Mo-Jo fanfic

:-Amends-:

By Mo-Jo



	Pairing: Fred/Wesley Spoilers: 'Fredless' and 'Billy' and general season three Angel. Summary: After the mess with Billy, Fred and Wesley make amends. Rating: PG Archive: Just let me know where it goes. Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. They belong to Joss Whedon. Author's Notes: This is my first Angel fanfic, so please go easy on me! I know there have been a few fics from Wesley's POV, but I wanted to try one from Fred's POV. Please forgive me if I've made any mistakes. I'm just happy there is a WesleyFred list. My website: http://www.mojober.com/Fanfiction ***** He won't even look at me. The bruises on my face are almost all gone, too. I thought it would be better once they healed up, but it's not. Wesley still won't look at me. He's been back in the office for almost a week. Well, back in his office. Behind his desk and buried in a mountain of paperwork that wasn't there before the messy thing with Billy. Well, the messy thing with me. "Ready to go, Fred?" I look away from Wesley's office and at Cordy and Gunn, who are looking at me all expectant like. We were supposed to go check out some new club down the street to scope the demon potential, but I don't feel like going now. "Y'know, I was thinking maybe I'd stay here and finish working on this," I say, looking down at my latest invention. Or what will be my latest invention as soon as I figure out what exactly this weird contraption is supposed to do. "Hey, that's my Thigh Master," Cordy says, picking up said contraption off the counter. "Where did you find this?" "In this box of stuff," I say, reaching down for it. I drop it on the counter. "It was in the back of the closet. Got all sorts of weird things in it." "Yeah. My Torso Track. Ab Roller," Cordy says as she roots through the contents. "A Flowbee?" Gunn asks, pulling out what must be a Flowbee. Cordy is quick to it out of his hand and shove it back in the box. "That's Angel's," she says, pushing the box down the counter to where he can't reach it. From the way Gunn is staring at her, I don't think he believes her. She gives him a sharp look. "Well, you've seen his hair. Do you have another explanation?" "No," Gunn says, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looks back at me. "Might do you good to get out tonight, Fred." "Yeah, Fred," Cordy agrees enthusiastically. "We'll even stop and get you some tacos along the way." "I-I don't feel like tacos tonight," I say, offering her an apologetic grin. I reach up and twirl a strand of hair around my finger and glance in the direction of Wesley's office, hoping they get the hint. I don't want to come out and say it because he might hear. And if he hears, he definitely won't want to talk. We need to talk. Or something. "You always feel like tacos," Gunn says, not getting it. Cordy does. She mouths the word "ahh" and then smacks Gunn in the arm. "You heard the lady. She doesn't want tacos," she says, grabbing Gunn's hand next. He nearly trips over his own feet as she drags him fast to the door. Cordy opens it, shoves Gunn out and then closes it again. She holds onto the handle behind her back to keep it shut. "Hey!" Gunn pounds on the door, but Cordy ignores it. "Make sure you get all Oprah on Wesley," she whispers loudly. "We already have one brooding Lord of the Manor around here. We don't need two." "Cordy!" "Coming!" she shouts at Gunn, then whispers again before ducking out. "Oh, and to make it more complicated, Wesley likes you. A lot." That makes me blush. I cover my cheeks with both hands and try to cool them off. Wesley likes me. I guess it shouldn't come as such a big, hairy surprise after some of the things he said before. . .well, before Billy's made him a complete psycho-killer. While he was only a partial psycho-killer, he said I dressed provocatively and I smelled good. I look down at my clothes, which are not provocative at all now. Just jeans and a long-sleeved sweatshirt that says 'Sunnydale High' on it. I found it in the same closet as the Thigh Thingy. I sniff a corner of the sweatshirt and I definitely don't smell all that good either. I smell musty. Like books. Old, dusty books. I think Wesley might like the smell of old, dusty books. Wesley. I need to go talk to Wesley now. I fold my arms up tight against my body and walk softly towards his office. The door is cracked open just a hair. It's not very inviting like that, but it's not meant to be. It's meant to keep people out. Maybe not people. Maybe just me. Because I'm the one he doesn't want to see. I take a deep breath and untuck one hand so I can knock. "Wesley?" I try. My knocks make the door squeak open a little more. I peer in and see Wesley peering back. His eyes are still so sad. "I thought you were going out with Cordelia and Charles," he says, turning those sad eyes immediately away. He picks up a pen and starts writing something like I'm not even here. He probably wishes I wasn't. I take a really deep breath, push the door all the way in and step inside. I lower myself into the chair in front of his desk and wait for him to stop writing. After a minute or two, he reluctantly does. Wesley's eyes flicker up to mine fast before finding a spot on the wall behind me to look at instead. Talk, Fred. Open your mouth and say it. "I was hoping I could go out with you instead?" It comes out sounding like a question, but it will do. I twist my hands together and give him a hopeful look. "I really don't think that would be such a good idea," Wesley says, raising one hand to his temple and rubbing it carefully. I can't help but wince. His face is still bruised from being hit with the fire extinguisher. "Ice cream," I say, with a wide smile. "We could go out for ice cream." "We have ice cream here," Wesley points out, his eyes moving from the wall spot to the door with an equally hopeful look. "I know, but I like the ice cream from that place Angel and I went to the other night. H�agen Daz. They have this butter pecan that is really buttery," I say as Wesley keeps staring at the door. "And pecany." "Then may I suggest you ask Angel to accompany you there." "I don't want Angel to accompany me," I say, putting the same emphasis on Angel's name. There was a time when I would have really wanted that, but I'm over it now. I'm over Angel. "I want you to." Wesley sighs and takes his glasses off before finally looking at me. Well, in my general direction. I'm sure I look fuzzy. "Fred. . ." "Don't Fred me," I say, sitting up straighter. "It's been a week, Wesley. A whole week and you haven't said more than three words to me. Okay, you said twenty-eight words just now which would make the grand total thirty-one. That's better, but I think that number should be higher. Like maybe six hundred seventeen. . ." "Fred. . ." he starts again, then stops himself. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Okay." "Okay?" I repeat, standing up. I fidget nervously as Wesley pushes his chair out from under the desk. He stands up and slowly puts his glasses back on. "Okay," he confirms, holding his hand out. "After you." ************** There are no Durslurs this time at H�agen Daz. "Are you sure you don't want some?" I ask, offering him my cone as we walk back towards the hotel. "No, thank you," he answers politely. I think we're up to sixty-three words now. I see a bench up ahead and when we get to it, I stop and sit. Wesley keeps walking for a little bit before he notices I'm not walking with him anymore. He turns and retraces his steps back before sitting on the other end of the bench. I eat a bit more of my ice cream as the now too familiar silence settles between us again. "Wesley, it wasn't you," I start. I've said it before, but it probably needs to be said again. Wesley leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He presses the tips of his fingers together and drums them lightly. He keeps opening and closing his mouth, his lips trying to form words that just aren't forming. I scoot a little closer. I kind of want to put my arms around him, but I'm afraid he'll pull away like he did before. I lower my ice cream cone and watch it melt instead. "I don't think you'd understand, Fred." I look over at Wesley and he is looking at me, this time with his glasses on. "I understand all about monsters, Wesley. Real and imagined," I say and I do. "I mean, I just spent the last five years hiding in cave from them." His eyes fall down to the ice cream cone, to where the butter pecan is dripping out of the bottom and all over my fingers. "I used to retreat to a dark, small places, too," he says with a distant, soft voice. He swallows hard and draws in a heavy breath. "Where it was safe?" I guess and he nods. "Under the stairs," he continues. "Locked away so my father couldn't yell at me anymore." "Wesley. . ." "You know what struck me the most about your parents, Fred?" he asks, glancing over at me again. "Our annoying, yet somehow charming Texas twangs?" "How much they love you," Wesley says, sounding so sad it hurts. "How much your father loves you. He would never say the things. . .the things my father said to me." "You're not your father, Wesley," I remind him. "That's not the man you are." "But I could be," he says, his voice breaking with emotion. "That night, I said such terrible, horrible things to you. . .I sounded exactly like him, Fred." So that's what this has been about. It all makes sense now. "We all have monsters inside us. It would be easier if we could all just vamp out like Angel once in a while to get them out of our system, but it doesn't work like that. Sometimes, they live in here," I say, laying one ice cream cove over my heart. "And they hurt the most." "Or make us hurt others," Wesley adds, his eyes meeting mine. "I never wanted to hurt you, Fred. Not physically. Not verbally. Not at all." "I know that, Wesley," I say, letting my hand fall into my lap. "But you have to do more than just say it. You have to believe it." "I'm just worried it might happen again," he says. "Well, unless we pull another Billy from a hell dimension, I wouldn't worry about it," I say, knowing with what we do it's not completely out of the realm of possibility. "I am, however, worried about this ice cream melting all over me." I hold it up and it drips everywhere. I laugh and so does Wesley as he tries to catch some of it in one hand while fumbling for a handkerchief with the other. He catches my free hand to wipe it clean. He's so concerned about the ice cream he doesn't realize he's touching me until it's all gone and my fingers end up wrapped around his. For a second or two, Wesley looks a little scared but then I smile to let him know it's okay. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it softly. "Thank you," he whispers before untangling our fingers. "Anytime," I say and I mean it. Wesley reaches for the hand with the cone and with my wrist, brings it to his mouth to catch the next drip. We both laugh as it goes all over his chin in a buttery, pecany mess. "It's good, isn't it?" I inquire as he wipes it off with the handkerchief. "Yes, it's good," Wesley says, looking at me again. It makes my heart all fluttery. "And so is the ice cream." "That's only one hundred and eighty seven," I say, my fluttery heart making my words fluttery, too. Wesley is a handsome man. Not Angel handsome, but handsome in his own way. "One hundred and eighty seven what?" he asks, sounding a little fluttery himself. "Words," I reply with another smile. "Ah, yes," Wesley says, remembering our conversation from earlier. "Then I still owe you another four hundred and thirty or so." "Words," I say again and he nods. I like the sound of that. "Fred," he begins, standing up and facing me. He offers me his hand. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you." "Yes, Wesley?" I say, curious as to what that something is. I put my hand in his and he pulls me gently to my feet. He leaves my hand in his as we start to walk back to the hotel. "I was wondering, perhaps, if you'd like to enter into a training arrangement similar to the one Cordelia has," he says as I finish up what is left of my ice cream. "With Angel?" I ask, hoping it's not. "No," he answers, pausing before continuing. "With me." "I'd like that," I say with a smile. "Really?" Wesley says, almost skeptically. "Really," I assure him, giving his hand a squeeze.

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