Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[trigger warning in end notes]

"In that book which is my memory,

On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you,

Appear the words, 'Here begins a new life'."

― Dante Alighieri, Vita Nuova

...

"The path to paradise begins in hell."
― Dante Alighieri

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"No."

"Okay."

(the beginning of the end. as it were)

So here's the thing:

It's not planned.

None of what happens is fucking planned. From the moment fire rains down from the sky (hell, even before then) nothing that happens is planned. It's not planned because Lilah Morgan would never plan something so stupid, and ridiculous, and just downright unbelievable.

This isn't the plan.

This is the opposite of a plan.

No, for the last four months, her life might as well have become nothing more than a series of unfortunate accidents, each one leading into the next. Though the gigantic lava rock masquerading as a finger sticking out of her gut hardly feels accidental. Neither does the purposeful way that Wesley lifts her into his arms like a fucking damsel (thankfully, she's too delirious at this point to really soak in the humiliation). But, still, it's not planned. Just like their relationship wasn't planned. The sex, yes, she'll grant that much. A somewhat spontaneous and ill-advised plan yet a rewarding one nonetheless. But the relationship that followed was not. The ending of it was not planned, either (fucking Wesley), nor was the unexpected ache Lilah started to develop in her chest when she saw him looking at Fred - looking at Fred in a way that he never looked at her; an ache that expanded into a tear when Wesley pulled the rug out from under her. Discarded her like a toy he no longer had any use for.

(and Lilah supposes that in some ways she was. In some ways, she let herself become so)

And then there's the other thing. The other thing that wasn't planned. That would never have been planned. But there's no use thinking about the other thing right now. No use thinking about something she has no control over, whilst she runs for her life. Or, more accurately, hobbles.

As grand escapes go, this one certainly leaves something to be desired. She could have gone for a helicopter off the roof, or even a flying fucking carpet (they have one of those in the vaults, apparently). Instead, she's picking herself off the floor of one of LA's filthiest sewers, the stench of waste clogging her nostrils and darkness swarming her vision. The company leaves a little something to be desired too. Considering a part of her still wants to eviscerate him. But maybe not less than twenty minutes after she was just eviscerated.

Lilah grimaces, hand pressing harder against her wound as she tries not to think about the expensive pair of heels that are rapidly becoming submerged in God knows what.

Perhaps being carried wasn't the worst thing.

(it's just money, of course. But money has never been just money to her and she's got a feeling she's about to be seeing a lot less of it.

Plus, they were really nice heels. Only a dozen pairs sold. Of which she got the last.

God-fucking-dammit)

Lilah draws a breath - promptly regrets it - and moves on to the next unplanned disaster scheduled into her itinerary (albeit she doesn't know it yet). But first she opens her mouth. Calls him back.

"Wesley!"

(it's a mistake, of course. She knows it's a mistake even before she says his name. But he's walking away, he's leaving. And this might be it. The last time she ever sees him. Ever talks to him. So she has to say something.

Even if she knows that there's nothing she could say that he would want to hear. Lilah's used to that. There was nothing her mother wanted to hear from her either.

Not at the end)

Wesley turns, a question in his eyes. A question that echoes within her. Because that's the thing. She may want to say something, may need to say something, but she doesn't know what. Lilah's a lawyer, she's built her life on always knowing the exact right thing to say at exactly the right time - but not now. Now, words fail her. She doesn't know what to say. What she wants to say. Perhaps because there's too much. Too much to fucking say. And not enough that she can ever allow herself to.

But still. Something is there. On the tip of her tongue.

Lilah's hand is on her stomach, over the wound, precariously close to one thing she could say but shouldn't.

Her mouth is gaping like the hole in her gut and she's fairly certain that if she says too much, says the wrong thing, it'll hurt even more.

If she says anything true, anything real, it will hurt. It will tear her open more assuredly than the hole in her side.

So why did she open her mouth?

Why is it still open?

(she knows there's nothing she could say that he would want to hear)

Impatience gleams in the blue of Wesley's eyes. And maybe that would have decided her. In the next second. Maybe that obvious dismissal would have decided the words on her tongue.

She doesn't get the chance to find out.

In one universe, Lilah says nothing. Babbles out a string of words about Angel's hellspawn instead. A favor for saving her life. Quid pro quo.

(an excuse not to say anything real)

In this universe, Lilah also says nothing. Not even about Connor. Her body doesn't give her the chance. Her body betrays her. Saves her from one humiliation only to plunge her into another.

It shouldn't come as a shock, really. She did practically swoon in Wesley's arms at the start of this dashing rescue. That 'Stay with me!' wasn't just said for kicks. But the last time Lilah fainted from an injury, she was twelve. Nursing the broken bones of a wrist that had been twisted past the point of return by the only person she's ever really loved.

Lilah likes to think she's gotten a little tougher since then. She knows she's gotten stronger. Harder.

But apparently not strong enough. Not hard enough. Because her skin is hot and clammy. Her heart is racing in her chest, her stomach spinning in sync with the world around her. There's darkness. At the edges of her vision. Creeping in.

And then there's nothing.

That last time Lilah fainted, she never hit the ground. Those same hands responsible for hurting her, caught her. She doesn't remember that. But she remembers waking on the couch, her mother's frantic voice in her ear, and even more frantic hands fussing over her. There were tear stains on her cheeks, still drying, and Lilah reached up instinctively to brush them away.

This only made the tears come fresh. Come harder. Her mother's sobs hurting her ears, her aching head, as her cheek pressed into Lilah's hand. She didn't seem to realize that it was the broken one. That her tears were wetting swollen skin. And Lilah gritted her teeth, refusing to let the pain show as she struggled to keep her hand there. It hurt. But pain was temporary and her mother was crying. Her mother needed her.

Lilah didn't count the apologies that day. Not the ones pressed within sobs like dead flowers within papery tombs. Or the ones that came more sporadically, shamefully, as they drove home from the hospital, a fresh cast around her wrist.

Apologies don't mean anything when you're just going to do it again.

(Lilah also didn't count how many times she offered forgiveness. How many times the words 'it's okay' fell from her lips, working to dry the tears. She meant them and she didn't.

You can forgive and not forget)

That night, her mother cooked her favorite dinner. Let her pick the TV channel. And tucked her into bed, a story book in hand like she was four years younger. Like she was still young enough for the tired words of a fairy tale to fix this.

"I love you" couldn't fix it either.

But Lilah smiled and hugged her mother. Returned the words. Whispered them into her neck like absolution as she held her close. Three times so she'd believe her. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Never go to bed angry.

She stayed up that night, though. All night. Heart pounding. Muscles tense. The pain in her hand refusing to leave her.

She stayed up all night. Mind racing, turning. Searching for answers to questions she knew she shouldn't have to ask.

[It was an accident. Really. Partially. From a certain viewpoint. An accident.

The slap wasn't. The slap was intentional - if not planned. The force behind it equal parts impulse and choice.

But the broken bones? They were more unforeseen consequence than anything else.

Her mom's attempt to limit the damage, only to make it worse. Reaching out as Lilah tripped, as Lilah fell - and grabbing hold of her wrist.

The momentum had caused a twist. Forced her bones to splinter. Break.

An accident.

That matters. Probably. Tomorrow it will matter.

But not now.

Now it just hurts.]

Lilah's never been able to explain it. How the person who always stood by her, the one who loved her more than anyone else has or ever will, was also the one to hurt her in ways no one else will ever get the chance to.

As a child, she figured that was only to be expected. The price of entry. Can't have a little pleasure without a little pain. Or love without something breaking.

As an adult, she decided she could do without the broken bones. And the love.

That was a decision she made after the only person in the world who mattered to her started to forget her.

(it figures that the worst thing her mother ever did to her wasn't even her fault)

Wesley doesn't catch her before she falls. Of course he doesn't. She's not actually a damsel and he's not actually the hero. And this isn't a fucking fairy tale. At least, not the kind of fluffy, watered-down version they churn out at Disney. Those fairy tales are bullshit. Lilah's known that since she was a child.

But then her mother always read her the old ones. The real ones. The ones full of death and betrayal, fathers who try to marry or kill their daughters, princesses who cannibalize their sisters, and maidens without hands.

Maybe this is that kind of fairy tale.

Either way, Wesley doesn't catch her. And when she wakes, it's not to blue eyes gazing down at her. There's no magic kiss that pulls her from the depths.

There's just pain. 

["Don't ever fall in love, Lilah. It'll only make you small."

There's a bruise on her mom's cheek, hidden beneath makeup (too much but not enough). Lilah can always see the bruises. She's known this face since birth, there's no part of it that can hide from her.

She told him to leave. Her mom.

Lilah heard the shouts from her bed. From behind the door she leaves locked whenever Boyfriend Number Five visits.

She told him to leave.

But Lilah doesn't understand why she opened the door in the first place. Why she let him in. Why she always lets them in.

"I won't," Lilah promises.

And doesn't think it will be a hard one to keep.]

'The Lord knows you

are beautiful and unfair. I think perhaps

you should spare a thought, dear, for

those who are sick over you, burning up

with you, damp with you. You know what

you do. You're a slow fever. Don't be so

very engaging, amusing or witty or bright.

You are causing confusion and jams in

tight spaces. You are an accident in

waiting. The type of accident with

casualties spanning from me to you and

here to there, a potential tragedy, a

stunning unborn disaster.'

― Yrsa Daley-Ward, Bone

[As signs go, the ones Lilah's body deems fit to offer up as a warning are almost criminally vague. Vague enough to ignore, to not look too closely at.

She's more tired than usual but things have been (even) more stressful than usual, so that's par for the course. That same stress also provides a convenient explanation for why her period decides to drag its heels, refusing to arrive on schedule. In Lilah's time working at Wolfram & Hart, a fucked up menstrual cycle has also become par for the course.

The tenderness in her breasts isn't all that unusual either. A sensation that too often acts as a herald for the arrival of an ever-illusive period.

(she hisses as Wesley squeezes them too hard and bats his hands away without comment.

She's never liked pain she didn't ask for)

So, yes. Lilah's living quite comfortably in her dreamland of vague, dismissible signs. Going about her life like nothing's amiss except for the fact that she now apparently debases herself for men who don't know a good thing when they have it and sure has hell don't deserve her. She still can't believe she wasted money on those stupid glasses. Or that she still has them. Shoved to the back of the glove compartment in her car.

Lilah's living comfortably. Happily.

Then fucking Angel has to ruin it all for her.

It happens in the middle of one of their increasingly tedious run-ins (at this point, she has to consider the possibility that he's just plain stalking her) and Lilah's occupying her thoughts with a wonderful fantasy about all the exciting things she could do to him if the Senior Partners ever decided to throw out their most annoying policy. She's just getting to the good part, when the Champion of All That Is Good freezes mid-sentence. Sniffs the air. Like a stray mutt who's never been taught a manner in its life.

Lilah wrinkles her nose. After his comment about smelling Wesley all over her, she finds herself somewhat resentful of this particular supernatural quirk of his. Though, mostly she just finds herself impatient.

He's taking up the entirety of her lunch break.

Angel tilts his head to the side, like he can hear something in the distance. Probably another helpless stranger whom he can get his rocks off trying to save.

Hopefully, that means this unscheduled meeting will be cut short.

"You been to a doctor lately, Lilah?"

She doesn't like the look in his eyes. All smugness and mockery and just a hint of something she can't place.

It's that something that puts her on edge.

Lilah covers it with a smirk. "I didn't realize you cared so much about my health, Angel. I'm touched."

His expression doesn't change - though the mockery in his eyes does grow a tad stronger. "Not your health I'm concerned with, Lilah. Still. . . you might want to consider it. Seeing a doctor. Modern medicine's come a long way since my day. Apparently, you can find out all kinds of interesting things."

He's enjoying himself. Enjoying knowing something that she doesn't. Something that she's fairly certain she doesn't want to know.

And isn't that just fantastic?

The absolute cherry on top of her day. As if being utterly humiliated by Wesley earlier wasn't enough. Now the big lug's decided to have a go at it too.

(she books the doctor's appointment of course.

With her luck, she probably has some terminal disease. Or maybe Wesley - the bastard - has given her the thoughtful gift of an STD. She's almost hopeful for the latter. All she needs is one more good reason to kill him.

Killing Wesley would solve at least half of the problems in her life right now. She's sure of it. The only reason she hasn't yet is because she can't watch him suffer if he's dead. And with the way his life has gone so far, there's certain to be a lot of suffering in store. All she has to do is wait.

That's the only reason.)]

She wakes up in Wesley's bed. Which is better than a sewer but only marginally. Marginally because Wesley's bed just so happens to be in his apartment and the last two times she was in this apartment, she experienced what might just be the most humiliating moments of her life. In fact, Lilah's been fantasizing about burning it to the ground ever since she walked out the door for what she thought would be the very last time.

What should have been the very last time.

(she shouldn't be here)

Lilah doesn't think she's been out long. If only because the more conscious she becomes, the more aware she grows of the hands moving over her stomach, and the agony that was most likely the thing to tear her from blessed unconsciousness in the first place.

Clearly, her 'savior' has taken the initiative and decided not to let her bleed to death. Bastard.

Lilah's hiss draws unwanted attention and Wesley's gaze snaps up - but only for a moment. Then he dismisses her without even a blink, returning to his task.

(she's never wanted to smack him more)

"So far, your blood doesn't seem to be having much luck clotting - possibly the Beast's claw released some sort of toxin, though it's hard to say given we know next to nothing about It." Frustration colors his voice and Lilah knows it must burn him. Being so in the dark. Failed by the precious books he's always relied so heavily upon. "The skin and tissue surrounding the edges of the wound have been torn away - perhaps due to that same toxin, or perhaps simply as a consequence of when It yanked out Its claw. Either way, it makes it a difficult wound for suturing - especially given my limited skill. I'd rather avoid making the attempt unless it becomes absolutely necessary. You'll only bleed out more in the process and it's not as though we have any blood on hand if you lose too much." He says all this very casually. As though they're not discussing what is essentially a mini crater in her side. Lilah's beginning to wish she'd just stayed unconscious. "And I doubt we're fortunate enough for you to be AB positive-"

"O negative, actually. Universal donor."

Wesley huffs. "Of course. The perfect blood type for the most uncharitable person in the world."

"The universe likes its little in-jokes."

"Angel did say you could be very giving."

Lilah nearly shoots up. Fortunately, her muscles are too tired to obey the impulse. "What?"

He looks faintly amused, though it's difficult to tell considering he hasn't stopped poking around the aforementioned mini crater. "Apparently, you gave him the info you pulled from Lorne's head."

"Oh. That." It's getting increasingly difficult to discern whether Angel exists for any purpose other than to fuck with her. "Don't go thinking I suddenly grew a conscience-"

"I'd never be so naive."

"It just seemed the most practical choice. A win-win for me. Possibly a lose for Angel. Hard to turn down those odds."

"I'm sure. . . At any rate, suturing is out of the question for now. Hopefully, with time, your blood will do a better job of clotting than it currently is. Until then, some bandages will suffice I think. Though, I'm afraid it will leave a bigger scar."

He doesn't sound too concerned about this last bit. Vanity is a privilege, after all, and unfortunately she has to agree with him.

Though it does add to her steadily building list of reasons to be monumentally pissed.

"Why not just cauterize it?"

It would, unfortunately, leave an even bigger scar - and entail a great deal of pain to boot - but, again, vanity is a privilege she can no longer afford.

Wesley spares her a brief glance. "I did consider it, but the risk of infection is quite high. And with the lack of antibiotics on hand, every hospital in the city overflowing, and that thing still out there. . . "

Infection would be inconvenient.

"Though if we can't control the bleeding and the level of blood loss becomes critical, I'm afraid we'll have to take the chance."

Lilah waves a dismissive hand (hiding a wince in the process). "Do what you have to."

At this point, it's hard to find the energy to care. Given that an oversized hell goat just tore apart everything she spent her life working to achieve. She's not fool enough to think that she'll be able to get any of it back as long as that thing breathes (if it breathes) and she doesn't like the resident white hats' chances of fending off the apocalypse. Not this time. With any luck, she'll survive long enough to see the looks on their faces when the fat lady really sings. But maybe not. Maybe she'll bleed to death here in her Wes's bed. Give him a nice, big blood stain to remember her by. Lilah wonders whether he'll try to wash the sheets or just burn them. What way he'll endeavor to erase her from his life, more thoroughly than he already has.

(turns out, overwhelming blood loss makes her maudlin.

Also bitter)

The fact that she was just dumped this morning does nothing to improve her mood. Even if it's really only secondary to the gut wound and her entire life blowing up in her face. Not to mention the sewer water in her hair.

Lilah would ask for a drink but she doubts adding a blood thinner to her system would improve the situation any. Plus there's the other thing. Not that she cares about the other thing. But still.

There's the other thing.

Lilah hisses as Wesley presses down on the crater without warning.

Fuck it. "Got any scotch?"

"Yes. Though I'm not giving you any."

"You're a son of a bitch, you know that?"

"I believe you've told me a time or two."

She winces, straining not to twist away from the ruthless attention of his hands.

"The goal is to stop the bleeding, not make it even worse." Wesley's tone is utterly unsympathetic. Why does she like him so much? "Besides, I only have the cheap stuff on hand and I don't fancy listening to you complain about it for the next hour."

Lilah's gearing up to kill him. She's not sure how she'll manage and with what weapon but she's gearing up to kill him-

When she feels something land in her hand. Small, smooth.

"Oxycodone," Wesley says, before jerking his chin at a glass of water on the bedside table. "Should take the edge off."

She has a sparing thought about whether opioids are any safer than alcohol but doesn't consider it too long. Stretching out an arm towards the glass. It hurts. It hurts a lot. Pulling at muscles and skin but she manages to grab hold of the water without making a sound, or moving her torso.

Swallowing the pills whilst lying down isn't the easiest of tasks but she manages that too. Though she keeps the glass in hand so she won't have to go through the ordeal of putting it back on the table.

Maybe after the painkillers kick in.

Still breathing heavily, Lilah takes the time to examine the rest of her body. Noting a few burgeoning bruises and scratches but little else. Well, little else besides her head - which feels like someone took a hammer to it.

Unfortunately, she's fairly certain the real culprit was actually the foul floor of Wolfram & Hart's personal sewer. Hopefully no real damage was done, considering she has no chance in hell of getting an MRI.

Asshole could have caught me.

At least he's taken the time to change her out of her soiled clothes. As far as she can tell, she's been stripped down entirely to her underwear. Or, well, underwear and stockings. Which are probably torn by now.

Any other situation, Lilah might have teased him for taking the liberty but she's too tired and too sore and too cold to muster the effort.

Wesley must notice her investigation (though misreads the reason for her ire). "Your clothes were covered in blood and grime. Sewer grime, to be precise. I figured you'd rather not wake up in them."

He's right about that.

Lilah tries to shrug. Regrets it immediately. "You know me, lover. I'm not shy."

Though she is getting cold. Wesley could have gone that extra mile in gallantry and given her something else to wear, considering he's left her on top of the covers to provide easy access to the wound. There's a thin blanket covering her legs but it's not doing much for the chill currently laying siege to her top half.

Lilah shivers.

Can't control it. Can't hide it either.

Wesley pauses. Hesitating in his work. Considering. . . something.

Then to her surprise, he reaches for his abandoned jacket at the foot of the bed and lays it over her chest, just above her abdomen. Lilah freezes - then exhales, drawing the jacket closer to her. Up to her chin.

It's warm. And it smells like him.

(she tells herself that's a bad thing)

"Don't you have to get to the hotel? Help your do-gooder buddies in the hopeless fight against the new big bad?"

Wesley pauses, a fresh piece of gauze in hand. "In time. For now I can continue my research here with the books I have."

It's a lie. An excuse.

And she can't work it out. Can't work him out. Why he came for her. Why he's here.

She can't work it out. And she's not sure she wants to.

(Ignorance is bliss, or so they say)

The mattress shifts and Lilah blinks as the glass is extracted from her limp hand. Placed back on the table.

She closes her eyes and tries not to think about it. About any of it.

"You could have left me." The words slip free, exhaustion overwhelming her control.

"I could have."

(Lilah pretends it doesn't mean something that he didn't)

[She prays for cancer or heart disease. Diabetes or Ebola. Fucking menopause. But only receives one positive result for pregnancy (and low Vitamin D).

A big fuck you from the universe.

Lilah doesn't even think about it. Doesn't listen to the doctor calmly listing her options. Like she has any options. Like this is something she could ever-

She doesn't think about it. Simply schedules an appointment that she tells herself she'll be attending (no question) and goes to work. That night, the skies open and fire rains down. And she wonders if Wesley will die not knowing. Not knowing what they've created between them. She didn't even consider telling him - doesn't want to tell him - but she lies awake thinking about how she now might never be able to tell him, that he might never know (she doesn't want him to know), and this parasite inside her will be the only thing left of the most infuriating man on Earth and-

The next morning, she cancels the appointment. A scheduling conflict, she tells the receptionist and herself. She'll rebook later at the first possible convenience. Perhaps when it's not raining fire and the Apocalypse isn't fighting for attention in her day planner.

She'll rebook later.

(after she knows that he's alive)]

Lilah's never much been one to believe in karma. But recent events definitely have her re-evaluating.

Once upon a simpler time, she endlessly mocked Lindsey for being besotted with a woman who was equally besotted with the man he fancied to be his nemesis. A woman who barely even noticed his existence, it seemed, and who would never return his affections.

Now here Lilah is practically pining after a man who's in love with another woman, a woman who just so happens to be the very antithesis of everything she is. Whatever Lilah feels for Wesley, she knows it's not requited. That it never will be. Not when it's so much more comfortable for him to love someone who reminds him of the 'hero' he used to be. Rather than someone who doesn't shy away from his darkness. Who encourages it.

Lilah's the villain of the story and she's always been comfortable with that.

She resents Wesley for making her just that little bit less comfortable. For making her wonder.

What if.

So, yes. That's karma for you.

Or else just the universe's increasingly twisted sense of humor. Perhaps she owes Lindsey an apology. Though Lilah will be damned if he ever gets it.

She waits for the bleeding to start.

Not the bleeding from the giant hole in her gut (that never seems to stop) but-

Well, there should be more bleeding by now. She knows it. Expects it. The problem should have solved itself.

But the blood never comes and-

Lilah keeps mostly to the bed for two whole days at Wesley's insistence. Too much movement and she starts leaking in earnest again; and he's running out of fresh bandages. A frustrating development when they're hiding from a creature that wants them dead. Or at least wants one of them dead. She's not sure where Wesley stands on the Beast's hit list. Perhaps he should just toss her out for his own sake, remove the target on his back. But Lilah's too much of a self-preservationist to suggest it.

Whatever her feelings for Wesley, she doesn't think they're strong enough that she would risk her life for him.

(they can't be)

Lilah runs her fingers around the edges of the wound, concealed beneath the bandage, and wonders. The location seems so purposeful. So intentional. So unlike the fates delivered to everyone else at Wolfram & Hart. Why didn't the Beast just kill her? Did It know? Did It sense the secret she was keeping? But if so, why not aim a little lower? The bastard could have perforated her uterus if It tried hard enough.

That would have been something that required a hospital. If she made it to one.

Lilah can come up with only two vaguely satisfying explanations. A) the giant animated rock didn't know the first thing about human anatomy and which organs were vital for survival so just went about stabbing at random, or B) he was dumb as bricks. Lilah honestly wouldn't be surprised if both options were true. It's entirely possible that thing doesn't have a brain.

But still. . .

Her fingers trace the edge of the wound and her mind wanders.

So close. It was so close.

(a part of her wishes it were closer. That this were already over. Solved.

That she wouldn't have to do anything to solve it herself)

Lilah closes her eyes and decides that she's thinking too much about it. Seeing things that aren't there.

Weird coincidence.

That's all.

Nothing more to it.

The bed shifts as Wesley climbs in, keeping carefully to the edge. He tried to do the chivalrous thing the first night and abdicate to the couch. But Wesley's never been chivalrous with her and Lilah didn't like the color on him. Didn't like how it spoke to the way things had changed. So she offered up some excuse about how that couch was made to ruin a person's back - not untrue - and if they were to stand any chance of surviving this, they'd need him in fighting shape.

He gave in just a little too easily.

Moments like this make her wish he didn't. Moments where Lilah can feel him so close but not close enough. Hear his breathing. Smell his fucking budget deodorant.

It makes her want to shift closer. To place her head on his chest and listen to his heart like she has a dozen times before.

But she doesn't. She can't.

Because of him. Because he decided they weren't meant for that. Weren't meant for each other. And he's right and he's wrong and she could fucking kill him sometimes. For making her feel all this. For making her pathetic in the same way that Lindsey was once pathetic.

She hates him and she-

"How's the pain?"

She hates him.

Lilah shifts. Lets out the breath she's been holding. "Bearable."

She can feel him watching her in the dark. Refuses to turn, to meet his gaze. To give him the satisfaction of seeing the entirety of her face.

After a few minutes, the mattress shifts and the burn of his gaze disappears. Leaves her hollow.

Lilah closes her eyes and waits for the bleeding to start.

["I won't," she promises.

And doesn't think it will be a hard one to keep.

But her mom smiles like she thinks she's lying, or like she knows something Lilah doesn't.

Her hand reaches out and strokes gently down the side of her face. Cupping her cheek. "It's okay if you do. . . Just make sure you know when to run."]

She still hasn't told him.

Of course she hasn't.

She's not even six weeks. Plenty of time still for something to go wrong. For the universe to correct this obvious aberration. It's a wonder it hasn't already. That the Beast didn't succeed in taking at least one life when it plunged its talon into her flesh. She's not sure if the survival of her and Wesley's lovechild is divine intervention (holy or otherwise) or just dumb luck. Either way, she's suspicious. Either way, there's no real point in telling him. In rattling this nest before she's certain it won't be in vain. She's not about to put them through the conversation from hell for nothing.

Lilah's been called both a sadist and a masochist before but even she has her limits.

Still, it gets hard when Wesley finds her in the bathroom one day, finally having fallen victim to the dreaded Morning Sickness™. Clearly, his spawn is still holding on with that very same stubbornness she both loves and hates in its father. Wesley's hand goes for her hair - instinct, she rationalizes (nothing more than instinct) - and holds it back like the dutiful boyfriend, which he is not. His other hand rubs soothing circles into her back. She hates it.

They have never been gentle with each other.

(they have tried never to be gentle with each other.

And right now she wants nothing more than to fool herself into believing they succeeded)

"Anything you want to tell me?" he asks, after the toilet is flushed and she's scrubbing her teeth with his toothpaste so hard that she's probably scraping off a good deal of the enamel. Another thing that's bad for the enamel? Brushing your teeth after puking up your guts. But, fuck, she can't stand the taste. The feeling. And she can't stand Wesley's eyes right now. She needs a distraction.

So she brushes her teeth. Brushes her teeth with his toothpaste and wishes she was anywhere else, doing anything else, with anyone else.

When she finally dares a glance, Wesley's expression is deceptively indifferent.

Lilah spits.

Wipes her mouth.

"Not a thing."

He doesn't ask again.

(they both want to believe she's telling the truth)

[The universe is out to get her. Really. That's the only logical explanation for this latest clusterfuck.

They were careful. Or rather, Lilah was careful. She is always careful. In all areas of her life, in all things. (except, of course, when she isn't). She's on the pill - has been for years - and is obsessively meticulous with her dosing (her dread surrounding the prospect of motherhood functioning as more than adequate motivation to be especially fastidious in this regard). But, then, birth control fails and they haven't used a condom since the very beginning (which is a show of trust on both their parts that they've never seen fit to draw attention to). But now she's wishing that they'd been a little less trusting. That, risk of STDs aside, it was better to be too cautious than not cautious enough when it came to the possibility of knocking her up.

But they weren't and now-

This.

This clusterfuck. This clusterfuck that whilst technically possible should not have been possible.

So yes. The universe is out to get her.

A conclusion that only seems more certain when she sees the look on Wesley's face. The decision in eyes. The conviction.

"It's over, Lilah."

An absolute clusterfuck.]

'It is an ironic habit of human beings to run faster when we have lost our way.'

— Rollo May

"We need to get you out of the city," Wesley murmurs, on the first day that her wound has finally stopped weeping. Lilah doesn't hold out hope that it will stay that way but still. It's a start.

She knows Wesley's anxious to return to his 'friends'. To the good fight. And if Lilah's honest, she's surprised he managed to stick it out this long. And without even sex to hold him over as a consolation.

(maybe it's not her he's staying for, though)

Lilah leans back against the counter in his too-small kitchen. Trying to prove to herself (for the third time that day) that the smells don't make her nauseous. That she didn't spend half an hour in the bathroom this morning getting intimately reacquainted with Wesley's tiles because she made the mistake of cooking eggs for breakfast.

Wesley, for his part, pretends to buy her excuse about the pain from her wound being the cause of that sickness. They ran out of painkillers days ago, after all.

(Lilah wonders what will happen when they both stop pretending.

If they ever do)

"I have a safe house in Louisiana. I suppose that's as good a place as any to hide out."

She has a secret appreciation for Mardi Gras that no one alive knows about. A guilty pleasure that Lilah allows herself every few years. She contemplated telling Wesley once. Inviting him for a weekend away from Hell City to see the parade.

(it was just a fantasy)

Wesley frowns. "That's a long drive."

"My other safe house is in Alaska. Even longer."

She's not as partial towards that one, even if she's always preferred the cold over heat. Growing up in the desert of Nevada instilled in Lilah a passionate hatred for hot weather.

Wesley's mouth presses into a thin line that conveys his displeasure. "Very well. I'll see if I can get together some supplies for you."

There's no question of whether he's coming with her.

She doesn't ask and he doesn't offer.

(safer that way)

["Is it ever worth it? Love."

Lilah thinks she knows what her mom's answer will be. If it weren't worth it, why would she keep doing it? She thinks she knows, but she doesn't understand.

Doesn't understand how it could be.

"Every time." Her mom's voice is softly firm, gentle fingers trailing through her hair. Those same fingers sometimes dig into Lilah's arm. Deep enough to bruise. (so maybe she understands). "But just because a thing's worth having, doesn't mean it's worth keeping."

Her love for her mom is worth keeping. That's not a question Lilah has ever needed to ask herself. But she doubts any other love would be. Certainly not the love her mom grows for an endless string of men. Men who start off nice but never stay so. Who seem to care but never really do.

Lilah thinks she must be searching for something. Searching for something in their false smiles and fleetingly loving hands. Something that Lilah can't give her, though she wishes she could.

Whatever it is, Lilah resolves that she will never search for it too. Will never need something so much that she'll get to the point where running becomes a necessity.

She'll just run first.]

He checks the wound one last time before they go. "Make sure you keep it dry and continue to change the bandages every few days. If it starts bleeding again-"

"I know the drill."

Lilah lowers her shirt before he can continue to put them through this unnerving mother hen performance. It doesn't suit him and it most definitely doesn't suit her.

Wesley's mouth presses thin, almost as though he has as much reservations about their coming course of action as she does. But Lilah knows that's not true. She knows that, on a certain level, he can't wait to get this over with. To finally be free of her.

She's overstayed her welcome. They both know it, though neither of them will say it.

Lilah because she wants to keep overstaying it and Wesley because-

Well, she doesn't know about his because.

Maybe it's just those good old-fashioned English manners. Or maybe, like her, he's always had trouble letting go of the things that are his. Lilah is his. Though he doesn't know it - or won't accept it. One of the two.

She never wanted to be someone's again. Was satisfied with the thought of going to her grave never having been anyone's but her mother's. Because at least her mother was hers too.

But maybe that's not true. Maybe that's just a lie she tells herself. A pill she pops like Vicodin to get her through those hours when everything feels too tight, too much and too inescapable.

Maybe she did want to be someone's. Maybe she wanted to be his.

How else could he have gotten so far under her skin?

She must have made an opening for him. Just a little. She must have wanted it. Just a little.

(she let him in)

Wesley stands and reaches for his duffel bag on the ground. Hers is already in the car. His - filled to the brim with weapons, clothes and books - will see him through in his new place of residence. In the battle he's heading to face once he's unloaded himself of his present burden: her.

Lilah's getting out of the pan and he's throwing himself straight into the fire.

That's the plan. That's where their paths diverge.

(perhaps where they were always destined to diverge)

'Don't die,' she almost says. 'Don't you dare fucking die.'

But she doesn't.

She knows there'd be no point. If there's anyone on this planet that Wesley would stay alive for, it's Fred. Not her. And Little Miss Goody's sure as hell not going to make the demand.

And Lilah hates him even more. For being someone so willing to throw his life away for a world that doesn't give a fuck about him. For being someone who could leave her. Leave her to deal with this alone.

But Lilah's been alone for a long time. And she can manage.

She can always manage.

"Well, that's enough procrastinating I think." Lilah tries - and fails - to flatten out the wrinkles in her shirt as she stands. "Time waits for no man and all that jazz."

There's no need to worry about wasting daylight - there is no daylight - but still. They're on a schedule. Thinking they're on a schedule makes this easier.

Wesley holds the door open for her as they leave.

A last token of chivalry so out of place with them that it makes her glad that she won't be sticking around to see just how much he's changed in preparation for returning to the good fight. How much they have.

He's putting that old skin on now. The one that Justine tore off and his friends threw in the gutter. She can see him, forcing his way back inside a shell he's long since outgrown. And she wonders if it feels as ill-fitting as it looks.

Oh, well.

Not her problem anymore.

[Lilah's problem is that she learnt from a young age how to love the person who hurts you. How to keep loving them, past the bruises and the scars.

She thinks Wesley did too.

Maybe that's why they work. And also why they don't. Can't.

Because she probably shouldn't still want to kiss him after he makes her bleed. And he shouldn't want to kiss her when she sinks her teeth into his flesh. He could rip her apart and she'd still love him. She could do the same in kind and he'd still feel whatever the fuck it is he feels for her.

And she knows that's something that his precious Fred will never understand. That it would probably horrify her. And if Wesley treated his dream girl even half as badly as he sometimes treats her, the little twig would be gone in an instant.

And she'd be the smarter for it.

Lilah's not smart. Not when it comes to the people who can hurt her. The people she wants to hurt her if it means they can go on loving her.

Wesley's not smart either.

Again, that's why they work.

And don't.]

He drives her out of the city. Six hours. As far as he can go and still get back before night (though 'night' is relative now). They stop in still-sunny Phoenix, as good a place as any, and he dishes up the money so she can rent a car (Lilah won't have enough of her own until she reaches the safe house. There's plenty of cash stashed away there but for now they both consider the use of any credit cards an unnecessary risk). She doesn't know how to thank him. So she doesn't.

Wesley opens the car door and helps her inside (again, chivalrous). She accepts his help - on the surface because movement still hurts like a bitch but, deep down, she knows it's because this might just be the last time that they ever touch (she's not cold-hearted enough to pass on that).

Lilah looks up, squinting in the sun. The impaired vision is almost a blessing. Saves her from having to see him too clearly. But she can still see his eyes. There are certain things buried in them that she knows he'll never say, that she's not sure she wants to hear.

"Lilah. . ." he starts.

She saves him before he can hurt himself. Hurt her. "It's okay, lover. We've never been the kind for goodbyes."

Though for just a moment Lilah wishes that they were. That they could be the kind for a lot of things. Impossible things.

Her stomach turns, reminding her that one of those things might not be so impossible anymore.

It jolts her into action and she grabs the door handle. "Don't be thinking about me when I'm gone."

The words are flippant. Light. A relic of another time. Another them.

(she had a mask once. Opaque. Impenetrable. She needs to repair the damage to it. Needs to fix it to her face with superglue and never let it slip again.

Now's as good a time as any to start)

Wesley nods. The only response he seems capable of. She's not sure what else she was expecting. Then-

"Take care of yourself, Lilah."

"I always do."

She closes the door.

(Lilah thinks about telling him in the second before it shuts. Her hands aren't on the steering wheel yet, his eyes are still caught on hers, and she thinks she could tell him. In that second. Not everything but the one thing he probably deserves to know. The one thing she knows he can't bear to know. Not right now.

She's not a kind person. Never has been, never will be. But she's always been capable of it. Kindness. Towards certain people. Her mother. A stray cat she allowed to be her only friend as a teenager. Him.

Lilah can be kind to him. Sometimes.

She can be kind to him now)

The door shuts and the car drives off without a single word having passed between them.

It's for the best.

She knows this is love because it hurts.

'My course is set for an uncharted sea.'
― Dante Alighieri

Cue incredibly long author's note that was too long to fit in the end notes (sorry!):

So you can probably tell that this was intended to only be a oneshot. I feel like this first chapter could have stood on its own and just been left as it is. But alas I did not leave it.

When I was like idk 12 I wrote a fic where Lilah miscarried after the attack by the beast. And returning to this ship now as an adult, I decided to see what would happen if she didn’t. This whole thing was mostly just a thought experiment to see if there was a semi-realistic way in which Lilah Morgan of all people would ever choose to have a kid. And just how much of a disaster (or not) this would prove to be.  Because, personally, I don’t really see her as parent material. But, you know, the ‘what if’ of it all compels me. So here we are.

Plus pregnancy/having a baby tends to bring up a lot of shit for people (i.e. unresolved feelings & trauma) and forces you to confront it. Which is great for the purposes of this story.

With that said this is not a fluffy baby fic. I mean it’s technically a baby fic but it’s certainly not fluffy (and the baby doesn’t even come into it until like the last third of the story). It’s primarily a Lilah Morgan character study with plot (also pining). Bear in mind that babies don't fix things (though they can make them worse). For everyone who’s here for weslah, their interactions take more of a center stage after chapter 2. The first two chapters are building up to that, so if you’re here more for weslah than Lilah don’t despair. I wrote this fic because I wanted to give their story a better ending. And because I maintain that they should have been endgame.

Also, the stuff about Lilah’s mother wasn’t me implying that weslah’s relationship is abusive. But more showcasing what kind of foundation she has for understanding love. Her relationship with her mother is all she really knows about giving and receiving love. Similarly, Wesley also had an unhealthy foundation because of his father, who honestly doesn’t seem to have given any love at all. Whereas Lilah at least was loved by her mother, she just didn’t experience that love in a way that was safe. And so both these foundations have played a part in the way they view love in the present and how they approach relationships.

I have sacrificed medical accuracy (i.e. what to do and what not to do when it comes to first aid/wound care) for the purpose of story telling and the fact that treating injuries the wrong way is pretty typical in the buffyverse, and shows in general. Nonetheless I've tried to maintain at least some level of accuracy. As a result, this chapter is brought to you by my eternal frustration born of seeing character after character cauterize non-fatal wounds in media. Repeat after me, folks: unless you're going to bleed to death and there's no other way to stop the bleeding, do NOT cauterize outside of a medical setting.

I'm also forever shaking my fist at canon because what do you MEAN you're letting her go off alone with a still bleeding abdominal wound that's just been doused in sewer water and whatever the fuck else is on the ground when you both hit that ground face first? Congratulations, you saved her from a giant goat only to leave her to die of infection

I can't remember if Wesley's blood type ever came up on the show. But let's say for the purposes of this fic it didn't and he's not O-.

So on the show, there's like a two month gap between Habeas Corpus and Calvary. Lilah says, at this point, that she can't make the bleeding stop. This strikes me as highly sus and suggests that something else is going on there. Which is why I put in the whole toxin thing. I also just never got why the Beast decided to waste time playing with his food instead of just killing her like he did everyone else (other than that it served the plot). I do not have an answer for this but I figured it would strike Lilah as being odd too.

Random factoid, they recently discovered that there's a genetic mutation that lowers the effectiveness of hormonal contraception (this mutation exists in a not so small percentage of people). Until then they just thought people were making mistakes when using birth control and that's why it could still fail.
Another factoid, taking opioids during pregnancy is generally safe. Much safer than taking NSAIDs at any rate. Though Lilah wouldn't really care even if that weren't the case.

So STI is obviously the correct term but back when Angel was airing, STD was the more common choice. When I was a kid/teen, I never heard anyone use the term STI. Even when you do a google search from before 2004, STD is the term that tends to come up. So I’ve gone with that for accuracy’s sake

Before starting this story I went back and forth over whether or not I was going to give Lilah a traumatic back story - because I’m not really a fan of ‘this person is evil because they had a fucked up childhood’ - but ultimately writing trauma is like my thing and as hard as I try I can't keep it out of my stories. I also like the idea of Wesley and Lilah having this thing in common and it becoming something that could bring them closer together. Plus, I'm keeping in mind what Stephanie said about Lilah having trauma in her past.

Chapter Text

[Trigger Warning: so I'm just going to put a blanket warning here and for all future chapters that thoughts/discussion of abortion are a pretty regular occurrence]

"In the middle of the journey of our life I found myself within a dark woods where the straight way was lost."

― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

THE BEGINNING

In the beginning— 

It starts with a hand around the throat.

No, a book.

No.

A knife across the throat.

Judas meeting Eve. The personification of temptation, loss of innocence, eviction from the Garden of Eden. Or perhaps it’s Lilith. Soon-to-be discarded wife. Mother of monsters. Knocking on the traitor’s door. 

(will he let her in?)

—now the earth was formless and void,

and darkness was over the surface of the deep—

It starts and it doesn’t end. It starts and it spirals, down through all those circles of hell. Past the lonely and the lost. The hopeless and the desperate. All the way down to purgatory.

And then-

a sudden deviation, a turn. A thrust to the uppermost peak of that righteous mountain. To the purifying waters that flower from its crown. Eunoe and Lethe. Lethe. The River of Forgetfulness.

Where the sins of the past are washed away.

—And God saw that the light was good,

and He separated the light from the darkness.

Lilah leaves.

And tells herself it's for the best.

(she's a lawyer. She's always been a talented liar. Even when it comes to lying to herself)

In the near two months that follow, living in a city she might have coveted in some other life, Lilah almost manages to believe herself. The weather's reasonable - not too hot this time of year - and she has enough cash squirreled away until she can figure out what she's going to do. If the world ends, there's no need to make any plans. And if not. . .

And if not, well, LA was only one of Wolfram & Hart's branches. Lilah's sure she could worm her way into another (she's still on contract, after all). Even if the thought of trying to climb her way to the top all over again leaves her exhausted.

Or maybe that's just the-

She's not far enough along to show yet. A blessing. And she still hasn't decided yet what she's going to do. She keeps meaning to make an appointment but. . .

She can't escape the knowledge that if Wesley dies in the fight against the Beast - and whoever’s likely to be pulling Its strings - then this tangled web of their DNA enduring inside her battered body will be the only thing left of him.

For some reason that matters.

Mostly, though, Lilah spends her time pretending that tangled web doesn't exist. That smells don't make her nauseous. That her tits aren't getting sorer and sorer and her muscles don't ache with fatigue.

She convinces herself that she's not pregnant. That she did the right thing in leaving. That she doesn't go to sleep at night wondering if Wesley has lived his last day. And she almost succeeds.

Then fucking Angel shows up on her doorstep.

Because it's always fucking Angel.

"Wesley?"

She allows herself this question. Allows it to be her first question. Just for a moment, she allows it to be the most important thing. The only thing that matters.

"He's alive."

Lilah sags. Allowing herself just one more thing - this brief rush of relief. . .

Then she puts her game face back on. The one she became years ago but started to lose, bit by bit, in the last six months. The one she can't afford to lose now.

If Angel notices her struggle, it doesn't show. "Wolfram & Hart offered me a job. CEO of the LA branch."

"I heard."

She's still in contact with some of the other branches and a move like that causes a serious amount of chatter. Lilah was less surprised by the offer than by the fact that the so-called champion was dumb enough to take it.

Then again maybe that shouldn't have been so surprising.

(none of her contacts had possessed any word of Angel's teammates. Which ones survived, if indeed any of them did. A part of Lilah - the part that was always prone to assuming the worst - theorized that the loss of that team might just be the thing to push Angel into making the king of devil's bargains. Whether she was right or wrong in that regard, at least she now knows that Wesley wasn't among the lost)

"Part of my deal with the Senior Partners stipulates that you'll be acting as our liaison to them."

Unexpected. Unwelcome. Unasked for.

She's immediately suspicious. "Did you stipulate that or did they?"

"I did."

Her suspicion grows.

"Why? You can't truly expect that I'll play turncoat just because I'm knocked up by one of your minions." No point in pretending he doesn't know. That he can't hear the thing's heartbeat. "If the Senior Partners want me to serve them, I'll be serving them."

She's still under contract. And forever is a long time to spend in the service of anyone you've pissed off, let alone a collection of highly evil and powerful demons with a predilection for torture.

She may be going through a bit of a crisis right now but she still cares about herself above all else. She's still a survivor.

She's still her.

"I know." Angel's expression remains impassive. "But I'd rather deal with you than a complete unknown. At least I know all the ways I can't trust you."

Better the devil you know.

It's surprisingly rational for him. Perhaps all that hair gel hasn't addled his brain, after all.

A glass shatters in the distance. Followed by a roar of laughter. Neither of them react.

They’re standing out on the gallery of her condo - because like hell Lilah was going to invite him in - surrounded by a colorful cacophony of nightlife and drunken tourists. It’s easier to blend into a place swarming with a steady rotation of doe-eyed foreigners, and the French Quarter certainly supplies that. Even so, she barely notices the hustle and bustle, mind too busy processing the information Angel's just unloaded on her. The options laid out at her feet.

It occurs to Lilah - in a distant, almost uninterested way - that he might just be luring her back so that he can steal Wesley's kid the second it pops out of her. An eye for an eye and all that.

Hell, maybe she should let him.

(not that she's decided she's keeping it)

"I want full medical, dental. The whole 401(k)." She wouldn't put it past Angel to give her a worse deal than what she got the first time she signed on to Wolfram & Hart. "And a thirty percent increase on what I was earning before the Beast decided to go on a killing spree."

"Twenty percent."

"Forty."

"Twenty-five."

"I can go higher."

Angel - who probably doesn't give a shit about how much she's paid - folds. "Fine."

"I also want three months maternity leave."

Might as well plan ahead. Even if she's still not sure that there'll be an ahead to plan for.

Now he just looks skeptical. "Have you ever taken a day off in your life, Lilah?"

"Have you ever pushed a watermelon out of your vagina?" She'll be needing at least three months to recover from that trauma. "And of course I've taken a day off. Don't be ridiculous."

Several days in fact. Wesley's fault.

Just like her upcoming vacation will be too.

Bastard.

Unfortunately, her bullshit fails to convince Angel. "I'm just saying. . . I've smelled your cortisol levels."

Urgh.

"Does it take effort to achieve such a high level of creep? Or is it just something that comes naturally?"

The fact that he's had multiple women falling over themselves for him is one of life's most baffling mysteries.

Angel glowers in answer - an expression that hasn't grown any more intimidating in the months since she last saw him. "Ten bucks you've never taken a vacation."

Lilah scoffs and glances pointedly at their surroundings. "What do you think I'm doing right now?"

She hasn't gone to work for months.

It's been fucking awful.

Angel squints. "Going into hiding from a higher power that wants you dead is not a vacation."

(Obviously she can't work for him. She'd just end up killing him. And then the Senior Partners would kill her)

Lilah crosses her arms. "I want to be COO. Not just liaison."

"This really isn't a negotiation."

She raises a brow.

"Fine." He throws up his hands. "Less work for me."

"As though you were planning on doing any of the work."

Lilah can already foresee her future.

It looks miserable.

"Hey, I'm a hard worker."

"When it comes to punching things, sure. Not when it comes to running a business."

Without her, he'll run the place into the ground. If he doesn't blow it up first.

"I managed okay with A.I."

Lilah doesn't dignify that with a response. They both know that he was hardly the one doing most of the running in that regard. She's also seen a record of A.I's annual revenue. And it was downright depressing to say the least.

Angel gives up. "Look, do you want the job or not?"

"I suppose I don't have anything better to do right now."

And she does miss her apartment. All her pretty things. The one album of photographs she has of her and her mother.

(Wesley)

"Wonderful. Glad we could work that out."

Sarcasm doesn't look nearly as good on him as it does someone else she knows. When Angel uses sarcasm he just sounds sulky. Like a goddamn child who didn't get their way.

A child you're now working for.

With. A child she's working with.

In no universe is she working for Angel.

"One other thing: you don't tell Wesley about. . ." Lilah waves a finger in the vague direction of her traitorous uterus. "This."

Not that he probably doesn't already suspect. But suspicion is not confirmation. And as far as Wesley knows, she could have done the smart thing and gotten rid of it by now. In fact, he probably assumes that's exactly what she's done. Because in an ideal world - a world that makes sense - that's exactly what she would have done. And until she actually comes to a decision, Lilah is more than happy to let him continue thinking that.

A new emotion flickers in her not-boss's eyes. One that looks almost vaguely like guilt - or shame. "That would actually be for the best. There's something else we need to go over."

And so he tells her.

About Connor. About his megalomaniacal plan to save him - and scramble his friends' brains in the process. It sounds like something only Angel would do, so Lilah has no trouble believing a word of it.

"And yet I can remember your failed and humiliating adventures in fatherhood with perfect clarity. Why?"

"Part of the deal. The Senior Partners insisted that their liaison retain all their memories."

Of course they did. How would she be able to serve them to the best of her abilities if she didn't have all the pieces?

"And Wesley?"

Lilah almost doesn't dare to ask.

Almost.

Angel knows what she's getting at. And to his credit, he doesn't look away. Doesn't hide his face in shame. "I poked around a bit before I left. There are a lot of things missing from the last year. The whole Justine thing for one. . . And you. Or at least his time with you. As far as I can tell, he doesn't remember any of it."

Of course he doesn't.

Another big fuck you from the universe.

(If she'd had a hand in the contract, she would have found a way to preserve her relationship with Wesley. If only because nobody takes what's hers. And their relationship - whatever the fuck it was, whatever the fuck it meant - was hers.

She hates Angel more than ever before for stealing that from her. The man locked her in a wine cellar once, sentencing her to death, but that was business. Only to be expected when you're on opposite sides of a war. Eventually, one day, you're probably going to kill each other. Nothing personal.

This is personal.

This he had no right to)

Lilah hates him even more for the pity in his eyes. It eclipses whatever guilt exists, if any even does. If there is guilt, she doubts it's for her sake. More for the man who was once his friend. A friend who's just lost something he'll never know he had. All Angel has for her is fucking pity.

So Lilah refuses to look away. To grant him an inch. She won't make this easy for him.

Unclenching her jaw, she forces her posture to shift into something more at ease. Less like the devastated hunch of someone who's just suffered a blow they didn't even know was possible. "Well, I suppose that's that."

The final closing of the book on their relationship. No coming back from this. If there was any hope that they'd ever be able to work their way around their plethora of issues, that hope is thoroughly crushed now.

(for the best)

"Lilah-"

She silences him with a scathing look. "I'll be in the office on Monday."

After Angel leaves, she lifts up her shirt. The newly forming scar is still there, plain as day to see. Despite the fact that - without the assistance of Wesley and Connor - she never would have left that encounter with the Beast alive. There shouldn't be a scar.

Lilah lowers her shirt and wonders what else has been left intact. Untouched. What else she gets to keep.

The reshaping of an entire life can change so much, send out a thousand ripples. If her relationship with Wesley never happened. . .

But undoing a life is more complicated than undoing a memory. If only barely.

Lilah's fingers trace the space below scarring flesh, a space that still shows no discernible evidence. She supposes she'll wait until that starts to change. Or doesn't.

That will be her answer.

(she feels rather ambivalent about the fact. Bordering on indifferent. She's not even sure what answer she wants. Which is perhaps an answer in itself)

Sighing, Lilah turns towards her room. A place she is both reluctant and eager to finally be moving out of. A part of her wants to linger indefinitely, to never return to the city that came so close to destroying her. That still might, if she gives it a chance. The rest of her is champing at the bit, having spent a good portion of her time here practically bored to tears. Lilah's never been a person who can tolerate idleness. Who has any clue what to do with peace and serenity in those rare moments when they happen to find her. The calm makes her feel more on edge than when things are falling apart at the seams. As no doubt terrible as it is for her overall physical and mental wellbeing, Lilah has always felt most at home in the danger.

In the risk.

And this might just be the biggest risk she's ever taken.

Welp. Might as well start packing.

In the end, she doesn't have to wait long for an answer. That night, she makes the mistake of cooking eggs (though it's not so much a mistake as a test) and finds herself making nice with the toilet bowl again.

So. An answer.

It looks like this is one dilemma the Powers are going to leave up to her to solve. It figures. The one time in Lilah's life that she'd like a little less control - for something to just be taken off of her hands - they refuse to play ball.

No, this is her choice. And she still has no clue what the right one is to make. But then. . . knowing what's 'right' - or rather acting on what's right - has never really been her strong suit.

(maybe she should flip a coin)

Working with Angel is, well. . . working with Angel. It has its upsides and its downsides. Mostly its downsides.

Upside:

Her migraines have become so frequent and unrelenting that they're almost like background noise now. Truly, her pain threshold has never been this high. Something she's sure to be grateful for the next time some demon decides to go fishing around in her entrails. Nevermind what's set to happen in a rapidly decreasing number of months.

Downside:

It's almost certain, at this point, that Lilah's not going to make it through the year without staking her new 'boss' and pissing off the Senior Partners in the process. Which will likely result in her death.

A decidedly undesirable outcome.

To make matters worse, she's not just working with Robin Hood but the entire band of merry fucking men. Who all hate her. And who she hates in return.

And, of course, nobody is sympathetic to her plight. Lilah's days are full of nothing but pointed glares. Like it's her fault the schmucks decided to sign their souls away for some shiny new toys and an office that doesn't smell like mold. Which is fine. She loves being glared at. It means she's doing a good job. That she hasn't lost her edge. But their complete and utter disdain for her does make it harder to get them to follow a single syllable of her advice. To the point where, if one of them were on fire, she wouldn't be surprised if they refused to accept the extinguisher she was holding out.

(honestly, she'd throw herself off a cliff if that damned perpetuity clause wouldn't have her back by lunch time)

And then of course there's Wesley.

But she's not thinking about Wesley.

Lilah has always been a meticulous planner. She made her first organizer when she was six, scratched into the sidewalk with chalk. When the rain washed it away, her mother got her a notebook (second-hand, half the pages already filled in, but half the pages all Lilah's). She planned out her days to the very minute, including an allotment of time set aside for what her mother termed 'spontaneity'. A block of time that Lilah would proceed to use for whatever she needed or wanted in the moment.

(later, she would set this block aside for Wesley. Only to discover that she couldn't plan Wesley. Couldn't predict when their bodies would crash together, when she would feel that itch only he could scratch - or vice versa. Wesley was the first thing she stopped trying to plan since she was six years old.

No wonder her life's turned into such a complete fucking mess)

Lilah's latest round of torture involves trying to prevent Angel from firing and/or killing every single one of his own employees. Which is why she's currently being forced to share office space with the hair-gelled avenger and his even more hair-gelled progeny. Because having William the Bloody's ghost burst out of a mystical amulet was just the thing this trainwreck needed.

Though Lilah can't deny it's nice to have someone else around who hates Angel. She was beginning to miss Lindsey. A horrifying development.

Sighing, she flips through another page of the long list of her colleagues that Angel's already sent to the chopping block. "Some of these guys were really good - or perhaps the correct term I should use is 'high-quality' since people seem to confuse good with white hats and saving the world these days." How did she allow herself to be tangled up in this? "Really, I almost cried looking over their resumes."

Such a waste. To the point that it's almost criminal. Not that she cares if something's criminal.

"Hormones, Lilah?" Angel's voice practically drips with mockery.

Another frustrating facet of her new hell:

The most annoying person she knows is also the only person to be aware that she's pregnant.

Scowling, Lilah sets the file in her hands aside. "The point is, by the time we've reached the bottom of the list, we're not going to have anyone left to work for us."

"They're evil."

It truly is a mystery how he's managed to make it this far through life.

"And so am I. The thing is, Angel, that all of your employees are evil in one way or another, you don't get into Wolfram & Hart without having that on the resume."

"Wait, you're evil?" Spike pauses in the process of making some rather creative - if incredibly rude - hand gestures behind Angel's head. "Bloody hell. Why does everyone who hates the self-righteous tit have to be bloody evil?"

"Probably because only evil people hate champions of good," Angel says, not a little smugly.

"So does that make you evil then? Considering you hate me."

"You're not a champion, Spike. You're just. . ." Angel waves a hand. "Convenient."

"Convenient?"

Lilah steeples her fingers in front of her face. Unfortunately, she can't kill either one of them. Angel, because it's in her contract. And Spike because he's already dead. Well. Dead-er. The dispatching of ghosts can be rather difficult. "This is all very fascinating. Truly. But could we please get back to the business of running your evil company?"

She'd like to get home before five in the morning this time.

Luckily, the two children she's somehow gotten stuck babysitting manage to find it within themselves to comply, if a little sulkily. Lilah has but a brief second to enjoy her victory before a young man in possession of a hideous yellow tie walks into the office.

The tie, she decides, is a herald of doom.

"Yes, uh. . . Novac, sir. Uh, what's this about you shutting down the Internment Acquisitions Division?"

"Internment Acquis-"

"Grave-robbing," Lilah supplies. Did he not read the booklet she made for him? Or, rather, the booklet she had other people make for him.

Who is she kidding?

Of course he didn't.

"Listen, I know you fellas are in charge now, and you're doing a bang-up job. I'm with you one-hundred and ten percent. . . but that department brings in mucho revenue to this company."

"Well, Novac, we'll just have to tighten our belts and do without."

Idiot. Absolute idiot.

It'll be a miracle if this branch of Wolfram & Hart survives to see its annual Halloween Bash.

(another headache she's not looking forward to dealing with)

"Angel, I.A.D is under contract to provide fresh bodies to Magnus Hainsley, one of our oldest and most dangerous clients," Lilah interjects, trying to choose her words carefully. She is, after all, speaking to a toddler. "If we suddenly stop delivering, he's going to be incredibly displeased. The kind of displeased that leads to body parts flying about. Maybe a few entrails coating the walls."

Normally, that wouldn't bother her too much. But her stomach's been weak as a kitten lately, liable to form a rebellion at the slightest whiff of anything untoward.

"Don't exaggerate, Lilah," Angel dismisses. Because he is, as is already established, an idiot. "Now, Novac here is going to go tell Mr. Hainsley that Wolfram & Hart is no longer doing business with him."

"Me?" Poor, poor Novac looks horrified. Because he's the only other person in this room with a scrap of intelligence.

"You got it, counselor. You tell this Mr. Hainsley that Wolfram & Hart is under new management and out of the grave-robbing business. Now, run along and go argue your case."

"Me?"

"Go."

Novac shudders but ultimately complies with his execution order. He's just about to open the door when the Company Ghost decides to intervene.

"You don't have to take that from him, mate."

"Stay out of this, Spike," Angel snaps. "You don't work here."

"But I do." Unfortunately. Really, what was she thinking? "And I can tell you that this is a terrible idea."

Novac nods in rapid agreement.

The two vampires ignore them. Predictably.

"Damn right I don't. Look at you. This is what you do now? Delegate the dirty work to spineless, low-level flunkies," Spike retorts, before turning to Novac. "No offense. . . The mighty hero reduced to a bloody bureaucrat. If a certain slayer could see you now-"

Lilah massages her temple as the two banes of her existence proceed to descend into another squabbling match. She knows she hasn't done anything evil enough to deserve this as a punishment. No chance in hell.

This is the kind of retribution they reserve for people who torture puppies. Or cut lines at the grocery store.

"Get out of here, Spike."

"Gladly. Cruel enough punishment being stuck here as a spook while you play 'Chairman of the Boring.' But hell if I'm gonna spend my afterlife in your stinking city. Get stuffed."

Spike struts out of the room. A much more hesitant Novac following slowly after him.

Poor bastard.

But if he doesn't have the balls to stand up for his own life then Lilah sure as hell isn't going to do it for him.

Sighing, she rises to her feet. Unfortunately, she moves a little too quickly and her pelvis protests the motion, a sharp pain shooting up into her stomach. She breathes through it - just like she's been doing every day for the past week - and moves for the door.

Pregnancy really is the gift that keeps on giving.

"Well, I better go call Novac's parents."

Angel looks to her in confusion. "Why?"

"To give them a heads up that their only child won't be making it for Christmas this year. Nobody wants to sip eggnog next to a corpse, as I'm sure you know."

Lilah does take some minor enjoyment in the sight of him gaping like a fish in that brief moment before she marches out the door.

She's walking past Angel's office, on her way up to Files & Records, when something catches her attention. It's more a smell than anything else, a truly disgusting, horrible reek of a smell that turns up bile in her mouth.

Lilah grimaces and backtracks towards the office in question, frowning suspiciously when the smell intensifies.

Damn it.

Sometimes she hates being right.

Pushing open the door, Lilah stalks in, effectively interrupting whatever sure-to-be mind-numbing conversation is currently taking place between the three men already present. The first two - Angel and Spike - are expected, but Lilah tries not to stiffen at the sight of the third.

Miraculously, since coming back, she's almost managed to avoid him completely. Granted, she's had to put a great deal of effort into that avoidance but it's still a stroke of good fortune she didn't dare to expect.

Unfortunately, today her luck seems to have run out. More fortunately, she's not given any time to linger in her dismay before her sight is taken up by the two buckets sitting innocently atop Angel's desk. One of which has a yellow tie hanging out over the edge, dripping blood.

She really does hate to be right.

Mostly because the stench is even worse up close and these days she has a hard enough time handling the smell of fresh coffee.

"Is that . . .?"

"Novac," Angel confirms solemnly.

Lilah grimaces, her gut roiling, threatening to revolt. "How the hell am I supposed to explain this to his parents? He was meant to have died in a car crash. A car crash doesn't do . . ." She looks at the buckets, at a loss to describe the results of Angel's latest fuck up. "This!" Unbelievable. Just fucking unbelievable. "They want the body sent to them by Tuesday. I can't send them buckets of their son's innards. We'll be drowning in lawsuits by the end of the week."

"Because that's the worst part about this," Wesley mutters. "The potential lawsuit."

She resists the urge to look at him. Instead, focusing her attention on glaring at Angel. The cause of all her problems. "I told you this was going to happen."

The vampire has the decency to look a touch ashamed.

Something she doesn't even have the chance to enjoy because at that moment her stomach wins the battle, her considerable willpower caving to the overwhelming stench of Novac's remains.

Shit.

Angel grimaces. "Really, Lilah? My trash can?"

Cursing her magnificent luck, she slowly forces herself to straighten, suppressing a grimace as a wave of nausea washes over her with the motion. So the 'morning' part of morning sickness is a fucking lie. "Just be glad it wasn't your shoes."

Really, she should have aimed for them. Would have served him right.

As if reading her thoughts, Angel takes a step back.

Meanwhile, Wesley looks infuriatingly smug. If a little bemused. "I confess, I'm rather surprised - I never would have mistaken you for someone who's squeamish, Lilah. But if you feel the need to step out of the room, by all means. . ."

He gestures expansively at the door, no doubt delighted at the chance to be rid of her.

Bastard.

"It's not that." She bats a flyaway strand of hair out of her gaze in frustration. She doesn't even want to think about what the rest of her hair looks like right now, and she's not looking forward to the extra time she's going to have to spend setting it and her makeup to rights. "I had a bout of food poisoning over the weekend. Smells and I haven't made up yet."

That's an excuse she'll probably only be able to use once. But hopefully Angel won't make a habit of getting his employees sent to his office in buckets. Though that might be too much to ask for.

"In that case, I'll be sure to sprinkle some blue cheese around the place. See if it does as good a job at warding you off as garlic with vampires."

The bastard's still looking smug as all hell. Luxuriating in her suffering. Never mind the fact that this is entirely his fault.

Angel chooses that moment to interject. Possibly because he can sense that, if he doesn't, he's certain to be down a team member by the end of the minute. "Breath mint?"

Still keeping her glare firmly fixed on Wesley, Lilah accepts. Grudgingly.

This is easier. Actually. Helpful, even. Being reminded of all the reasons she wants to boil him alive. All the reasons she shouldn't want to kiss him. This is easier.

(the fact that Wesley making her so angry she wants to boil him alive once would have led to an overabundance of orgasms and broken furniture is somewhat less helpful)

Spike chooses that moment to add to her never-ending troubles. "Food poisoning, huh? See, now I would have said pregnant. You've got that glow."

Lilah freezes.

Too late she remembers that Angel's not the only one in the room with the supernatural senses required to fuck with her.

"Dear God. Lilah Morgan pregnant. . . That truly would be a sign of the end times," Wesley murmurs, not looking up from the file on Hainsley he's managed to procure.

Angel shifts uncomfortably in place, eyes glancing skittishly between them.

Lilah forces her spine to relax. ". . . You're not wrong." Wrenching her gaze away from Wesley, she turns to Spike - who has a knowing glint in his eyes. "You, however, are. Much to the relief of everyone in this room including myself, it's just your garden variety case of food poisoning."

Angel lets out a nervous laugh. "Yeah. Definitely not pregnant. Not the sort of thing you could sneak past me. I'd hear the heartbeat. . . Obviously."

Spike looks at his sire almost pityingly. "I'd dare say there's a lot one could sneak past you."

Lilah digs a nail into her palm, grounding herself with the pain so she won't be forced to make another dive for Angel's trash can. The combined stench of her own vomit and Novac's entrails, coupled with the horror of Spike nearly outing her, is doing nothing for the overwhelming nausea.

"Glad we've got that settled," Wesley says dryly, raising his gaze. "Shall we return to the business at hand?"

"Right," Angel agrees, looking grateful. "Novac. Buckets of Novac."

Lilah grimaces, giving said buckets a brief scan. The smell's not getting any better.

Wesley seems to share her thoughts. "I'll call someone up to deal with those. And the trash can."

Lilah heads over to the far corner of the room. Putting as much distance between herself and the smell as possible. Throwing up a second time might just shatter her reputation beyond repair.

She can admit that this wasn't something she thought she'd have to deal with upon accepting Angel's offer. The dead employees, yes. The urge to throw up at the sight of them?

Not so much.

It's not something Lilah has a plan for, or any idea how to tackle. Well. . . beyond the obvious. But she's not quite ready to reach for that option yet. To throw in the towel.

Maybe. Eventually. But not now.

Resisting the urge to cover her nose, she turns to look out the window instead. Cursing the fact that Angel's allergic to sunlight and they can't open any of them.

Thankfully, most employees at Wolfram & Hart know that their lives often depend on being prompt. So not three minutes after making the call, security arrives to bear Novac's leftovers away.

It takes a little longer for the smell to dissipate.

Angel none-too-subtly places his new trash can down by her feet. Lilah glares but doesn't kick it away. Unfortunately, her stomach is still turning too aggressively to let her pride win this round.

"What's her problem?" Gunn asks as he enters the office.

"Food poisoning, apparently."

He tsks. "Couldn't have happened to a better person."

Lilah's too busy holding her breath to deliver a scathing retort. Mentally, though, she adds his name to the long list of people she'll one day get around to murdering.

"I'm going to go down there, deal with Hainsley myself before somebody else gets put through the chowder," Angel announces. Because he lives to make her life harder.

"Like hell you are." She bites the inside of her cheek as her stomach gives a particularly violent flip. "Knowing you, you'll just make the situation worse."

Rather tellingly, neither Wesley nor Gunn form a protest to that.

"Bird's got a point."

Angel's face contorts. Possibly he's talking himself down from strangling her. "Then what do you suggest, Lilah?"

"Let me handle it."

The verdict is immediate. "Not happening."

She can't believe she ever thought working under Linwood was hard.

Hell, even serving under Gavin would probably have been better than this.

Probably.

"Look, Mr. Hainsley is one of my oldest clients. If you let me talk to him, I guarantee I'll have this smoothed over by the end of the work day. Unless of course you want to keep ruining Christmas for your employees' families."

Not outside the realm of possibility, considering that Angel has never made any secret of his desire to see all Wolfram & Hart employees kick the bucket. Though, perhaps not quite this literally.

"No. Absolutely not."

Lilah crosses her arms. "Try for a moment to use those brain cells you keep assuring me you have and listen to what I'm saying. I can fix this."

Easily too.

"Or you could end up like Novac. No. It's too dangerous."

"Too dangerous?"

Wesley and Gunn look equally disbelieving, eyeing Angel with obvious confusion (and perhaps a little concern). No doubt they're wondering when the wellbeing of their enemy became of any importance to their boss. Lilah would like to know that too.

Wesley makes a firm, if bewildered, attempt at support. "I'm sure Lilah can handle herself."

"Without question."

Angel crosses his arms. Like a stubborn child, refusing to eat their vegetables. "My answer's no. . . . Besides, you're still evil. For all we know, you could end up colluding with the equally evil necromancer against us."

She's going to shoot him.

"Except my contract doesn't allow for that."

Lilah's checked. Five times.

It was very disappointing.

"She's got a point," Gunn offers his own support. Which is almost worse than not getting any support at all.

Angel certainly doesn't look swayed. "Look, I'm going over to speak to Hainsley. Alone. And that's final."

Wesley and Gunn exchange a look. The sort of 'well this is going to end terribly but what can you do?' look. Apparently defeated.

Lilah isn't nearly so willing to give up. "Give us the room."

"And who put you in charge, Evil Elle Woods?"

She doesn't bother shooting Gunn a glare. Only holds Angel's gaze. Daring him to refuse her.

His jaw twitches. "Give us the room, guys."

There's no protest, though Gunn does drag his heels reluctantly out the door. Lilah refuses to check to see what Wesley's feeling about the matter.

"You too, Spike."

The bleached vampire doesn't move from his position seated on the desk, kicking his heels back and forth like a joyful little schoolboy. "Nah. Think I'm good here."

Lilah keeps her eyes locked on Angel. "If you leave within the next thirty seconds, I'll put you in touch with a contact who might be able to help make you corporeal."

Unlikely. But not impossible.

"Alright then! Try not to kill each other while I'm gone, though. I want at least a front row seat if grandpa bites it."

"If my restraint snaps, the security cameras will record it."

"Spose that's better than nothing."

Lilah waits a minute to ensure that they're truly alone.

Then she storms forward.

"Are you serious right now? What the hell was that?

At this rate, it won't be Spike who outs her.

"Me making sure you don't get turned into attorney soup." Angel takes a seat behind his desk. Lips pressed thin in an empty smile. "You're welcome."

She sneers, crossing her arms. "You're unbelievable. . . Listen closely, Boss. Just because I'm carrying around an extra passenger right now in no way means that I'm made of glass. For that matter, we both know you don't give a shit about whether I get turned into soup or not. Hell, you'd probably celebrate."

"With fine champagne."

"So, what? This is just your newest way of torturing me?"

It's pretty effective. She'll give him that.

"I don't care about you nearly enough to torture you, Lilah."

She grits her teeth. "Then what? Because I know it's not because you don't trust me. You don't need to trust me in order to use me." After all, isn't that why she's here? "You hired me for a purpose, Angel. Because you needed me for this job. So either let me do my job or do us both a favor and fire me already."

At least then she'd be put out of her misery.

"You're right, Lilah. It's not about trust," he says flatly. "And if things were different, I wouldn't blink at sending you off to your probable-evisceration. But as much as I might not care about you, that 'passenger' of yours just so happens to by my friend's kid. So, no, I'm not going to let you get turned into soup. Find a way to deal with it and get out of my office."

There are a disappointingly limited number of ways to kill a vampire. But so, so many ways to make them suffer. Lilah had a list once. Of all the ways she could torture Angel. Her little indulgence. And right now, she's seriously thinking of pulling that list out again and putting it to use.

Instead, she takes a calming breath. "As much as I'd love to do that, let's make one thing clear."

Angel leans back in his chair, blatantly unimpressed. "I'm listening."

"Your overprotective routine is entirely premature. This 'passenger' that you're so concerned about? I don't even know if I'm keeping it. Maybe I will, maybe I won't - this latest exercise in frustration is certainly making me lean towards won't." She's not spending the next five months being treated like a porcelain doll. "Either way, it will be my decision. And, quite frankly, not any of your business. I'm not Darla. If this thing ever ends up coming out of me it will be my choice. Not some higher powers', and sure as hell not yours."

"And what about Wesley's?"

"Wesley doesn't get a choice." Somehow, Lilah manages to keep the bitterness out of her voice. To replace it with nothing but ice. "You made sure of that."

She also knows that for all Wesley's flaws, he wouldn't try to make this decision for her.

He let her go, after all. Not knowing but suspecting. And understanding that if his suspicions were correct, he'd have no say in what she did next.

(but, then, she already knows what his say would be. She already knows that he has no more desire to be a father than she does to be a mother. She knows what he would choose. The same thing she would choose.

The thing she hasn't chosen)

Lilah digs her nails into her palm. "So if this becomes a regular thing - this 'protecting' me from danger because you're so concerned about what I'm carrying around in my uterus right now - I'll walk. I'll walk out those doors and never come back."

Fuck her contract.

She didn't make it this far, crawling through hell, signing away piece after piece of herself in a never-ending string of devil's bargains, just to be treated like nothing more than an incubator for some man's sperm. If that's the way Angel wants to play it, then he can fucking find somebody else to be his liaison to the Partners.

Angel holds her gaze, refusing to back down. "You're still not going."

Instead of running him through with a stake like she desperately wants to, Lilah forces a smile. One that she's found to be more intimidating than any verbal threat she could ever put together. "Fine. Have it your way."

Her uncle always said: don't get angry. Get even.

Her uncle was a rat bastard who deserved every cancerous cell that eventually took him out but in this, at least, he knew what he was talking about.

And right now, getting even means proving Angel wrong. Fortunately, she knows just the way to do it.

Honestly, Angel’s infuriating newfound overprotective streak is probably the biggest incentive she's gotten so far to nip this in the bud. And Lilah's running out of reasons for why she hasn't. For why she's putting up with the nausea and the fatigue (not to mention the humiliation of throwing up in front of her enemies like a goddamn first-year associate). She doesn't want a baby. She's never wanted a baby. Hell, she never even played with baby dolls as a kid. Never stuffed a pillow under her shirt. Never picked out names. Never fantasized about maybe, one day. . .

She doesn't want this.

So why hasn't she put an end to it?

In the beginning, she could almost understand. In the beginning, it almost made sense. Separated as they were, knowing about the literal hell unfolding back in LA, she didn't want to destroy the last piece of Wesley she had left if it turned out he was dead. Some enduring shred of silly sentimentality inside her rebelling at the thought.

Well, he's not dead. So no need to be sentimental.

Except. . . that's not entirely true. This Wesley might be alive. But her Wesley - the son of a bitch Wesley who knocked her up - he isn't. He's gone.

And the only thing left of him, the only proof that he ever existed in the first place, is currently gestating inside her. Once that's gone, it will be like nothing ever happened. Like they never were.

So maybe she's still being silly and sentimental, after all.

Or maybe this is just her way of getting back at Wesley for breaking up with her. For daring to think it would be so easy to just discard her. To cut her out of the perfect picture of his life, like she was never a part of it to begin with. No cutting her out if there's a baby in the mix. Even if he doesn't know it.

Lilah likes that thought better. Less sentimental. More: beware the woman scorned.

Yes. This is revenge. Having the final word, so to say. Fred may have his heart but she has his goddamn child. Simple, straightforward revenge. Nothing more to it than that.

Lilah Morgan is not sentimental.

Well, she has to admit: the sheer amount of frustration Angel's caused her today is almost worth it for the look on his face when he finds her waiting in the passenger seat of his car. A look that only grows more priceless when Spike pokes his head forward from the back.

"Knew you'd pick the Viper. So bloody predictable."

"He's not wrong."

Though, Lilah also used her considerable goodwill with security (i.e. blackmail) to obtain the name of Angel's most frequently used vehicle.

"Get out of the car."

"No."

Lilah tilts her head. "Also no."

She considers this more than fair retribution for all the times he's shown up in her car uninvited. At least she didn't tear a hole in the roof.

Angel looks at her with exasperation. "Did you not listen to a word I said?"

"I listened. And I rejected every single one of them."

"Shocking."

"Believe it or not, Angel, I'm actually trying to help you."

"Don't believe it. Get out."

Lilah grits her teeth. Inhales through her nostrils. Puts on a smile saccharine sweet. "Also, if you don't let me come, I'll spill the beans to our mutual friend about what you did. Specifically what you did to that big, beautiful brain of his that he loves so much. Something tells me he'll take it a lot harder than you smothering him with a pillow."

She knows her Wesley. Attempted murder might be forgivable. But messing with his mind?

Angel narrows his eyes. "Your contract-"

"My contract forbids me from telling anyone about you-know-who; not that they'd be able to remember after thirty seconds, anyway. But there's not a single word that prevents me from sharing the details about you-know-what." Her eyes flick meaningfully down to her stomach. Whose uninvited guest she's more than willing to use as leverage. "And how our mutual friend suddenly finds himself lacking in those details."

Angel grits his teeth. "He won't believe you."

"Of course not. But it will plant a seed of doubt. Of curiosity. And over time that seed will grow, sprouting into something that I dare say would be very inconvenient for you. Who knows the lengths he might go to in order to get the answers he craves? What he might. . . unravel."

She's bluffing. Mostly.

Beginning a series of events that might potentially lead to everyone getting their memories back could potentially put her in breach of contract. Which the Senior Partners would not be pleased by. The wording of said contract is far more ambiguous than she'd like, leaves a lot of gray area. But that's mostly unimportant in terms of their present argument. Ambiguous or not, she's fairly certain she understands the wording a hell of a lot better than Angel. Enough to get away with the bluff.

"Believe me, being stuffed into a car with you is the second-to-last place on earth I want to be." The first would be stuffed into a car with Wesley. "But you need me for this."

"Believe me, Lilah. A day will never come when I need something from you."

"That day's already come. Multiple times. I could start to list them if you're having a little trouble remembering? At your age, it's only to be expected."

A snicker has them both freezing and turning towards the occupant in the back seat.

"Oh, don't stop on my account. Things were just starting to get interesting."

For completely unrelated reasons, Lilah considers the long list of practicalities involved in killing a ghost, and just how doable they may or may not be to carry out.

Angel huffs and flings himself back around to face the front. "Fine. But if you die, don't come crying about it to me." He jabs a finger in her direction. "And you get to be the one to explain it to our mutual friend."

"If I 'die', our mutual friend won't remember enough to do more than gloat over my ashes, let alone require an explanation." And if a thread of bitterness slips into her tone, well she's had a trying enough day to excuse it.

Angel's hands open and flex upon the steering wheel. "Lilah. . ."

"Just drive."

Hearing that note of pity mixed with apology in his voice is about the last thing she can stand right now. And she needs to somehow make it through this trip without shoving him out the door into oncoming traffic.

The fact that it wouldn't kill him - and therefore her - only makes it more tempting.

"Do you have an appointment?" the butler asks, an instant after the door opens to Magnus Hainsley's house. Though the correct term might be mansion.

"Yes," Lilah answers. Earning some - quite frankly, insulting - looks of surprise from her companions. Of course she took the time to schedule ahead, considering there was a snowball's chance in hell that Angel would take care of that formality himself. The instant he'd sent Novac off to his untimely death, she knew it was time to get proactive.

"We're with Wolfram & Hart. Lilah Morgan."

"Uh, yes, Miss Morgan. Mr. Hainsley is expecting you." The butler's polite smile becomes a little more genuine as he steps back. He wasn't working here the last time she visited, though that's hardly a surprise. According to her sources, Hainsley's previous butler lost his innards after trying to make off with some extra cash. Idiot. "This way, please."

Lilah notes with satisfaction that the doors to the showroom are firmly shut, as per her instructions - she knows Angel well enough to predict what his reaction would be to Hainsley's many necromantic achievements.

She still thinks shutting down I.A.D. - and losing its not insignificant revenue - is incredibly shortsighted on the CEO's part. Even disregarding the 'pissing off a very powerful necromancer' of it all, Internal Acquisitions is probably one of their least evil departments. Goddamn neutral, even, by Wolfram & Hart standards.

After all, what's so wrong about digging up somebody's dead body for profit? They're dead. It's not like they're using it anymore.

Hell, da Vinci was a serial grave robber and he's practically venerated.

And technically they aren't even digging up any graves. They get to the bodies long before that. Nobody wants a fully decomposed corpse, after all (or, well, almost nobody. Some demons are into that). Most morgues in the city have a contact with the firm to hand over any unclaimed cadavers. Unidentified decedents and the like. Of which LA has many.

It's a victimless crime, as far as Lilah can see. Not even really a crime, considering they have all the relevant paperwork in order. And what their clients do with those bodies after the fact is none of their business. At least this way they're using an already available supply of corpses - rather than going out and making their own. Lilah wouldn't be surprised if this decision of Angel's leads to a sharp uptick in murders. After all, it's easier to take a living person back to your place and kill them than to go out and start digging up graves. No-one likes manual labor.

She could mention this, of course. But, knowing Angel, he wouldn't listen to her. And maybe the inevitable fallout of his latest dumb mistake could prove to be a valuable learning experience for him. A teachable moment, so to speak.

(though Lilah remains unconvinced that Angel is capable of learning anything)

After a short walk, the butler deposits them in a familiar living room, which has changed very little since she last set eyes on it.

"Please, take a seat," he offers, gesturing towards a single red leather chair (and blatantly ignoring his other two guests in the process). "Mr. Hainsley will be joining you shortly."

Lilah barely spares her surroundings a glance as she sits down. Her company, however, eye every table, chair and piano with incredible suspicion.

It's regrettable that she had to bring them along with her on this appointment. Hopefully, they won't try and make things too difficult for her.

Satan, who am I kidding?

"Nice fellow that," Spike comments, watching after the butler's departure as he takes a seat on a nearby couch.

Lilah smirks. "According to his file, he's been in and out of prison five times. Mostly for homicide and aggravated assault. He's actually another one of our clients."

"Oh."

"Of course he is," Angel mutters under his breath. "Is there any evil person in this city we don't represent?"

"Only the ones who can't afford us."

Spike remains rather flummoxed. "Still. . . nicely groomed by all accounts. And the furniture's not too bad either. Expensive taste - but not too overstated."

"Old money." Lilah allows herself a cursory scan of the room. "Mr. Hainsley's family's been in the Necromancer business since the Middle Ages. It pays a pretty penny."

He perks up. "You don't say? How many pennies are we talking?"

"Ghosts can't become necromancers, Spike." Angel slumps into his own chair, looking like he'd much rather be down in one of his precious sewers than enjoying the virtues of fine leather. "Vampires either, for that matter."

"Says who? I think it's certainly an option worth considering. . . You know, you never realize how difficult money is to come by when you can't just kill people for it."

Finally. Somebody is speaking her language. "Or get somebody else to kill people for you."

Angel glares at them both. "Starting to think it was a mistake to introduce you two."

"Really?" She smiles. "I was just thinking it's the best idea you've had yet."

Any idea that makes his life more miserable than it already is happens to be a raging success in her book.

"Is that Lilah I hear?" a cheery voice booms, moments before a squat-sized man in a perfectly tailored suit enters the room. He makes a beeline for her, hand already held out in invitation. Lilah accepts it with a ready smile, easing into the enthusiastic shake. "I was overjoyed when Alfred told me you wanted to schedule an appointment. I thought I was going to have to deal with that awful vampire everyone keeps insisting is in charge now."

"That vampire's right here."

"Your butler's name is Alfred?"

"I would never inflict Angel on one of my clients. Especially not my favorite client." It's not a lie. Hainsley is the only client who remembers to send her a card on her birthday. Sometimes even on Christmas too. And, of course, those cards always come accompanied by gifts. And Lilah likes gifts. "You know me better than that."

"I do, I do. But you just never know with all these changes lately. The world is in flux, utterly unpredictable. Speaking of which. . ." He takes a seat opposite her, features morphing into a caricature of gravity. "I was so sorry to hear about that nasty business with the Beast. For a moment, I feared the worst. But of course I should have known better than to think a little thing like that could ever knock you off the board."

Her scar gives a faint twinge. Reminding her of how close she came to never seeing that board again. "I was very lucky."

"If I know you, Lilah, luck had nothing to do with it." He winks. "And it all seems to have worked out in the end, doesn't it? I mean, look at you now: CEO of Wolfram & Hart."

"COO."

Hainsley ignores the interruption. "They couldn't have put a better person in charge."

Lilah smiles pleasantly. "That's very kind of you to say, Mr. Hainsley."

"How many times must I tell you? It's Magnus. Mr. Hainsley was my father - and he wasn't nearly half as charming."

She chuckles. The kind of chuckle she regularly brings out for important company. Wesley would have heard the false notes in it. "I suspect you'll have to tell me a few more times but I'll certainly endeavor to save you the trouble."

"Very good." He settles back more comfortably in his seat. "It really is a relief to see you in one piece. It would have been a horrible chore going through the process of finding a new attorney, I doubt any of them would have measured up. But you - you have never let me down. Not from that very first trial, the one your superiors told me was a lost cause."

"Often their definition of a lost cause was anything that required them to use their brains for more than thirty seconds. The strain was too much for them."

Especially given that most of them got their positions through money and connections rather than actual hard work.

"And yet there you were, fresh out of law school, ready to prove them wrong. Taking a risk on you was the best investment I ever made. But then Holland told me I wouldn't be disappointed in your work. He had an eye for potential, that man. I was sorry to hear about his death." Angel shifts uncomfortably in the corner of her vision. "Such a waste. He was a true asset to Wolfram & Hart."

"Yes, he was."

At the very least, he was one of the only men there who never chanced a look down her shirt.

"It still boggles the mind that the Senior Partners put one of his murderers in charge. In my personal opinion, it should have been you."

Her smile becomes a little less plastic. "I do believe that's the popular sentiment."

Angel glowers.

(she's rather impressed that he hasn't tried to take over the conversation yet)

"Though, perhaps it's for the best. You're going to have your hands full soon enough, after all. And raising a child is a sight bit harder than running a company. Even when that company is Wolfram & Hart."

Lilah freezes and she can see Angel leaning forward, looking suddenly tense. "I. . . I'm sure that's an accurate assessment." She forces her smile back in place. "Can I ask how you knew that-?"

"That you're expecting?"

Expecting.

She doesn't think she's ever detested a word more in her life.

"Yes. It's not a development that I've shared with anyone yet. It's still early days, you understand."

"Of course, of course. And I hope I haven't overstepped." He reaches over to the coffee table, pouring two glasses of iced water. "Though I'm sorry to say that doctor of yours isn't worth a cent you pay him. He's been quite the oversharer when it comes to your private details. Insultingly cheap, too."

God dammit.

She's had that doctor for almost a decade and the last thing she wants to do right now is shop around for a new one.

Hainsley leans closer, offering her a glass. "If you like, I can give you the number of my daughter's obstetrician. Penny has wonderful things to say about her, not a word of rebuke. Most importantly, she works at a very exclusive private practice that's under a spell of confidentiality. None of the staff can share a patient's information without losing their heads. Quite literally. . . You should be able to pick up a new GP there as well."

Lilah forces a smile, accepting the glass. "I would greatly appreciate that."

"Of course. Anything for you, my dear." He gives her hand a brief, affectionate pat before releasing her. "Now. . . May I inquire as to the father? I do hope he's risen to the occasion. This is the sort of time when you need all the support you can get. My Penny, for instance, had such a difficult go of it - morning sickness twenty-four hours a day right up until my grandson was born, if you can believe it? - and her husband back then was no help at all. Barely even present." The dark gleam in Hainsley's eyes hints at what fate most likely befell said husband. "People these days have no sense of duty. I hope you've found yourself in better straits with your man. . . And if not, I'm more than happy to give him a talking to. Set him straight, so to speak."

Angel's gaze snaps towards her.

Lilah entertains the fantasy for a moment. Hainsley marching into Wesley's office and giving him a 'talking' to, which could consist of all manner of torture. It would be no less than he deserves for doing this to her. Fucking knocking her up and leaving her to deal with his kid alone. She can't even say for certain that things would be any different even if he could remember. He made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing more to do with her.

So, yes. The fantasy is tempting. But only for a moment.

Lilah offers a more genuine smile this time. "I greatly appreciate the offer, Magnus, but that won't be necessary. I'm afraid the father is no longer in the picture."

"Ran off, did he?" If anything, the dark gleam in Hainsley's eyes gets darker. "Not to worry. I have ways to deal with that too."

"Ways that I'd be eager to see, if the circumstances were different. Unfortunately, the idiot got himself killed during the Beast's rampage."

"Ah." The danger disappears from Hainsley's eyes and Lilah's almost impressed as she watches his seamless transformation back into congenial aristocrat. "Well, that's a shame. I am truly sorry to hear that. Still, if anyone can manage such an enormous endeavor on their own, it's you, Lilah dear."

Her smile, this time, is a little too sharp. "True. After that last case I won for you, I suspect this will be little more than a walk in the park."

"That's the spirit." After a momentary chuckle, Hainsley settles back in his seat again. "But, of course, if you ever need any help or advice, don't hesitate to call. In fact, I'll give Penny your number. She's desperately in need of some more female friends. Well, quality ones. That pack she wastes her time with at the moment are nothing but a bunch of vapid harpies. . ."

Wonderful.

"I'd appreciate that," Lilah lies.

Grudgingly, she admits it might even serve her well in the future. Better to be on Penny Orsini's good side than her bad one.

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid this isn't a social call."

Hainsley sighs. "Yes, I suppose we better get down to business." He directs a glare towards his other two guests - correctly guessing that this is entirely the fault of at least one of them.

"We can meet up later for lunch," she consoles. "As soon as I have some free time."

"Oh, Lilah. We both know you never have free time." Despite the words, Hainsley is smiling. "I'd be surprised if you've taken a day off in your life."

"See!"

Lilah ignores the commentary from the peanut gallery. "I'll make time for you."

Anything to get out of Wolfram, Angel & Hart for an hour.

"Very well, then. I think I'll hold you to that. Now. . . down to business."

"Down to business." Lilah crosses her legs. It's not as comfortable as it used to be. The passenger a plague on her body, even at this early stage, affecting all number of things it doesn't have a right to. Still, she pretends there's no discomfort in the action. That she's the same person she was last time she sat in this chair, less than a year ago. "I'm sure you've heard by now that LA's Wolfram & Hart will be running a bit differently for the time being?"

Hainsley nods gruffly. "It's come to my attention. That man from the I.A.D department that you sent over earlier made it quite clear."

Lilah forces a smile. "Then you are aware that the firm will in no way be providing you with your usual supply of bodies from now on."

"Yes, and I'm not too happy about that, Lilah."

"Nor should you be. Which is why I took it upon myself to contact the Wolfram & Hart branch in Italy. They like to have a necromancer in the books and it just so happens that they're usual one has recently become . . . unavailable."

That cost a pretty favor or two.

Hainsley raises an eyebrow, whilst Spike and Angel glance at her sharply.

"You could move there, all expenses paid, and continue to receive your regular supply of corpses."

"Italy, you say?" he considers, rubbing his chin.

Lilah smiles. "The capital – Rome."

"And all expenses paid?"

"Every last one. We've even allocated funds for any property you might wish to purchase. I'm sure you'll be able to find something as grand as this, if not grander. That way you'll be able to hold onto your current residence, for whenever you wish to fly back here to visit. For which you'll have access to one of Wolfram & Hart's private jets, of course."

It's an almost unforgivable financial loss. One that Lilah wouldn't be able to justify for many other clients.

Hainsley's grin is slow to form. "Very good, Lilah. Very good. You always did know how to make a sales pitch."

She allows her lips to tilt up in an answering smirk. "So I take it we have a deal, then?"

"You know I can never say no to you, my dear. Send the paperwork my way and I'll have it signed by the end of the week."

A short glance to her right shows the peanut gallery exchanging incredulous looks.

Lilah's the first to speak after they leave the house. "I'm still waiting."

"Waiting?" Like any toddler who didn't get their way, Angel sounds particularly cranky. And sulky.

"For you to acknowledge that I was right."

The sulkiness dials up a notch.

No such acknowledgment is forthcoming.

"Come on, Angel. I hear humility is good for the soul. And given your track record, you need to take extra care of yours."

Lilah has no expectations that he'll ever admit she was right. But the sour look on his face is a worthy substitution.

"She's got a point, Gramps. Really can't be too careful where you're concerned." Spike trails happily behind them. "Speaking of people who were right, I'm still waiting to get my own accolades."

"For what?" Angel snaps. "Being the most annoying person in this dimension?"

"Only this dimension? I'm slipping. . . No, I'm talking about the bun you were so convinced wasn't in that oven." Lilah stiffens, which Spike seems not to notice as he raises his voice into a higher pitch, "'Oh, she's not pregnant. Not pregnant at all. No-one would be able to sneak a pregnancy past me. I'm a detective. A vampire detective'-"

"I don't sound like that," Angel cuts in. "And I knew she was pregnant. I was just being polite. It's her business."

Talk about an attitude reversal.

Lilah crosses her arms. "You didn't seem to think that when you were ordering me to stay back at the office on account of the bun's safety."

"Fine. Her business and mine. Happy?"

Shaking her head in disgust, Lilah turns and quickens her pace towards the car. Getting into the driver's seat, she slams the door. Locks it.

"Uh, Lilah? What are you doing?"

Ignoring him, she inserts the keys she had made on her first day back and turns on the ignition.

"Lilah, that's my car."

"Looks like it's hers now, mate. Tough break." A moment later, Spike appears in the passenger seat beside her. Locked doors proving no obstacle for incorporeal beings. "I have to say, I like your style. Almost makes up for the being evil thing."

Ignoring the sound of Angel tapping on the window like an angry woodpecker, Lilah reverses the car. "If it helps, I've killed significantly less people than you."

"You know, it rather does."

Lilah spares herself a moment of triumphant glee as she watches a certain champion's pouty face disappear in the rear-view mirror. If only I had a camera. Wesley would have loved-

She cuts off that thought. Tightens her grip on the steering wheel.

Almost made it half an hour without thinking about him.

A record.

Lilah waits until they're a good twenty minutes away before pulling the car over and breaking. Though she leaves the engine running.

A petty part of her wouldn't mind leaving Angel with an empty tank.

Spike frowns. "Didn't realize we had another stop on the list. Who do we have an appointment with now? A dark mage? One of the four horsemen?"

"That's next Thursday." Lilah's smile is equal parts lethal and professional. "I just thought we should have a little chat before we head back to the office. Go over a few minor details."

He sighs. "Look, I hate to say it, but if you want to fuck, we're gonna have to take a rain check because there's not a single part of me right now that's corporeal."

Internally, Lilah massages her temples. She truly does not get paid enough to deal with this level of bullshit. "I don't want to fuck you."

"Sure."

Remember your breathing exercises.

"We need to lay down some ground rules."

"What, like a safe word?"

The most unfortunate part about Spike being incorporeal is that she can't punch him in the nose. Or anywhere else. "Rule number one: if you tell anyone about this" - she motions a hand over her stomach - "I'll spend my every waking moment ensuring you never become corporeal again. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The cocky grin on his face isn't exactly reassuring.

She should have taken that job offer in Paris. No Spike. No Angel. No Wesley.

Absolute peace and fucking serenity.

"Rule number two: stop coming on to me. I'm not interested."

"Heard that before."

"Even if I hadn't recently sworn off men, I happen to have standards. Those standards being a pulse." She well and truly learned her lesson from that whole incident with 'Angel'. Not to mention, upon her promotion to Head of Special Projects, Lilah decided that her days of putting up with workplace sexual harassment were well and truly behind her. She's not about to backslide on that resolution for a fucking ghost. "I also don't like men who bleach their hair."

"Now that's just mean."

Despite this, there remains a persistent grin on his face for the rest of the drive back to the office. A detail that only emboldens Lilah's determination to stay away from men. She never got this much trouble from women. Sure, Faith might have fucked her over by backing out of her contract but at least she didn't knock her up. She also had initiative in the bedroom, even if she was less into giving than receiving. Lilah was willing to let that slide on account of the fact that she was fucking hot. Crazy but hot.

That's who she needs to be on the lookout for. Someone hot (crazy or otherwise), with an impressive amount of initiative and without the unforgivable flaw of being able to get her pregnant. Not that she could get any more pregnant right now.

Then again, in this world, with her luck. . .

Sighing, Lilah gives in to the urge to rub her temples.

If she fucked the Texas twig that would certainly function as suitable revenge against Wesley and his serious lack of foresight in failing to get a vasectomy. Plus, they hate each other. Hate sex is always entertaining. See: her relationship with Wesley as a prime example.

Still. . .

The thought of having sex with anyone right now just sounds exhausting. She'd rather have a bath.

(she'd rather have Wesley. And not even for sex)

Okay, thirty-three minutes without thinking about him.

Better.

Soon enough, she'll have made it to a whole damn hour.

Shaking her head, Lilah parks the car.

The tank is empty.

Life is good.

—And God looked upon all that He had made, and indeed, it was very good.

I promise there is much more weslah next chapter. In fact, next chapter is almost entirely weslah. We just had to get through this chapter first.

Here. Have some memes as apology:

 Most of this chapter:

Also, Wesley for a good majority of this fic:

Chapter Text

'Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.'
John Milton 

Because this day is just the gift that keeps on giving, Lilah isn't allowed more than thirty minutes of peace before her fortress of solitude - i.e. her office - is invaded. This time by Wesley. Which is even worse than if Angel or Spike decided they weren't through bugging her yet.

Now Lilah watches as he paces about with infuriating nonchalance, reading the brief report she'd managed to whip up on the day's events before he marched in. She handed it over with almost no snark or resistance, knowing that either would only prolong his presence. The very last thing she wanted to do.

The nausea Lilah's been battling ever since those buckets of Novac started smelling up the floor hasn't abated much. Enough that she doesn't feel in danger of throwing up (again) but not enough that she can forget about it for more than ten seconds.

She wouldn't mind lying down. In the dark. On that couch that Wesley is pacing in front of right now. Pull the magic shutters on her windows so no-one can see and just close her eyes for a few minutes.

It probably wouldn't make the nausea better. It might even make it worse. But it would help with the fatigue that seems to have become her constant companion these last three or four months.

But she can't lie down whilst Wesley's here.

Lilah sighs, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. As if that will somehow allay the swirling in her gut. She should probably eat something. It's been hours - too many hours - and she's learned the hard way that an empty stomach is a recipe for disaster when it comes to the churning she's at constant war with.

On the other hand, trying to put food into that empty stomach is liable to mix together another disaster. One of much grander proportions. Like hell Lilah's going to risk throwing up in front of Wesley a second time.

He'd love it far too much. Love another chance to poke fun at her in her humiliation. Make some other terrible joke about blue cheese - which she truly is expecting to see sprinkled around his office in the coming days.

Bastard.

"That was quite the risk you took today with Hainsley," the devil himself says, still pacing at a lackadaisical speed, still not sparing her a glance. He always did like to walk and read. Lilah just feels seasick when she does it herself. "After what happened to Novac."

"Don't tell me that bothers you?"

"Hardly. But I do wonder why it doesn't bother you. Putting one's life on the line seems awfully out of character for someone who prioritizes their life above all else."

Lilah shakes her head. She supposes she shouldn't be surprised that he doesn't get it. Doesn't get her. "I work for Wolfram & Hart. Putting my life on the line is a part of the job description." 'No great reward without even greater risk' was literally a slide in their employee orientation presentation. By the end of the first year, you either understand that or you don't because you're, well. . . dead. "Besides, in this case, the risk was negligible. I knew I had all the pieces in place I needed to make the deal. Not to mention, Hainsley is one of my oldest clients. And all my clients love me."

"I suppose someone has to."

Lilah doesn't allow her smirk to fracture at the muttered response. Even though she could - it's not as though he's looking at her. Still too busy reading that damn report.

She does have to wonder what specific thing she did to piss this Wesley off. As far as she can recall, they never even exchanged words until recently. Lilah's attentions were always more focused on Angel, so what-

Oh, right.

Billy.

She can remember now how huffy Wesley got one night about that whole fuck up. The way he'd gone on about how he'd been made to chase after precious Fredikins with an axe Jack Nicholson style (which Lilah assumes must have effectively killed his chances with his lady love). Though she still thinks she had a worse time during that debacle. What with the broken face.

And then, of course, there was the whole Faith affair. But given that they only hired her to kill Angel - not to torture the pet watcher - Lilah figures she can pretty much be excused from that. What Faith chose to do outside of her assigned task can hardly be laid at her feet. At the end of the day, it was just business.

Would she do it again, knowing how things turned out? God, no. And not least of all because the slayer didn't even succeed in killing Angel. But she's gotten this far in life by never allowing guilt to gain a foothold in her. She's sure as hell not about to change that now. Not even for Wesley.

(even if the thought of someone taking a shard of glass to him does leave her incomprehensibly furious)

Alright, so he hates her. Hates her for personal reasons. That doesn't explain why he's here. In her office. Annoying the living crap out of her.

Or, okay, maybe it does.

Wesley was always a devotee of the more understated methods of revenge. Mostly in bed. Patiently taking his time, winding her up, and then leaving her hanging at the end. Flustered and frustrated and right on an edge he smugly refused to let her pass over.

She feels a similar kind of frustration now (only without the added spice of arousal). So maybe invading her space and pissing her off by pacing back and forth in obnoxious silence is Wesley's way of getting revenge.

She wouldn't put it past him.

Lilah squeezes her pen. "Actually, I find love to be unnecessary. Overrated even. . . Well, except for when it comes to exploiting it."

"And you're back to being predictable."

Wesley continues to read. Continues to pace.

And her nausea continues to offer up a very good reason why fucking him was the worst idea of her life.

"You know, you can take that to go."

"Hmm?" He looks up distractedly. "Right, yes. What made you decide on the Italian branch? Was it just that they were in need of a necromancer?"

"They weren't. Until I pulled a few strings." Lilah tilts her head, wondering why he's even interested. She can't imagine that he actually wants to discuss this. To discuss anything with her. "Italy was a deliberate choice. His daughter's new husband lives in Siena. She'll be moving out there by the end of fall and, according to my sources, Mr. Hainsley is deeply unhappy about the move. In fact, he was already scoping out property over there for himself. . . This way, he gets his corpses and he gets a free house. And trust me, rich people love getting things for free."

Wesley grunts his agreement of that, before finally - finally - shutting the file. "It was a good plan."

She clicks her pen, smiling up at him. "Why, Wesley, is that praise I hear in your voice?"

"Appreciation. It's always nice when we can get through the day without killing a client. . . Which is something I never thought I'd hear myself say," he trails off, seeming momentarily lost in horrified dismay at what his life has become.

Lilah nods. "The cleaning bills are always a bitch. And we still haven't worked out how to get blood out of the carpet. There's an entire department devoted to it and still. . . nada."

He sighs. "Yes, Lilah. The cleaning bill is our foremost concern."

"It should be. Did you see the latest?"

Wesley winces. "Yes. Angel's handling of the Ryson case was. . . somewhat less than satisfactory."

"They're still scraping his entrails off the eleventh floor, from what I hear. That stuff really gets into every nook and cranny."

He makes a face. "I find myself compelled to ask how you've managed to work here for so many years without, oh. . . completely losing your mind."

"Well, I can't say I haven't lost bits of it. That's part of the charm of working here." Climbing the ranks of Wolfram & Hart whilst keeping a full grasp on all your marbles is not only unrealistic but undesirable. You need to let a few go, here and there, if you want to reach the top. And when that's not enough, there's always Xanax. And scotch. A good deal of scotch.

Or at least there used to be.

Fuck being pregnant.

"But not completely. Some parts clearly yet remain, unless you're a better actor than I give you credit for. You are, for the most part, entirely sane. . . I suppose that's encouraging." Wesley doesn't sound halfway convinced.

Lilah sighs, giving up on her cross-legged pose and allowing her limbs to relax. "You do get used to it. . . Eventually."

A reluctant olive branch. Cautiously tossed out.

She's surprised when he doesn't rip it to shreds upon reception.

"That's the thing. . . I'm not so sure I want to."

She watches him gaze off into the distance, almost seeming to have forgotten her presence. Which makes sense. Given that she doubts he would ever say something so honest to her.

Not this Wesley.

Lilah's stomach twists in on itself. And she can't tell if it's the passenger causing trouble again or him. Having him here. So close. Talking to her. Actually talking to her. Not just throwing out barbed comments or terse retorts.

She can't deal with this. She can't deal with the gray. This murky ocean of uncertainty. She needs the black and white. The contempt in his voice uncontaminated by anything else.

That's the only way she's going to get through this.

Lilah taps her nails against the desk. Waits for him to leave. He doesn't.

Instead, he returns to examining that damn report.

"Why are you here, Wesley?"

(she's asked him that before. In this very building. Months ago.

He doesn't remember)

"It's a bit late in the evening for existential questions, isn't it, Lilah?"

"Why are you here in my office?"

"Ah. That's much simpler." He takes a seat. Though she didn't offer one. "First, I wished to gain a better understanding of what happened - considering most of what I got from Angel was little more than a series of grumbles and grunts."

Still not happy that she stole off with his car then.

"And the second reason?"

"You could have left us to our own devices today. Let the chips fall where they may. Certainly, Angel gave you every reason to. But you didn't. And whilst I'm not naive enough to think your actions were motivated by a sudden burst of altruism, done in service of anyone other than yourself or the firm. . . I deem it only polite to say the aid was appreciated regardless."

"A thanks from you, Wes?" Lilah allows the corners of her mouth to lift in a smirk. "I'll treasure it."

Fuck it. She actually means that.

"Please do. I won't be making a habit of it."

"Wanna bet?"

Something shifts in Wesley's expression. There one minute and gone the next. A furrow to his brow, before his features even out again. "I think only a desperate man would enter into a wager with you, Lilah. Or a very foolish one."

"I won't argue with that."

She wonders if he still has it. The dollar bill in his wallet. Or if it was stripped away as surely as his memories. Obliterated.

It must have been.

A signed dollar bill you don't remember signing could only lead to confusion. Questions.

Lilah curses the clenching of her heart. The way it burns - just a little - at this realization. The realization that the only proof of their relationship has been erased from existence.

Well. Almost the only proof.

Her stomach lurches.

Lilah reaches for her pen to hide the grimace on her face. The way the world shifts in and out of stability.

She can't wait for this fucking morning sickness to finally be over.

"You know, I think you owe me more than thanks. Trying to please both the Gloomy Avenger and a very powerful necromancer who would have liked nothing more than to turn him into one of his puppets isn't easy."

"All in a day's work for you, though, I assume."

Lilah shrugs. Doesn't deny it.

(Why is she prolonging the conversation?

Why hasn't she told him to leave yet?)

"If it's more than thanks you want, though. . ." Wesley considers. "I suppose I could offer you respect."

Lilah raises a brow. "Respect?"

"Granted, nothing more than a paltry amount - but still more than what I formerly possessed for you. I can't say I much respect you as a person yet but I do respect your abilities."

She's dismayed to find that a part of her is clinging to that 'yet.'

"It's amusing that respect is something that you think I'd want from you."

Wesley shrugs his shoulders, uncaring. "Take it or leave it."

Damn her, she's going to take it.

He moves to stand up. "At any rate, I best be going-"

"You were wrong, you know?" God fucking dammit. She could bite her own tongue off.

Wesley pauses. Settles back in his seat. "A rare occurrence. But I suppose it's been known to happen. What was I wrong about in this instance?"

She nearly takes him to task on that 'rare'. The list of times Wesley has been wrong in his life is long.

"You said I did this for myself. For the firm. And that's partially correct. But I also did it for Hainsley."

Lilah's only sharing this because she wants to wipe that look off his face. That look that says he knows everything there is to know about her. That he understands what she is - and detests what she is - and there's utterly no room left for surprise.

She wants to surprise him.

She wants to tip his world on its axis.

(maybe that would feel like winning)

"Hainsley?"

Lilah lifts a shoulder. "I knew Angel would sooner kill him than come to the table with him. And I knew a way to avoid that."

Wesley crosses his arms, eyeing her doubtfully. "Now, Lilah, you can't expect me to believe that you'd be at all bothered by anybody's death but your own."

"See, that's your problem, Wes. You don't understand that women have layers. Hidden. . . depths."

"Women? Certainly. You?" He trails off. ". . . I rather think not."

"I could show you, if you like. Give you a little tour of just how deep you can go."

He doesn't get all a fluster - which is what she expects from this Wesley - instead leveling her with a look that is entirely flat and entirely unimpressed.

Lilah delights in it.

"Tempting. . . Yet, somehow, I think I'll be able to go on without knowing."

She shrugs lightly. "Suit yourself. . . You're halfway right at least. The only person's mortality I'm particularly concerned with is my own - you should try it some time, actually. Call it self-care."

The unimpressed nature of his expression intensifies.

"But. . . whilst I might not usually shed a tear over the misfortune of others, I would find Mr. Hainsley's death regrettable. He's one of my better clients."

"I'd hate to see your other clients."

"More to the point, I owe him. He took a chance on me at a time when most wouldn't have, most didn't. I don't take that lightly."

He was also the first man to look at her like she was actually worth a damn. That's not something that Lilah needs - not now and not then - but still. . . it was a nice change of pace.

"So this is gratitude?"

The skepticism in Wesley's voice couldn't be stronger.

"This is the fact that I always pay my debts. Little more."

"I'll bear that in mind."

He doesn't look like he entirely believes her. Or maybe just doesn't want to. Her Wesley always had trouble accepting the varying shades of gray. He'd rather only see black - especially in her. Lilah's not surprised that quality remains true for this Wesley too.

(she's ignoring, of course, those increasingly frequent moments leading up to the signing of a dollar bill; all those moments where he went panning for white gold. . . only to find blackened soil)

"Whatever your reasons, I suppose the only thing that matters is that it worked out for us. This time." His mouth twists. "Though I can't say I'll rest easy tonight knowing that we've just spent a shameful amount of money convincing an incredibly powerful and dangerous necromancer to go be some other country's problem."

"Better than the alternative."

"Which is?"

"Penelope Orsini, more commonly known as Penny Hainsley. Second in line to the family business. . . She's more powerful than her father and a good deal more dangerous."

More sadistic too. Hainsley has a temper and isn't above taking pleasure in another person's pain. But he's a businessman first and foremost. And likes to think of himself as a gentleman to boot.

His daughter on the other hand. . .

"How dangerous?"

"Do you remember that massacre on Third Street two years ago?"

Wesley turns rigid. "That was her?"

"Allegedly." Lilah smiles. "Trust me, she's not someone you want on your bad side. Mr. Hainsley and his daughter are very close. Unsettlingly close, actually." She can't imagine being even half as close with her own father and would rather not imagine it. "So if she found out we killed him. . ."

"It would be bad."

"Very." Mostly for Angel and friends. But possibly for her too. "And Penny's the patient sort. She'd bide her time. Years, if she had to. Lulling you into a false sense of security until it was finally the moment to make her move. . . No, we're much better off with her and her father living happily ever after in the Eternal City. The entire country is."

He makes a face. "It pains me to admit that you're probably right."

"Definitely right."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Wesley frowns, leaning back in his chair. "I do think we underestimated just how. . . complicated all this would be when we signed on. There's a lot of interconnected webs. Hornet's nests we didn't realize we were taking a mullet to."

Lilah nods, glad that finally someone seems to have realized what she's been trying to convey since day dot. Maybe there's still some hope that she won't be forced to spend the entire year watching the lot of them run around like kids in a sandbox. Trampling the sandcastles, pouring buckets of water all over the place. In short, making an absolute mess of things. "Think of it as a gut."

"A gut?"

"Yes. Wolfram & Hart is like the microbiome of a gut. You need to have an understanding of all the different bacteria in play. How they interact with each other, how they compete with each other. Which ones are important and which ones you can do without. You have to be careful about what you introduce, and what you eliminate. If you're not, then you'll find yourself overrun with some very unfriendly bacteria. . . And that kind of understanding takes years to accumulate. None of you have it. Not even Mr. Rags to Riches with his fancy new mind upgrade."

They really are a bunch of toddlers who've just been given the keys to the kingdom, no questions asked. Guaranteed to cause a few minor and not-so-minor revolts. Widespread desolation. Famine.

Perhaps the Senior Partners have grown bored and this is their way of getting their jollies in.

Lilah might have found it quite jolly entertainment too - if she weren't the one tasked with saving the kingdom.

"Damn."

Lilah refocuses. "What?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm just coming to the slow and regrettable realization that we might just need you. And, in that vein, that we should probably be consulting on a lot more cases than we currently are."

From the look on Wesley's face, he might be a child who was just told that Christmas has been canceled. Indefinitely.

Lilah can't help the upward curl of her lips. "Not eager to spend more time with me, Wes?"

"Not in the least." He heaves a sigh. "But, for the greater good. . ."

This is familiar territory. The banter that dithers between playful and cutting. It's such familiar territory that she knows she should run. Not take another step into it.

Instead, Lilah relaxes back in her seat. "Always the martyr."

He looks at her skeptically. "I can't say I've ever been a martyr."

Not that you remember.

Of course. . . it's less that he's a martyr than that he doesn't give enough of a fuck about his own life not to throw it away. She tried to break him of that. Never succeeded.

Some people are just too stubborn in their self-destruction.

"Something tells me you're about to become one full time."

His mouth gives a rueful twist but he doesn't deny it.

They sit in silence for a few moments. Not necessarily uncomfortable silence but certainly a bemusing one.

Lilah wonders when he's going to leave.

Wonders even more if she wants him to leave.

(she should. She should want him to leave)

Lilah shakes her head at her own thoughts. "So, if there's nothing else-"

She's cut off by the sight of Wesley reaching into his pocket. For an irrational moment, she thinks he's going to pull out a weapon. But no. It's probably just that fancy pen he's been so besotted with lately. Honestly, if Lilah knew that was the kind of thing that got him hard, she would have bought him all the fancy pens. Instead of that damn antique helmet she wasted thousands of dollars on and which he barely paused to admire. Maybe that would have kept him from rushing off to see his precious Fred and-

And she's going down the rabbit hole again.

Cursing internally, Lilah yanks herself back out and refocuses on Wesley. On his stupid face and his stupid pen. Only, it's not a pen in his hand. It's not a weapon either.

Instead, it's a small blue cardboard box that she wishes she didn't recognize.

"Miracle Gins?"

Lilah might have preferred that he pulled out a revolver.

"For the nausea," he says, far too casually as he places the pack of ginger chews down on the desk. Next to her hand. "Cordelia used to swear by them."

Lilah stares at the box. Stares at the box to avoid staring at him. "Right. I hear visions are hell on the stomach."

"On most organs, actually. Though the brain tends to be the hardest hit. For obvious reasons."

She wants to ask why. Why he's doing this. But her tongue is thick in her mouth, too thick, too heavy. And she can't ask why. Because then she might get an answer.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Lilah reaches out and accepts the offering.

Its packaging is familiar. All too recognizable. A relic from a time best put behind her. She was always finding the little boxes in various places around Wesley's apartment. He'd suck on the chews every time he had a hangover - which was often. Sometimes, when they kissed, all she'd taste was the burn of ginger.

She hasn't been able to have any of the spice since without remembering the feeling of his tongue in her mouth.

And now she has a whole box of the stuff.

Clearing her throat, Lilah opens her drawer and dumps the 'gift' inside. "I suppose I should offer thanks."

"Most people would. But I wouldn't expect it from you."

"In that case. . ." She smirks. "Thanks."

He rolls his eyes and stands up. "Goodnight, Lilah."

She opens her mouth-

And is interrupted by a knock on the door.

Frowning, she turns to find one of Wolfram & Hart's mail boys standing nervously in the open doorway. She doesn't recognize him but from the way he's looking at her, Lilah suspects that he's heard a frightful rumor or two.

Good.

(nice to know her reputation's still intact)

"Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you, Miss Morgan. But I just received this." He holds up a small, fabric-wrapped box. "I'm under strict instructions to give it to you directly."

Never a good sign.

Already bracing for the oncoming headache, Lilah holds out a hand. She doesn't need to say anything, the impatience in the flat line of her mouth is prompt enough and the delivery boy immediately jolts into action. Stumbling forward and placing the box in her hand. He then practically trips over his own feet in his hurry to back out of the room.

Yes. He's definitely heard a story or two. Perhaps even some true ones.

Forcing back a smile, Lilah turns her attention to the box. It's not too small, not too big. Wood, she thinks, wrapped in silk.

So maybe not something guaranteed to give her a headache then. More likely a gift from a grateful client. Her jewelry collection has thrived over the years on that kind of gratitude.

There's a small square card, fastened to the top with string. Ivory, deckle-edged paper (Medioevalis, if she had to guess). Definitely a client. A brief glance at the cursive scrawl upon retrieving it only confirms the suspicion.

Looking forward to that lunch.

On the back is an unfamiliar name and number. The details for the OB Hainsley offered, she supposes.

"Who's it from?" Wesley, whose presence she's almost forgotten, leans across the desk to inspect the delivery. Far too close.

Lilah shifts the box away, fingers already working at the string tying the silk together. "Hainsley."

Alarm straightens Wesley's spine - before his hands are flying out and seizing hers. "Lilah, that could be a bomb."

His hands are on hers and for a moment she can't think of anything else. Can't do anything but feel. The calloused length of his fingers. The warmth of his skin. All so familiar. So tortuously right.

Lilah roughly yanks her hands free. "And I thought I was paranoid." Still, she doesn't make a move towards opening the box, not wanting to risk his touch again. "Every package coming in gets screened in the entrance lobby. If there was a bomb inside, it wouldn't have made it onto the elevator."

"Still doesn't mean it's safe." Wesley scowls down at the offending box, unconvinced. "We should burn it."

"We're not burning my gift. I like gifts."

"It could be dangerous."

"Why would it be dangerous?"

"It's a gift from an evil necromancer, why wouldn't it be?"

"Because I'm that evil necromancer's evil attorney - and he's very fond of me."

Wesley fails to look convinced. But perhaps that's to be expected given the fact that, if it had been intended for him, it probably would have been dangerous. More than a few of Hainsley's enemies have lost body parts to his 'gifts'.

Thankfully, Lilah's not one of them.

She also knows that, if there were anything nefarious hidden within, it never would have made it to her office. Their security might have its shortcomings - most of those shortcomings revealing themselves when Angel's involved - but they know how to handle the mail.

Deciding that she's over the debate, Lilah resumes the process of unwrapping her gift.

"Lilah-"

Too late, the silk is gone and the box is open on her desk. A decidedly unfortunate outcome. In fact, the moment Lilah sees its contents, she rather wishes it had been a bomb.

"You're right. We should have burned it."

Wesley has only an instant to look smug before he catches sight of the horrifying object now on display.

"Lilah. . ." To the man's credit, his expression shows not a hint of reaction. "Why is an evil necromancer sending you baby rattles?"

Just the one. And an incredibly lavish one at that. Lilah's fairly certain those diamonds encrusting the handle are real.

She shuts the box. "He collects them. Like dolls, only less creepy. If memory serves, this one was gifted to him by Cartier. . . I'm surprised he's willing to part with it."

It pays, sometimes, to be someone who lies for a living.

Wesley buys her excuse with little more than a bemused - and vaguely worried - frown. "Perhaps we should check to see if it's cursed?"

"It's not cursed." They screen for that in the lobby. "Though, it is a little tacky."

There are limits to what her love for diamonds will allow.

"As long as it doesn't come with a body count, I can excuse a little tackiness." Despite the words, Wesley still eyes the box with an unfounded amount of suspicion. "You seem very certain that Mr. Hainsley would never harm you. Recklessly certain, one might even say."

"One might." She moves the baby rattle she wishes was a bomb away from her, resisting the urge to slide it off her desk into the trash. No doubt, that would only make Wesley look smug again. "And I wouldn't say never. There are a range of circumstances in which I'm quite sure Hainsley would be willing to harm me. This just isn't one of them."

"Again, you seem very certain of that."

He's moved on from eyeing the box suspiciously, to eyeing her suspiciously.

She's not sure if it's an improvement.

Lilah taps her nails against the desk. Right over the drawer that now contains a pack of ginger that, far from aiding in her nausea, seems only to be increasing it. "I remind Hainsley of his daughter."

Wesley crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. "The evil, conniving snake? I suppose that tracks."

"If you recall, the words I used were powerful and dangerous. And patient." The latter of which she is not. But the other two ring true. "But, regardless, that's not the daughter I'm talking about. He had another. Nearabout my age. Similar in appearance. Name of Lilian. . . She died the year Hainsley and I met - and, on some level, he believes that was fate. He sees her in me."

Too much to want to harm her.

Enough to be very fond of her.

Wesley, because it's Wesley, reads between the lines. "You had him emotionally compromised from the moment you met. And I take it you knew that would be the likely outcome before he even hired you?"

Lilah inclines her head. "I research all my potential clients thoroughly beforehand. So. . . yes." She lifts a shoulder. "I knew he had a weakness I was uniquely positioned to exploit. Manners did too - it's why he assigned me to Hainsley in the first place." Wesley's face twists in a way that's easy to interpret. She's seen that look enough times. The most memorable being when he showed up at her door in the aftermath of that unfortunate incident with Lorne. "What? Did you expect better of me?"

"No. I'd say you've met my expectations to the letter."

His eyes are the coldest they've been all night.

(a good thing, she tells herself)

"We all use the tools we have."

And she'll never be made to feel guilty for using hers.

"Is that the justification you use to help you sleep at night?"

"You assume I have any trouble sleeping."

In truth, she's a lifelong insomniac. But it's not guilt that keeps her up.

"You're right. That would be an assumption too far. Believing you're human enough to be even a small bit regretful about using a grieving father's emotions to manipulate him."

Lilah keeps her mask in place. Features flat. Lips vaguely lifted at the corner. He's almost amusing in his predictability. "You asked me before how I've survived here all these years without losing my mind. That's how. . . Regret never helps anyone. Not you. Not the people you hurt. You do what you have to do and you live with it." She cocks her head. "Or you try on the Angel method and brood about it for all eternity."

"There's another option of course," Wesley says, a little less cold. But no less guarded. "You do better. Instead of continuing to do worse."

She nods slightly. "You're right. But that option's only available for people who are interested in doing better. Doing good. . . I never have been."A hyperbole. Admittedly. But she's hardly going to count the years she still had fucking baby teeth. "And that's how I keep myself intact. Because, believe me, working in this place and trying to do good? It will ruin you faster than anything else."

Wesley frowns.

Some of the disgust has disappeared from his eyes now. Replaced by a tiredness she's not sure is an improvement.

"I wish I could disagree. . . But I'm beginning to fear you might be right."

Lilah hesitates. It's the truth. What she's said. All of it. It's the truth.

But. . .

"I probably am. But. . . then again, this isn't the same Wolfram & Hart. I keep hearing something about it being under new management, changing things, working towards a higher, lighter purpose. . ." Her mouth turns up at the corner. "Who knows? Maybe it might be different for you guys."

He looks almost amused. "You don't believe that."

"No. Not really." Not at all. "But I have no real interest in believing it. It doesn't suit my reality. . . That doesn't mean you have to believe it too."

It's the kind of thing she might have said to her Wesley. In their softer moments. In those rare moments when she cared about him more than she cared about pretending that she didn't care at all.

It's the kind of thing she might have said to her Wesley. But not to this one.

And she can see the evidence of that in the furrow of his brow. The way he scrutinizes her. Like she's transformed into a scroll he can't hope to translate.

Lilah quickly washes the sincerity from her face, applying a mask of false cheer instead. "And, hey, if things start to get too tricky living in the gray, just ask yourself: What Would Lilah Do? And then do the exact opposite."

"Is that your advice?"

"Not my legal advice, since it's almost guaranteed to get you killed. But for the purpose of preserving that precious soul of yours. . . Sure. That's my advice."

Wesley smiles a fraction, that faint confusion still present in his eyes. "Then I'll pay it careful consideration."

Well. That wasn't. . . horrible.

Lilah twists her pen in between her fingers, staring at the space that held Wesley only three minutes ago. Hard to believe that she managed to make it through an entire conversation without wanting to stab him. An improvement. Unexpected. Even shocking.

Not necessarily a good thing.

That urge to stab was very strong and distracting. Tended to overwhelm any other feelings that started to slip through. Feelings that Lilah can't afford to have. Not before but especially not now.

It rankles a bit too. That she didn't entirely hate it. Talking to him. This version of him. She was hoping that she would. That without that scar on his neck, he would be too far removed from the Wesley she remembers. From the Wesley she-

Too far removed for her to feel anything but disdain or indifference towards.

Lilah squeezes her pen. The material letting out a faint noise of distress. But it doesn't snap.

This is a problem.

A problem that she was arrogant enough to believe she wouldn't have to deal with.

The solution, of course, is to avoid Wesley with even greater fervor than before. But she has doubts about how feasible that is. They do, after all, work together. And apparently he now thinks it's smart to work together more frequently, more closely. And it is smart.

It's just not particularly helpful. Not for her.

And then, of course, there's the small traitorous part of her that doesn't mind the thought of working with him more frequently. More closely. That might even want to.

Thankfully, it's just a small part, incapable of gaining majority and enforcing any influence over her. She won't listen to it. Obviously.

But still.

It's annoying.

Tossing her pen onto the table, Lilah turns towards the windows, eyes zeroing in on the lone figure standing outside. The sight is expected. She sensed him the instant he arrived.

Looks like that nap is going to have to hold off a little while longer.

The windows are set to crystal clear transparent, so Lilah can see her stalker's features perfectly clearly. Every detail of his expression.

And she doesn't like it one bit.

Pity. An emotion that's become all too familiar in the last week. Only now, it's blended with an even more horrible shade of concern.

Lilah takes a well-deserved minute to regret the sum of her life choices - or, at least, all the ones that have led her here, to this moment - before picking up her pen. Eyes focusing on a report she's already completed. "Eavesdropping, Angel?"

He seems to take this as an invitation (though it wasn't), moving towards the doorway and strolling inside. She needs to start shutting her door. Possibly putting a padlock on it. "Just came by to say good work today."

"Two members of Team Angel showering me with praise within the space of an hour? Maybe I should finally take out that lottery ticket."

Flipping the page, she searches for any errors in the sea of words before her, knowing she'll find none. Her work is flawless.

"Lilah. . ." Angel pauses. Too close to her desk, to her. She knows that if she raises her head, there'll be something cautious in his gaze. Careful. Like a good Samaritan eyeing a fox caught in a trap. Aware that any wrong move could end in bloodshed. Either for the fox or the Samaritan. "Look. . . I'm just going to say this once. And I know you're not going to like hearing me say it-"

"Better not say it then."

"-but sometimes there are things in life that we can't have, no matter how much we want them. And when you let yourself believe, even for a moment, that you might be able to. . . that only makes the not having worse."

Lilah clenches her jaws.

The nerve of this vampire.

She's not him. And Wesley isn't fucking Buffy. Or Darla. Or, hell, Cordelia. They're not caught in a doomed romance, a love to end all loves. A God damned tragedy. And if she fucks Wesley, it's not going to result in a trail of dead bodies or a miracle baby only fit for dissection.

"I appreciate the advice, Angel," she says tersely. "But it's not needed. I gave up on wanting what I can't have a long time ago."

He doesn't look convinced. Maybe not so surprising since he was playing peeping Tom to a good portion of her conversation with Wesley.

Still, she doesn't need him to believe her. She just needs him out of her office.

Which Angel seems to get. "Okay, Lilah."

Like a parent, placating a stubborn child. A stubborn child who doesn't know what's good for them.

Lilah grits her teeth, watching as he turns on his heel and starts to walk away. She should let him go of course. But she's never liked letting someone have the last word. Especially him. "How does it feel?"

Angel stops.

"To finally be on the other side of things?"

He turns back and looks at her flatly. "The other side of things?"

Lilah perches her chin on her fingers. "That side being: the stealing of your friend's only child."

A muscle in his jaw jumps. "I haven't stolen Wesley's child-"

"No, you've just made it so that he'll never be a part of its life. Never even know that he should be. . . That has to feel good, right? An eye for an eye."

Angel's expression doesn't change. "An eye for an eye would be taking that baby and stranding it in a hell dimension."

She tenses.

Not in a way that she thinks is discernible but something about her vitals must change because the hard look in Angel's eyes gives way. Just a bit.

"Which I have no interest in doing. . . This isn't revenge, Lilah. This is just me doing right by my son, the only way I can." He pauses, eyes turning horrifyingly sincere. "I'm sorry that you got caught in the middle of it. Really."

"No, you're not."

He lifts a shoulder. "Maybe not for you. But I am sorry for that kid. And for Wesley. . . I may not forgive him, but I wouldn't wish this on him."

Maybe.

But Lilah still thinks he takes a certain sliver of satisfaction in it.

"Though, I have to ask. . ." The sincerity disappears in a flash. "Were you even planning on telling Wesley? Back when he could remember."

Lilah clenches the pen in her hand.

Doesn't give an answer.

(if only because she doesn't have one)

"Yeah, so. . . maybe you didn't lose all that much after all."

Maybe.

Lilah wants to believe it. Even if believing it would mean agreeing with Angel. Ceding a point in their eternal war.

She wants to believe she's lost nothing.

(she just hasn't gotten around to managing it yet)

Biting her tongue, she presses her pen into the sharp vertex of a W on the page in front of her. Watching as darkness bleeds together, forming nothing but an inky splotch. A black hole. "You didn't hire me because you wanted someone you knew in the position of liaison, did you? You hired me because I'm pregnant."

When she looks up, the caught expression on Angel's face answers for him, and Lilah takes a long minute to imagine driving her pen through his eye.

She should have known.

Of course that's why he went out of his way to work her employment into his contract with the Partners. Of course it's why he tracked her down.

It was always about the pregnancy. Everything is about the fucking pregnancy. Apparently, that's the sum of her worth these days.

Reason #103 to put an end to this idiotic endeavor. This ridiculous lapse in judgment.

What the hell is she doing?

(the page tears, the black hole imploding at the centre. Giving way to the force of her pen and the hard surface of the table beneath.

It'll stain.)

Angel, for his part, can only shrug helplessly at the accusation in her eyes. ". . . It's Wesley's kid."

Yeah.

Like Lilah could ever forget.

She should leave. She should make good on her threat to walk out those doors and never come back.

Unfortunately, the all-consuming fire of her earlier rage has abandoned her by now. Leaving her in a dismal state of rationality. As much as she'd like to say 'fuck you' to her contract, she's seen too much evidence of what the Partners are willing to do to those who bow out of their contractual obligations. Or take a giant shit on them.

Lilah's not really in the mood to be disemboweled. So it looks like she'll at least be stuck here for the next twelve months, which is when her contract comes up for renewal.

No perpetuity clause this time, thankyou very much. Once the year is up, she's getting the hell out of here and joining some other branch. And there's not a thing Angel can do to stop her.

Or Wesley.

(not that Wesley would ever try to stop her. Would ever want to. This Wesley, the old Wesley - they would both be overjoyed to see the back of her.

Which is almost enough to make Lilah want to stay. Just to spite them. Him. But even she has her limits on just how much she's willing to self-destruct in the name of vengeance.

At least, she hopes she does. The nausea from hell doesn't exactly inspire confidence in the matter.

Lilah sighs and tosses her pen down on the desk.

It's going to be a long year.

"Lilah," he says.

And her name sounds the same. Always the same in his mouth. Like no time has passed at all. Like she's lost nothing.

But then she'll see his eyes and they're not his eyes. And they don't look at her the way his looked at her, the way she needs to be seen.

(and she'll know she's lost everything)

for those who haven't seen, I made a weslah vid :)

Chapter Text

A/N: For reference, I have based the Miracle Gins on these:

Which is what I used to use to help with nausea. Not as effective as Zofran but they did help.

Somehow, the taste of ginger in Lilah's mouth doesn't make her throw up. Somehow, it manages to quell the nausea. If only a little.

She goes through the chews like they're candy and she's Augustus Gloop in the Chocolate Factory, ensuring that she always has at least one in her pocket. A necessity, it turns out, since Angel hasn't gotten any less impulsive with his business decisions. Lilah's lost count of how many families she's had to notify. How many Christmases she's ruined. Eventually, she just delegates the task to her assistant. There's only so much wailing and sobbing she can listen to without throwing her phone out the window.

A day after she tosses the empty pack of Miracle Gins in the trash, a new box ends up in her desk drawer. She considers not touching it. Knowing what it might mean, the suspicion she could be confirming, the admittance she could be making. Especially with the 'subtle' hints Spike has now taken to dropping in conversation. Hints that everyone seems oblivious to but. . .

She shouldn't touch it.

One week later, she's dropping the second box in the trash and opening up her drawer to a third.

(Lilah resolves not to think about it)

"Lilah!"

It wouldn't be a day at the office without Angel shouting her name.

She sighs in preparation for her oncoming migraine, plastering a smile on her face. She may not be enjoying herself but she can at least make him think she is. "Yes, boss?"

"Why do I currently have a cheap knock-off version of you sitting on my desk? I thought you were my liaison to the Senior Partners."

Oh. That.

Lilah wasn't expecting this particular headache until next Tuesday.

"Technically, I am."

"Technically?"

If vampires could flush, she imagines Angel would look an unflattering shade of tomato right now, practically blistering with rage. As it is, he just looks constipated. No doubt at the fact that the Senior Partners have managed to pull one over on him. Lilah's rather annoyed by that herself, mostly because in this case it also meant pulling one over on her.

"Apparently, the Senior Partners consider this" - she flicks a hand at her still blessedly flat stomach - "to be a conflict of interest. Can't imagine why." If anything, she feels more motivated than ever to see Angel & Co. die in a bloody shower of violence. . . Though, maybe that's the conflict of interest. They do have that increasingly frustrating policy of ensuring that Angel survives to see Armageddon. "So they sent Eve."

"And her role is?"

"In simple terms: espionage."

"Great." He huffs, crossing his arms. "Just great."

Lilah couldn't agree more.

An unacceptable turn of events, really - agreeing with Angel.

"She'll be monitoring me monitoring you. If anything. . . untoward turns up, she'll funnel that back to the Senior Partners. But I'll still be functioning as your direct line to them. Mostly, I think they sent her here to give you a headache. Or to find out if vampires can get stress lines."

Eve is particularly annoying for a senior citizen. Somehow, despite being the same age as the Spanish Flu - and twice as bothersome - she always makes Lilah feel like the oldest person in the room. And she hates that feeling.

Angel points a finger at her. Rude. "Fix it, Lilah."

She sighs, leaning back in her seat. "Well, I suppose I could always evict the 'passenger'. That might fix it."

Buh-bye, conflict of interest.

Seeing the deepening scowl on Angel's face, she suppresses a smirk.

"Fine!" It's a wonder he doesn't throw his arms up in a tantrum. "Just make sure she stays out of my office."

"I'll get right on it."

He doesn't respond, too busy storming out of her office.

Suddenly finding herself in a considerably better mood, Lilah leans over and presses a button on her phone. "Harmony? Angel has requested that Eve be granted immediate entry into his office at all times, no questions asked. Let's not disappoint him."

"You got it, girlfriend!"

Maybe this job won't be so bad, after all.

At least she can still participate in her life's greatest passion:

Making Angel suffer.

Lilah stares at the box of Miracle Gins on her desk. It will be empty soon. A few more days. Four at the most. It will be empty.

And she's dreading the thought of opening up her drawer to a fourth box.

(and hoping for it)

She doesn't understand why the third box is there. Why the second box was. Only barely understood the first.

She doesn't understand this Wesley.

(and that hurts)

He never gave her any during the near two weeks she hid away in his apartment. No matter how much time she spent throwing up in his bathroom. He never offered her one, or deposited a box under her pillow.

That would have been too much for them. Probably.

And, well, Lilah might have bitten his hand off if he dared. She was. . . furious with him. For a lot of that time. Furious at a lot of things. At everything.

And Wesley was the only target nearby.

So he never gave her any Miracle Gins.

But one day he started boiling up rice with grated ginger - overly watery, more like porridge than actual rice - and eating it for breakfast. He never made a bowl for her but there was always enough left over that she could scrape one together. And soon it became the only thing she could keep down besides crackers and the occasional bit of plain toast.

Lilah made a show of wrinkling her nose at it, complaining left and right, griping about his lack of skill in the kitchen - which wasn't completely untrue - and Wesley would hum and continue to work through his own bowl without a glance her way.

Sometimes, if she really tries, she can believe he wasn't making it for her.

The worst thing about her new role at Wolfram & Hart is that she now has to attend almost daily meetings with Angel. Share a room with him. For an unspeakable amount of time. Talk to him.

It's not doing anything to convince Lilah that she didn't actually die that day the Beast stormed the firm. Because clearly this has to be at least some circle of hell.

They're going over their failures (of which there are many) and successes (of which there are few) for the month, when they finally get to one of the only successes on the list. Which just so happens to be her success.

"I really did deserve a raise for that," Lilah remarks.

"If I give you any more money at this point, Lilah, you'll be richer than the queen."

"Failing to see the problem in that."

"And I'm failing to see how this was even a success. All we did was lose a boatload of cash to fund an evil necromancer's permanent vacation. Doesn't really feel very successful."

"That's because you don't think big picture."

"Yeah, Angel. You don't think big picture," Spike parrots from a short distance away. He likes to play audience member to these little meetings. Lilah can't truly fault him; it's hard to pass on free entertainment when you're a ghost.

Angel's mouth thins. "And this big picture is?"

"Minimal cost now to prevent monumental cost in the future. I know the Hainsley family and, trust me, long-term? This was the best deal you were going to get."

"Really? Because I think killing him would have been easier and cheaper."

"Only because you're the kind of person who'd go out in a blaze of glory just to take down a few pawns."

"She's got you there, mate."

"You're one to talk, Spike. Remind me again how you ended up haunting this place?"

"Hey, the First is hardly a pawn."

"Except you didn't take out the First. Just his 'pawns'."

"And a whole Hellmouth. I'd like to see you do better."

"I closed a portal to hell once."

"That you opened. And it was Buffy who closed that portal - by stabbing you."

"Still counts," Angel mutters.

Lilah briefly contemplates the pros and cons of making a quick escape. "Let's just all agree that you're both reckless, self-sacrificing idiots."

"I take offense to that."

She ignores Spike in favor of pointing her pen at Angel. "And don't think I didn't notice your lack of argument about the blaze of glory claim. You really would throw it all away for nothing."

"It's called doing what's right."

"It's called being stupid. And short-sighted."

"She's got a point there. More than a few, actually."

At least someone appreciates her intelligence. 

"If you want to actually achieve anything in this eternal fight against the 'forces of evil', then you need to be smarter. First by staying alive and second by making sure that you don't throw away all the resources that you just sold your soul and the souls of your friends to get."

"Arguing with attorneys, mate. You never win."

"Shut up, Spike."

Lilah's not finished. "If you keep continuing like you are, not only are you going to get yourself killed but you're going to get everyone else you care about killed with you."

"You mean I'm going to get him killed?"

Her jaw clenches.

"Because that's what this is all really about, Lilah, isn't it? Him. That's why you agreed to come back. . . Eve told me that they offered you a very cushy job over at the Paris branch two days before I showed up. You didn't take it. And we both know why."

"You may both know why but I certainly don't. Care to fill a fella in?"

"Shut up, Spike."

Both Lilah and Angel cringe upon hearing their voices mingled together in unified speech. By far the worst thing to ever happen in her life. Angel's too, from the look on his face.

Spike holds up his hands in surrender and walks away. Or, rather, walks over to the corner of the room where he can continue to enjoy his in-house entertainment in the form of their squabbling.

Which proceeds to escalate, growing louder and louder, for at least another three minutes until Wesley sees fit to knock on the door. "Am I interrupting?"

"You are, actually. And right when things were starting to get good."

Lilah decides that they're going to have to accelerate their efforts to make Spike corporeal. At least that way they might finally be able to evict him from the premises.

"Yes, I could tell from all the raised voices." Wesley glances between her and Angel, unamused. "You were starting to attract an audience."

When Lilah peers out through the glass, it's just in time to see a gaggle of employees scatter for their lives.

Great. Just what she needs.

"Well, Lilah was being unreasonable," Angel huffs, going over to sit behind his desk. "Refused to lose the argument and accept that I was right."

She has a stake in her handbag.

She will use it.

"Well, she is an attorney. I rather suspect that's in the job description." Wesley's features are more or less expressionless but Lilah can trace a mixture of amusement and exasperation in his tone. "Did you manage to accomplish anything at all with your incredibly spirited method of debate?"

"Only a consensus that our so-called champion's an idiot who's going to get everybody killed."

Alright. Maybe she won't evict Spike from the premises.

"So nothing enlightening then."

Angel looks towards his friend in betrayal.

"Also, Lilah apparently has someone special here at the firm. A boytoy, sounds like."

Scratch that. She's going to throw him out on his bony ass the second she gets the chance.

"Information that I'm sure will prove absolutely vital in the fight against evil." (See? That's how you do sarcasm. Angel should take notes). Dismissing the others in the room, Wesley turns to her. "I needed to go over the Daniel Phillips case with you. The department's run into a bit of trouble with that cursed amulet of his. Nothing too terrible but it might cause some issues at trial."

Lilah suppresses a sigh, though she can't deny that she's grateful for the excuse to leave Angel's company. "Lucky for you, the rest of my day just opened up."

Angel seems to share her feelings on the matter because he doesn't protest, despite the fact that they were only halfway done. Spike, meanwhile, looks crushed.

The moment they step out into the lobby, Lilah's hit with one of the worst smells she's ever encountered in her life - and, working at Wolfram & Hart, that's a hard bar to pass. She doesn't have to glance over towards the opening elevator doors to know a Boretz demon is on its way to stepping out.

Goddammit.

What sort of vendetta does the universe have against her? Surely it has better things to do with its time than torment one single, lonesome (if admittedly evil) lawyer?

Nausea already threatening to reach overwhelming proportions, Lilah evaluates her odds of reaching the bathroom before she's forced to make a very public demonstration of ruining the lobby's carpet.

Not high.

To make matters worse, she used up her emergency supply of Miracle Gins whilst dealing with the headache otherwise known as Angel and Spike's shared existence. So no help on that front. On any front.

The Boretz steps into the lobby and Lilah's stomach turns, bile rising higher in her throat.

"I-" She flinches as something lands on the inside of her wrist. Calloused fingers that feel far too familiar - horribly so - pressing firmly into her skin and mapping a pathway down from her palm.

Resisting the urge to jerk away - with her luck, that would probably just send her toppling towards the floor - she glances sharply at the man beside her. Whose expression is infuriatingly neutral.

"Acupressure point." Wesley's thumb replaces his fingers, digging into the space between her tendons. "It should help."

He doesn't say with what and Lilah would prefer not to draw attention to the obvious.

Still fighting the urge to pull away, she tries to focus on breathing in through her nose. Holding it. Holding it as Wesley's thumb massages her arm, as the heat from his hold spreads out through her skin-

And exhaling.

Again and again and again.

(she hates him, just a little bit, for the fact that it's actually helping)

"Still not recovered from that bout of food poisoning?"

Lilah breathes in again, eyes moving over Wesley's shoulder and catching Angel's curious - and more than a little bit suspicious - gaze.

Exhales.

"It's a stubborn one," she manages after too long a beat, hoping the waver in her voice isn't detectable. "Word of advice: stay away from mage-run restaurants. You never know what surprises they might slip into your meal."

If she can pass this off as a supernatural born bug, she might just get away with it.

Wesley hums. "I'm surprised you didn't sue them."

"Who says I didn't?"

Which is the worst possible thing she could say in response. Given that a lawsuit creates evidence. Evidence that does not currently exist.

(as if Lilah didn't already have enough on her plate. Now she's going to have to spend her evening falsifying a paper trail for a fake lawsuit against a fake restaurant just in case Wesley decides to get nosy.

And it's Wesley - he's always nosy)

"Just try not to sue them into bankruptcy," he says, a faint shadow of amusement softening his eyes.

Lilah chooses to take it as the evidence she needs that he believes her. "No promises."

If her lie were actually the truth, then any restaurant would be lucky to get away with nothing more than bankruptcy for doing this to her.

He sighs, apparently sensing the futility of this particular cause. "I suppose at least we're not in a recession."

Lilah shrugs. Refusing to feel guilty about the fake misfortune of a fake restaurant that fake poisoned her. The shrug, of course, is a mistake; her insides twisting in a highly ominous manner.

Quickly, she returns to focusing on her breathing, on the very important goal of keeping her stomach contents in her stomach - and not on the feeling of Wesley's fingers. How close he is to her. How much closer she wants him.

Nausea swells with renewed fervor. A reaction she decides to blame on his unfortunate proximity and not the fact that she's fairly certain the Boretz just passed within three meters of them.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Just like meditating. Which she hates. And has never been particularly good at.

Wesley's thumb continues to massage her skin; a constant, steady rhythm. Enveloping her arm in a tingly warmth that she knows has nothing to do with whatever technique he's currently performing, and everything to do with the fact that this is the longest she's felt his touch in months. The longest she's had him this close. The closest she's had him at all.

Lilah wishes he would let go of her.

(she'll fucking knee him in the balls if he does)

She closes her eyes. Wills her body to behave for once in its fucking life. "The Boretz?"

"They've moved out of the lobby. Disappeared down a hallway to one of the far offices. Though that doesn't do much for the smell, I'm afraid. It'll be at least an hour until it starts to fade."

Lilah nods.

Inhales.

Exhales.

If this demon is going to be a regular client of theirs, she's going to have to figure out a plan of attack, some sort of system. At the very least, she'll have to schedule her days to ensure she never ends up on the same floor as them.

Unsurprisingly, the one pregnancy book she forced herself to buy failed to possess any pearls of wisdom about dealing with such a scenario. Typical.

Lilah rubs the back of her neck, a headache now threatening to join in on the fun. She thinks about grabbing some water from the nearby cooler but the thought of moving right now makes her palms sweat. She's not sure her stomach would survive the adventure.

This is getting ridiculous.

Lilah can't even wear her own perfume anymore. Fuck, she can barely stand to be within a foot of her assistant, who she could have ordered to ditch the Chanel weeks ago if doing so wouldn't have meant admitting weakness (which, even in this bizarre new mutation of Wolfram & Hart, would be both highly unacceptable and unwise).

Honestly, she's starting to feel a little betrayed. Cursed by the fates, even.

Her old doctor - the one that sold her out for some precious pieces of silver that she hopes were worth the one-way ticket to the bottom of the ocean they got him - had assured her that the nausea was likely to let up once she hit the second trimester.

Lying bastard.

It's been two weeks now. Two whole fucking weeks. Two weeks since she crossed that holy threshold. And things haven't improved at all. Not one goddamn bit.

(Lilah's beginning to fear that she'll be sick right up until the moment she pushes the thing out)

Again, she has to wonder why she's doing this to herself. Actually, at this point, she's wondering why anyone would do this to themselves. Surely there aren't that many masochists in the world?

Though, perhaps masochism isn't the problem. Rather a severe lack of common sense and self-preservation. Two things Lilah never thought she'd be in short supply of.

And yet. . .

Fucking Wesley.

This really is all his fault. Every last bit of suffering she's endured lately can be laid at his feet. Suffering that he himself seems to be spared from.

Perhaps there's a spell out there capable of transferring all pesky pregnancy symptoms from the mother over to the father. Surely, in all the thousands of years that humankind has existed, someone must have thought of that.

Wesley would know. Perhaps she should ask him.

Though that might tip him off to the fact that there's more to this situation than a simple case of supernatural food poisoning.

Inhaling a frustrated breath, Lilah closes her eyes.

Exhales.

Tries not to feel the steady reassurance of Wesley's thumb against her skin. Tries not to lean into his touch. To yearn for more of it.

Fucking Wesley.

Fuck him for doing this to her. For doing this and having the nerve to stand there all oblivious and helpful and touching her-

She might slap him if the action weren't liable to make her puke.

(and, alright, they've never taken a hand to each other outside of fucking or foreplay. One of their unspoken rules that Lilah, for some unfathomable reason, still feels the need to uphold.

Another thing to blame on Wesley. Since when has she respected anyone's rules but her own? Since when has she cared enough to-)

Lilah grits her teeth. Inhales.

Fucking, fucking, fucking Wesley.

Exhales.

Thankfully, after a few more minutes, she feels safe enough to open her eyes. To return to breathing normally.

The nausea is still there - still close to overpowering - but at least Lilah no longer feels the urge to vomit.

Wesley has a deep furrow in his brow as he watches her, eyes moving intermittently between her wrist and her face. If she didn't know better, she'd say he looks concerned. But she does know better and the more likely explanation is that he's trying to calculate just what kind of supernatural pathogen could cause almost three weeks worth of 'food poisoning' - and whether it's contagious.

"Feeling any better?"

"Better enough."

She takes another breath. One that comes easier this time. Her stomach still swirling tumultuously but no longer threatening to embarrass her.

It'll do.

Lilah raises a brow. "Acupressure?"

"With a little magical help." The corner of Wesley's mouth rises a touch. "We should move to another floor, though, before the effect wears off."

"We're not taking that elevator."

Hell, Lilah doesn't even want to move in that direction right now, not even to take one of the other elevators standing nearby. She's fairly certain what little ground she's gained would be lost in an instant.

"We can use Angel's. I'm sure he won't mind."

Lilah almost protests. Knowing that accepting the suggestion will be akin to the most blatant display of weakness she's shown so far. Lilah Morgan. Unable to handle a fucking elevator.

God, if this were the old Wolfram & Hart, she'd be eaten alive right now. Chewed up and spat out before she could blink.

She shouldn't be allowing this. Shouldn't be allowing him to hold her like this. To see her so-

Lilah exhales. "Oh, he'll mind. But that's what makes it worth doing."

Just because he lives to spite her, Angel does not in fact mind. If anything, he nearly falls over himself in a rush to offer up his elevator for their use.

A suspiciously gracious gesture that doesn't fail to pull a bemused frown from Wesley.

Lilah, meanwhile, focuses her remaining energy on glaring at the vampire. Hoping that it's enough to convey her intention to stake him through the heart later.

He really will be the one to out her at this point.

"What?" Angel shrugs. "I don't want you throwing up in my trash can again. If that means using my elevator, use away."

Spike scoffs beside him. "So unchivalrous. . . Listen, what you want to do, love, is get some opium. Me mum used to give it to me as a kid - worked a treat for just about everything."

Lilah - deciding that she's reached her quota for bullshit today - doesn't dignify that with a response before turning around and moving towards the elevator.

"Also leeches! You can never go wrong with leeches."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure history is full of examples where people very much did go wrong with leeches," Angel mutters.

"No, no, the leeches were fine. It was when they started cutting open people's veins all willy-nilly that things took a downturn. Come to think of it. . ."

Spike turns back towards her-

"You're not draining my COO."

"Just a pint. It could help."

Lilah steps into the elevator. Her only salvation.

"How could that possibly help?"

"Phlebotomy can actually be quite therapeutic when performed under the right circumstances."

"And a little nausea is one of those circumstances?"

A little?

"Never know until you try."

Angel drags a hand down his face. "Did you forget the part where you're incorporeal?"

". . . You just have to ruin everything, don't you, Mr. Rain Cloud? Can't let anyone else have a moment of happiness because if you have a moment of your own, that no-longer-very-special soul of yours will go on a bloody vacation. Emphasis on the bloody. . . The sheer jealousy-"

Wesley follows her onto the elevator. Shoulders shaking in a highly suspicious manner.

"Dry Champagne!" Spike yells out, tangent momentarily interrupted by the sight of their imminent escape. "Definitely can't go wrong with that."

Thankfully, the doors shut before Angel can say something about why exactly she could go very wrong with drinking champagne right now. She's sure he wouldn't think twice about spilling the beans if it meant one-upping Spike.

Speaking of unchivalrous. . .

Lilah looks to her right, where a very unchivalrous Wesley is currently trying his hardest not to laugh. And doing a terribly poor job of it.

Scowling, she elbows him in the side. "It's not funny."

"On the contrary, I find it highly amusing."

Lilah huffs and leans back against the elevator wall, crossing her arms. "Champagne?"

She really could go for some right now. Though combating nausea wouldn't be her primary motivation.

"A popular remedy for sea sickness during the nineteenth century. Some doctors also prescribed it for morning sickness, along with brandy to stimulate the appetite." Clearly, she's living in the wrong time period. (Lilah forces herself to focus on this obvious injustice rather than the fact that Wesley has just landed on the truth without even realizing). "Its carbonic acid gas content was likely responsible for its success. I imagine a glass of pop could work just as well, though."

Lilah's nose wrinkles. She's never liked soda. Or 'pop'. (not unless it's been mixed into a highly alcoholic cocktail). And would much rather take the champagne.

Unfortunately, the parasite's existence makes that somewhat inadvisable.

With all the horrors that pregnancy entails, you'd think it would at least allow you to get drunk without repercussions.

"In the meantime. . ." Wesley retrieves a tiny, rectangular object from his pocket. "I happen to have one of these on hand?"

Lilah hesitates.

Neither of them have acknowledged the little gifts that keep ending up in her drawer. And she would rather that they go on not acknowledging them. That no attention were drawn to this confounding act of kindness she still has no idea what to make of.

And Lilah supposes that can continue. Accepting this one piece of ginger now doesn't mean that they have to talk about all the other pieces of ginger. And, well, he already knows that she's feeling unwell. No point in trying to hide that at this late stage.

Can't be worse than having his fucking hand on your arm.

Sighing, Lilah holds out her own hand.

Wesley's mouth draws up at the corner - only a little bit but her heart twists at that little bit - and he drops the chew into her palm.

"Cheers," Lilah mutters, more reproachful than grateful as she begins the task of unwrapping it. "You might want to press one of those buttons over there."

The elevator is still at a standstill. And she'd rather not spend the rest of her afternoon trapped inside it.

The air reeks of broody champion.

Looking more amused than offended by her profound lack of graciousness, Wesley reaches towards the panel. She expects him to press the button that will take them to his office. It's not as though they can go to hers, considering it's on the floor they just fled. But instead, Wesley hits the button for the roof.

"It's a nice day," he says, at her questioning look. "Seems a shame to spend it inside."

He's a better liar than Angel but that means very little when she spent four months learning every little one of his tells. And the old Wesley could lie a hell of a lot better than this one.

So she knows that it has nothing at all to do with the weather. She knows that he's doing this for her and she wishes he wouldn't. Wishes he would go back to how he was when she first arrived here.

The coldness and disdain she could handle.

This?

This complicates things.

And right now the last thing Lilah needs is more fucking complicated.

Yet she doesn't argue. Only waits patiently for the elevator to arrive at its destination. And when they step out onto the roof, it becomes clear that it is a nice day. The sun shining warmly but not hotly. A light breeze that doesn't ruffle her hair. The traffic below them absent of any honks or screeching tires.

It's a nice day. So she lets the lie stand.

"Alright, tell me about this stupid amulet."

Chapter Text

[Trigger Warning in end notes]

"Midway along the journey of our life
I woke to find myself in a dark wood,
for I had wandered off from the straight path.
How hard it is to tell what it was like,
this wood of wilderness, savage and stubborn
(the thought of it brings back all my old fears),
a bitter place! Death could scarce be bitterer.
But if I would show the good that came of it
I must talk about things other than the good."
― Dante Alighieri

She wakes gasping to someone shaking her shoulder, a molten claw driving deep into her belly. Pain grasping its way out. Drowning in a sea of her own blood.

"Lilah."

And the pain is gone.

Well, no. The pain is still there. A sharp throb in her midsection. Glass cutting apart her skin. But it's milder. Less all-consuming.

And there's no blood to drown in.

"I'm fine," she says, even though it's a lie. Even though she knows he'll know it's a lie.

She's a lawyer and she lies.

It's the first fucking syllable of her fucking name.

'Lilah, Lilah, pants on fire. . .'

That was what they used to sing at school, wasn't it? Nasty snot-nosed little kids who took her for prey when she was really another predator. And a more dangerous one than they would ever be.

The hand still on her shoulder gives a brief squeeze and she freezes. Having forgotten its presence.

"The Beast?" Lilah asks. Even knowing the answer, she still needs-

"Not here."

He doesn't tell her she's safe. And she's grateful for that. For respecting her too much to lie to her. At least in this.

"I should check your dressings," Wesley murmurs. "You were thrashing around quite a bit."

It's dark and she can barely see him. But still she searches. Trying to discern his features in the black.

She thinks her lack of response must unsettle him. But she can't see it. Not in the inky darkness. Not until he switches on the lamp and by then he's already covered his tracks. Pressed his features back into something neutral. Something cold.

Still, Lilah looks for the cracks.

She can read him so well. She's always been able to read him so well. She's always been able to read that he wants her and that he hates himself for wanting her.

She just never thought the hate would win out. That he would cave to that self-loathing tyrant inside him.

But she should have. Whatever this is, whatever it's become, it started out from hate. Was birthed by it. Fed on it. Until it found other emotions to gorge upon. Less powerful emotions. Less safe.

Of course hate would win out.

"Lilah," he prods, tone full of rising impatience (and perhaps just a little bit concern).

She moves. Slowly, like she's lifting weights instead of limbs, drawing back the covers.

There's blood on the sheets, above and beneath her, and for a moment she thinks-

But no.

It's the bandage around her waist that's stained red. The oversized shirt he's leant her speckled with crimson.

She's bled a lot.

Cursing out loud, Lilah moves to pull back the bandages - but firm hands stop her. Holding her in place.

"I'll take care of it. Just lie back and be still."

Lilah bristles at the order but doesn't have the energy to fight it. Doesn't have the energy for much of anything right now. Even anger.

Huffing, she releases her grip on the bandages and lies back. Becomes still.

Wesley sets to work immediately. Pulling up his med kit from beneath the bed. Unwrapping the soiled bandages that they only have a limited supply of. Waste. A complete waste.

Lilah breathes through the discomfort that rapidly evolves into agony. He's not rough. He's surprisingly gentle, in fact. But she has a hole in her gut and it doesn't much care how gentle he is. It breathes fire, raging in a way that Lilah can't find the energy to herself.

Ever so occasionally, Wesley's fingers brush lower down. Accidentally. Utterly without intention. But still her breath catches. Her entire body turning stiff.

She squeezes her eyes shut and pretends it's because of the pain.

"I can get you another painkiller if you like," Wesley offers, misinterpreting the reason for her flinch. "It's been long enough."

When she opens her eyes, his attention is wholly focused on what he's doing. Oblivious. Utterly unaware of-

"I'm fine."

It's silly. That's not even where it is. No, the real danger zone lies between her hipbones, rather than just above them. That's where the poison starts, the seeds of undoing, her biggest mistake to date. But she can't help the association. The thought that-

"Don't be a martyr. You have a massive hole in your side, no need to pretend otherwise." Wesley finishes applying the new bandage, brusque and efficient. ". . . Not with me."

Especially with you.

He's the one person with the power to really hurt her. Hurt her beyond the breaking of flesh and bone. And the son of a bitch knows that. He has to.

Being vulnerable with Wesley isn't an option. Not anymore.

Still. Lilah accepts the pills.

"Fine. Less for you, I guess, the next time somebody takes a knife to you. . . What do you think it'll be? The throat again? Or somewhere more interesting? I hear the liver is particularly painful."

"I was rather hoping for the kidney," he says dryly, not rising to her bait. "Having two perfectly functioning ones always seemed a bit greedy to me."

Lilah bites her tongue.

It's not what she wants. This indifference. This utter lack of response.

She wants him to snap. To prove that she's not the only one who feels like they're one slight tug away from unraveling completely. The only one who cares.

But he won't give her that.

Of course he won't. And she hates him a little bit more for it. For finding his mask just when she's lost hers. When he was the one to make her lose hers. Slowly, ever so seductively coaxing her to lift the edges. Until all her guards and reservations started to falter, to slip through her fingers. And then he ripped it. Tore it from her face. With those glasses. With the callous dismissal in his words (don't embarrass yourself). And then crushing it beneath his shoe by coming back. By coming back for her (and ruining the only chance she had to stop loving him in the process).

And the worst part is he doesn't even seem to know. He has no idea what he's done.

So consumed by his own misery and desperation to get back what was lost, what will never truly be his again - he doesn't notice what he's done to her.

But maybe he wouldn't care if he did.

She opens her mouth to swallow the pills but Wesley stops her with a disapproving frown. Sets a fresh glass of water in her hand. "You'll get yourself a hole in your esophagus doing that."

It's a little rich. Being lectured on better health practices by him of all people. Especially when she's holding the drugs she's almost positive are a holdover from those first few weeks after he got his throat slashed. Drugs that she would bet good money he abstained from taking them most of the time as a means of self-punishment.

Lilah still can't work out whether she was a means of self-punishment. Or merely a way to unleash all that rage bottled inside him against someone he didn't care if he hurt. Through it all, she was always an escape. That part never changed.

He was hers too.

Lilah ignores the water and swallows the pills. Her act of defiance made all the more sweet when he rolls his eyes before getting up.

It's a reaction. However small.

A point in her favor on the scoreboard of their relationship. A relationship that should have reached its conclusion by now.

"We should change the sheets."

"I've slept in worse," Lilah mutters. Nothing is making her leave this bed. At least not until the painkillers do their job and ensure that she won't be at risk of letting out any embarrassing gasps or moans in the attempt.

Besides, she figures it can't be any dirtier to sleep with your blood rubbing up against your outsides instead of your insides.

"Once the blood's dried, it will be even harder to-"

"I'll pay you for new fucking sheets, Wesley," she snaps, her nonexistent patience finally failing her. "Just leave it till the morning."

He sighs (the kind of irritable, clearly-everybody-is-an-immature-child-but-me sigh that's she's grown so familiar with) but returns to the bed. He's also merciful enough not to point out that she doesn't have the money right now to be paying him for anything. Not to worry. If he wants clean sheets so badly, he can just pawn that incredibly expensive helmet he clearly doesn't give a fuck about. That'll fetch him a thousand sheets.

She wonders if he actually cares. Or if he's just falling back into old habits. Arguing for the sake of arguing. There's something comforting in it - the familiar. If Lilah weren't so tired, pissed and in pain she might even find comfort in it too. But right now she can't.

Huffing, Lilah yanks the soiled blankets up to cover her, to disappear beneath. Almost. It's only through tremendous willpower that she doesn't pull them over her head. Like a child throwing a tantrum, or hiding from the dark.

She turns onto her side, even though it hurts more. But it puts the wall and nothing else in her line of sight and that's worth it. It's worth it not to have to see him.

Perhaps this is a tantrum, after all. Perhaps this is hiding.

Does it matter?

(she has so little left to lose)

It'll still be a while before the painkillers kick in and Lilah's grateful for that. For the physical agony that almost, almost eclipses everything else. Everything she can't afford to think about. To feel.

She places a hand on the bandage and resists the urge to press into it. To dig her fingers in deep. Just like the Beast.

Maybe it would hurt enough to block out everything else.

This wasn't the plan. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. What she spent almost her entire life working towards. What she sacrificed so much for. This was not the plan.

Sharing a bed with a man who'd rather be lying beside someone else was not the plan, either. Lying beside a man who she wishes didn't want to be lying beside someone else was even less the plan, but more to the point it's pathetic.

She's pathetic.

The one thing she swore she would never let herself become. Pathetic and small and-

The mattress shifts and Lilah feels the cold air behind her start to warm. A hand lands on her arm and she doesn't question it. Turns into it. Moving towards the source of heat as that same hand draws her close. An arm wrapping around her back as her cheek lands on a chest it once came to feel at home upon (and still does).

Wesley holds her close. Closer than he should. Closer than she should let him. "This isn't. . ."

His voice is equal parts apology and warning.

"I know."

Nothing's changed. They haven't changed. But for a moment, for tonight, they can allow themselves a brief lapse back in to the past. To when she could still be vulnerable with him. To when he could still let himself hold her.

Lilah can allow herself this.

One last moment of patheticness.

Fingers comb through her hair and she feels Wesley's cheek press into her forehead. Lips brushing close. Not a kiss. But close enough that she can pretend. "Go to sleep."

She doesn't.

But not because of the nightmare. Not because of fear. Or stubborness. Or simmering resentment. But because she wants to feel this, wants to feel every last bit of this, because it is the last. The last time she'll ever have this. With anyone. She knows that because she will never allow herself to have this. She will never allow anyone to get this close again. Never take the risk. He's done what a lifetime of being hurt and hurting others failed to do. Broken her heart. Ruined it. Fucking shattered it to pieces. She won't try to repair it. Won't try to fix this. Won't ever risk this kind of hurt and degradation again.

So this is the last time she will ever feel this. And she wants to feel it until every last drop runs out. Until there's nothing left to feel.

Lilah stays awake.

(she can't let herself wonder why Wesley does too)

Chapter Text

Lorne was a mistake. Not the whole brainsucking deal - she'd do that again in a heartbeat - but tricking Wesley into helping her do it. Looking back, Lilah can trace the unraveling of their relationship to that one decision. Because they really did have something good building between them, something real, something goddamn hopeful. Too good, too real, too hopeful - so of course she had to ruin it. And then, after that, things were never the same. He never looked at her the same. He started pulling away.

Of course he did.

She'd reminded him why they could never work. Why he should never want them to work.

And the worst part is, deep down, Lilah thinks she might have known that. Known exactly what she was doing.

Self-sabotage of the grandest proportions.

And she regretted it almost immediately. Regretted throwing away what she didn't want to lose. But then she didn't. She didn't regret it. Because throwing something away is better than having it taken from you.

She realized that the moment Wesley told her it was over.

Their latest drama of the week involves an art student turned werewolf, who is just the right amount of blonde and tormented to have Angel dusting off the old heart eyes. Fortunately, Lilah doesn't have to endure that spectacle for long.

By the time midday has swung around, she's started seeing little zig-zaggy lines in the corner of her vision. Never a good sign. Ignoring the spreading numbness in her jaw, Lilah pops some Tylenol and returns to her office, hoping for the best.

Hope is for fools.

An hour later finds her lying on the couch in her office, the room as pitch black as she can make it, finally having succumbed to the tyrannical onslaught of a migraine. She's always been prone to them but rarely this severe. Hell, Lilah can't even remember the last time she was rendered bedridden because the mere effort of standing had her feeling like she was either going to lose her lunch or pass out from the pain. Usually she can manage to grit her teeth and get through it without anyone being the wiser.

Except for that one night at Wesley's that she's choosing not to think about right now. Mostly because it only adds to the tension in her body, and increased tension at the moment is like throwing gasoline on a fire. Which is actually what the right side of her face happens to feel like.

Lilah's office - thanks to some mystical interference - is largely soundproof. So even though she's quite sure that multiple disasters are happening in tandem outside her door, she can't hear the proof so long as that door remains firmly shut. And Lilah is prepared to flay alive anyone who dares to make it otherwise.

One of the first things she did before entering her office was ensure that her new assistant, Tamika, was aware that she would deliver her a slow and painful dusting if anyone even so much as approached that office. A message that seems to have gotten through since Lilah's had no visitors since lunchtime. A blissful rarity she's in too much pain to fully appreciate.

Even Spike hasn't popped in to annoy her. But then he hasn't been seen since he dematerialized yesterday. Something she should probably look into. Once the urge to vomit has passed.

It's her own fault, really. A combination of staying up all night and skipping meals was always liable to screw her in the past. Though, in the past, the screwing in question wasn't quite so brutal and generally something she considered to be an acceptable cost.

This is slightly less acceptable.

In light of that, maybe the real blame lies with the passenger. After all, it does seem to take a sadistic kind of pleasure in making her life more difficult. And if Lilah could handle the sound of anyone's voice right now, she might have finally gotten around to scheduling that abortion.

Probably.

It's a comforting thought, at the very least. Just one little appointment and she could be free of this and the nausea and the fatigue and Angel's overprotective hovering and whatever fucked up awkward dance she's got going on with Wesley these days.

All of life's problems. Solved in a matter of hours.

Well, alright. A matter of hours scattered across a few days and at least two appointments. Though, she does know a mage who could get it done in thirty minutes.

Either way, by next week, she could finally be free of all this.

Lilah allows herself to daydream about that future, beautiful as it is, even as she knows it's no closer to becoming a reality. That, next week, she'll still be stuck in this hell, by her own choice, for a reason that continues to elude her.

In truth, she has no idea why she hasn't gotten rid of it.

The revenge theory has unfortunately grown less compelling with every passing day. Every day that the nausea refuses to abate, the pain in her pelvis makes movement increasingly uncomfortable, and her hormones find new and exciting ways to terrorize her.

And now this. This new fresh shade of hell.

It's not revenge if you're the only one being made to suffer. So, clearly, there's some other reason she's resigned herself to this nightmare.

Sighing, Lilah takes the risk of shifting her body the barest fraction in an attempt to get more comfortable. It doesn't work. And her stomach does a somersault with enough vengeful force that she wishes she had the foresight to bring over the trashcan.

Fortunately, it settles down before she can ruin her carpet. Or her couch. Which isn't terribly uncomfortable but still not as comfortable as her bed.

She could, of course, just go home. But that would require getting up. So. . .

No.

She's not getting off this couch for anything short of an apocalypse. And even then, it better be fucking imminent.

Lilah sighs, massaging her jaw - which proves a mistake when a shot of agony leaps out in protest. Wincing, she carefully places her hands back by her sides. It would be more comfortable to rest them on her stomach, of course, but that would be another mistake. Albeit for very different reasons.

That area of her body is now a danger zone. Cordoned off with bright yellow tape, far too perilous to cross. And Lilah has been very good so far at respecting that tape; apart from the brief, down-to-business sweep she does twice a day with some overpriced body butter in a no doubt fruitless effort to fend off the oncoming stretch marks. She never lingers, never pauses to think about what she's doing. Never takes the time to really feel. No more than she would when applying moisturizer to her face and hands.

It's almost laughable. Lilah Morgan. Afraid of her own fucking stomach. Pathetic. Maybe this really is hell. The mother of all migraines certainly lends weight to the theory.

Breathing in slowly, she tries to will the pain away. Unfortunately, this isn't some low level flunkie - or Gavin - who she can intimidate into leaving her the fuck alone. No, this particular bastard seems like it's here to stay.

Just like the bastard taking up space in her uterus.

Frustration rising, Lilah breathes out. The sound more a furious exhalation than anything approaching an expression of inner serenity.

Still, the migraine isn't getting worse.

As long as she doesn't move and the lights stay off and nobody makes a sound, she might actually stand a chance at surviving this.

BANG BANG

Lilah groans. Knowing it's her own fault for daring to think things might go her way for once.

The door opens. "Sorry, Miss Morgan-"

"I told you not to disturb me unless someone was dying."

"You did."

"And is someone dying?"

Her old assistant, Amelia, would never have disturbed her. Unfortunately, she wasn't as lucky in surviving the Beast's temper tantrum.

". . . They might be about to. Nina Ash just got kidnapped."

Lilah inhales a deep breath. Considering her options. Is it really too much to expect that Angel & Co. might be able to wipe their own asses without her help?

"And they're investigating everyone involved with the case?"

"Yes."

Screw it.

"Then I'm sure they'll be able to figure it out for themselves. Now leave."

"Yes, Miss Morgan."

Really, if they can't put the puzzle pieces together all on their lonesome, then they've got no business running a law firm that's as powerful as it is evil.

Also Lilah's not on their side. She's not a member of Team Angel, foolishly devoting her life to the good fight. If anything, she's a hostage, co-operating against her will.

Well, a hostage with a sizable salary.

The point is: she's not their teammate, she's not their friend, and she's not here to help.

Honestly, at this point it looks like she's mostly here to suffer. Which Lilah is determined to do in peace and quiet for at least the next four hours.

In defiance of the natural order of the universe, Lilah actually hits a stroke of luck.

Despite the intensity of the migraine, it surprisingly proves to be one of her shorter ones, fading away to a dull ache within the six-hour mark.

By the time Team Angel returns from saving the day - something it turns out they were capable of doing without her - she's still feeling mostly like crap. But at a level she can once again hide. Enough to put on a convincing performance when she runs into the returning heroes in the lobby.

Most of them don't look all that pleased to see her - probably having spent the day celebrating the rare fortune of her absence - but Wesley does spare her a brief smile and Angel even offers a nod without any menace.

All in all, one of their more successful interactions.

(though it's hard to consider any interaction that passes without Lilah annoying at least one of them as successful)

She spends most of the evening listening to Tamika fill her in on the day's events - which have played out more or less as she expected - whilst halfheartedly trying to catch up on the work she neglected.

Wesley finds her sometime after twelve. Returning from Angel's penthouse and smelling of beer and Chinese. Not the best blend of aromas and Lilah wrinkles her nose, subtly reaching for one of the ginger chews in her pocket. Just in case.

If Wesley notices, he doesn't call attention to the fact. Only offers a polite smile as he approaches her desk.

"Don't tell me there's been another kidnapping?"

"No. No more kidnappings. All seems right in the world for the time being, or at least in our neck of the woods. Though there is something I wished to discuss with you."

By now, Lilah is feeling mostly recovered from the hellish events of the day (discounting the nausea and fatigue of course). Well enough to endure a conversation with someone other than her assistant, at least.

Possibly well enough to endure one with him.

"Fire away." She holds up a finger. "But only if you promise to never come into my office straight after eating Chinese again."

He raises a brow. "You don't like Chinese?"

She does, actually. She loves Chinese.

It's the passenger who hates it. Clearly, the kid has no taste (something she's also decided to blame on Wesley. English bastard that he is).

"Not particularly."

His eyes drift towards her fingers - which are currently toying with a rather incriminating piece of evidence - and Lilah hastily pockets the chew again. At this point, the nausea isn't strong enough to risk giving wings to whatever problematic thoughts are likely whirling around Wesley's head.

Especially after that disastrous incident with the Boretz.

If she could hold a cloth over her nose 24/7 without arousing suspicion, she would. Alas, even within Wolfram & Hart - where the bizarre is a matter of course - that's bound to get a few odd looks.

It's not just that smells are bad now, but that her sensitivity to them has increased. Sometimes, Lilah swears she's able to smell shit that no-one else can. Well. . . no-one human.

Worst superpower ever. 

"Very well. I suppose I'll be more careful in my dining choices before coming here in the future." Still looking rather bemused, Wesley takes a seat. "Everything alright? You look a little. . ."

Now, it's her turn to raise an eyebrow. Only hers is significantly more threatening.

Wesley clears his throat. "Fine. You look perfectly fine."

Lilah is torn between amusement and disappointment. That eyebrow never would have worked on the old Wesley.

"You had something you wanted to talk about?"

"Indeed." The bewildered awkwardness disappears in a flash, replaced by something decidedly more cunning. "It appears that someone left a gift in my desk drawer this morning."

"Santa Claus?" Lilah plasters on a look of surprise. It's not entirely feigned. In amidst the torture inflicted by her own body, she forgot that the day had actually started out slightly more promising. "Or do you just have a secret admirer? Gosh" - she darts a hand to her mouth - "maybe it's that sweet little Texan gal."

He sends her a flat look but doesn't rise to the bait. Disappointing. "Yes. A pen. Quite a luxurious pen, actually. Conway Stewart. Pāua Abalone Shell on the barrel. A white gold nib. There's even a diamond, which I'm fairly sure is real, encrusted on the end."

Lilah hums in approval. "You can never go wrong with diamonds."

"I'm sure." Wesley draws the pen in question out of his shirt pocket, making a show of inspecting it. "It's made from palladium rather than silver, likely so Angel won't feel inclined to steal it from me like the last one. Which I thought was rather thoughtful."

"The Santa Claus angle is looking more and more likely."

"You would think. Except for one detail. You see, it has the oddest engraving. Instead of my name, it simply says. . ." He turns the pen over, eyes narrowing as he reads. "'Lilah's bitch'."

She sets her chin on her fingers, brow furrowing. ". . . You're right. That is odd."

Wesley's mouth twitches - the faintest gleam of amusement lighting up his eyes - before he shakes his head and sets down the pen. "Well, I appreciate it. . . I think."

Lilah smiles, a little more genuine than before, but quickly extinguishes it. "Couldn't have you being stuck with that old one covered in werewolf innards. Even Wolfram & Hart isn't overly fond of blood on the paperwork outside of the required signature."

In truth, she figured it was pretty much quid pro quo. If he was so determined to leave little gifts of ginger in her drawer, then she'd just have to pay him back - and, ideally, make him regret his foolish generosity in the process.

Though, he's not looking all too regretful at the moment.

Her fault. She could have done worse than 'Lilah's bitch'. Clearly, she's getting soft.

"Yes. Blood on the paperwork. I can see how that would be a step too far for this place."

"Downright barbaric, some might say." She closes the file in front of her. "So. . . I hear you had an exciting day."

"It certainly took some unexpected twists and turns. Though that's almost run of the mill at this point. I think Angel enjoyed himself. At least in comparison to some of the other cases we've handled since coming here."

"Oh, I just bet he did." Lilah smirks. "Little blonde thing like that in need of rescue but who also happens to be capable of ripping him to shreds. . . He has a type."

"He truly does, doesn't he?"

Cordelia might just be the only brunette he's ever been with outside of Drusilla. Certainly the only one he's ever pined hopelessly away for. 

"Do you think werewolf is a step up from slayer, or a step down?" Lilah wonders aloud, since it looks like he's in a playful mood. The kind of playful where he doesn't mind engaging in the sport of taking cheap shots at his boss.

Which just so happens to be her favorite sport.

"Well. . . he never had to worry about Buffy eating him."

"Just fucking his soul out."

"Arguably worse for the rest of us."

"Depends what side of the fence you're on, I suppose." Lilah can't imagine that Angelus would prove any more of a thorn in her side than his 'better' half. And Angel has managed to threaten and endanger her life enough times that losing his soul might even be an improvement. At the very least, she doesn't think that Angelus would have brokered a deal to erase Wesley's memories. "You know, I've never entirely understood why his moment of perfect happiness is an orgasm. I mean, sex is great, don't get me wrong, but I wouldn't call it the source of perfect happiness."

Then again, he was living like a monk for almost a hundred years before he set his eyes on the nearest underage blonde.

"Perhaps you're just not doing it right."

Lilah bites her cheek to keep from grinning. "Perhaps. I'll be sure to pass the critique on to the last guy I was with. See if he can't improve on things."

"That's if he's the one with the performance issue. Sometimes, we have to look inwards when affording blame."

"I can promise you wouldn't be saying that if you'd experienced that performance firsthand. But. . ." Lilah sighs. "If you doubt me, I suppose I could always give a demonstration."

"In the interest of proving a point?"

"Of course."

He looks amused. And also not at all tempted. Which is good. She wouldn't have put the offer forward if she thought for a second he might pounce on it. "I think perhaps I'll just take your word for it."

"Coward."

"On the contrary, I'm merely taking a stab at that self-care you so kindly recommended a few weeks ago. Something tells me getting into bed with you would be as good for one's health as dallying with a She-Mantis."

A smile plays across her lips. "I can neither confirm nor deny."

She did have dreams of one day becoming a black widow as a teenager. It seemed the only logical reason to get married in the first place.

Wesley eyes her with dry amusement for a moment before schooling his features. "Circling back to our earlier topic, Angel's moment of so-called 'perfect happiness'. . . You're forgetting the part where it has to be an orgasm from someone he's in love with."

Lilah squints. ". . . Still not seeing it."

Wesley sighs, folding immediately. "I can't say I do either. I don't doubt that you could experience perfect happiness in that moment but it does seem doubtful that other experiences couldn't trigger it as well."

Lilah would have to agree. Whilst she has, occasionally, experienced what might be called 'perfect happiness' during sex - though was far more likely just basic happiness, a rare enough emotion for her anyhow - she's also experienced that same happiness doing all manner of other things as well. Like digging into a plate of Bananas Foster after months of surviving on the cheapest oatmeal and canned beans she could find. A downright holy experience that an orgasm could never compare to.

So it does cause some confusion. And, hell, if Angel loves his son as much as he claims, you'd think one of those moments when he was still a non-murderous baby would have inspired something like perfect happiness. But apparently not.

No wonder the kid had issues.

Lilah shrugs. "Maybe he's just not into cuddling."

Wesley makes a face. "Perhaps this is one of those things best left to mystery."

"Are you sure? What if one of our clients gives him a thankyou puppy one day and he's so overcome with joy that his soul hightails it out the window?"

"Does that happen often? Clients gifting puppies as a thankyou?"

Lilah shrugs. "Sometimes. More often it's kittens. Apparently they taste nicer." Wesley closes his eyes. "Either way, those are one gift I don't like."

"Just tell me the puppies and kittens survived the ordeal." He looks pained and she buries a grin.

"Relax. I regifted them all to nice loving homes."

Or, rather, her assistant at the time did. Her assistant who'd looked at her like she was a monster when she suggested dropping them off at the nearest pound - or drowning them. Her assistant who also happened to be guilty of sacrificing her own child to the God of. . . well, whatever. Still, Lilah was happy to load the little fur balls off on her and wash her hands of the whole thing.

"Speaking of puppies with the potential to grant perfect happiness. . ." She rests her chin on her hand. "What do you think his odds are with Miss Wolf Girl?"

"Hmm, I'd say middling to high. . . Apparently, there was a look."

"Ah. A look." As long as he doesn't knock her up like the last one, Lilah figures he's free to do as he pleases. Maybe a little casual sex will even make him slightly less grumpy. One can always hope, at any rate. "Well, I wish him the best."

Wesley looks skeptical. "You do?"

"Sure. I'm a very kind and generous person who, of course, only wants the best for her coworkers. The full white picket fence and two point five kids if they can get it."

"Terrifying."

Lilah couldn't agree more.

"Speaking of terrifying fates. . . I have to say, handing Royce over to be eaten alive in some sort of karmic justice was cold. Brilliant but cold." She furrows her brow in an exaggerated fashion. "Though, I'm confused, I wasn't under the impression that kind of justice was in the Good Guy Handbook. Or is it okay as long as you're not the ones getting out the knives and forks? Murder is fine if somebody else does the dirty work, so to speak? I'm still new to this whole 'helping the helpless' business so I just figured I'd clarify."

"He offered an innocent girl up for dinner."

"Hey, I'm not judging." Lilah holds up her hands. "No doubt he deserved that and more. It just doesn't seem very white hat. Being judge, jury and executioner. . . Maybe there's hope for you guys, after all."

"You always know just what to say to make me want to reach for a drink."

She smiles. "It's a talent I pride myself on. That and beer pong."

He blinks. "That might just be the most outrageous lie you've ever told."

"Oh?"

"Lilah Morgan does not play beer pong."

She's not sure she'll ever tire of the particular thrill she gets from surprising him.

"On the contrary, I was the uncontested champion of my year in law school."

Lilah's never been able to stand the taste of beer - and, right now, the smell isn't doing anything to curry her favor either - but she's nothing if not competitive. And competitiveness mixed with alcohol makes for some very interesting outcomes.

Wesley still looks rather speechless. He had just as much trouble coming to terms with this revelation the first time around too. Only, back then Lilah was able to showcase her skill by mopping the floor with him. The sex that followed that particular triumph still lives rent-free in her mind. Wesley was so determined to achieve victory in at least one way that night. Though, Lilah still thinks she came out the winner. Even if he did ruin her favorite blouse.

It was. . .

A nice night. Almost. . . normal. For lack of a better term. The eternal struggle between good and evil didn't enter the conversation once. No mention of her work, or his; the slow damning of his soul, and the seeming lack of hers. For a night, they just existed.

And it was nice.

When Lilah comes back from the memory, Wesley still seems in a state of disbelief.

"You know, that look on your face is the same one Lindsey was wearing the first time I beat him."

"And now you're comparing me to Lindsey McDonald. I really will be needing that drink after this." He sighs, resting an elbow on the desk. "I'm still not sure I believe you. I might have to ask for a demonstration."

"Sounds fun." And it really does. "Unfortunately I'm on a bit of a sobriety kick at the moment. My doctor keeps insisting that alcohol is bad for the liver. Sounds like prohibitionist propaganda to me but I guess we'll see."

He squints, before his features even out. "Convenient."

"I'm sensing a lot of distrust, Wes. I thought we'd evolved beyond that."

"Not quite." Amusement flickers in his eyes a moment before dying. "And on that note, I have to ask. . . Were you aware of Royce's extra-curricular activities?"

Damn.

"Of course," Lilah says easily, already knowing that this conversation has - very suddenly - just been set upon a doomed track. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted. "He never had any reason to be secretive about it. Well, not until you guys got here."

Wesley frowns. "You could have warned us. You were there in the lab with us yesterday when he examined McManus."

"I didn't think he'd actually be stupid enough to go against the firm. He never has before. But I guess recent management changes have left everyone acting a tad unpredictably. . . Do you really need to be hand-fed every little bit of information, though? You have access to the good doctor's file same as I do."

That takes the wind out of his sails a bit.

"It's in his file?"

"Of course. The version available to department heads and above. Page seven-hundred and thirty-two. Which you would know if you gave each employee's file more than a cursory scan."

Okay, the page number is bullshit. She has no idea what page it's on. Her memory is hardly the worst but it's far from photographic. And she's terrible at remembering names, let alone stupid page numbers.

But if Wesley decides to take a look and discovers that, he'll just assume that she sent him on a wild goose chase to the wrong page on purpose.

"There are quite a lot of employees here, Lilah." Not as much as there used to be before Angel started taking an axe to them. "And most of their files number a thousand pages. At the least."

She shrugs. "Never stopped me."

Granted, she may have skimmed over the lower-level employees, or asked Files & Records to recite the highlights. But once you get to Royce's level, it pays to know whether they have any weaknesses you might one day exploit.

She suspects that reading the highlights, though, is probably all that Angel & Co. have been doing. Probably, they've focused mostly on the section that provides a thorough account of every human fatality that can be laid at an employee's feet (of which werewolves and other supernatural creatures would not have been counted). And, according to Royce's file, he's never harmed a hair on a full-blooded human. Which must have gotten him the green light.

"Admit it. You've been too busy poring through all those priceless ancient tomes you now have at your fingertips to even think of taking more than a peek at anything else."

He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "And Crane?"

"I know of him. Linwood had a standing invitation to his restaurant. Though I didn't receive one myself until this afternoon. . . I guess the news of my promotion got out." The envelope was passed on by Tamika at the very beginning of her seclusion - before Lilah reached the point of barring all entry into her office. She can admit to barely having glanced at. "Unfortunately I had to decline on account of the fact that I'm a strict vegetarian."

Wesley levels her with a look. "You're not a vegetarian."

"Well, pescatarian technically. And not for moral or religious reasons, mind you. I just can't stand the taste."

Lindsey thought it was hilarious.

"And it never occurred to you to tell us?"

"That I'm a pescatarian?"

"That Crane was behind Nina's abduction. You got an invitation to dine on werewolf this afternoon and you knew that Royce was working for him - and yet you didn't think that was important information to share?"

She might have, if she hadn't been busy lying supine and cursing the gods at the time. "You're the head of Research and Intelligence. Information is your department. I'm just the liaison."

"And the COO. Who's supposed to be helping us."

"In theory. But if I help the little lambs too much, then the wolves will start to question where my loyalties really lie." Not something she would have needed to worry about in other circumstances. But considering that the Senior Partners are fully aware that she's been fucking one of Angel's right hand men - and is now pregnant with his illegitimate lovechild - it's something to keep in mind. Her loyalties are already in question. And she can't afford to draw any more attention to them. Eve's presence alone makes that clear. "Well, more than they already have been. Besides, any good teacher knows that you don't help a student with a problem that they're more than capable of figuring out themselves. Surely, that was a pedagogy they practiced in that prestigious academy of yours."

"You were that confident that we'd figure it out?"

"Well, as much as it pains me to admit it, you're not complete idiots. We never would have lost so many times to complete idiots. You had the tools and the knowledge at your disposal to succeed in this. Why step in unnecessarily?"

Wesley doesn't look at all impressed by her reasoning. "An innocent young woman could have died."

Innocent young women die every day. She's hardly going to start getting all torn up about it now, this late in the game.

"But she didn't. You saved the day. Just like, well, almost always. . . So I'm failing to see the problem."

"The problem is I can't work out whose side you're on."

Lilah's somewhat shocked to find the matter was even in question. Her Wesley never had any doubt in that regard. The answer was always bitterly obvious.

"It's not a mystery. I've never made any effort to hide whose side I'm on."

"The Senior Partners'."

"No. Mine." A fact even the Partners themselves are likely aware of. And tolerate for the simple reason that serving their needs is the best way to serve her own. "I will always be on my side."

Wesley twists the pen in his hand, jaw locked tight as he stares down at it. "I'll try to remember that."

They fall into silence. A silence too tense to be awkward. Too cold.

Lilah squeezes her own pen, counting down the seconds until her increasingly unwelcome company sees fit to drag themselves out the door. All the while, Wesley simmers in silent anger. Anger, really, that he hardly has the right to. It's his own fault for expecting more from her than Lilah has ever given any indication of being willing to give.

The, admittedly, ill-conceived exchange of silly gifts in no way translates to her having suddenly found Jesus. Or whatever the Powers That Be's equivalent is.

"Whatever side you're on," he says at last, still staring - or rather glowering - at that pen. "I'd hazard a guess that it remains in your interests to see us survive. At least for now."

She can concede the point. "At least for now."

"Yet your lack of intervention today led to Fred getting hurt. She could have suffered serious injury, even died."

"And there it is." Lilah smirks, proud when she manages to keep back the bitterness in it. She was wondering when they were going to get to this. "Tell me, Wes. Are you more upset about the innocent girl who almost got eaten, or the fact that your precious Fred was endangered?"

His mouth thins. "I think they're both rather concerning."

"Right. Well, for what it's worth, I didn't know that Angel's latest squeeze was going to be kidnapped until after it had already happened. So even if I had chosen to help you out on this, it wouldn't have saved your twig a concussion."

"Would you have told us if you had known?"

"I'd have given it serious consideration." Though, Lilah can't deny that a small part of her was tickled when she found out about Fred's little knock to the head. "Or maybe I just would have waited to see whether you guys could figure it out. On your own. With all these wonderful tools and resources that you sold your souls for. It wouldn't do to have you getting too reliant on my help."

He growls. "Lilah-"

"I would have coughed up the information if it turned out you were all useless at your jobs. Before the damsel of the week lost her life."

"Would you have?"

"Sure." Lilah tilts her head. "Probably. . . If it suited me." She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. "At the very least, I would have seen to Royce. Can't have our employees thinking they can play double agent, or serve anyone's interests other than the firm's. The Senior Partners would have wanted a meeting with him."

The very last meeting of his life.

To think of it, the doctor's probably lucky that the worst future he has to fear is being eaten alive in werewolf form. He won't even be aware of his own painful, horrifying demise.

"That hardly makes it better."

"It's not supposed to." Lilah withholds a sigh, the pounding in her temple making an unfortunate reappearance. If she'd known this was how the conversation was going to go, she never would have agreed to Wesley's request for a chit chat. Whilst she normally doesn't mind an argument - thrives on them even - this one is getting stale. And, unfortunately, she's not in the best condition to handle any additional frustration. "I really don't see the point in circling the drain on this. Fred's fine. The girl's fine. All's well that ends well."

"This time." Wesley's eyes are colder than they've been since before the incident with Hainsley. Probably a good thing, in retrospect. Lilah slipped up by leaving that pen in his drawer. Forgetting for a moment that gifts weren't something the two of them did anymore (irritating ginger chews notwithstanding). She was allowing herself to get too close. Again. Better that they nip that in the bud now. Reinforce some barriers. Preferably made of iron this time. (For God's sake, he touched her the other day. Something it shouldn't even have occurred to him to do). "I suppose we'll see how that pans out in the future."

"I suppose we will."

Wesley doesn't say goodnight as he stands. Only spares her a curt nod before heading for the door. He refrains from throwing his outrageously expensive pen in the trash on the way out, at least, so she guesses that's something. Though maybe he's planning to burn it. Or chuck it out the window. More cathartic that way.

Lilah almost lets herself exhale - when he suddenly pauses in the doorway. "Why would the Senior Partners ever consider your loyalty to be in question?"

Damn.

So he'd caught that slip. Unforgivable carelessness on her part. But she's not operating at her best.

"That's my business."

This, all too predictably, fails to satisfy.

"Are you in trouble, Lilah?"

He almost looks worried. Almost. But she's not naive enough to believe that.

"No." Not yet. And not ever, if she has anything to say about it. "Just reaping the consequences of a careless mistake last year. Nothing too serious, though, or they wouldn't have made me liaison."

Wesley only looks partially convinced. But he's intelligent enough to realize that he's pushed this as far as she's ever likely to let him. "The thing about being on your own side, Lilah. . . is that you'll never have anyone else there with you."

She smiles wryly. "Your mistake, Wes, is in assuming that I'd ever want someone to be."

"Yes. . . my mistake."

Considering her for a few seconds longer, he dips his head in another nod - still cold, though perhaps no longer freezing - and leaves.

As soon as the door shuts, Lilah closes her eyes and leans back in her seat. Wonder of wonders, her migraine is back. Wesley's fault.

Everything is always Wesley's fault.

“See, nobody warns you about yourself. 
The red in your eye. 
The trap in your mouth. 

The person who hurts you the most in the end will
be you.
Almost every time, you."

― Yrsa Daley-Ward, Bone

Chapter Text

'Remember tonight... for it is the beginning of always.'
― Dante Alighieri

It happens during the part of their relationship that Lilah has taken to calling their 'honeymoon phase' in her mind. Those two months or so where they were just coming out of the comfortable bounds of hate fucking and starting to develop into something. . . more. Something dangerous. And confusing. And nice. Something that seemed more like a dream than anything she's ever experienced when asleep.

Something good.

Before the incident with Lorne sent them scrambling back towards something bad.

Safe and familiar. Distant. But bad.

It happens then.

Lilah probably shouldn't have gone to his place. After the stressful day she had - where Gavin made yet another fucking mistake and then tried to throw her under the bus for it - she probably should have headed straight home. Drawn herself a bubble bath. Eaten her weight in ice-cream. Poured a glass of indecently expensive scotch. Popped a xanax. Or just plain gone to bed. Slept it off.

But she didn't.

She went to his place. She went to him. Because all she wanted was him. All she wanted to do was drown in him. Release the tension in the most pleasurable way she knew how and forget about her life. Just for a few hours.

That was the plan.

Instead, she's hit by a migraine almost the second she walks in the door. Because her luck really is that shit.

And, okay, stress has always been a trigger - but mostly just because her luck is shit.

Lilah tries to push through it at first. Playing out the familiar steps in their game. Backing Wesley against the wall - away from the glare of a nearby lamp - and stealing his mouth.

But the knife pressing into her temple refuses to relent and when his fingers thread through her hair - pulling on her scalp - she makes the mistake of flinching. Of showing her hand.

Lilah can tell when he pulls back that the jig is up. That she'll have to find her relief somewhere else today. Probably in that bubble bath. Only, without the bubbles because the smell will just infuriate the already furiously churning ocean in her gut.

Fucking Gavin.

She really is going to kill him one day.

Lilah forces a smile and steps back. "Looks like we're going to have to take a rain check, lover."

"You're in pain."

It's not a question.

She shakes her head, anyway. "Just a migraine. More inconvenient than anything else but it doesn't exactly put me in the mood so. . . rain check."

Lilah's already turning towards the door - eager to be clear of the scrutiny in Wesley's gaze - when his voice stops her. As does the hand on her wrist.

"You shouldn't drive like this. You'll cause an accident."

Lilah looks down at his hand. The hold is loose enough that she could easily slip free. Almost too loose. Gentle.

She would have preferred if he'd squeezed until her bones snapped.

Forcing a smirk, Lilah looks up into his eyes. "Worried about all the people I could potentially kill, Wes?"

"The ones I can save, at any rate."

He doesn't look concerned. Doesn't look much of anything, in fact. Face carefully blank. Controlled.

But he's still holding her wrist.

(and she still hasn't shrugged him off)

"Fine. I'll call a taxi if it makes you feel better."

"Or you could just stay."

Lilah sighs. Of course. How like a man. Clearly, he's less concerned with the potential body count than the fact that his own body hasn't received its allotted orgasm. Well, he can damn well get himself off in the shower. "I'm really not in the mood."

Something flickers in Wesley's eyes and he finally releases her. Though his expression remains frustratingly at ease. "I have a book I need to finish reading so I'll be out here for most of the night. But you can lie down in the bedroom until it passes. It should be dark enough with the curtains drawn."

It takes a moment for Lilah to parse the words through the pounding in her head. To understand what was really meant by that 'Or you could just stay'. Then it takes her another moment - or several - to recover from the shock enough to respond.

"That's not necessary."

"I didn't say that it was." The bastard has already turned away. Heading towards his table - where indeed a book happens to be laid out and waiting - for all intents and purposes, dismissing her.

Lilah stares.

Like an idiot. An idiot with an ice pick currently sticking out of their temple, and no real desire to go through the labor of ordering a taxi, waiting, and enduring the drive back to her apartment. A drive full of flashing lights just outside the windscreen.

Wesley's bed does sound like the better option.

And, well, if he's not going to make a big deal out of it why the hell should she?

Lilah turns towards the bedroom. Hesitates. "If anyone finds out about this-"

"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me - I won't tell anyone you're just as mortal as the rest of us mere humans."

"Good. Because if you do I'll-"

"Cut off my balls, pulverize them into a jam, and feed them to me on toast. Yes, I know." He doesn't even glance up from his stupid book. "Go to bed, Lilah."

Just for that, she has half a mind to turn around and storm out of the apartment. Migraine be damned.

Instead, the sharp pain in her temple wins out and she ends up stomping into the bedroom. Which proves to be a mistake and Lilah winces, softening her step as she closes the door behind her.

Slowly, she strips off her clothes. Ridding herself of the uncomfortably tight confines of her skirt and bra, before deciding what the hell and shucking off her panties as well. It's not like she wasn't originally planning to end up naked in this bed, anyway.

The night has a chill to it, though, and Lilah only hesitates a moment before swiping one of Wesley's shirts from the closet. It's surprisingly soft and smells like him. Which is, of course, irrelevant.

Climbing into the bed that's become almost as familiar as her own - if not as comfortable - Lilah shuts her eyes and waits for the pain to abate so she can leave.

She wakes up around midday. The door to the bedroom is closed and the blinds on the windows are still pulled shut, rendering the room in a dim light that would make it impossible to discern the time if not for the clock on the bedside table. The shower isn't running and there's no detectable sound coming from outside the door, which leads Lilah to suspect that Wesley's left for the day. Hopefully.

Incredibly trusting of him. To leave her alone in his apartment. And she hopes it wasn't because he decided that she'd been rendered practically weak as a kitten, incapable of doing any real damage or snooping.

That would just be insulting.

(a more horrifying possibility, of course, is that he trusts her. Enough not to break or rifle through his things. It's so horrifying, in fact - not to mention ridiculous - that she doesn't even deem it worth considering)

The space beside Lilah is slightly rumpled. Evidence that Wesley must have come to bed eventually. At which point, he should have either tossed her out or tried to pick up where they left off earlier. Instead, it looks like all he did was sleep. And let her sleep.

Lilah's stomach twists uneasily, her eyes taking in the untouched glass of water on the bedside table.

It's considerate. Almost kind. Maybe exactly kind.

Which is not something that they do. Which is not something that they should ever do.

Lilah was a fool to give in to his offer. To not order a ride like she normally would have. And even more of a fool to fall asleep. To let herself feel comfortable enough to sleep.

It's the first time she's stayed over at someone's place without the justification of work or sex in. . . God, she doesn't even know how long. If she ever even has.

Uneasiness climbing, Lilah reaches for the glass of water. Hoping that a little hydration will do away with the irritating tremor in her hands. An aftereffect of the migraine, no doubt.

No doubt.

The water doesn't help. But it does make her feel slightly more clearheaded. Clearheaded enough to clamber out of bed and reach for her clothes. Which have been folded by someone not her and placed on the end of the bed.

She might just have to kill him.

Shaking her head, Lilah quickly shucks off Wesley's stupid shirt and gets dressed - forgoing the bothersome task of fixing up her makeup - and stalks out of the bedroom.

Which is when the next bombshell drops. She is not, as first assumed, alone. A fact that becomes immediately obvious the moment she steps into the living room and finds Wesley sitting on the couch. Finishing up the final remnants of his book from last night, apparently.

This makes her feel both better and worse.

Better because it turns out he didn't trust her enough to leave her alone in his apartment (so she might be able to let him live after all). And worse because now she's going to have to talk to him. Which she doesn't feel entirely prepared for yet.

Or not.

He hasn't looked up from his book and there's every chance she could just waltz out the door, slamming it behind her, before he got a word in.

Of course, in the time it takes her to consider this, Wesley speaks.

"There's overpriced coffee in the cupboard."

Lilah knows. She put it there.

(something else that now creates an uneasy twist in her stomach)

Ignoring the promise of coffee, Lilah marches straight ahead. Straight towards his position, bristling when his attention continues to be wholly taken up by that stupid book. So she does the logical thing and plucks it out of his hands. Tosses it aside. Feels a beat of satisfaction at the thunk of it hitting the floor.

"Lilah-"

She kisses him before he can say anything else, smothering the furious exhalation of his breath and sinking onto his lap. Wesley's hands automatically fly to her hips, the insult to his book apparently forgotten as he digs his fingers in just a shade too harsh. Just the way she likes it. Just the way he knows she likes it.

"So I take it your migraine's gone?"

Lilah digs her nails into the space where his neck meets his shoulder (punishment for bringing up the unmentionable). It has the desired effect. A hiss and hardening beneath her, hands tightening in their hold, clamping tight. And Lilah takes his slack-jawed mouth, kisses him again before he can say anything else wrong. Before he can make her slow down, make her think.

Make her talk.

Wesley doesn't seem to mind. His hands already pulling at the bottom of her shirt, tugging it free with a hasty force that's torn fabric in the past. Good.

Lilah rocks her hips, hissing at the cold burn of his fingers against the heated skin of her waist. She presses closer, seeking out the contrast, the almost painful sensation of those same fingers driving into her flesh.

This is better. This is right.

She bites Wesley's lip and his nails turn harsh against her skin. Reciprocal harm. Just the way this thing between them started. She hurts him, he hurts her back. A perfect, simple dance. Carried out again and again.

(they can't afford to lose it)

Lilah's not ready to talk. But there are other things they can do besides talking.

And this, at least, will rectify her mistake. Set things back the way they should be. So they didn't have sex before falling asleep? That's fine. They'll just have sex now. This doesn't have to be the first time she's stayed over without fucking him. This doesn't have to mean anything.

It can't mean anything.

It doesn't.

The next time Lilah goes to his place, she goads him into making a bet. It's a dare - aimed more at herself than him. A necessary one. Because if there's one thing that can be said about Lilah, it's that she hates to lose. And she can't afford to lose this.

Of course, by the time Wesley loses - says the dreaded R word - she's more or less started to warm up to the idea. The possibility that this thing between them might be more than just sex. That it could, potentially, mean something.

That they could.

It's a fantasy - and Lilah knows it's a fantasy even as she slips into believing it - but she likes the fantasy. The warmth that settles in her chest every time she thinks of him. The way she only really feels alive now when she's with him. The feeling of his skin against hers, the way he smiles sometimes. Or chuckles. The fact that those smiles and chuckles are for her. No-one else.

She hasn't wanted someone to smile for her since her mother stopped. But Wesley changes that. Changes everything.

And for a little while, Lilah forgets she's not supposed to let him.

She forgets she's supposed to run.

'Don't let me in with with no intention to keep me
Jesus Christ, don't be kind to me
Honey, don't feed me, I will come back.'

- Hozier

Chapter Text

("There's nothing to take advantage of."

"Except you.")

She wonders sometimes how things might have turned out, if Linwood - the bastard - had never said that. If he hadn't triggered her defenses, made her wonder, made her fear.

Because what if he was right?

What if she'd let Wesley get too far underneath her skin, far enough that he could puppet her from the inside out? Use her, the way she'd first set out to use him. What if she'd become someone who was vulnerable to that?

What if she'd given him a power over her that she'd never intended to give anyone?

Linwood's words had been a challenge. One she had no choice but to respond to. A poison, seeping into her thoughts. Lilah only knew one way to get it out:

Prove him wrong.

Prove herself right.

The operation to extract the info from Lorne was necessary, it was always going to be necessary. Challenge or no challenge. But using Wesley like that, just to prove that she could - that she wasn't the one being taken advantage of in their relationship - that wasn't necessary. It made things easier, more efficient. But Lilah could have found another way. And probably would have.

If she hadn't had something to prove.

Only, all she'd really ended up proving in the end was Wesley's underlying doubt. That sense he had, deep down, that this couldn't work. And it was never supposed to.

Lilah bends her head and reaches for one of the documents on her desk. She has a day's worth of paperwork to catch up on, plus all the additional bullshit she'll have to see to on account of her boss's brilliant decision to crash the prestigious restaurant of a wealthy and powerful socialite. Hopefully, giving Crane a brand new werewolf was successful in smoothing over his sure-to-be ruffled feathers. But if not, then she needs to get ahead of it.

Lilah doesn't look up at the sound of approaching footsteps. "You know, this peeping Tom routine of yours is starting to get real old. Even evil has a right to privacy."

"Not sure that's true." Angel takes a seat in the chair that Wesley just vacated. "Heard you had a rough day."

"I wouldn't call it rough." That would be falling face-first into a sewer after being skewered by the world's ugliest goat. Or spending hours stuffed in a room with a dislocated shoulder and the bodies of your coworkers after somebody decided to lock you in a wine cellar. "Though it sure as hell wasn't sunshine and rainbows."

Before locking herself away from the world, Lilah made the tough but practical decision to instruct Tamika to inform Angel and only Angel of her condition, given that he was the one person in the building with both the will and the means to steamroll past her assistant if she dared to tell him he couldn't enter her office. And, no doubt, if Lilah hadn't, that's exactly what would have happened the moment Ash was kidnapped.

"How are you feeling now?"

Lilah grits her teeth and scribbles a sentence that will probably prove to be gibberish when she returns to proofread later. "Peachy."

"You should go home. Get some rest."

"Bucketfuls of thanks for the concern, Angel, but I'm fine." She withholds a curse as her pen pokes through the paper. Stupid, weak ass paper. Clearly, someone's been allocating funds only for the cheap stuff. "And so is the passenger, which I know is your actual concern."

Angel hesitates - she can feel it in the pregnant (ha!) pause between them - and when Lilah glances up, it looks like he wants to say something. But eventually seems to think better of it. Instead choosing to go with a topic that's arguably worse. At least in her opinion.

"You know. . . You could have told him the truth."

Definitely worse.

"What? That his kid is an absolute terror and had me essentially bedridden for most of the day?"

Angel sends her a look. "People who aren't pregnant get migraines too, Lilah. You could have just told him you were sick instead of coming up with a lie about how you were trying to give him some twisted teachable moment."

"No. I couldn't have." That day with the Boretz was bad enough. And she only allowed Wesley to see her that way - to help - because seeing her puke her guts out a second time would have been worse. "And it wasn't a lie."

Leaving Team Angel to drown in their own shit is exactly the sort of thing that she would do. Sick or not.

Angel, for some reason, doesn't seem to buy this. "Look, you are human. And humans get sick. No need to pretend otherwise."

"Oh, I can think of more than a few needs."

A hundred, even.

Angel scoffs. "So, what? You'd rather have him hate you than find out that you're just as human as him? Or, well. . . almost just as human."

Lilah sets down her pen. Before she can snap it in half. "I thought you'd be happy. Weren't you just in here the other day telling me about the dangers of wanting what you can't have? If Wesley thinks I'm one step short of a soulless demon, all the better, I'd say. Wouldn't you?"

The further away she can push him, the easier her life will be. She's gotten lax these last couple of weeks. Those damn Miracle Gins lulling her into a false sense of security. Almost making her forget the reason it would be such a colossal mistake to let him close. Let him in.

Making a mistake once is forgivable. Unfortunate but forgivable.

Making a mistake twice is just goddamn embarrassing. And nothing short of pure stupidity.

Lilah's had enough of being stupid this last year. All it's gotten her is a powder keg of a mess liable to go off at any second. All it's gotten her is a giant wound in a traitorous heart that was supposed to be impervious to harm years ago.

She's not looking for a repeat.

Angel sighs. "That wasn't what I. . ." He stops, readjusting his position as he seems to take the time to carefully consider his next words. Which is more than a little concerning. "Just because you can't get back what you lost doesn't mean that you can't still be friends."

Lilah nearly laughs at the ridiculousness of the statement. But, then, Angel has been known for saying - and thinking - some truly ridiculous things. "Friends? Look, Angel, I understand that things are a bit confusing right now - what with us mortal enemies working together and all - and it's true that I might be going through quite a number of horrifying changes. . . But I am still me. I didn't get a personality transplant when that pregnancy test turned up positive, or when I accepted the position of liaison. I'm still me - and the person that I am has never had any interest in making friends. Especially not with a self-righteous white hat whose orgasm face I happen to be intimately familiar with."

She's hoping the last part shuts Angel up.

Unfortunately, he doesn't even blink.

"Maybe it's time you got interested." He shrugs at her her answering scowl. "What? You're all about adapting, right? All those 'horrifying changes' you're going through right now - tend to require a bit of adaption. And having someone on your side might not be the worst thing in the world. Just because you've always done things one way, doesn't mean there's nothing to be gained from doing them another."

Lilah clasps her hands together. Takes a breath. "Don't take this the wrong way, Angel - actually, on second thought, please do - but if I wanted advice on this, I wouldn't go to you to get it. Your relationship history is. . . rather underwhelming, to say the least. And tends to read more like a horror story than an instruction manual."

". . . That's fair."

"Right. So." She picks up her pen. "Are we done here?"

"Have you ever heard the term self-sabotage, Lilah?"

She doesn't stake him.

But it is a very, very near thing.

Chapter Text

Things with Wesley fall back into a cool and distant - if vaguely snarky - holding pattern. Not quite as bad as before Hainsley, but nowhere near as comfortable (dangerous) as what came after. It's a perfect relief. A breath of fresh air. A load off her shoulders. A blessed simplification of the far too complicated.

(and Lilah hates every second of it)

Angel makes a few more aborted attempts to smooth things over between them - because apparently the CEO of a self-imploding company has nothing better to do with his time than intervene in the love life of one of his oldest foes - even going so far as to pair them up for an entirely unnecessary field excursion, which Wesley and Lilah both endure with impressive fortitude. Needless to say, the vampire's efforts are overwhelmingly unsuccessful. Which is good. She would much prefer that Wesley do everything in his power to keep his distance from her than show up unexpectedly in her office stinking of beer and Chinese, at long last looking delighted by one of the gifts she got him.

This is better. Easier.

Less liable to give her a migraine.

Hell, she might even be able to make it through the pregnancy without stabbing him if this keeps up.

(if making it through is something that she decides to do. Still not a guarantee. She could still put a stop to this, if she wants to. Unlike Darla, Lilah has been spared any pesky pro-life mystical shields. No force in the universe is going to stop her from booting this intruder off the premises if she chooses to.

If she wants to)

At any rate, things are better. Easier.

Simple, even.

Of course, then the bastard has to go and get himself knocked in the head by a sword. A supposedly very special and powerful sword - though not, disappointingly, Excalibur (worth a pretty penny, last she checked) - which the latest demon of the week has proud possession of.

It's a quiet Friday afternoon when the creature storms into the firm, ready and raring for a fight. So of course the fools give him one.

Lilah watches from the sidelines with exasperation as Team Angel makes a complete and utter mess of the lobby. For the fifth time that month. Really, Lilah thought the cleaning bill had been bad since soulboy took over but it's got nothing on repairs.

Thankfully, that's one area of paperwork she can fob off on someone else.

Things are going well. Or. . . well for Team Angel and terrible for the demon (which only a few months ago would not have been considered going well at all) and Lilah takes the time to obtain a glass of water from the cooler a few paces away. Might as well use her unscheduled break to stay hydrated.

At any rate, things are going well until Wesley - the idiot - gets a little too close and forgets how to dodge. Lilah stiffens as he goes down, the thud echoing through the room, for a moment drowning out all else. All but the pounding of her own heart and the sudden sweat on her skin.

It's just a knock to the head. Not a stab wound. Not a gunshot wound. It's just a knock to the head but knocks to the head can be fatal, can cause brain damage, strokes, dementia. It's just a knock to the head and Lilah forgets her age-old policy to stay out of the way of sword fights and finds herself stepping forward. Slowly. Then quickly. Crossing the suddenly impossibly wide stretch of space between them.

Thankfully, at this point, Angel and Team have managed to lure the demon away from their limp noodle excuse for a teammate so Lilah manages to avoid a sword to the gut during her crazy and ill-advised dash.

By the time she reaches her destination, Wesley is already coming round, blinking blearily at the ceiling. Which is good. Lucky. After all, every minute spent unconscious is a mark against you. Yet this rare stroke of luck does nothing to dissolve the panic in her blood. Not even a little bit.

Lilah hasn't felt this much disproportionate anxiety in response to a situation since that final year with Lindsey. Though, considering her life was under constant threat at the time, it arguably wasn't so disproportionate.

This is, though.

This is like a fucking Salvador Dali painting.

Lilah's not thinking when she crouches down at Wesley's side, hands automatically going to his head to angle it towards her. Just like she sometimes used to do when he'd come back from a fight with one new injury or another. Albeit in a much calmer and more collected fashion. Lilah would pretend not to care, call him an idiot in every way she knew how, in every language she knew the words for, and set about patching him up. Because God knows he didn't have the self-preservation instincts to do it.

("Like I'm going to risk letting you bleed all over me while we're fucking. I may like it rough but unsanitary is another matter altogether. You want that then you can go screw a Chaos demon.")

Wesley would gripe and complain but ultimately endure her 'care' in the same manner as a dog subjected to the brush.

This time, it takes effort to appear calm. Collected. It takes effort not to care. Not to show that she cares.

There's blood running down Wesley's face and Lilah's mask is ripping at the seams.

She takes a breath. Threads a needle. And forces the edges back together. Seals the unforgivable away.

Wesley flinches from her touch. Tries to jerk back-

"Hold still, you idiot."

Lilah's voice has just enough of a callous snap to it to almost make her feel better. She's certain, dazed as he is, that he can't hear the cracks.

There shouldn't be cracks. She shouldn't care so much.

"I need to get back to-"

"To the fight?" she scoffs. "No, you need to get down to Medical."

Wesley scowls, suddenly looking a lot less dazed. "I assure you, I'm quite fine."

He moves away from her hands, which Lilah allows. It's better if she doesn't touch him, if she doesn't let herself-

"I don't think I need to tell you that people with a head injury can be 'fine' one second and drop dead the next."

Wesley's scowl disappears into a look of exasperation. "Drop dead? Really, Lilah."

She glances behind them, where the fight is just wrapping up. "Besides, your friends seem to have things handled. Nothing to worry about on that front. They've even managed to save the day without getting themselves bashed in the head. Imagine that."

Wesley follows her gaze - and sighs. "Still. . . I should-"

"Go to Medical. I agree."

"Lilah-"

"You're going." She stands up and makes a show of dusting off her dress. Which is black and has been helpful enough to pick up a few pale carpet fibers for her to bat nonchalantly away at. "I can't have you dying on company grounds. Do you have any idea how much paperwork that would leave for me? Not to mention how I'd be forced to endure the pitiful moaning of your grief-stricken friends. God, there might even be tears." She closes her eyes. "Hell would be kinder."

Wesley looks vaguely amused now - or perhaps just bemused. "You're right. That does sound terrible."

"Good. You agree. So be a proper English gentleman and get yourself down to Medical so I don't have to suffer through the sound of people crying themselves to the point of dehydration for however long it takes to get over losing your dumb ass."

Slowly, he leverages himself up onto his feet, still looking at her with that same bemusement. "I suppose, as a proper English gentleman, I'd be a boar to refuse in the face of that."

She takes Wesley down to Medical - because obviously he can't be trusted to take himself there - ignoring the frown on his face as he watches her. Much in the same way she ignored the smug look on Angel's face as they passed.

If Lilah were the paranoid sort, she might think he planned this.

"You know, I'm more than capable of covering the distance on my own."

"Really, and if you pass out from that head injury? Does this look like the kind of place that's full of good Samaritans? If anyone sees you lying on the ground, they're more likely to steal your wallet than help out."

". . . It's hard to argue with that."

"Then don't."

He doesn't. And they continue on in silence. Wesley still watching her with a frown, Lilah still ignoring that frown.

It's only when they're a dozen meters away from salvation that he sees fit to interrupt the blessed peace. "You know. . . I think I'm starting to get whiplash."

"Unsurprising with the force of that blow. Didn't they teach you in Watcher school that your head is not a shield?"

He doesn't respond.

Which is fine.

The silence suits her purposes better anyway. And they're almost at the door to Medical. One more minute, two tops, and she'll be free of this increasingly awkward situation.

Free of him.

Of course, that's when Lilah's eyes make the mistake of drifting down. Following the drying trail of blood on Wesley's face to where it's formed a horrible-looking stain on his shirt.

Shame. It's one of his better ones. Less stuffy.

Lilah's about to look away when she sees it. Peeking out of his shirt pocket. Utterly at home. Like it has every right to be there.

"You kept the pen."

"Hmm?" Wesley follows her gaze. "Oh. Yes. . . Well, it seemed a waste to get rid of a perfectly functioning - not to mention horrifically expensive - piece of stationery. Especially after I discovered that it's incapable of running out of ink."

There's a mage who owes her a favor on the second floor. He was all too happy to help out with her request.

(it's somewhat shameful, in retrospect, that she didn't think twice about using up that favor on this. On him)

She clears her throat. "Santa Claus must think you've been a very good boy this year."

He eyes her wryly, and with more than a little exasperation. "I'm not so sure Santa Claus is all that concerned with how good I am."

"True. But I bet he likes it when you're well-behaved. Open to following. . . directions."

The exasperation kicks up a notch. "The engraving does seem to suggest that."

Lilah's mouth twitches faintly, daring at an amusement she refuses to let herself feel. Though it's not the easiest of battles. Especially when she imagines the look on Fred's face if she were to ever catch sight of that engraving.

Lilah wonders who would turn redder in such a scenario: the twig or Wesley.

Lost in the pleasantness of that imagining, she forgets to mind her tongue, that honesty is never the best policy. "I didn't think you'd keep it."

"It was a gift," Wesley says, more soberly. "I'm not inclined to throw away gifts."

No. He's not.

He never threw away that book she gave him. Dante's Inferno. He held onto it even before they started fucking and long before they started doing more. He held onto it back when he felt nothing but hatred and disdain towards her.

So maybe it's not so surprising that he held on to this too.

What is surprising is that the ginger chews haven't stopped appearing in her drawer. Every time Lilah runs out, another box appears. Like clockwork. Hell, sometimes even before she's run out, she'll open the drawer to find a fresh supply waiting for her. Like he's learned to predict when she'll be getting low (a disturbing thought).

Lilah has no idea what the hell to make of it. Of any of it.

She knows Wesley's still pissed at her for the werewolf thing - his enduring coldness has made that more than clear - and yet his actions haven't reflected that.

Talk about mixed signals.

And, of course, he has the gall to look at her now like she's the one behaving in a way that doesn't make sense. When all she's doing is saving herself from a horrible amount of paperwork and having to watch Angel cry (something she's fairly certain their relationship wouldn't be able to survive).

Needless to say, Lilah's not the one acting strangely here.

"Besides," Wesley adds, somewhat lighter. "What reason would I have to throw out a gift from Santa?"

"Depends on the version of Santa we're talking about. There's that one species that eats children."

"Eradicated half a century ago by the slayer of the time. I think I'm safe."

There's not one thing about you that's safe.

Lilah looks away. Breaks their stare. "Medical's this way."

Like he doesn't already know. Like he probably hasn't already been here a dozen times with how prone he is to injury. Then again, it's Wesley, so maybe he hasn't. You can hardly rely on him to do the smart thing and take care of himself.

So Lilah turns them round a corner like she's the only one who knows the way. And he lets her, calm and silent, trailing at her heels. Obedient, one might even say.

When she drops him at the door, he opens his mouth like he might say something but she turns before he can. Walks away without a word. With barely the curtest of nods.

Still, she can feel the burn of his gaze on her back long after she's disappeared around the corner.

It itches.

Upon reflection, Lilah decides that the whole thing can be chalked up to hormones. Which, it has to be said, have been wreaking havoc on her entire system. Hell, she almost cried the other day when My Girl was on the TV. Which is the kind of atrocity that other people commit but never her. And then there was the morning she woke up to discover she was out of pickles (she didn't even like pickles until a few weeks ago). And last week - the most unforgivable incident of the lot - she got all fuzzy and warm when 'Do You Believe in Magic?' came on the radio. Lilah does not do fuzzy and warm.

She's beginning to feel like a pod person. And isn't one hundred percent certain that this isn't actually a case of demonic possession. Perhaps she's Cordelia 2.0? A possibility that might almost be less horrifying than the reality she's actually facing, if not for the fact that Lilah has no desire to slip into a mystical coma.

The amount of work she'd fall behind on would be a complete nightmare to wake up to.

Needless to say, things are not right. And this latest debacle of nearly losing her head just because Wesley took a knock to his is only further proof of the fact. Lilah needs to get her shit together. Soon. Before people start noticing. Before he starts noticing.

She needs to get her shit together.

After that horrible and unplanned adventure, the frost between her and Wesley begins to thaw. Melting under the pressure of yet another one of her mistakes.

An unfortunate consequence that Lilah promises herself she'll get around to remedying eventually. When she has the time. And the means.

Sooner if that smug look on Angel's face doesn't disappear.

Chapter Text

The moment Lilah steps out of the bathroom stall, she jumps. An understandable reaction to the sudden appearance of a vampire's face no more than an inch from her own.

Clearly, that sixth sense for Angel's presence doesn't extend to his progeny.

Just her luck.

Especially since this particular progeny's taken to popping in and out of her life on a regular - near constant - basis. Like the puppy she never wanted, following her from room to room. Begging for treats she refuses to give. And the fact that he's incorporeal means that she can't simply swat him on the nose, or lock him in a kennel.

No. She has to endure him. Day in and day out. With no barriers or recourse.

(and make full use of her magically enhanced earplugs)

"You're a little jumpy."

Lilah scoffs at the smug look on his face, before stepping through him to the sink.

"Oi!"

"Believe it or not, I don't typically get sprung on by ghosts in the ladies' room. Typically."

There was that one incident her very first year. But at least that poltergeist wasn't capable of speech.

"Yeah, well, it's the only time you're really alone, innit? Someone's always bursting into that office of yours, all night and day." At least she's not the only one who's noticed that particular headache. It seems, for all intents and purposes, that the new Wolfram & Hart can't go twenty minutes without some sort of emergency. And all emergencies, apparently, require her expert attention (mostly she thinks that Angel is fobbing them off on her so he doesn't have to deal with them himself). "You need to look into a good Do Not Disturb sign. I'm sure they make ones fancy enough for your tastes."

"It would only be ignored." Though she has entertained the idea of writing 'KEEP OUT' in blood above the doorknob. It's sure to ward off the more skittish associates at least. "You know, people used to be afraid to even approach my office, let alone barge into it. But then Angel takes over, killing your colleagues goes out of fashion unless he's the one doing it, and suddenly people aren't as afraid of you anymore."

"That's Angel for you. Always ruining a good thing."

She'll say this about Spike: at least he doesn't think the sun shines out of Angel's pale butt cheeks like everybody else.

"So why have you decided to stalk me in the bathroom?"

Lilah's not sure she wants to know. Though she can't say she's surprised by the development.

Spike (in his infinite wisdom) seems to have decided that Lilah (who hates Angel) and Fred (who doesn't hate Spike) are his best options for company in the building. Which is almost hysterically amusing (the I-need-to-punch-a-wall kind of amusing), and leaves Lilah wondering whether she's forever destined to function as one half of some bastard's Madonna-whore complex with the angel from Texas.

"Thought we could talk about the big secret. You know, the tadpole. Since no-one is liable to overhear us here. I even checked all the stalls. Empty as Angel's head."

"No."

Absolutely fucking not.

Lilah stalks towards the door. This is, perhaps, the worst reason Spike could have for wanting to find her. The second worst would be to gossip about Wesley and Fred getting caught fucking in the lab. Which thankfully hasn't happened yet but Lilah considers it only a matter of time with the sheer amount of googly eyes he keeps throwing her way.

Spike falls into step beside her. Undeterred. Again, his incorporeality becomes a pain in her ass when she opens the door with enough force that it should swing back and hit the person behind her hard enough to bruise. Spike just passes through it, casual as you please. "So. . . What are we thinking? Boy? Girl? Something in between?"

"We are not thinking anything. And we're not talking about this."

"My money's on boy."

"You don't have any money."

And complains about it often. To the point where she's half tempted to write him a cheque he can't even cash just to shut him up.

"You know. . . I've never seen a birth. Over a hundred years and I've never gotten an invite to that particular bloodbath. Doesn't seem right now that I think about it. . . Heard they're a right grizzly affair. Would have been straight up my alley not too long ago. Bet Angel's seen a birth or two in his time. Probably used to feast on the blood of newborns. Git really does have all the luck. I mean, have you ever tasted the blood of a newborn? Nothing like it. Not that I would now of course. Soul and all. But I can be nostalgic. Like a vegan remembering that time they had veal, you know?"

It's a good thing Lilah's not easily horrified. The first-year associate that they're currently passing, however, looks fit to drop on the spot.

She swears they get more faint-hearted every year.

"You're not getting an invite."

"I could feed you ice chips. Fred said that's a thing."

Lilah stops. "Fred?"

"Yeah, asked her what the custom was surrounding the birthing chamber these days. Didn't have a lot to share but she did mention the ice chips."

Her life is a joke. And the universe is in a constant state of laughter.

"I specifically told you not to tell anyone."

"And I haven't. Said I was asking for curiosity's sake. Think she bought it. Birth's real curious, you know? The miracle of life and all that bullshit."

Lilah scoffs and starts walking again. "Believe me. There is nothing miraculous about this."

Except perhaps for the fact that she still hasn't ended it. That's a goddamn miracle. One that even Jesus Christ himself would have struggled to pull off.

"Yeah. Not with the way you keep throwing up. That's truly rank, just so you know." His nose scrunches a fraction. "The smell clings for a good long while too. Bloody awful."

"Sorry to inconvenience you."

"S'alright. You know that stuff's caused by a womb that's gotten all stiff and constrained from being in the wrong position, right? Got to get a doc to dilate its opening" - he wiggles his fingers in demonstration - "and rotate it back into its proper place. At least, that's what I overheard the lads saying at one of the evening parties I went to. There was an article in the British Medical Journal and everything. Raging success."

"I just bet it was."

Maybe she's not living in the wrong time period after all.

"So. . . About that baby shower?"

"What baby shower?"

God, please, give her back the days when Angel was the only one who knew. She would suffer through that bitter torment happily in exchange for this.

"The one that still needs planning. Which means you should really get around to telling people, otherwise no-one's going to have time to get a proper gift."

Lilah massages her brow.

If only an exorcist could fix this. She knows so many good exorcists.

"Besides, not sure how long you think you're going to be able to hide it for. You're starting to show."

"Bullshit."

Not that she's allowed herself to perform much of a check in the mirror but those rare glimpses have hinted at nothing more than a bit of bloat. At least, that's what she's hoping people will assume.

"Eh. . ." Spike makes a middling motion with his hand. "Little bit."

Fuck it. She can't tell if he's lying.

This wouldn't be the first time he's tried to get on her nerves by exaggerating the truth.

Lilah resists the urge to tug at her skirt, readjust her shirt. Conceal what is apparently becoming far too obvious.

"Alright, so I was thinking Sex Pistols for the theme. . ."

"The theme?"

"For the baby shower."

Oh, for fuck's sakes.

So maybe God is real.

And this is his punishment for all her sins.

Spike's words echo around in her head for the rest of the day. And the day after. And the day after that. Until she can no longer ignore them. Until the need to prove them wrong becomes overwhelming. Inescapable.

And so it takes three days for her to break a policy she'd been hoping to maintain indefinitely.

The mirror on the wall mocks Lilah as she cautiously approaches its frame. Forces her body into position, where she can see it. Side on.

She's been avoiding full-length mirrors. Anything that might give her a glimpse below the chest. Each morning, she pays this one in her room a cursory glance once she finishes getting dressed - just enough to check everything's in order - and then dismisses it. Almost like a vampire afraid to be reminded that they no longer have a reflection.

It's been weeks since she's looked at herself in a mirror without the barrier of clothes to protect her gaze. Weeks since she's chanced catching a glimpse of her stomach. Of the ways it might have changed.

She can feel some of those changes. Subtle. Subtle enough to ignore. But she had to notice them first before that. Before she could dismiss them and pretend they weren't there.

A slight hardening of her lower abdomen, just above her pelvis. Most noticeable when she's lying down. In the night, when her hands accidentally stray towards that one location they're forbidden to venture.

Lilah can feel the change.

And now she can see it too. Also very subtle. Also easy to dismiss. Ignore.

But before she does, she has to look.

The wound left behind by the Beast glares out at her, a beacon to arrest all attention. A blessing distraction. Lilah allows herself to stare at it for a time. Hating it and loving it. Loving that she has something else to stare at. And hating that some creature has left its mark on her, a mark that will never fade. Not unless she gets Wolfram & Hart to deal with it the way she did all her other scars.

But she's not quite ready for that yet. To erase the one piece of evidence she has that Wesley cared for her. Enough to save her life, at any rate.

She traces her finger around the edges of the scar. It's still such an angry, grizzly thing. Healed by now but a garish contrast to the rest of her smooth flesh. An ugly crack in what has always been one of her most useful assets - and her greatest disadvantage. That thing that has gotten her into trouble just as often as it's gotten her out of it. Weakened and undermined her at every turn, endangered her - and yet been a highly valuable tool in her arsenal, one of the first she ever learned to use. Lilah has always had a love/hate relationship with her body and she's not sure how to feel about the damage that's been incurred to it, or the unceasing tumult of changes it's now being subjected to. Speaking of which. . .

Letting out a breath, Lilah finally forces herself to take in the rest of her stomach. The changes she doesn't want to see. Thankfully, there's not much change to see. But still more than she wants to see.

Since the last time she made herself look, her lower stomach has become slightly rounded. A visual representation of the hardness she's felt. Bloated, she could almost manage to convince herself. Just a little bloat.

But that lie won't hold out for much longer.

Soon, she's going to have a highly visible, constant reminder of what's coming. Of the fate she seems determined to trap herself in. The one task in her life she's destined to fail at.

Hiding from mirrors won't be nearly enough to escape that.

Hesitantly, Lilah removes her finger from the edges of the scar. Ventures lower down. Dares to trace that forbidden spot.

Nothing happens.

No sudden rush of love. No sudden rush of anything. She doesn't feel anything, tracing her fingers over the curve of her stomach. Nothing but an underlying hiss of anxiety. Tension. Like a fox caught in a trap. Edging its way towards being desperate enough to chew its own paw off. Anything to escape its fate.

Most likely not the sort of things you're supposed to feel about your unborn child.

Shaking her head, Lilah drops her hand. Turns away.

What the fuck is she doing?