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
--
NOTES: I know I said that this would be posted entirely tonight - I fully intended for that to happen, but... it didn't. Work is absolutely insane right now (end of the fiscal year. Woohoo) and I haven't left earlier than eight. And with family duties - there was no time to code, format, proof, and what not.
The last two chapters WILL be posted tomorrow. Thanks for the feedback,
AND your patience. :-)
Chapter Nine
Cause I am hanging on every word you say, and even if you don't
want to speak tonight, that's all right, all right with me. Cause I want
nothing more than to sit at heaven's door, and listen to you breathing.
That's where I want to be. - Lifehouse
--
From his spot on the bed, opposite Cordelia, hands tangled together, Wesley had been able to see the sunrise. He hadn't moved since. He frowned, reaching up to finger the new bandage on his throat, tape making it awkward for him to even move. The beeping was an irritating noise that was becoming disturbingly familiar. Wesley pulled his gaze from the window, and leaned forward, gently tangling Cordelia's still fingers with his own.
He had seen her like this before. In a hospital bed, a white gown, tubes in her arms, face blank with pain. His eyes drifted closed, shutting the image away, a sob clawing its way from his throat. "Bloody hell, Cordelia," he whispered, bringing the soft hand up to his face. "Why on earth do you have to try and be a bloody hero, all the time?" There was a pause, before he whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Wesley, you dumb idiot. You say sorry to me one more time, I'll kick your ass."
The words made him freeze. Jerking his head up, he caught sight of a pair of groggy hazel eyes, staring at him as if he had grown a second head. "You're awake."
"Duh," she responded, voice lilting softly as she shifted, groaned. "Oh, God, that hurts. Why does it hurt, Wes?"
"You have internal bleeding, and the gun shot was in close range."
"Oh." Cordelia inhaled sharply, clutching at his hand desperately. "Faith?"
The smile of relief on his face froze. "Gone." Cordelia sighed, closing her eyes.
"I tried."
"Yes, you did. You did your best, Cordelia."
"It wasn't good enough." He said nothing to that, but squeezed her fingers, heart beat racing as he saw the sun. He checked his watch. Ten o'clock.
"The others should be coming soon," he whispered. "I…"
"What happened?" Cordelia demanded. Her voice was weak, wracked with pain. The demoral was giving her quite a kick, he could see it, in her eyes, the struggle to rise above the rocking of the boat. "Where's Angel?"
Wesley's throat was dry. "I don't know."
"Princess!" A large figure startled them both, as a man rushed in, one who looked like Angel at first glance, and then, was suddenly the Groosalug.
"Groo." Cordelia's face was passive, but she smiled, raising her hand as her boyfriend entered, on his face worry, love, and desperate fear.
"I'm so sorry, Princess. The bus – I still am not familiar with…"
Wesley stood, feeling suddenly out of place as Cordelia only placed her cheek against Groo's hand, closed her eyes, and cried.
"I… Princess…"
Bloody hell. Wesley was openly panting as he walked out of the room. Once outside, he leaned against the hall walls, and fought for his breath. His eyes were stinging with tears, so involved in trying to battle the sobs that at first he didn't hear the calls.
"Wesley!"
Raising his head, Wesley's blurry vision revealed a slim girl and a larger, dark-skinned man, rushing down the hallway, tripping over irate nurses and nearly knocking over a bewildered man in a wheelchair.
"Fred!" Fred rushed into his arms, held him tight with a squeeze that was almost painful, and when she let go, Wesley was suddenly wrapped into an equally vicious hug by Gunn, making him choke.
"We tried to get here, as soon as we could, but, the police were questioning, and," Fred began breathlessly, panting.
"She's not in any trouble," Gunn finished, clamping his hand on Fred's shoulder. "Detective Dalston said it was self defense." Wesley blinked, not quite sure what they were referring to, never getting the chance to ask when Gunn asked, "How is she?"
This time, he managed a relieved smile. "Awake. She's a strong girl."
"Oh, thank GOD." Fred collapsed against Gunn in relief. The big man exhaled, wrapping his arm around Fred's shoulders. "Can we see her?"
"I wouldn't quite yet," Wesley said, his hand on Gunn's shoulder, making them pause, before they were able to turn into the room. "The Groosalug is there," he explained.
"Oh." Fred crossed her arms, in a nervous attempt, it seemed, to have something to do with them. "But she's gonna be okay?"
Wesley grimly nodded. "Yes." He searched the corridor, and uneasy worry settled into his stomach. "Angel?"
"Daylight – we had to answer all the cop's questions, and then he was stuck. Trying to find a way here, but…"
"I understand." Wesley glanced back at the room, and when he glanced back, the knot in the pit of his stomach sunk. The initial relief over, suddenly there was the silence, the awkwardness, the remembrance of what he had done. What had happened.
Charles looked openly uncomfortable. He stepped away from Wesley, hands in his pockets. "Fred, you want some coffee?" he asked softly. Fred turned, on her face a questioning glance, but Wesley understood, could see that she did also, because she gave a soft nod, and a smile.
"Please," she said, squeezing Gunn's hand. Charles nodded back, gave her a smile, shifted another glance at Wesley, and moved down the corridor.
Unsure now, Wesley crossed his arms, kept his gaze on the floor.
"Wesley," she said finally, abruptly, as if she was trying to find the courage to say it, Fred pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose, and rebalanced her feet.
"I'm sorry," he blurted, face reddening, flushed with agony, embarrassment, sincere… guilt.
"I know," she said. "But you still shouldn't have done it."
Unable to take not seeing her expression, Wesley glanced up. Surprisingly, he didn't see judgment, like he expected, but naked honesty. She was frank, staring at him with no smile on her face.
But there was no anger. And for that, Wesley would have given her the very world. "You're going to have to apologize eventually, Wesley. Cordelia told me why you did what you did, and I'll say I understand to a point, but you hurt us. All of us, Angel-"
"I know," he clipped. The pain wouldn't stop, and his eyes brimmed with tears, a tear in his heart, and it wasn't RIGHT to have this now. There was something so much more important, so daunting, and every second counted- "Faith," he suddenly said.
Bloody hell, Faith. The world tilted, the self consuming fear, now twisted, wrapped around him, coupled with rage. Faith, young, tired, weak. A thin remnant of what she used to be. Gone.
"We must find her," he said.
Fred looked startled, confused at his complete and utter change of subject, but she nodded. "You know who took her?"
Wesley's face was grim, his mind swimming with thoughts, moving along rapidly, so rapidly. It was disconcerting, the assuredness, the clarity that his mind reasoned with, now. For so long, forever, it seemed, his mind had played tricks on him, paranoia his greatest failing.
There was no paranoia, now. There was anger, there was fury, there was worry, and there was fear. All hinged into a pair of brown eyes, into another side of a woman that for only a few hours, gave him her world, and entrusted him to save it.
It wasn't the Faith that tortured him that gave him that. That one was jaded and angry, unable to find her place in this existence, taking out her anger, her desperation on a man who should have helped. It didn't make it better, it didn't make it right… but blasted… his own actions proved no man was perfect.
Another girl, a sweet, scared, child, had slept in his arms and begged forgiveness. She had trusted him with her broken heart. And blast it all, if he was going to let her down, too.
His features grew firm. "I have an idea."
--
She remembered being in a position like this before. In a hospital bed, alone, a hole in her stomach. Lying there, sobbing after she had told Xander to stay away from her, she had SWORN, to never let it happen again.
Every time she moved, her body ached, screaming silently that she did NOT like getting shot. She bit her lip against it, kept her body absolutely still, eyes resting dully on the bland wall before her. Her eyes were dry now, the tears flowed and gone, there was nothing left in her. Her hands pressed against her mouth, and she only stared, her mind whirling, lost in thoughts.
Rich bitch of Sunnydale – Vision Girl – Little Miss Streaks. So many permutations of the same girl, the same woman, who had chosen a destiny, a destiny that she thought was unavoidable. God, she should have known. She should have KNOWN. He had done it before, he had left her before, hadn't given a damn about his mission.
Angel never understood. Sucked into his own little world, his own little obsession – and she tried so hard. She thought she had succeeded, that he had finally let her in. God, what did it take?
Her arms ached for his child. Her heart ached for the father. It was family, it was friendship, knit so tight, she could fall asleep on his bed, trust him completely with her life, and become part demon to save him from a world of pain he couldn't have imagined.
And it happened anyway. She wasn't a Champion. She was a Seer, and they had failed. The mission had failed.
"Princess?" Turning, she encountered the worried, dark black eyes of her lover. His thumb, calloused, rubbed against her palm, and Groo looked so worried. She stared at him, for the moment too heavy hearted to do anything but look. This was Groo, a man who barely knew her, but loved her with everything inside of him. He believed in his fairy tale romance, in his princess, and his destiny, and his true love.
He didn't understand this heartbreak, this sorrow, or the concept of family. Groo never had a family, not a real one. She was all he really had, that he could ever want to call his own.
But she wasn't his, she couldn't be his, because visions in her head pounded for a Champion with a very specific name: Angel.
"Are you alright?" he asked gently. She smiled humorously.
"You mean aside from the big gaping hole in my stomach?" he didn't get the sarcastic note, and her lips quirked. "I'll be fine," she said finally, gripping his fingers. "I've just been in this situation before – ya know. Reminiscing."
"Ah. I see." He didn't see, but that was okay. Poor Groo. Did he feel like he was in over his head, she wondered. Perfectly fine in a battle, but words, politics, games, always eluded him.
The door opened with a creak, and Cordelia felt a sense of dread, when suddenly a pale hand pushed through, followed by a pale face. Again, the déjà vu came. She had seen this face before, apologetic, sane. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears. His trenchcoat, dark, dirty, wet and muddy, hung about him, no longer fitting his form, but ragged, torn.
His eyes focused on her, an unconscious plead, as he gripped at the door frame, and finally saw Groo.
Cordelia felt the tension immediately, her eyes locked on Angel's form, her hand stayed nestled in Groo's, but she no longer saw the other man. She only saw her Champion.
She closed her eyes at the word. "Groo," she finally managed quietly. "Can you give us a minute?"
The Groosalug was an honorable man, who did what he was told. He kissed her palm, and rose, big body moving out of the small chair, walking toward Angel, eyes darkening. Cordelia's own heart stumbled in beats, leadened, her expression strangely passive as Angel let Groo pass, and closed the door behind him.
It was so weird. There he was, and her heart twisted, and her eyes stung, and Cordelia felt herself trembling with emotion, biting on her lip as she shook. Angel, with his beautiful angelic face, coming forward, seated in the chair the Groosalug vacated. There was something in his eyes that she had never seen before.
But the fury, the anger, the heartache, it all tumbled within her, and it was too much. There was too much, and she was sitting here with a hole in her stomach, and Faith was gone, and he hadn't been there.
HE HADN'T BEEN THERE.
"God, Angel," she managed, not daring to look at him for fear she would scream.
"Cordelia-"
"Don't," she clipped. It was so painful, to try and talk around the lump in her throat, and Cordelia knew that maybe it was an inherent defense mechanism, because when she was this angry, the words she said… "I… just don't. I don't want to hear 'I'm sorry', again, Angel. Not if you don't mean it."
"Cordelia-"
She couldn't look at him. It was hard enough to hear the pain in his voice, the choked way he said her name, almost as if he was pleading with her. "Why are you here, Angel?" she said finally.
He was quiet. "I needed to see you."
"Why?" she demanded, and this time, and it must have been complete reaction alone, she turned, caught his gaze. Her cold expression froze. His eyes were dark, almost black, and he was trembling. Oh, God, Angel. Her eyes fluttered closed, immediately looking away. No, she couldn't- "Why?" she said again, softer, calmer.
God, Angel – the truth. Please. For Once.
"There is no why," he answered. The vampire's voice was tired. "I needed to see you. That's it."
"But WHY?" Cordelia's eyes were moist as she gripped the sheets with her hands. "How- Angel, a few hours ago, you couldn't stand to see me in your room! A few hours ago, you gave me a split lip-"
"I'm sorry-"
"NO. Don't say you're sorry," Cordelia finally looked at him again, her eyes naked, her entire world tipped to one side, making no qualms about bearing her open, broken heart to him. "You can't keep saying you're sorry, Angel! You can't make me believe in you, you can't make me love you and trust you, if you can't even trust yourself. All you see is you. All you want is what you need, at that moment. It doesn't matter if it's me, or if it's Connor or Buffy – or even Darla. I can't be that person, Angel. You only came because I almost died. You didn't come when it counted. You didn't come when we needed you, and GOD, Angel – I know Connor's gone, and I KNOW that he was everything, but, that's just it- we were here, too." Her voice broke, her eyes closed, and her beeper thingy at the edge of her bed beeped louder. "God – Angel. Is this what Connor-" And the little boy that she had held, had loved, and rocked, and kissed, his memory came flitting through her, and it was suddenly too much, it was all too much. How could she be this man's seer? How could she? When Angel loved too much? When his love burned? When his love ached and seared, and consumed?
It was too much, it was all too much, and Faith was gone, and Angel was here, and he wasn't there before-
"Cordelia, you have to-"
She shivered. "Angel, please leave."
She had said 'please'. She couldn't demand he leave. Even if she couldn't bear the sight of him, she couldn't demand it, because she needed him, here. It was so pathetic. He had taken forever to get here, but he was HERE, and she wanted him here, even if he burned and broke. She needed him here. She needed the man who had loved his son, and been her companion, and she knew the obsession that came with it, and if he stayed one more moment, she'd stop caring about that line-
And she had to remember the line. She had to remember the mission. Sometimes, she was the only one that remembered the mission.
So she closed her eyes, and she held her breath, and she waited, praying he would go.
The metal chair squeaked, there was no sigh. It was Angel, and he didn't
need to breathe. Her eyes were shut tight, her fingers clenched around
the sheets, and when the door closed, Cordelia, in all her bitter disappointment,
finally began to sob.
--
//I've been a bad, bad girl…//
Everything was a foggy haze. Around her, she heard the words. She felt the weight of her body, of her head, as she sagged forward. The only thing keeping her from toppling over, were the ropes, bound around her wrists, tied behind the chair. Where the ropes hung, burns came. The thread had aggravated her wounds, and they had reopened, spilling blood over the floor.
//What I need is a good defense, 'cause I'm feeling like a criminal.//
Dark leather pants, a dark, tight t-shirt. He had played dress up with her, put her in clothes she had once worn before, almost as if he needed to see her like this. Wesley's father, with the same damned blue eyes.
Her eyes fluttered, and she leaned forward again, chin resting against her chest.
"Faith." She blinked, couldn't move, and found her chin tipped up, until she had no choice but stare into dark blue eyes. "I asked you a question."
Her head was jerked back, the nape of her neck pulled painfully, and she hissed in, when the pinprick of a needle slid into her neck.
Fuuuuuuck.
//I don't run, I wanna suffer for my sins.//
Her throat felt large, immensely large, too large to speak. She fumbled the words, her lips almost refusing to cooperate, as she tried to focus on Pryce. Both of him.
"The five basic torture groups. What are they, please?" He was so damned polite. She shook her head, trying to concentrate, as she glanced up at him. This seemed familiar. Really fucking familiar.
"Blunt," she managed, suddenly nauseous when the floor refused to stop rocking. "Loud."
"That's two, good girl. The rest?"
She twisted to the side, was suddenly righted again by some bastard. "Uhh… Sharp. Cold."
"And hot." She almost smiled, and the smirk froze when a butane light was suddenly produced, inches from her face. "Tell me, Faith. Did you use this on my son?"
"Wesley," she managed.
"That's right, Wesley." The aerosol can came within inches from her face. The light flared, and she whimpered, body instinctively jerking back from the flame, so close to her skin, almost making it bubble. Searing, hot- her eyes shut against the pain, and she was there again, straddling him.
//"Admit it, Wesley. Didn't you always kind of have the hots for me?" //
She swayed, suddenly thrust into another place. God, she didn't know when, or where, maybe from Giles, she had read a book. A book about pain. And safe places. Find your safe place. Take your mind away.
The same blue eyes, the same glasses, but she wasn't straddling him anymore. She was sleeping next to him, in a motel room. Her head jerked, and she was lost in her safe place.
The darkness kept coming, through her blankets, through her robe. The wounds were raw and bleeding, and the pain seared, itched inside of her in a place she could never touch.
Hands held her down, and she thrashed wildly to get him off – she couldn't get him the FUCK OFF.
"Faith!" It was a strained voice, full of sorrow and fear, and it was close – so close-
Her eyes shot open, bringing into focus a face that loomed out of the darkness, inches from hers. Her body panted, pinned beneath a hard, naked body, who's hands tangled in hers, keeping her down.
"Wesley," she said raggedly.
"A nightmare," he said, like he had been saying it for ages. "That's all it was, Faith. A night mare." She panted heavily, chest rising and falling, breasts pressed against his lean torso, eyes locked on his own blue orbs. Her heart pounded inside of her, so hard it hurt.
"A nightmare," she repeated.
Wesley's hands squeezed reassuringly, nodding, voice calm. "A nightmare. It's over."
"It's over?" she said.
"It's over."
Her eyes closed, head falling back against the pillows. His body weight, splayed on top of hers, was a reassurance that they were here, this was happening. The way he kept her under him, with superior strength, told her it was real.
"No," she said achingly. "It's not over. It's not the FUCK OVER." Her outburst came with a jerk of her arms, trying to buck him off, but with no strength, there was nothing she could do. Her writhing jerks tore at her shoulder, and the pain was so steep, so agonizing, that she gave up with a collapse.
When she began to sob, he finally lifted off. Faith felt him release her, the warm of his body leaving her own, and she shook uncontrollably, going by pure instinct now. She didn't care if it was Wesley, hell maybe it was because it WAS Wesley, but she was blind to it now. Arms slid around his shoulders, and with what little strength she had, she pulled him back to her.
God, please – just let him hold me. One fucking minute. One fucking minute.
His body was stock still, as the terror swept over her, buried in the reality of her plight. She ached, body and soul, and her blood was smeared with her sins, her fear weighted with her past, with what she had done to him. But her panic must have done something, because his arms swept around her, and Wesley held her. His face buried into her shoulder, and he held her trembling body close.
"It'll be over soon, Faith," he whispered. "I promise."
She pounded uselessly at his shoulder, sobbing, even as she breathed, practically panted against his cheek. "WHEN?" she asked desperately.
"I don't know," he answered quietly. She shuddered, closed her eyes, pressed her lips against him, and held on for dear life. She was scared. She was so fucking scared. "You're safe for now," he added, in that damned British tone.
Safe. She was Safe.
"Faith."
Looking up, she found there was only one of Mr. Pryce. He knelt before her, glancing at her curiously. "Where were you just now?"
She smiled, a genuine smile, this time even able to ignore the rocking
of the floor. "With your son."
The slap across her face was hard enough to draw blood.
--
"My Princess, if he hurt you..."
Cordelia had a headache. She was angry, on the verge of snapping, and it wasn't this man's fault. The Groosalug looked confused, furious, hands balled into fists. Her eyes felt heavy, too heavy for this conversation. God, all she wanted was to sleep now. To not think about Angel, or Faith, or Wesley, or even Groo.
But, this guy wasn't making it very easy.
"He didn't HURT me," she managed. "I got this gunshot all on my own. Big girl, Groo."
"But Princess, he has upset you."
"Cordelia, Groo," she reminded him. "Not Princess." God. She did NOT need this right now. She took in a soft breath, attempting to get leverage on her splintering mind, and tried again. "Groo," she began softly. "I'm honored that you feel you have to protect my honor, or something. But Angel and I are friends. We have fights. And you can't go and try to duel him to the death everytime we do!"
Her dark-haired lover narrowed his eyes, a warriors mentality that was almost impossible to break coming forth. "This 'fight' resulted in you almost losing your life. I shall not tolerate such a flagrant disregard for the woman I love."
"Angel's going through problems." Great, she was defending the big vampire bastard. Why? She had no idea. "Groo, he's-"
"Obsessive. A warrior should know better."
Yes, a warrior should have known better. "Nobody's perfect, Groo."
At this, his face softened. He sank down in his chair, and offered her a beautiful, dimpled smile. "There is one exception."
She stared in the dark black of his eyes, registering the words. Her. Perfect. Damn, but how she wished THAT were true. Suppressing the urge to sigh dramatically, Cordelia felt another wave of nausea slide over her. The damned medicine, doing what it was supposed to. This wasn't what she needed now. God. Maybe she SHOULD let Groo go beat up Angel. She SHOULD.
"Fine," she finally said, tone dropping an octave when a haze of pain swept over her. "Fine," she repeated. "You do that. You go after him, and beat the crap out of him."
He knelt, took her hand in hers gently, as if he were holding something infinitely precious. The action made her heart ache, and she wasn't sure why. It was a bittersweet feeling, painful and agonizing, seeing this man's worship of her. God, wasn't that what she had always wanted? A man to be totally, and completely hers?
"As you wish," he whispered, pressing his lips to her fingers, rising. "I shall find Angel, and I shall-"
"Beat the crap out of him, right." Cordelia nodded mechanically. Groo almost snorted, moving toward the hospital. "Groo!" He paused, turning back.
"Yes?"
"I think he's in Venice. Take the bus!"
The Groosalug's staunch resolution visibly faltered, and despite the dire circumstances, Cordelia couldn't help but smile as his fists clenched. "Yes, my princess."
God, she really wished the guy would argue about something already. In two steps he was gone, and Cordelia finally allowed the tension out in one long breath, falling back against the pillows. There. One problem averted. Groosalug would be lost for hours on the buses.
A hand slid to her abdomen, and she hissed. God, getting shot hurt. Her body felt as if it weight a ton, not exactly heartening, coupled with her splintered heart. Her hazel eyes flickered toward the doorway, as her soul betrayed her, and she waited for Angel to appear.
He didn't, of course. She had sent him away. Her Champion. Who had lost a child. The one thing he had believed in.
DAMMIT.
An unwelcome sob slid over her, and Cordelia clenched her fists, closing her eyes in an attempt to shut out the world.
And suddenly, the world flooded into her.
Cordelia's eyes shot open, but she no longer saw the hospital. Instead, her hands were constrained, aching, and the wave about her, on the floor, in her head, was making her sick. She gulped, tasted the blood, and it made her gag.
Hazy vision blurred the figure before her. Drumming pounded in her ears, and the heaviness around her was permeating.
Fuuuuuuck.
"Faith?" she whispered.
Her brain jolted, a soft, lilting sigh. //Cordelia. You the one singing?//
The pain was searing, and Cordelia jerked, recoiled when a hand slapped her, so hard the chair tumbled over, head cracking against the hardwood floor.
Cordelia felt as if she was flung out of Faith's body, through the wall, on the lawn of the house with the address that started with 3443.
Sucked back inside, she fell as Faith did, her body weighted with agony when this time, the old man in front of her, produced a knife.
She screamed.
--
end chapter