Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters nor any of the ideas entailed.
Introduction: Seven Years
O'Brien rubbed his eyes wearily. The Inner Party had given him his orders and he had followed them for seven years. Swiveling in his chair, he mumbled a short string of profanity before fixing his eyes on the telescreen above him, which projected a man sitting motionlessly in a small, spartan room. The smallish man looked about nervously and his face was pulled taut into a mask of apathy, but O'Brien could easily see through the façade. He had always been more perceptive than his fellow Party members. He closed his eyes again and shook his head, muttering aloud,
"Ah, Winston… why does the Party even bother with you?" Winston, as though he heard the remark, gave a small involuntary jerk and hurriedly attempted to conceal the movement by rising from his chair and busying himself at the sink. The sound of running water echoed over the room, through the brightly lit telescreen and washed over O'Brien, who was struck by a sudden memory, an event that had occurred almost five years previously…
Chapter One: Guardian Angel
It was winter and Winston huddled pathetically in his bed, clothed in every scrap of fabric he owned. Even the telescreen appeared thinned and malnourished as its usual luster had diminished into a soft fiery glow which cast long, soft shadows across the room. Winston shivered violently and spasms shook through his body. His breath came in short, ragged gasps and his constant coughing and retching was tinted with red. White wispy clouds appeared with every pant and he tossed constantly, sweating feverishly and trying to hold back screams of pain, screams that caught in his throat and escaped as bloody coughs.
Winston was sick. Sick with what was irrelevant: maybe pneumonia, tuberculosis, even cancer. These were only a few possibilities, but only one thing was certain: Winston was dying. Days of malnourishment, of dehydration, of terrible living conditions had only compounded the severity of his illness. Even worse, he was still expected to attend work (which he had for the past few days) and he wasn't sure if he could manage another day. Absence from work was inexcusable: sickness was a weakness of a person, and flaws in the party were inexcusable. Winston's dizziness, caused by his high fever, transformed into feverish hallucinations, and he was unable to separate his tortured dreams from reality. He saw visions of his mother, a woman he never knew, a figure long forgotten. She looked tired and heavy, as though she was being crushed from some sort of invisible weight. Next to her stood a whimpering girl and Winston wondered of a long lost sister, a small thin thing. She had tears in her eyes and clutched her mother's hem in one hand and an empty chocolate wrapper in the other. They faded into darkness and Winston saw another vision. A glorious landscape filled his mind and he saw rolling hill tinted with sunset and beautiful mountains with a serpent-like river that snaked through the ridges. Weakly, Winston wondered if this was his sunset, if he was departing down a river to a place over the mountains, to a place beautiful and pure and lovely.
Winston closed his eyes and never expected to open them again… when he felt a large, heavy hand lift his head. Startled, Winston's eyes flew open and above him swam the image of a large man with beautiful green, cunning eyes and a great white light shining behind the great man, giving Winston the impression of wings. Eyelids trembling, Winston smiled feebly at the cliché forming on his lips,
"Are you an angel?" he asked softly. The man said nothing and slipped a capsule under Winston's tongue and strode swiftly to the telescreen and flipped an unseen switch. The telescreen dimmed slightly and with a groaning buzz died. Brows furrowed curiously, Winston tried to lift his head to see the empty screen, but fell back wheezing. Alarmed, the stranger quickly walked to the sink and retrieved a glass, filling almost to the brim. Rushing water replaced the omnipresent buzz of the telescreen and for a moment Winston thought he was surrounded by fountains. The figure shut the sink off and returned to Winston's bedside. He tilted Winston's head back and lifted the water to his lips. The angel said one word, the first word uttered since he had appeared,
"Swallow." He instructed, his voice deep and powerful. Winston moved his head in what he hoped was a nod and took a large gulp of water, the capsule sliding effortlessly down his throat. The effects of the medicine were almost immediate. Winston's flushed face cleared a bit and the stranger's creased and concerned expression relaxed visibly. Winston's fever was broken, but lights and colors still swirled behind his eyelids. Slowly, he opened his eyes and found himself staring deep into his rescuer's eyes, eyes that were soft and concerned and yet glinted with an absolute resolution. Closing his eyes again, Winston smiled and whispered quietly,
"Thank you…" He hadn't expected a reply but was surprised when he felt something light and warm brush across his lips. Winston sat up quickly and opened his eyes, but there was nothing in the room except the faint light from the telescreen and the slight taste of chocolate that lingered in the air and on Winston's lips.
O'Brien recovered from the memory, disturbed by an unfamiliar emotion that swept across him. Annoyed, he pushed the feeling away and returned his attention to Winston. Somewhat bitterly, he mumbled aloud,
"It's too bad the meds had a memory modifying agent in them… but a necessary precaution. He didn't even remember that he was sick at all…" O'Brien fell into silent brooding. It was torture for him, the sole bearer of a memory that was meant for two. Working with Winston was nearly impossible for O'Brien, being able to see Winston, but unable to reach out to hold his hand or caress his face, unable to even share a secret intimate memory with him. A while ago, weeks or maybe even months, he had met Winston's eye from across the room. Winston's face had exploded into shock, confusion, and raw misunderstanding. O'Brien had realized his mistake immediately. Angrily, he half-shouted,
"That fool!" The man thought O'Brien was part of the underground, part of The Brotherhood! Oh, how badly O'Brien wanted to tell Winston everything, the truth. But the higher powers had forbidden it, and that left O'Brien stuck in some kind of perverse museum, able to see but unable to touch.