Prologue:
He watches blunt, wide fingers work for a few moments when he walks in the door. Not the hands of an artist, but Wesley has seen the talent in those hands that comes from a photographic memory and over two-hundred years to learn proper technique. Sketches have littered their room before, when Angel's gotten into a particularly nostalgic mood, and drawn everything his mind can think of. Some of those sketches are of Wesley, in various stages of dress and undress, but most of the time they're more painful memories for Angel; the women and men he'd called friends or lovers once, but had died somewhere along the line fighting the good fight.
Sketches clutter the room again today, when Wesley comes in from the office after working late to translate a mundane prophecy. Mundane enough that it wasn't very important at the moment, but important enough in the future that there was no one else he trusted to do it.
A sketch near the ottoman catches Wesley's eye, and he bends to pick it up. He studies it for a moment, brow furrowed. It looks to be a fairly young man, perhaps a teenager.
"Who's this, Angel?"
"It's not important, Wes."
"No, I don't suppose it is. I was just wondering who he was."
"Not important." Angel snatches the rough sketch from his hands, stuffs it into the bottom of the drawer, and Wesley can see Angel barely resist slamming the drawer shut. Wesley decides not to ask again, compelled not to press Angel on the subject.
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