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“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.” ~Umberto Eco
Wesley has a filing system; it’s not much of one, granted, because the Hyperion doesn’t have the shelves that his apartment had, at least not in one room. So, until he has additional shelving units, he’ll have to make do with stacking the books in piles around the office.
He supposes he has Angel to thank for that. He’s trying to be grateful for Angel’s unwavering support over the last few weeks, but in reality, he’s chafing at his dependence, especially given how long Wesley has spent fighting to be his own man.
Not that Angel has tried to control him, far from it. Aside from suggesting that Wesley move into the Hyperion until he’s back to normal—assuming it’s even possible, which Wesley is beginning to doubt—Angel has allowed Wesley to call the shots.
But the hard truth is that he cannot stay in his apartment as he is now. Eventually, one of his neighbors will notice that a child is living there alone, and someone will call the police, or Child Protective Services, and that would cause additional problems they don’t need.
So, now Wesley is staying at the Hyperion indefinitely, sorting his books into piles since he doesn’t have shelves to put them on, hoping that eventually he will find a counter-curse, or that it will wear off.
He hasn’t given up on returning to his apartment, but he knows he’ll let the lease lapse in a couple of months if he’s not back to normal, and move to the hotel on a permanent basis. The idea sticks in his craw, but what else can he do?
The phone rings, and Wesley clears his throat, trying to find the slightly deeper register he’d gained after going through puberty before picking up the phone. “Angel Investigations, Wesley speaking.”
“Wesley?”
He recognizes his father’s voice immediately, and he’s torn between replying and hanging up immediately. He’s grown used to reining in his emotions over the last few weeks, though, and he swallows and keeps the same deep voice he’d affected. “Yes?”
“This is your father,” Roger says, as though Wesley could forget the sound of his father’s voice. “Where have you been?”
Wesley isn’t about to tell his father the truth. Knowing his luck, Roger Wyndam-Pryce will descend on Los Angeles and attempt to spirit him back to England. That thought doesn’t bear contemplation, and he settles for the noncommittal, “I’ve been busy.”
He knows he can’t keep up appearances for long. His best bet is to make his father so disgusted with him that he won’t bother calling Wesley again. Either that, or fake his own death, which isn’t out of the question.
Really, he hadn’t believed that his father would care enough to call in the first place.
“Playing at detective?” his father asks, his voice dripping with scorn. “Haven’t you given that up by now?”
Wesley swallows the tears that are ever-present these days. “I’ve been put in charge,” he replies, hoping that his father won’t hear the lie. “I’ve been selected to lead the agency.”
“The agency,” Roger scoffs. “Led by a vampire, and worth nothing. You’re throwing your life away.”
Wesley takes a deep breath. “No, I’m not.”
He barely gets those words out before his father cuts him off. “Is this what’s come of your life—taking orders from a vampire?”
“I told you, I’ve been put in charge,” Wesley says, unable to resist the urge to defend himself.
He’s not in charge anymore, not really, but no one has suggested selecting someone else, probably because no one wants to acknowledge that Wesley might have to repeat his adolescence all over again.
“You’re in charge of nothing,” his father replies scornfully. “I could get you a nice research position in Bath.”
“I’m not interested,” Wesley replies, his voice cracking, causing his face to flush.
“What’s wrong with you?” his father demands.
“I think I might be coming down with a cold,” Wesley replies, giving a fake cough. “I have to go. I’d rather not speak with you again.”
He slams the phone down, and thinks it’s for the best. He buries his head in his arms, and takes a hitching breath, feeling the tears run down his cheeks
“Wes.”
He doesn’t lift his head, not wanting anyone to see him like this. Everybody already thinks he’s weak. “Go away, Angel.”
“Not gonna happen,” Angel replies casually. “I heard what he said.”
“So what?” Wesley manages. “What does it matter?”
He feels the shifting of air that tells him that Angel is near him, probably crouching down because he doesn’t like to loom over Wesley, not as he is now.
Angel had never minded looming before, so Wesley has to assume it’s because he looks like a child, even though he doesn’t feel like one.
At least, not most of the time.
“It matters because you’re not exactly up for self-defense,” Angel replies.
Wesley pushes back from the desk, the familiar anger hot and ready in his chest. “Fuck you!” he shouts, and something about using the profanity feels good. “Fuck you. I can bloody well take care of myself, you fucking wanker.”
He runs before Angel can respond, heading up to the top floor of the hotel, and then to the roof. Wesley knows where he can get access, and the sun will make Angel think twice about coming after him.
Of course, that doesn’t mean Cordelia and Gunn won’t look for him, but Wesley’s hoping Angel will get the hint, and pass it along to the others.
Wesley sits cross-legged on the roof, watching as the sun begins its descent, feeling very small and very hurt. He wants to be out in the open, knowing that he’s unlikely to have a panic attack or other unseemly display of emotion when he’s under the wide-open sky. He’s probably getting sunburnt, but he doesn’t care.
The freckles will fade, and maybe the humiliation will as well.
As soon as the sun begins to set, Wesley hears footsteps behind him. “Hey.”
Wesley swipes at his cheeks, hoping that Gunn won’t know he’s been crying. “Hi.”
“You okay?”
Wesley drops his forehead down to his knees, curling his arms around his shins. “What do you think?”
There’s the rustle of cloth and paper, and Gunn nudges his arm. “I brought you dinner.”
Wesley’s stomach grumbles at its emptiness, and he lifts his head enough to see the bag from his favorite deli. “Angel called you.”
“We’re all worried about you,” Gunn replies, handing him the sack. “And, for the record, we drew straws to see who would come up here and talk to you.”
Wesley feels his lips curl in what’s probably a sneer—or will be when he’s not in the body of a child. “And you lost?”
“I won,” Gunn replies.
Wesley won’t meet his eyes, ashamed at his emotional display, of what he’d said to Angel earlier even though Angel has been nothing but kind and supportive, and of what his father had done to him. There’s a part of him that almost believes it would be better if he did go back to England and submitted to the tender mercies of his parents again.
Except that he won’t do that, because he thinks he might go insane if he did.
“Angel and Cordy are thinking up ways to convince your old man that you’re dead, although we’re saving that plan for after we’re sure we can’t re-age you,” Gunn says.
Wesley unwraps the sandwich, tearing into it, surprised at just how hungry he is. “I can’t let him know I’m like this,” he says through a mouthful of bread and meat.
Gunn doesn’t reply immediately. “Okay,” he finally says. “He’s not getting you back, not in this lifetime.”
“If he finds out, you won’t be able to stop him,” Wesley objects, giving voice to his fear.
“We have a few contingency plans,” Gunn admits. “If he does, we can pass you off as your own child and claim you’re dead.”
Wesley snorts. “If you do that, they’d have the right to take me.”
“We’ll pretend Cordy’s your mom,” Gunn replies.
Wesley actually laughs at that. “Right.”
“Or we fake your death and say you’re Angel’s kid, although that might be hard to do, since he can’t go out in the daylight,” Gunn says. “Or we hide you in Sunnydale and get the Watcher to say you’re his kid.”
Wesley glances over at Gunn, startled. “Who came up with that plan?”
“Cordy suggested it,” Gunn admits. “And I said there were a few places around L.A. I know of. I still have friends who would hide you if I asked.”
Wesley focuses on his sandwich, more touched than he can express that his friends would take such good care of him when he’s nearly useless.
“And whatever you’re thinking, you can just knock it off,” Gunn says. “It’s nothing you wouldn’t do for us.”
Wesley licks a smear of mayonnaise off his finger and privately thinks that his father wouldn’t do that much. What does it say about him that his own father would likely not try to get him back, that he would see Wesley as so much dead weight, and leave him to others to care for?
And maybe that’s reason enough to ensure his father never finds out about his condition, because Wesley isn’t sure what would be worse—his father not caring, or caring too much.
The sun has set, and the air has begun to cool. Wesley shivers in his thin t-shirt and says, “My father used to lock me in the closet.”
Gunn slings an arm over Wesley’s shoulders. “It might just be me, but it sounds like your dad really sucks.”
Wesley laughs hollowly. “I have to talk to Angel.”
“Yeah, come on,” Gunn says. “It’s cooling off anyway.”
Wesley really does feel like a child when they reach the lobby, and he sees Angel talking quietly with Cordelia. He knows he needs to apologize for his earlier outburst, but he doesn’t want to explain why he’d been so upset, which an apology seems to require.
“Don’t worry about it,” Angel says before Wesley can speak. “Your dad would bring out the worst in anyone.”
Then again, maybe Angel already knows.
Wesley manages a laugh, and Cordelia comes over and gives him a sideways hug. “Parents—they’re enough to drive you completely insane, am I right?”
Wesley manages a smile. “I thought you were always right.”
“Darn tootin’,” Cordelia replies with an extra squeeze.
And really, Wesley has always known that these people are his family, but he feels it even more acutely now.
Maybe he’ll be stuck as a child, but he’s beginning to think that it’s not the worst fate in the world.