Author: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
Rating: Hard R for violence, some sexual situations.
Teaser: When the Watcher's Council comes after Faith, Angel Investigations must pull from the chaos they've become embroiled in to save the renegade Slayer, and Wesley must face a past that has become more haunting than ever.
Archive: http://www.stoic-simplicity.net/imperfect
Spoilers: Sleep Tight
Genre: Action/Drama – General ensemble
--
Additional Notes: Done – but posting only a few chapters a day, again, so as not to overwhelm. No, it's not torture. I swear.
Special Thanks To – the readers of 'How to Date'. I doubt I've ever gotten such a great response out of anything I've written. It was gratifying and … heartwarming. Thank you.
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Chapter Three
You speak to me in riddles and you speak to me in
rhymes. My body aches to breathe your breath. Your words keep me alive
– Sarah McLachlan
--
Keys. Jacket.
Cordelia grabbed the long black coat, registering dully in her mind that she HAD had a weird penchant for black recently, and slipped it on, pausing only to thumb her growing hair out of the collar before moving toward the door.
"CORDELIA!" An unwilling moan broke from her throat, as she turned, wanting so badly to ignore Fred's plaintive cry. "You can't go alone, at least let Gunn go with you."
Charles stepped forward, fully prepared to follow Cordelia until she stopped him with a crisp, "No."
"Cordelia-"
"Listen, Fred, the state Angel's in, I don't trust him alone with anyone. You haven't seen his little beige soul, okay?" She closed her eyes, throat parching immediately at the thought. "When he's all Mr. Despair," she said, her tone lower, "The last thing he wants is a crowd. The last thing he needs is –" she cut herself, tired of arguing, tired of the way Fred and Gunn kept drawing her back, when the thing that needed to be done was getting to Angel. And Wesley.
And to FIX all of this…
"If you don't trust him with anyone, why are you going alone?" Gunn snapped, coming forward to grab at her elbow.
Cordelia jerked away. She never answered, and she could have snapped anything. Something scathing that would have shut Gunn and Fred up, and she would have. God help her, she would have. But the deep seated panic and the confusion that welled up inside her mangled her words.
All she could say was, "Because I HAVE to."
Her boots clicked on the floor as she practically ran to lobby doors, pulling them open and letting them swing closed after her.
--
Gunn watched Cordelia go, his hands falling to his sides as an exasperated sigh fell from his lips.
Shit. And more shit.
Closing his eyes, his hands curled into fists, allowing him to release his tension only slightly. He needed some damned violence. And soon. This shit was getting too close to home, too hard – too complicated.
His eyes opened, found Fred staring at him plaintively, his girlfriend's eyes beseeching him for an answer as to what to do. Go after Cordelia? Go after Angel?
Two weeks ago he had fallen in love. Two weeks ago he had held a girl and kissed her and loved her. Two weeks ago he had the damned world. Two weeks ago had never felt so far away.
Fred stared at him, and he wanted more than anything to offer a reassuring smile, tell her that it was alright, he would go after her. And he would, dammit. 'Cause Wesley didn't deserve to die – and if Angel hurt Wes – no matter what Wes did – that vamp would be-
The basement door burst open, Fred jumped in surprise, and Gunn blinked as the vampire in question strode into the Hyperion Lobby, carrying a bundle of books and a duffel bag filled with what looked like – yeah, more books.
"Angel!" Fred looked visibly relieved as she followed him into Wesley's old office. Angel barely looked at her, Gunn's features darkening as he dumped the books onto Wesley's desk. "You're here! Oh, thank God! Lorne said that-"
"Start looking." Fred closed her mouth, and stared at Angel in bewilderment. Curious, Gunn came closer, digging his fists into his pockets, leaning against the office door frame. There was no blood on Angel that Charles could see. Wesley was probably safe. Angel began flipping through the books, handing a particularly thick one to Fred. "We're getting Connor back. Look for portals – spells, anything. I'm getting him back."
The voice was clipped and dark. Fred had her mouth slightly open as Angel brushed past her, her eyes meeting with Gunn in astonishment. Swallowing, Charles straightened as Angel walked by him, turning. "Yo, Angel."
"What?" Angel clipped, taking the Hyperion stairs two steps at a time.
There were so many things Charles could have said, but he found himself saying, "Where'd you go?"
"I didn't kill him, Gunn," he snapped, never moving.
Well, that was good to know. "Cordy went looking for you." And Angel froze, if only for half a second. Charles waited expectantly. "Should I go after her? Maybe tell her you're …. All right…" Gunn trailed off as Angel began to move. He completely ignored the question. Gunn swallowed, looked back to Fred, who stared at him from over her mountain of Wesley's books.
Shit.
--
Bloody boring stake-outs.
Casper Lee sighed, leaning his head back against the headrest, before reaching for the radio and fiddling through the dial, frowning with every station that drifted through the speakers.
Americans and their pissy music. His scowl deepened. Boring rubbish. He was a highly trained doctor, an elite man from a gentlemen's class. A man who could give lectures at Oxnard, and had on more than one occasion.
And today, after years of accomplishments, he was a squatter.
Lovely.
"Council better pay me well for this," he muttered under his breath, keeping his gaze on the apartment building as he crossed his arms, closed his eyes for just a second.
The sound of a car engine zooming past forced his eyes back open. Sitting up, he peered into the darkness.
A young brunette slid crazily to a stop, jerking open the car door and slamming it, very nearly tripping on the concrete and she ran up the steps to the apartment.
Well, things finally got interesting.
Reaching for his cellphone, Mr. Lee began to dial.
"We got a visitor," he began, as soon as the line picked up.
--
He didn't even bother to warm up the blood as he grabbed the container off the shelf.
Slamming the refrigerator door closed, Angel turned, twisting open the lid, ignoring Cordelia's smell as it drifted from it. He took a swig, blanched at the taste of pig – animal – damned filthy blood – and gulped it quickly.
His mind raged, but his body was exhausted. Leaning against the wall, Angel crossed his arms, closing his eyes, a hiccup emerging as his eyes teared up, and the well of hatred and anger continued to build.
"God," he whispered, hands palming through his hair, a face of a demon flickering on as he lowered himself to the floor.
Eyes roved over the burnt remains of the room – memories of a child with his laugh and his forehead. Memories of a woman on a bed with a bottle…
"Robot chipmunks on ice…"
The sob burst within him – a torrent of rage and he growled, grabbed a charred piece of wood, hurling it toward the scant frame of a bed.
A voice whispered from inside, a demon who spoke of revenge, taking what he needed, and swallowing himself in warmth – of blame and hazel eyes that should have been there –
Of a small baby who was ripped from his arms – the only life that had ever been his -
Connor.
Hurt and death and pain and rage – all so simple and easy for a vampire to digest – and increasing desperation -
Angel whimpered and covered his ears as the tears slid down his cheeks one by one.
The soul stretched to the width of a rubber band, containing the demon.
Barely.
--
Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic-
Cordelia gave up trying to keep the mantra steady, groaning as she stopped ringing the doorbell and began to slam on the door.
"Wesley! Angel!"
Panic that edged into her was now streaming in full force, and when Wesley finally opened the door, dressed in flannel pajamas and wearing an exhausted frown, Cordelia snapped.
Relief mingled immediately with anger, she was none too gentle as she pushed him out of the way, frantically looking over the room. "Where is he?"
"Cordelia?" Wesley blinked sleepily, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to get her into focus.
"Where IS he?!"
"Who?" he asked, completely bewildered.
"Angel, smart ass!" Turning, Cordelia paused, found him still at the doorway, and still (luckily) in one piece. "You're not dead."
"No, I'm – what?" Wesley swallowed, winced, and then looked toward the door. "Angel left – Cordelia? What are you doing-" He was cut off immediately when Cordelia's palm connected with his cheek, sending him back against the wall.
The anger had flared as soon as the relief at finding Wesley okay came, and now her hazel eyes flashed, and she wondered if by GOD, she wasn't going to kill Wesley herself.
"What the HELL were you thinking?!" she whispered, voice low and dangerous and so different from her less angry screech. "You took CONNOR, Wesley. Do you get that? You. TOOK. CONNOR."
Dead silence descended now, as Cordelia stepped back, eyes clouded with tears. She took a shaky breath, wiping at her lids in an attempt to clear them, refocused them again on Wesley, finally able to see him. Dark blue eyes looked hollow. He hadn't moved from his position against the wall, frame skinnier than she remembered. A beard that made him look rough and unkept covered his jaw, but not the patch stained with blood that went from the tip of his ear to his collar bone.
Wesley…
"I took Connor," he finally responded gravely. "I'm sorry, Cordelia. I was so sure… I was so… sure…" Wesley's eyes closed, his knees gave out.
Something gave within her, something that clogged her throat and made her own eyes water. Something that slipped through the anger, and made her take one step at a time, closer to the shaking man, until she was pulling his hands away from his face, searching him.
"Okay," she said gruffly, pulling him up gently, clasping his hands in hers. He was trembling, broken Wesley.
God… what the hell had…
"Sit down." Carefully, she deposited him on the sofa. Her mind carefully, consciously, shut down as she moved to his bathroom, reaching into his medicine cabinet and grabbing the gauze and the Neosporin. When she returned, she purposely didn't look at his eyes as she cradled his cheeks, lifting his head.
When she peeled off the blood soaked bandage, he winced. "Bloody-"
"Shhh." She shushed him, taking in a shaky breath as she looked at the damage, before turning and taking a piece of cotton gauze and the alcohol. She could pretend that this was just another mission – that they had returned home and she was patching them up. Like always. Just long enough to understand – to try and understand… "Tell me," she said after a minute. "Tell me what happened."
Cordelia knew her hot and cold moods sometimes left the group bewildered, and if she looked now, Wesley would be staring at her uncertainly, with fear in his eyes.
So she took in a breath to steady her trembling hands, and locked their gazes. "Tell me," she repeated firmly.
He watched her, and she looked away.
He began to speak. Cordelia continued to not look at him, forcing her hands steady as he began to tell of a prophecy, of the signs. The earthquake and the blood lust – the ever increasing rage – and Wesley's paranoia.
Her hands began to tremble, her heart began to beat harder, and she began to sweat, but still, she forced herself to remain silent as she taped the gauze, smoothing it over his Adam's apple, feeling it vibrate.
"Holtz told me he would take the child, Cordelia. I couldn't allow it."
She took in a deep breath. "So you took him instead." He swallowed at her expression.
"Yes."
"You didn't tell anyone. You didn't even tell Angel, that he might have had a part in his kid's death – you didn't TELL anyone…" She began to gasp for breath now, and she had to force herself to stop, gain control. "You didn't tell ANYONE?!"
"I didn't-"
"WHAT Wes?! You didn't trust anyone?! No one? Not Fred or Gunn or Lorne – or even Angel!? NOT ME?!"
"You were on vacation-"
"Don't you DARE use that." Cordelia swallowed hard. "A vacation I could have any time. You should have called me the MOMENT things got out of hand."
Wesley stared at her, almost as if he was seeing a stranger. Her jaw clenched, and she stared right back, glaring with him, eyebrow raised. In the tense confrontation – there was a glimpse at their past – a young girl in too tight clothes, sticking her tongue out at a stiff young ex-Watcher.
And now they were here: a half demon ex-Princess and a scar laden young man who actually looked… old. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes closed, and she found she could say nothing else.
"Damn you, Wes," she whispered. "Damn you for not saying anything. And damn me for leaving." The last sentence was said slowly, low, as she settled down next to him, crossing her legs and staring at the wall.
In this house, there were no lights on. In this room, it was dark, and silent, and she might as well have been alone. Broken ends were severed, and Angel might as well have been here, staring at her with his beautiful, tortured eyes.
God – all she wanted was to hold a child, to keep him close to her and breathe in his scent.
"God…" Did she say that, or Wesley?
"I need to understand, Wesley," she said finally. "I need to understand – but… what it's done to Angel…"
"I know."
It was too much, she knew, for both of them. Maybe that was why he backed off, even as her hand slipped in his and he clenched it almost painfully. "And Groo?"
She blinked, mind jerked away from Angel and Connor. "What?"
"The Groosalug. He's not here."
"No," she said, pulling her hand back. "He's not here. Not here, here. It doesn't matter."
"Did something go wrong?" It was almost absurd, really, the way the tone was polite conversation. She stared at Wesley, saw the genuine concern in his voice, and almost smiled. Of course Wesley would care about her boyfriend when he had a slit throat and Connor was gone. What a man. GREAT priorities.
"Wesley, I don't-" Ringing, tinged with vibration, came from her purse. Immediately, she reached into her purse, flipping open the tiny cell phone and putting it to her ear. "Hello?"
"Cordelia."
"Gunn," she immediately answered.
"Wesley all right?"
"In one piece, if that's what you mean," She answered, giving Wesley a glance. His face remained curiously closed.
"Good," Gunn sounded audibly relieved. "That's good."
There was silence, and Cordelia waited impatiently. "Did you want me to tell him anything?"
Gunn was quiet. "Did he talk to you?"
"Can we talk about this later?" she asked, when Wesley shifted on the couch.
There was a moment of quiet, and an exasperated expression filled the receiver before Gunn replied, "Yeah, sure. Whatever. We need you back here, Cordelia. Angel's ain't brooding anymore."
"Huh?"
"He's all… you gotta come back."
Shit. "Okay, I'm on my way," she whispered. Clicking the phone shut, she turned to her old friend, who was staring at her with something akin to hope in his beautifully blue eyes. "I gotta go," she said finally, getting up immediately.
"What is it?" He got to his feet, following her towards the door.
"I don't know, it's about Angel-"
His steps faltered. "Cordelia-"
"Not now, Wes." She grabbed the door handle, mind already locking onto getting out of there without tearing her soul in two. "I just… not now…"
She reeled, frozen, as her mind began to tingle, and her eyes opened, and suddenly unseeing, she clenched at the handle. "Vision."
Darkness, coupled with moist humidity, filled her senses. Her face wet and dirty, heart pounding, and mind swimming with panic. And it was coming, closer, closer to the cell.
Oh, God, oh God…
Turning desperately, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Cordelia gasped, torn out of the vision, back into the present. Wesley's hands held her shoulders, face worried. "What is it?" he whispered.
She swallowed. "Faith."
--
Leather clasps held her down. She thrashed, did her damnedest to throw them off, but they held her down. Blood ran red as it seeped from her forehead, into her lips, bitter copper on her tongue.
Her eyes opened, wavy, dizzy hues of people gathered around her, and the needle came closer, closer-
She awoke with a start. Gasping heavily, Faith took in deep, sucking breaths. Goddamn fucking dreams. She swallowed down, hard. Her heart beat slowed, and Faith winced, when a piercing throb came from her forehead.
What the fuck?
Slowly – GOD she felt tired – Faith raised a weary arm to her hair, came away with rusted blood scratched onto her fingertips. She gazed at it, eyes boring into it, her throat dry and scratchy, and suddenly she knew why.
She wasn't in her cell. This wasn't her cell. This was… a dark room, small and black and nothing in it. A doorway, metal with a small, metal box that they would slide things in - solitary. Oh, shit.
An involuntary sob came out as she lifted her long sleeved shirt, hasty, fumbled movements, and peered into the darkness, trying to see if she would find pin pricks on her arms.
Shit, oh, Shit.
A wave of dizziness overwhelmed her when she launched to her feet. She reeled, hand launched out to catch the wall as she fell against it.
What the hell? Her eyes flew down to her hands, staring at them. Why the hell was she so … weak?
Moving toward the steel door, Faith banged her fists into it. "HEY!" Her voice echoed against the steel, sound proof door. She pried with her fingers at the little hatch. Hissing in, she moved back when her fingers wrenched, sending a jolt of pain. Great – now she had a fucking hand issue to go along with the splitting headache.
"HEY!" she screamed at the door. Nothing. Faith stepped back, licked her lips to attempt to get some moisture into her dry throat, eyes roving around the black cell.
There was barely room to stand in here. She shivered, as a sudden chill swept over her, a wind that forced her to pause, jerk her head toward the door.
There couldn't be a draft in here. There was no way out of this place, and no way there could be a draft-
Her pulse began to beat in her ears, loud and pounding, as the fear began to take her. Dreams within dreams sliced into her mind, and she stepped away from the door, back, back, until she was pressed up against the wall farthest from it.
Trapped. She was fucking trapped, and alone and…
Oh, shit, she was so scared.
Outside the cell, from the other end of the hallway, steps began to echo down the corridors. She shouldn't have heard them, but she did.
And they were getting closer.
--
What was it about stupid Englishman and their stupid belief that tea would fix everything?
Cordelia glared disdainfully at her cup, the 'weed soup' simmering in her tiny teacup that no real man in his right mind would have owned. Of course, it seemed perfectly natural then, that Wesley owned a set of four. He sipped at his pensively.
Shaking her head, Cordelia's voice was systematic, even as her own mind and thoughts wrangled with conflictions. "The damned Powers," she said finally. "Sure, give me a vision of Faith, but not of their own CHAMPION."
Wesley said nothing, pursed his lips in thought, and set aside his cup. "What did you see?"
"Crap." At that monosyllabic word, his eyebrow rose, and once again, Cordelia would have given anything to know what he was thinking. "She's in jail," she said finally. "I think. Some dark, dingy place, that would have the Health Department screaming up SOMEONE'S ass. And…" she frowned, trying to regain the images in her mind. "It's…" she sucked in her breath. "She's in trouble, Wes. But…" Her hands clenched around the tea cup, and she trembled when suddenly the pipeline opened, and another vision flooded through her.
Pressed against a wall, headache pounding, fear flooding through her, and something else…
Cordelia's eyes jolted open. "Oh, God…. OH GOD…" Wesley took the cup from her before she could spill the hot liquid over her shaking hands. Her eyes locked on his, wide and scared. "She's got no strength, Wesley. It's all gone. She can't defend herself…" She blinked, stood up. "And something's coming after her. NOW."
--
"Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who's the most psychotic Slayer of 'em all!" Murray got a slap on the back of his head, even as he chuckled, and he threw his colleague a dark scowl. "You can't tell me you didn't think that was funny!"
The older man was tight-lipped, hands crossed as he stared at the foggy mirror. "Do you bloody think the black arts are a game?" he asked crisply. "Continue with your work. Concentrate."
Murray shook his head. That damned Pryce never did have a sense of humor. And this WAS funny. He kept his joke for someone who might appreciate it, filing it away in his mind, and in the fog, continued to keep the image of the girl in the cell clear, whispering the incantation.
"Technology ain't got nothing on this," he drawled.
--
The steps continued, one at a time. Slow, methodical. Faith hated slow and methodical.
"HEY!" she screamed again, slamming at the door. No one came. Of course no one fucking came. She turned, eyes wild as she searched the room for a weapon, any weapon. There was darkness, nothing but, and maybe a toilet. Faith moved toward it, arms reaching out until she found the cold metal. She pulled at the seat, and it should have snapped off in her hands, it SHOULD have.
It didn't even move, and her injured fingers screamed at her, forcing her to give up. She turned, gazing at the door.
Fuck, oh Fuck.
In a rational mind, a person might have waited to see who opened the door before they began to panic. In a rational mind, they might have reasoned that perhaps this was just a watchman, coming back to check up on her. But Faith wasn't a rational person. She was a Slayer, and subject to psychic nightmares, and robbed of her strength, she came to the only logical conclusion.
This was SERIOUSLY not good.
Backed up against the wall, trapped, with an aching head, and a dizzy mind, she waited desperately, heart pounding, swallowed into her throat.
A key was inserted, the door began to open slowly, every creak taking years. A flash of a blade glinted in the little bit of light that was let into the room.
--
Her legs gave out from under her, and Wesley caught her as her hand pressed against her forehead, eyes wide and unseeing.
"Oh, God, Oh, God…" Cordelia pushed herself out of his arms. "CALL the jail, Wesley – CALL THEM!"
She sank onto the couch, the play-by-play manifesting panic and emotions that had to have been Faith's, flooding through her. Wesley ran to the phone, dialing furiously.
Cordelia's hands tightened around a sofa cushion, nearly tearing it in her anxiety. "He's gonna kill her, Oh, GOD - he's going to KILL HER NOW."
end chapter three