__Tell It Like It Is__
By Eazy Does It



From the bar, Angel could see Wesley's eyes dart from
Cordelia's face to the glass in front of him, and,
even more quickly, to Gunn sitting next to her. He was
fiddling with a napkin as he spoke, periodically
leaning forward to make himself heard above the music.

He chastised himself afterwards for failing to act
when he sensed the change across the crowded room,
but at the time he had told himself, in a whisper that
was barely a thought, that he ought to relax and that
it wasn't up to him to solve Gunn and Wesley's
problems. Angel was reluctant to intervene in his
friends' lives unless the need really was there; it
wasn't that he didn't care, but rather that he doubted
his own knowledge of them. If he had seen enough of
Wesley's and Cordelia's rough edges to know *what*
they were, although not all of it, he barely knew
*who* they were. He loved them, very much so, even
though they didn't see his age or the years on his
shoulders. He couldn't care less that he looked so
strong and handsome, because he felt like the
centuries that he was. Buffy hadn't seen it, either,
but it hadn't mattered. She had made him feel young,
and had made him stopped thinking about yesterday.
Doyle was right, he had cut himself off from people,
from his old kind: to let get go of the ropes both
hurt and soothed, and old memories came tingling and
biting in his dreams, memories of family and of
something whole and clean. They left him feeling
lonely and tired, but he took that on the way he might
take on the burning of the sun: the curse was not
having a soul, it was being dead.

And Gunn - Gunn was a mystery that didn't know itself.
Angel had assumed that Wesley understood this, and
that this understanding would be enough. Something
else he would berate himself for once it was too late.


Angel was aware that changes were rarely sudden,
except when witchcraft and curses were involved, and
that what had happened was perhaps always going to
happen. He had turned away to order the drinks and
had become distracted by the music, which sounded too
familiar for him to ignore. He hadn't had to think
about it for long - it was Wild Horses, by a band he
knew wasn't the Rolling Stones. At the time, at
Buffy's Prom, holding her for what was supposed to be
the last time, he had paid little attention to it,
except to think it didn't do justice to the song and
how much worse it made him feel. Because it didn't
have the wisdom and courage of the original, only a
child-like grasping for something promised and taken
away, and that was still believed due.

He had looked back at his companions while he waited
for his change and seen how Wesley had watched
Cordelia, how Cordelia wouldn't look at him, and how
Gunn had looked at both of them. Wesley stretched
himself a little across the table to speak to
Cordelia; before she could reply Gunn said something
else. It made her laugh, and it made Wesley mad. By
the time Angel had grabbed the glasses and started on
his way back to their table, Wesley had risen from his
seat. By the time Angel was able to touch his sleeve,
the sleeve had slipped out of reach and he had punched
Gunn's face. In the moments that followed, Gunn had
lunged forward and punched him back, taking him to the
floor. When Angel had reached for his shirt and pulled
him off Wesley with dire threats to the both of them,
it had taken him a couple of minutes and a lot of
strength to calm Gunn down and drag him out of the
bar. Cordelia had walked out shortly after them.

"Wesley's gone," she said. Before Angel could ask if
she knew where to, she had climbed into a cab and
disappeared.

***********

So now he was alone and angry, at himself more than
Wesley, Gunn or Cordelia, because he should have known
better than leave it alone, whatever that 'it' was. He
had listened to Gunn rage and swear Wesley's death
outside that bar, and had done nothing but send him on
his way with less than friendly advice. He was really
mad at Gunn, because he had no doubt that what he had
said to Wesley was calculated cruelty, that even if
something else entirely separate to Gunn was bothering
Wes, Gunn had clearly played on it. But there were
questions he should have asked, and things he should
have said. It was just easier not to.

He tried Cordelia's mobile but it was turned off, and
she hadn't returned to her apartment when he stopped
there on his way to Wesley's. He wondered what he
would do if he wasn't home, either, and the relief was
a little selfish when Wesley opened his door. They
stared at each other for a moment, as though seeing
each other again after a long time and uncertain of
who the other person was. Wesley had taken his glasses
off and was holding a pack of frozen peas to the side
of his face.

"Angel."

"Wesley. Can I come in?"

"A somewhat rhetorical question by now, isn't it?"

"Keep the sarcasm for those of us who don't deserve an
explanation."

He dropped the pack of peas to invite him in. He had a
large purple bruise on his cheek and on his lip, where
a small cut had dried up and was already repairing
itself. "I suppose I shouldn't be glad it's you,
really," he said, matter-of-fact, " but I thought you
might be Gunn coming to finish me off."

Angel would never stopped being amazed by how stubborn
and strong Wesley could be when he felt in the right,
and he was happy that on this occasion they were in
agreement and that he wouldn't have to struggle with
that side of him. "I'm pretty sure Gunn got what he
deserved, and I think he knows it, too." He drifted to
an open window to lean on the ledge. "Why shouldn't
you be glad it's me?"

"Aren't you here to tell me off and ask for an
apology? To get over whatever problem I have and not
fight with other employees of 'Angel Investigations'?"

"Looks like you already know all that. I just want to
know what happened."

"Didn't Gunn tell you?"

"He told me he had no idea, and the sad thing is, I
think he's telling the truth. I think maybe that's
part of the problem."

He dropped the peas on the coffee table. "I was making
tea. Would you like some?"

"No, thanks."

"Then you'll have to excuse me while I go and fetch my
cup."

Angel sighed. It was always Wesley's silence that said
the most about his state of mind, and formality was
the best way he knew to avoid being rude, because
rudeness was as foreign to him as tact was to
Cordelia. He waited patiently for him to return from
the kitchen, and didn't leave him a chance to turn the
conversation in a more inoffensive direction. "What
happened?"

"If you think Gunn got what he deserved," he said,
"then you probably already know what happened."

"I think Gunn had something to do with it, sure. But
this isn't like you, we both know that. So what else
was that about?"

"No, it's not like me. Of course not. Wesley
Wyndham-Price doesn't fight, does he? He just stands
there and takes it, like the good little dog he is."

"Self-pity isn't like you, either."

"Perhaps I felt the need to turn over a new leaf."

"I like the usual Wes better."

"You don't have to live with him all the time." Wesley
took a sip of his tea, rather loudly due to his
swollen lip. Whether it was his sense of decorum
kicking in, or the return of the painfully honest,
self-aware Wesley, he looked away from him with a
tinge of embarrassment. "Sorry."

Angel moved to sit opposite him. "You have a choice
here, Wes. You can either tell your friend why you got
so upset, or tell your boss why you punched another
one of his people. Frankly, I'd choose your friend if
I were you, because your boss is likely to make you
scrub the office toilets with a toothbrush for not
talking to your friend about your problems."

He smiled a little. "I see."

**********


"Good. So start at the beginning."

"Gunn's never liked me." He drank more of his tea.
"I've irritated a large number of people in my life,
Angel, but never quite so quickly. And I know Cordelia
and I... bicker a great deal, but she's never tried to
hurt my feelings the way Gunn does." He took a deep
breath. "I've been telling myself that he obviously
has had a rather difficult life, and that in all
likelihood it has little to do with me." He stopped
for a moment. When he started speaking again, his
voice was a little less steady. "I know his type,
and it wouldn't take much for him to make a bad
mistake and hurt an innocent life."

"I realize that."

"I wasn't sure you did."

Angel couldn't resent him for being angry with him. He
was right to be. "What I didn't realize was how
difficult he was making your life. I'm sorry."

"That's not really the problem." Wesley put down his
cup, which was now empty. "I didn't let the combined
might of the Scooby Gang take me down in Sunnydale,
I'm not about to let one Charles Gunn do it in LA."
Angel smiled at the hint of arrogance in his words.
"But some things have changed, and others haven't. I
didn't understand how much until tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"You remember how I was, when I first got here -
always... questioning myself. I've never been entirely
confident about a lot of things, and my failure with
Buffy and Faith didn't help matters. But you gave me a
chance, and working here, with you and Cordelia - it's
the best thing that's ever happened to me. The best."

"And Gunn changed that."

"A little, and sometimes a lot. But perhaps it's
better that way. One shouldn't get too complacent in
this line of work."

"But that's not all, is it?" Angel said. Wesley's
hands were pale and wrangled together. "You still
haven't told me what happened."

"Did you recognise the song they were playing in that
bar? Just before the fight?"

"The one from Buffy's Prom? It was hard not to."

"It has rather unwelcome sentimental value for me as
well. I'm sure you had enough on your mind not to
notice at the time, but I spent much of that
particular evening with Cordelia." He paused to look
at him, as though to ask him to say something. "And,"
he continued eventually, tentatively, "it was a
wonderful, wonderful evening for me. Cordelia and I...
didn't argue so much in those days." Angel noticed the
blush rising to his face and the slight twitching in
his legs, thought back to what he had seen, and began
to worry that he knew what the problem was, because he
remembered now just how much Wesley and Cordelia had
seemed to like each other back then. He had no idea
why he hadn't remembered until now. "So when they
played that song again, I asked Cordelia if she wanted
to dance. For old times' sake, that sort of thing. As
it turns out, I think I had fonder memories of that
time than she did because it was rather obvious she
didn't really want to. I think it was obvious even to
Gunn, and that's probably why he said what he said."

Since he was brave enough to answer his questions,
Angel decided he ought to keep asking them. "What did
he say?"

"It's funny, I don't really remember now. Something
about women not being books, and having to handle them
differently. Doubting I could tell the difference." He
got up then, and picked up a small dusty volume off
the table. He considered its cover for a moment before
turning away and placing it on a shelf.

"And she laughed."

"You saw that part." He loosened his tie a little more
and took it off.

"This isn't about Gunn, then."

"No, not completely."

"It's about Cordelia."

"You could say that."

"Gunn likes her."

"And she likes him."

Angel got up, too. He could feel Wesley slipping away
from him, even though he was looking straight at him
and standing more still than Angel had seen him all
evening. And if it was hard for Wes, it was difficult
for him, too, but he wasn't going to let him bury
this. He had failed him enough as it was in opting for
what was comfortable for both of them. "Did something
ever happen between you two in Sunnydale?"

"You might say that." He swallowed. "We kissed, once.
Right before graduation. It was something of a
disaster. I was somewhat... overwhelmed by the
occasion. I'm afraid she was terribly disappointed."
He gave a little laugh. "It doesn't matter. It wasn't
me she was attracted to, just some strange image of
me. The opposite of Xander Harris, who had so terribly
hurt her, and the man with all the money and standing
she didn't have anymore."

"Come on, Wes, it can't have been that shallow."

"Don't misunderstand me. I don't resent her for that.
I understand how she must have felt. And to be honest,
I don't entirely hate the idea of making her happy, in
any way I can." He fiddled with something in his
pockets. "Rather pathetic, isn't it? A grown man so
infatuated with a schoolgirl."

"She's hardly a schoolgirl anymore."

"It doesn't matter," he repeated. "She feels
differently. Sometimes things are as they should be,
you know."

"It matters," Angel said, "otherwise you wouldn't have
started a fight tonight."

He jumped when Wesley threw his tie at him, and then
was grateful it hadn't been the book he was holding
five minutes earlier. "For God's sake, Angel! What do
you want me to do? All right, so she's not a
schoolgirl anymore! She's a beautiful, intelligent
young woman! I'm not infatuated, I'm in love with her!
And maybe I didn't know it until tonight! Why don't
you just leave me alone like you usually do?"

He waited a while for Wesley to realise he was crying
before reaching for a box of tissues. He handed a
couple to him, which he gingerly accepted. Already he
could see in his eyes a shame he had too often seen
there.

"Why do you always feel so bad?" Angel asked. "I mean,
I've got about a hundred years' worth of killing to
feel unhappy about, but what about you?"

Wesley shrugged, somewhat shyly. "Habit, I suppose."

"I know what that's like."

"But I don't always feel bad," he added. "I don't
feel bad around *her*."

"I know what that's like, too."

He went to the window and sighed something away in the
breeze. "Do you trust me, Angel?" he asked.

"With my death."

He smiled even more. "Do you believe me when I tell
you I know how to handle this... situation?"

"Sure." He was standing next to him now, enjoying the
same cool wind. They watched people walking by, and
cars humming and drumming down the street. It was a
warm night, but the air was light. He glanced at
Wesley, who looked nothing more than pensive.

"Do you think he would treat her well?"

"Gunn?" Angel thought about it, but he was quite
certain that not many people would come up to Wesley's
standards when it came to Cordelia. "I don't know. You
can't always tell these things."

"She was mad at me, back at the bar. Do you think I
should call her and apologise?"

"Aren't you mad at her, too?"

"We tend to be mad at each other most of the time, so
it's difficult to tell the difference."

He laughed. "Maybe you should just wait and see what
happens."

"I'm not sure I want to wait until a coffee pot flies
at me," Wesley said.

"It'd be far worse if she made you drink it."

"Good point."

*************

It was back at his own apartment that Angel realised
he didn't feel sorry for him at all, and that maybe
Wesley was right when he had told him that things were
just as they should be.

But things rarely remained the same.

* * *