Wesley Wyndam-Pryce (_wes_pryce_) wrote in walkwitheroes,
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce

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Who: Wesley, Lilah
Where: Vails mansion, the alley of the fight.
Rating: R, just to be sure.
What: Wesley wakes up when he's supposed to be dead.

He was dead. Or he was supposed to be dead. And yet, here he was, walking, standing, breathing. Wesley glanced over at the headless figure next to him. Vail. It hadn't been him who had killed the warlock. His final task, the last thing mission Angel had given him, his final chance to prove he was worthy.

"One of you is going to betray me."

And he failed. He hadn't taken out the magician. Wesley didn't need to wonder who had completed his mission. He needn't look no further then a blue goddess waking around in the body if the woman he loved.

"Why can't I stay?"

Hauling himself up from the floor, he fingered the hole in his sweater. Blood staining the entire thing where it had seeped out of a mortal wound. Deadly wound. He should be dead. He'd been dying. He *had* died, he knew that much.

"This wound is mortal."

"I know."

"You will die."

"I know."

The alley. He had to get to the alley. To make sure his friends had made it. To make sure they had won. To see if he could still be of use... after all. But as Wesley walked out, into the harsh pouring rain, looking out onto a destroyed city, he wondered if perhaps he had died after all.

And now he was in Hell. Unless this was the result of their final stand. What had they done?

Wiping the water out of his eyes, Wesley made his way to the Hyperion. He walked automatically, barely paying any attention to his surrounding. Not looking at the people who passed him by. Bloodied, beaten, dying, dead.

A lie, he told himself. He was watching a lie unfold.

"Would you like for me to lie to you now?"

"Yes. Please, yes."

As he stumbled into the alley there was blood everywhere. Gunn lay on the side, eyes wide open, blood pouring from several wounds. A sword stuck from his chest, making it clear what had killed him. To the left lay Illyria, or what was left of her. The only reason Wesley knew it had to be her was her blue hair. There was no sign of Spike, Angel or Lorne. The body of a dragon lay a bit further away, it's head held in an odd angle. A familiar sword stuck out of an eye. Angel's sword. Wesley had no doubt that his vampire friends, both of them, had gone out with a bang.

Grief took over and he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again the rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through. Wesley though it was highly inappropriate for the sun to do as such. Angel would not approve, since the rain would make things so much more dramatic. And his friend, as well as Spike, were nothing if not dramatic.

When he glanced back into the alley though... there was nothing there. No Angel, no Spike, no Gunn, no... Illyria, not even the dragon. Nor were there any signs that there had been a fight to the death. Just wet pavement, steam rising up from it as the sun gained strength. A far to familiar bitterness overtook him as Wesley realized that this couldn't be the truth. He was still watching a lie. Created his own Hell to spend the rest of his eternity in.

"Fire wouldn't be everlasting if it really burned anything, lover."

Heels were approaching, somewhere behind him. A resigned smirk slid over his features, he'd recognize those footsteps as well as his own. As well as he'd known Fred's. Now he knew he really was in Hell, there was no doubt about it.

"Come to gloat?" he asked, slowly turning his bloodied figure around to stare at the woman sliding closer, "Lilah?"
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