Choke Chain, Tag; Wesley!

Stephen prided himself on his self-control. It had been a lifetime of effort and work to reign himself in, to learn to mask his anger, or lust, or jealousy, or the personal satisfaction and glee that came from tearing another person’s argument or morals to ribbons. He had worked his entire life to control his urges and his desires, that they would not control him. He had learned to channel them. To suppress them and force them into his efforts, into his machinations, into his magics – they drove him to be better, stronger, faster, more powerful, more adept, more quick-thinking, and always, always in control. In control of himself, no matter what the temptation or aggravation. In control of those around him, knowing the pieces on the board, their weaknesses, their strength, their buttons and their breaking points, their desires, their fears, their hopes, and the things that kept them tossing and turning – or when nothing did. He had lists of figures, facts, data, numbers, projections, dates, names, a billion facts that interlaced and interwove to create a mesh of everything that it was that made up the people, demons, angels, vampires, witches and warlocks of his business, of his city, of this world, and all of those in between.

He was meant to be the focal point for all of the desire and wishes of the Senior Partners in this building, in this city, and he was meant to be the same for each of the employees under him, to sharpen them and hone them, to make them the weapons or tools that their Master’s intended for them to be, and his reputation and his standing in this firm and in this city relied heavily on him being able to control all of those aspects, keep all of those parts and parcels in line, and being able to speak a word and have it be as impenetrable as a sun’s heart. He had given his word to those that he had reluctantly invited into his home, into the building and into the libraries that held one of the greatest collections of all of the greatest supernatural works in this dimension and beyond. He had assured them, as much as it irked him and vexed him to do so, that there would be peace, that they would come to no harm.

And certainly, the harm done was minimal, and far from permanent and the pain that Wesley had felt – would feel – would far outweigh the single punch that the ghost had delivered to the Winchester but that was not, at all, the point. Stephen’s rage was burning hot, white hot and pulsing, in his veins, as he strode towards his offices with the ghost sent ahead to be forced to wait, still bound and intangible, for the CEO’s arrival. He had hoped that the few minutes between the libraries and the offices would have helped clear his head some, but the rage was still just as pounding when he stalked in through the double doors of his office, turning to close them quietly and precisely behind him. He ignored the ghost who stood in the middle of the room initially, striding past Wesley and towards the cabinet behind his desk, the tongs taken up and dropping two ice cubes into the waiting glass, before filling it with the best double malt whiskey that he had. It wasn’t his particular favorite, but he knew it had been the ghost’s, and that was more than enough reason to enjoy it all the more. ”Do you have even the … smallest conception of what it is that you have done?” Stephen asked, finally, turning towards the ghost, his anger clearly embedded in the wrinkles at his temple as he brought the glass to his lips and took a slow swallow of the amber liquid. ”I do hope it was worth it, Wesley, because I promise you, you will be paying for that… stunt for some time to come,” he assured the ghost coldly.


---- directly after Stephen & Wesley's departure from A Little Give

When Wesley allowed his feelings to take over and he punched Dean for his bragging about sleeping with Illyria, he had not exactly taken the consequences into account. In that moment, he had simply focused on the anger that flared up inside him and on the fact that, for a change, he could actually do something to release that anger upon the one that had caused it. He swung his hand back and he let it connect with Dean's jaw, simple as that. Part of him was aware of the fact that the other hunters in the room might not be too pleased with what he had done but he failed to realize how displeased one of them in particular would be. It wasn't until he heard the cold voice of Stephen cutting through the silence in the room that Wesley understood that he committed a very grave mistake. The fact that Sam was aiming a shotgun at him was of very little concern, as the ghost of a man knew that what Stephen had in store for him would be much more painful than bullets or rock salt. Suddenly, he felt the first signs of Stephen's wrath and he barely manage to hold back a pained shriek as his entire body felt as if it were being ripped apart of the skin and flesh off his bones. He barely had time to understand what had happened to him when, as suddenly as the first blow came, he felt his form fall apart and piece itself back together and he found himself in a different part of the room, aside Crowley, hands bound.

The bad puppy had been put back on the leash. The bad puppy had been left without its favorite toy. Wesley understood that his corporeality had been taken away from him because he misbehaved, that was the explanation for the ripping sensation which he experienced moments before. It had been horrible, worse than he could ever put into words should someone ask him to do so and Wesley was painfully aware of the fact that it was only the beginning. The ghost of man braced himself, his body already tense in anticipation when he felt Stephen's power washing over him and creating pain much greater than the one he felt moments before or the one he was relatively used to feeling when he angered the Senior Partners. It was... as if millions of daggers cut through him and were twisted inside the wounds, as if pieces of him were ripped apart and pieced back together the wrong way... as if every fiber of his being was stretched and torn. Through all of this, Wesley tried his best to stand stoically, to conceal any signs of pain from the occupants of the room, but it was extremely complicated. Agony became apparent in his eyes, in his tense jaw that kept his mouth squeezed shut for it opened, Wesley would have vocalized his pain.

By the time it stopped, the ghost's world was a heavy, sickening blur and he could not really tell how he left the library or how he arrived in what he barely managed to recognize as Stephen's office. Alone between the four walls, Wesley allowed himself to fall to his knees, his mouth opening to allow him to gasp for air. He took deep breaths, as if that could somehow help him ease the pain that burned through his body in a completely illogical way. Why should it hurt if it lacked substance? How was that even possible? Wesley had no time to find any answers. The moment he heard the door open, he forced himself back to a standing position, trying to keep his back perfectly straight and his expression cold and indifferent in front of Stephen, the man who obviously pulled his strings. Blue eyes followed the CEO's moves and narrowed down on him when the other man poured himself the kind of drink which Wesley craved so much for – an intentional gesture, the ghost had no doubt. Stephen addressed him and Wesley took a needless deep breath before he opened his mouth to reply: ”Yes, I do believe I punched Dean Winchester.” Without a doubt, not the kind of humble reply Stephen might have expected. ”Oh? What will you do? Lower my salary? Make me work extra hours?” Oh, he knew too well what Stephen could do. Wesley simply refused to give him satisfaction and bow to him.

”What you did was breach a verbal contract made between myself, on behalf of Wolfram & Hart, and a representative of the local hunters – endangering the task that they are here to do, and in turn, endangering millions of the humans that you used to care so much about, by potentially extending the circumstances with the demonic uprisings, indefinitely.” Stephen returned, his voice crisp and icy, as close to a raging fury as he would ever allow to break from him in front of one to whom he was a superior. And regardless of what the ghost’s counterpart may believe of himself, Wesley was most certainly beneath him, and more importantly, as with any employee – willing or not – a reflection of Stephen’s ability to control and direct his people, and the massive forces and resources at his disposal. And while Stephen did not believe that the ghost had grasped the entirety of the ripple of effects of the ongoing situation, the danger that the Senior Partners were in, the fact that they themselves were bordering on losing control of themselves was something that would have devastating effects, not only on them, but all of those beneath them, and in every world and realm where their talons reached – and that was many. More than even he himself knew, and he knew quite a bit. This matter was one that he had been tasked with dealing with, no matter what it took, even if it meant something as irksome as playing host to the hunters that so often were the source of his troubles. And the ghost had endangered all of that… over some petty jealousy over the mating rituals of the thing that had killed his once-lover.

That was the trouble with emotional attachments. They clouded judgment. They were complications. Stephen’s jaw tensed, his gaze dark as he stared at the ghost who taunted him, still. ”Does that… thing … matter so much to you, still, Wesley? That demon, parading around with her face? Perhaps, if you care so little for what happens to yourself, you should be concerned for those to whom your emotions betray your weakness for.” He spoke, coolly, the edges of his lips twisting upwards in a small, prim smile, as he allowed his weight to settle back against the edge of his desk, his arms crossing loosely over his chest as his steely blue eyes met the ghost’s without hesitation, or any hint of discontent. ”Or perhaps, instead, the things… the places, that you care about?” He suggested, a flicker of a finger pulling an image to ripple across one of the squares of crystal in the room along the walls that served as scrying tools for him, when he chose to perform such spells himself for need of privacy, or for some project that he entrusted only to himself. Upon it, an overview of the decayed and crumbling city of Los Angeles appeared, clouded somewhat by the omnipresent haze that lurked over the city that had fallen to hell, the road blocks and roadside stations of the National Guard that had been permanently assigned to keep people out, and keep the things in, surrounding the city proper.

It took only a few seconds for the image to shift, zooming downwards, and in, seeking the object of Stephen’s interest, until it came to rest, in a slow circular motion, on a building long familiar to the ghost. The Hyperion Hotel, the home of Angel Investigations, and more importantly, he imagined, to the ghost, the place that held so many memories of his precious, long dead love. Another gesture, small, but, that was all it needed, and another of the crystal screens flickered to life, an image of the beach, long deserted now but for the occasional sea creature or demon that felt brave enough to stand in the open. ”Challenge me, and I will cut you to the quick.” He intoned, coldly, his gaze swiveling from the screens that displayed the images of Los Angeles, and back to the ghost himself.

Listening to Stephen's point of view concerning what he had just done in the library, Wesley gritted his teeth through the pain that was still rippling through his immaterial body and pushed himself to his feet, irritated that the CEO had the opportunity to see him rendered to his knees in front of him, because of him. The ghost of a man listened to the everything Stephen had to say, clenching his jay and glaring at him. Blaming him of endangering humanity? That was something that irritated Wesley to no end. While he had been made aware of the fact that his counterpart, Cain, was hurting innocent people on a day by day basis, Wesley liked to think that he was different, that he was better. He thought that while he was in control of his own consciousness, he could be different than the rest of the employees in service of Wolfram and Hart and help the innocent instead of hurting them. Punching Dean Winchester lead to endangering millions of humans? No, Wesley refused to believe that the CEO's argument was a founded one. Stephen was perfectly aware of his weak spots and he mercilessly exploited them every single time he had a chance. He was doing it again, trying to add guilt to the physical pain he had already been put through. ”I have not endangered millions of humans”, he replied. ”I have endangered no one. Are the hunters not in the library any more, carrying on with their research? Did those millions of humans matter so little to them that they left because I punched an arrogant member of their party?” He was threading on thin ice with his defiant attitude, he knew that. Yet, there was still enough of his ego left to keep him from allowing Stephen to further humiliate him.

Wesley could feel his anger spiking when Stephen started speaking about Illyria, referring to her as a thing. Strange that it was happening, considering the fact that, for all intents and purposes, Illyria was a parasite – an essence that found shelter in a human body and hallowed it from the inside out in order to make a shell for itself to live in. That parasite killed the love of his life and he should have felt nothing for her other than the deepest of hatred. It was impossible to feel that, only that, when every time he looked at her he was reminded of his beloved Fred. Stephen didn't need to give him a reminder of that small detail. For Wesley, it was impossible to look it over. ”What I feel towards Illyria is none of your concern”, he replied, his jaw clenched with fury. He could not bear Stephen speaking of Fred and Illyria, using them against him the way he was trying to.

He could not bear threats either. When persons and places he cared about were mentioned, Wesley's expression changed for a few moments – before he managed to regain that defiant, careless look he was trying to display in front of Stephen. Wesley's attention quickly shifted towards the monitor on the wall, upon which the image of Los Angeles appeared, focusing on the image of the hotel in which he lived some of the best years of his life. Was Stephen implying that he could do something to destroy the Hyperion? No, he couldn't... The ghost's fists clenched by his side as he watched the familiar image and he could swear that he felt his heart sinking the instant in which the second monitor came to life to reveal the one place in Los Angeles to which he was always desperate to return: the beach where he had been close to proposing to Fred. ”No... You wouldn't... You couldn't...”, he muttered after long moments of silence, shaking his head, turning his gaze back to Stephen. ”If you did, there would be no other way to control me, no reward to dangle in front of my eyes to make sure that I do what the Senior Partners expect me to do. Something tells me Cain would not approve of your plans, would he?” His voice was raised in an inquisitive tone, eyes narrowing down on Stephen while he desperately prayed that he had not been wrong in his assumptions and he would not see his two most dear places being wiped away off the map.