,” Wes broke off again, bowing his head and resting his forehead on the glass. “It doesn’t matter now, nothing does,” he muttered. “I should get back to work on the Nyazian Prophecies.  They can go either way and seem to be important, about the apocalypse and us. ”