Rating: PG
Pairing: Wes/Fred
Archive: It'll be at my site, The Band Gazebo. After that, it's a case of "want, take, have" - just let me know where.
Spoilers: This Old Gang of Mine and everything that precedes it, just to be safe.
Disclaimer: Not mine…if they were, oh the things you would see!
Author's Notes: My first ever Angel fic, so any feedback is appreciated!

"The Hyperion Hotel please."

I give the taxi driver the address, and lean back into the seat, tilting my head back as I close my eyes, and resisting the urge to groan as the memories of what happened tonight overwhelm me. Things weren't supposed to happen like this. What began as a simple night out in Caritas, listening to Fred singing Patsy Cline wasn't supposed to end in a shoot-out and a hostage crisis. Getting her out of her room, out of the hotel and back into the real world wasn't supposed to leave her silent and shaking, holding my hand so tightly that it felt like our flesh was melding together at a cellular level. All I want to do is get home, pour myself a nice stiff drink, and go to bed and sleep and forget all about it.

A shifting in the seat beside me reminds me that there's still some unfinished business to take care of. I open my eyes and look down at Fred, only to find her looking up at me too, eyes wide and vulnerable. She hasn't said a word since we left Caritas, since she was holding the crossbow to Gio's throat, which is most unusual for her. Certainly, she stays locked up in her room a lot, more than any of us are happy with, but when she does join us, she talks quite a bit. Some might use the word incessantly.

I slip my right arm around her shoulders, where it was for much of the night, squeezing it gently. "Are you all right?" I ask.

She grins uncertainly, reaching up with one hand to touch the bridge of her nose. I wonder briefly at the significance of the gesture before I realise that she's pushing her non-existent glasses up. That uncertain gesture has become quite familiar to me over the past few months. She usually does it when she feels uncertain, out of her depth, as if the world is moving too fast for her. "I don't think that was what Cordelia had in mind for tonight," she confides in me, and I can't help but smile.

"You were very brave," I tell her, and mean it. I knew that already about her - after all, one doesn't survive five years in a demon dimension without a considerable amount of bravery. However, I've learned that it's one thing to know something like that in the abstract, but to see it in action is something quite different. When she took up that crossbow tonight, I really did think for a moment that she was going to shoot Angel. Then, when she turned on Gio, when I realised what she was trying to do, I couldn't help but admire her brains. And her guts.

Well, mostly that. Another part of me wanted to scream at her for putting herself in jeopardy that way.

But it all worked out for the best, and she smiles again now, more genuine this time, and she snuggles in closer to me, resting her head against my shoulder, one hand slipping down between us, the other taking a fist of the material of my top. "So were you," she tells me. "Getting me off that stage like you did…"

Her voice is admiring, and I feel my face growing warm. Truth be told, I don't remember making the conscious decision to go and get her from the stage. When the gang came in and started shooting, it was instinct to push over the table and push Cordelia down behind it. By the time we realised that Fred was still on the stage, in plain sight, demons were already falling in front of her, blood of various colours was flowing all over the club. I close my eyes against the memory of her huddled up there, trying to make herself as small as possible. By the time I was aware of what I was doing, I'd already scooped her up in my arms, marvelling at how light she was, and was halfway back to our hiding place behind the table.

"It was nothing," I tell her now.

"No it wasn't!" Her voice rises indignantly, but her head doesn't move. "You saved me tonight Wesley…. I couldn't have got through it without you."

I chuckle to myself, torn as to how to react. My ego would like nothing better than to accept her praise, to bask in it, but the larger part of me won't accept that. Because, really, what else could I have done?

Bullets were flying all over the place, and she was in plain sight. I couldn't leave her there like that, no matter what the cost was to me.

And later, when Cordelia had left, she was terrified. That was obvious. Taking her hand when we were sitting, putting my arm around her when she was standing - what else could I have done? Let her sit there, terrified and alone, thinking that no-one cared about how she was feeling?

She's had five years of that.

I wasn't about to let her endure another night of it.

And then she stood up and surprised us all with her strength and her courage. Reminding me once again that there's far more to her than the dotty ex-captive who's been holed up in a room in the Hyperion Hotel for the past few months. Reminding me that there's so much more to her than meets the eye, so much that we have to learn about who Winifred Burkle really is.

So much I want to learn about who Winifred Burkle really is.

"I didn't do anything special," I tell her now. "It was you Fred, who was the star of the night, standing up there like you did."

She giggles, and I think I can see a blush on her cheeks. "I was just trying to give Angel a chance…" she tells me, her voice trailing off.

I shrug. "I was actually referring to your singing, but that was pretty brave too."

It takes a second for that to register with her, and when it does, she looks up at me, with the biggest smile I think I've ever seen on her face. And then she laughs delightedly, and I find myself joining her, tightening my arm around her shoulder, my left hand reaching up to play with the strands of her hair falling across her arm, on to my chest. The thought comes to me that this mightn't be quite appropriate behaviour, but she doesn't seem to object. In fact, if anything, she moves even closer to me, and the hand that had been bunched up in my shirt relaxes and opens, slides across my chest until it's fully across my waist. At the same time, almost of its own accord, my right hand moves down from her shoulder until it nestles on the curve of her hip.

She's silent, and I think she must have fallen asleep until she speaks again. "I feel safe with you."

My heart swells at the words, and I have trouble formulating a sentence. "Well…that's good then."

And as we lapse into silence, I realise just how true my words are. Because bad and all as the night was, what with the guns and the violence and the hostage taking, I've still ended up with a beautiful woman in my arms, a woman who I'd like to get to know better. A woman that I find interesting, who admits that she trusts me, that she feels safe with me. A woman who, as if she can read my thoughts, tightens her grip across my chest.

It wasn't such a bad night after all.

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