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 Ten
Share my life, take me for what I am.
'Cause I'll never change all my colors for you
Take my love, I'll never ask for too much
Just all that are, and everything that do.
- Whitney Houston
--
The coffee was hot. Really hot. Way too hot.
Charles grimaced, carefully walking with the two Styrofoam cups, balancing the little cup of cream, and the two packets of sugar, just how Fred liked them, and kept his gaze on the floor in front of him, noting absently that his shoes were dirty.
At the end of the corridor, Fred slept, body twisted in a way that had to be uncomfortable, splayed across three different chairs. Charles' lips twisted up, and despite the uncomfortable anxiety, the never ending tension that made his shoulders ache, he couldn't help the sense of pride at the fact that Fred was HIS girl.
The pride was short lived, when suddenly a cry came from Cordelia's room. Fred jerked up, and Charles began to move, only to remember that the coffee was damned HOT, and he hissed, jerking to a stop as Wesley also slid into the room. Walking as quickly as he could, he hobbled to the counter, placed his coffee on it, and darted forward, steps faltering in the doorway.
"Cordelia!" Wesley was bent over her, holding her hands. Fred was at the foot. Gunn watched helplessly as Cordelia jerked, writhed in the bed. Her eyes were open, glassy. "Cordelia!"
"What's wrong?"
"Oh, God. Guys, guys!" Cordelia sat up in her bed, winced in pain, and buckled from the wound, falling back. "Shit," she gulped heavily. "Shit. Shit." Taking in long, gasping breaths, Cordelia's eyes were wild, a hand pressed against her forehead. "Faith. I know where she is."
Wesley froze, a reaction Gunn didn't miss, as he came into the room, moved to the other side of the bed. Cordelia's eyes connected with Wes's, she nodded quickly. "Wesley, she's with your father."
His father!? Charles' own surprise was unchecked, but when his mouth parted to question, he found Fred had beaten him to it.
"His father?"
"Yes." Wesley clipped his answer. "My father."
There was a whole lot here, that people weren't telling him. And Gunn was DAMNED tired of not being told things. His hands balled into fists, the bruises on his face discoloring even more when the red flushed into his system. "What the hell is going on with Wes's pops?"
"Gunn, there's no time," Cordelia said, shooting him a look. "He's going to kill her."
"When?" Wesley was already on his feet.
"Soon."
"Fred, take care of her," Wesley said, grabbing his jacket from the hook.
"You don't even know where she is!"
"I do," Wesley said, pulling out a worn, ragged piece of paper from his jeans. "I know where my father is."
Fred shifted from next to Gunn, and her uncomfortable gaze told them all, she was hesitant to even give the question. "Shouldn't we, you know… find Angel?"
"There's no time," Cordelia said, rubbing at her forehead, trembling slightly. "Please, Wes, just go." Wesley headed to the door, and Gunn's eyes narrowed, the anger almost threatening to swallow him up inside.
"You can't go alone!" Fred said. "God, Wesley- haven't you learned a thing?!"
Wesley froze, faltering at the doorway, as the words sunk into the air. He turned, the bandage stark white against his pale skin, and his frown sunker further, shoulders visibly sinking. "I…"
"He ain't going alone." Charles shook his head, tone rough and angry. Moving around Fred, he reached for his coat, and pulled it on in short, rough jerks. "Don't know why everyone here likes SO much to forget about ME! I'm the freaking GO-TO guy! You guys should KNOW to ask me."
Cordelia and Fred both smiled at him, eyes shining with damned near hero-worship, like he had just run a marathon or something, and Gunn didn't dwell on it. They would have made him smile, and he didn't want to smile right now.
He strode to Wesley, looked him in the eyes, and said evenly, "Let's go, dog."
Wesley's dark blue eyes regarded him silently, but there was a hint of a grin, all that Wesley felt was allowed or something, and then English turned. "Come on."
Walking away, side by side, long strides down the corridor, Gunn sneaked a glance to the tall man next to him.
"Your father, man?" Gunn asked in bewilderment.
Wesley's adam's apple bobbed, indication of a heavy gulp, but there was no answer.
Charles closed his eyes, took in a shuddering breath, and kept walking. Someone was going to explain this shit to him, and soon. He was taking way too much on faith.
"Charles."
Gunn glanced over. Wesley's face was staring straight ahead, all he saw was a passive profile.
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry."
Silence, as the words did something, churned into his stomach, cause Gunn knew exactly what he was apologizing for.
"Yeah man," he answered easily. "Me too."
And he was. Cause when it came down to it, Wes was a good man, who had made a shit load of bad choices. And just like every person he had ever known, including himself, it seemed Wes was about to come face to face with a past he had avoided for years.
Charles didn't envy him. Not one bit.
--
There were endless rows of them, it seemed.
Angel paused, touched his fingers to the glass, the vampire's face pressing close, haunted eyes watching every movement. The nursery baskets were colored: pink or blue, corresponding to each child's sex. In each one, there was a baby. His eyes were riveted to one, a child with a little wrinkled face. Just borne.
The tiny face contorted, the baby yawned, a soundless cry as he shifted, surprisingly strong for a newborn. Angel was frozen, his feet glued to the floor, even as the chasm in his heart opened wider, when the proud Father laughed, ten feet away, pointing out his son to everyone that passed.
Angel's eyes turned back, regarded the child. The lump in his throat, the pain, it was all myriad of emotions, trickling down, lower, lower, settling into his stomach.
The soul ached for the pain, the demon fed on it. Angel's fingers scratched against the glass, kept his eyes on the child.
His child.
He blinked. It would be so easy, to break the glass, sweep in, take the child that looked so much like Connor- but it wasn't Connor.
It wasn't Connor. His eyes closed, and he exhaled, a long sigh he didn't need, that fogged the glass, disrupted the vision of the child.
With a frustrated shout, Angel banged against the glass, ignoring the sudden silence as he flung himself away from the wall. He walked quickly, soul searing as he continued to move.
His mind continued to whirl, ignoring the deadened heart that told him there was nothing to care for at all. Hazel eyes burned through him, choked tears mottling a voice stained with anger and hurt sifted through his ears, and his hands clenched into fists.
He hadn't been there. Faith was gone, because he hadn't been there. Cordelia was gone, if not in body, in mind, from him, because he hadn't been there.
Faith. The renegade Slayer who had believed in him. Needed him. Needed to believe that redemption was possible. A new life, she had to believe she was capable of that. Had he been fooling her this whole time?
Again, the pressing need to see Cordelia was overwhelming. Even if his mind refused to believe it, his heart, full and pressing and urging for more, wanted to thump at the sight of her, reassure himself that he hadn't lost her. Not like he lost Connor.
Cordelia was living, and breathing, and hurting.
But she was alive.
He paused, steps faltering when he heard the voices in Cordelia's room, vampire senses coming through, Fred's voice soft and lilting and worried.
"Do you want some Tylenol?"
"Fred, I'm fine. They're giving me stuff that's much stronger."
"Right, cause you're used to much stronger- erm… I'll just get you some water. I know the visions don't hurt anymore, but…"
"Fred, I'm fine. I just… they have to get to her."
Angel blinked. Get to who? Vision? Jerked into motion, Angel turned into the room, ignoring Fred's startled burst of surprise to demand, "Where."
Cordelia regarded him, mouth parted. "I… Angel-"
"If Faith's in trouble, they're going to need my help," he clipped. There was clarity in this moment, in how Cordelia's hazel eyes regarded him. The hostility was there, but it didn't matter. He was the Champion. She was the Seer. That was how this worked.
"3443 W. Halldale," she said. He gave a short nod, turned toward the door. "Angel."
He whipped his head back, staring down at his Seer, who's face was curiously guarded. "The guy who's torturing her is Wesley's father."
The sentence hung in the air like a bad smell. His growl rumbled loud, coming from his stomach, up to his throat, but he squelched the curses, and only gave a short nod.
He understood. Whether or not he would have the self control to not kill the bastard if he had hurt Faith, was a different story.
Turning, he left his Seer, reeled out of the room, and began to run down the corridor.
--
Blunt was next.
She kept count. How, or why, she had no idea. It seemed the only thing running freely in the vagueness of her mind, were the five methods. Forced to count alongside him, he continued to speak, slowly, softly, always unfailingly polite, even as the blade etched across her skin.
He had asked her, point by point, what she had done to Wesley. She had been forced to remember every wrong, every single account of what she had done.
"Was this of your own free will?" he asked.
One side of Faith's face was swollen. Her right eye had puffed so badly she no longer could see out of it, and her left eye stung, as blood from a wound in her forehead crept into it. There was no clarity in her vision, but a blurry version of a man who looked like an older, harder, stiffer version of Wesley.
Strangely impassive, Faith stared.
"Faith," he said again. "I asked you a question."
If she didn't answer, he would bring out the needle. Fuck, she didn't want the needle. She had gagged, dry heaves that felt as if her entire stomach wanted to erupt the last time the thing had been pushed into her skin.
"My own free will," she managed, slumping against the ropes, wincing when they bit into her skin. The pain was minimal, compared to the gashes on her face, her shoulders, her chest.
"Your own free will." She blinked, eyes closing. A cloth wiped at her face. "No, no. Open those eyes. It's rude to close them when one is speaking."
Refocusing, he was there again, in the dark room.
"What are you waiting for?" she bit. "You want to kill me, just kill me."
"Not just yet." He slipped into the chair opposite hers. "You see it's so rare, to have one like you."
"Like me."
"Homicidal maniac. A being of pure evil."
Evil. She was evil.
"I'm evil. Just kill me! I'm evil…"
Her body jerked back. "The Watchers Council was never quite sure what to do with you, Faith. Some were convinced you could be rehabilitated." He chuckled humorously. "You see what that logic did to my son."
Wesley.
She was dizzy, fingernails digging alongside his skin as the embarrassment followed the return to sanity.
Faith kept her face hidden, buried into his shoulder, suddenly very aware of the fact that she had been naked. Consciously naked, against a man who was most likely repulsed by her. Her mouth was pressed against a white line, a small jagged scar, that could have been placed there by her.
What the fuck was she doing?
But he kept her there, and Faith couldn't move, not yet. The strength just wasn't there, and neither was the gumption, even if her face flushed, and the shame at her own neediness crept over her.
A choked whimper escaped, mottled words formed on her bruised lips. "Wesley."
"Yes," came the quiet response.
She couldn't quite get the words out. They were choked and angry, and scared, and when she finally stuttered them out, through the hazy state of her mind, they were so quiet he probably had to strain to hear them.
"I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I'm-"
"Faith." His fingers rubbed against her shoulders. Her eyes drifted closed at the caress of a pair of soft lips on her forehead. "Shhh."
"I wanted to kill you."
"I don't doubt that."
She was trembling now, immersed in his scent, cheek flat against smooth skin. She was still tight in his embrace, even as her mind flashed with a recount of that night.
"You should hate me. But you're helping me. You're fucking helping-"
"Faith."
"Help me," she whispered. The words were trembling, soft, full of meaning, and she had never felt so naked than at that moment, whispering against his skin, feeling his heart skip under her, his fingers pause against her skin. "Help me, Wesley," she whispered again. "Please."
There was silence, and it was so terrible, seeping into her bleeding heart, on edge until she felt him sigh underneath her.
"You trust me." It was a flat response.
She found herself giggling almost hysterically. "Don't have a choice here, Wes."
"You shouldn't."
"I don't care. You shouldn't be helping me."
They both fell silent. Her eyes finally found the courage to open, and found his profile staring straight up, blue eyes lost in thought.
When he moved, she instinctively clutched at him. He paused, and the shame came just as quickly, as she pushed herself off, curled into the other side of the bed, heart hammering in fear.
"Faith." She bit her lip, looking at the thump, thump, thumping. "I'm going to the payphone. I'm going to call Cordelia, and we're going to save you."
Her eyes closed, she shivered at the words. "Don't leave me." God. She was a fucking mental case. She had never begged anything, from anyone. He was the last person, who she should have begged-
And he was there, kneeling against the bed, looking into her eyes. "You said you trust me," he reminded her. "Then believe me, when I say you're safe here. And I'll be back."
Haunted by his eyes, Faith wondered if there could really be so much pain, as there was in his eyes at that moment. What the hell was going on with him?
Her palm drifted to his cheek, cradled it carefully. "Safe," she repeated.
"You're safe, Faith." His palm covered her own, squeezing gently. "I promise."
--
The physical torture had paused for now, and it left behind a crumpled mess of a girl. Robbed of her strength, of her healing, Faith was still remarkably strong, managing to stay seated in her chair, as she looked upon him with dead eyes, glassy with pain.
She regarded him, trying desperately to remain focused.
"Do you believe in free will?" he asked quietly.
"What?"
"Free will."
She swallowed, closed her eyes. "Doesn't fucking matter."
"Refrain from using those words, please. Answer the question."
Her eyelids, heavy with exhaustion and pain, fluttered. She glared at him from under them. "Why do you care?"
Hmmm. She was getting some clarity back. When the man behind moved again with the needle, Pryce held up his hand. No, it was better this way. Let her understand.
"Free will," he said again. "Do you believe in it?"
"Do you?" she shot back.
He smiled. "I asked you first."
She gave a heavy breath, sagging underneath her bonds. "I have to."
"I see. I do not. I believe things are destined. Lovers. Actions. Personalities. Predetermined, because everyone has a role in life, Faith. You understand that, don't you? Some of us, are meant to be heroes. Others are meant to be cowards. Some are meant to be leaders. Others, murderers. Free will, you understand, implies a choice. But you never had one, did you Faith?"
She blinked, bruised face expressionless. She gave stony silence.
"Because if you had a choice, would you have become what you are? Rotten? Evil? It's in your bones, Faith. The call for violence, for bloodshed. Look at your friend Angel, the vampire."
"Shut up," she whispered.
"He isn't here, is he? Because of his nature. He is inherently evil."
"Shut up!"
"Prove me wrong, Faith." She closed her eyes, apparently now fully concentrating on breathing. He noticed a lone tear trailing down her cheek. He noted it down.
"I'm not evil," she muttered. "I'm not."
"Yes, dear," he said pleasantly. "You are." He motioned with a jerk of his finger, and Murray came forward. "Start the preparations, the incantations." Murray nodded. "It doesn't matter, Faith. It's your nature. You have no choice. Does that help at all?"
"What the hell do you want from me?" she burst, openly trembling, eyes flashing. "What?"
He cocked his head, his own heart twisting at the sight of the young girl, hating so openly. "I suppose I would like to understand fate. What makes you a monster, Faith. When you could have been just another girl. It's a question I'm sure you have asked yourself countless times. What if you hadn't been chosen? Another girl, living in a poor tenement with a dead father, and a mother who loved her colorful use of language and her soap operas even more. You were chosen, and you thought, finally, you were special. Chosen, Faith, it was your destiny. There was no choice. Your future was decided, then and there."
She shuddered, eyes obstructed as her head bent down, a soft whimpering coming from her.
He paused. "Faith?"
She gave another sob, and suddenly jerked her head up. "Just kill me now, Pryce," she whispered. "You're not going to break me. You're not going to get into my head, and you're not gonna make me believe that there's no fucking choices."
"Oh?" he was openly curious. "And you say this, because?"
"Because your son could have chosen to be a little dickwad, pissant, mindless drone like you. That was his fucking destiny as a Watcher, and he didn't take it." Pryce burned, his eyes flickered to the man behind her. It was all he needed.
The needle sank into her neck, and she hissed, eyes closing, slumping in the chair.
--
Wesley was silent as he looked from the paper, to the large house, secluded in the hills of North Pasadena.
Gunn placed the gear in park, and gave a low whistle at the sight of it. "Looks big." Wesley could feel his friend's gaze on him. "So… how we going to get in? What's the big plan?"
The role of leadership had been passed to him, not because he wanted it, but because they had no choice.
He made no comment. There was nothing in his heart but resolve, fury, commitment. "Walk right in," he answered calmly.
When he glanced at Charles, the big man was staring openly in surprise. "Uh… Wes. That don't sound very… "
From his lapel, Wesley produced a pistol, a familiar looking pistol that might have belonged to Casper Lee.
"Oh." Charles let out a shaky breath. "Walk right in with a gun. Right. Okay." Wesley opened the door, hopping out. "This shit's getting crazy," he heard muttered behind him, and although Wesley had no time to remark on it, he had to agree.
Crazy, indeed.
--
The waiting was always the hardest part.
Fred continued to pace, hands wringing together nervously as she walked to and from, back and forth, front and back, eyes drifting over the setting sun.
She shivered, wrapping her nervous arms around her body, feeling her heart thump hard within her, a testament to her obvious agitation.
"Fred, sweetie." Fred turned, regarded Cordelia. The Seer was staring at her with a drawn expression. "If you're going to keep walking in circles like a merry-go-round, do it outside. You're giving me motion sickness."
Fred let out an apologetic giggle, coming forward. "I'm sorry," she said nervously, settling down on the side side of the bed that Cordelia left open for. "I'm just…"
"Scared? Nervous? Worried?"
"And in a little frustrated, sorry, frightened and claustrophobic, and you've got it right." When Cordelia stared at her blankly, Fred added, "I don't like hospitals."
"Hmm. Not a huge fan of them myself."
Fred smiled light, an expression she was not able to keep very long. "Where's Groo?"
Cordelia's eyes reopened, her voice was soft, and weak. "I sent him to Venice to kick Angel's ass. On the bus."
There were a lot of things about that sentence that didn't make sense, but Fred, at that moment, wasn't really willing to get into it. She blew out her breath, gave a shrug, and then said as an afterthought, "But Angel went after Wesley and Gunn."
Cordelia shuddered visibly, a reaction that made Fred frown, and she quickly stood, pulling a chair and coming forward. "Are you okay? Do you want some ice chips, or something?"
"Fred," Cordelia shook her head slowly, forcing the Pylean ex-slave to still her nervous fussing, sink back down into the uncomfortable plastic of the chair. Cordelia raised her right hand wearily. "I'm fine, damned near high, actually," she remarked, a silly smile on her face, indicating the IV pushing the pain medication through her.
"Oh." Fred swallowed, licked her lips. "You didn't have any problems, did you? Because of you know…" she leaned forward, whispered almost as if speaking louder was a sin, "Demon thing?"
Cordelia's eyes fluttered open again, suddenly lost in thought. "Never thought of that." Her eyes drifted closed again, and Fred noticed this time, thumping her head as her aching heart shuddered in realization.
"Oh, God. I'm sorry. I completely forgot that you're probably all tripping out and you want to sleep, I'll just leave-"
"Fred." A delicate hand closed over her wrist, keeping her close. Pulling slightly, Cordelia's eyes open, suddenly clear, free of pain or groggy medicine induced highs. "I just…" There was a moment of silence, in which Fred waited intensely, unsure what to do as Cordelia's grip on her hand was infallible. Hazel orbs tinged with moisture accompanied a cracked voice, as the Seer said in a tone completely devoid of sarcasm. "You saved my life, Fred. So… thank you."
The words were so simple, but it took Fred a full second to absorb the meaning, to understand the look of complete admiration, grateful adoration coming from a woman she revered, almost worshiped. Her eyes suddenly stung, and a smile drifted to her lips as she couldn't help but say humbly, "Well, Cordelia… you would have done the same for me."
They shared a smile, a soft smile, and Fred felt something shift in, as their hands tangled, fingers held. Equals.
The moment past when an orderly came in to check Cordelia's vitals, and Fred flushed, leaning back, crossing her arms, waiting silently until he finished. As she waited, her mind, thinking, always thinking, was pulled back to the circumstances that brought them here, and she couldn't help but shudder.
"What?" Cordelia asked. The orderly stepped out, and Fred gave her apologetic glance, rubbing at her shoulders, trying to soothe out the unconscious shivers.
"I was just… wondering," she admitted. "If this was how those people felt. You know, in the wars. The women. Waiting for their husbands." Cordelia simply stared, and Fred, face flushed, added, "Because I feel so tight inside, so nervous, and I keep looking at the door, afraid that they won't come back. That he won't come back. There's this knot in my stomach that won't go away until they all come back, but my heart, it's thumping, so hard, and so fast… and it won't stop until Gunn walks in." Fred's brown eyes searched Cordelia. The Seer was silent, her fists was tangled around a white hospital sheet, and her luminous orbs seemed mysterious, lost in thought. "I was just… thinking, maybe this is what they felt like," she finished.
Cordelia was silent, and Fred wondered if she was thinking of Angel, as she closed her eyes, and said in a statement that was half wonder, half resignation, "Yeah. That's exactly what they felt like."
--
She fought the drug. If she concentrated, she could feel the blood
rushing through her veins, carrying whatever it was to her muscles, robbing
her of her strength, to her brain, robbing her of her clarity.
She sobbed, shaking now, shivering with cold as her hands twisted at the ropes, ears pounding, paranoia coming forth. It came along with the anger, and the fear. The fear that he would break her, the fear that she would believe him.
The fear that he was right, had been right all along. This, hands behind her back, body aching, split open, was all there ever was for her. All there ever had been.
No point to any of it. There was no hotel room, there was no safe spot. There was no Wesley, except the Wesley she had tortured, the Wesley she had straddled, licked, burned.
"Faith." The voice broke through her consciousness. Calloused digits leaned forward, tipped her chin up, careful to not muddy himself with her bleeding nose. "What are you thinking of?"
There was still something in her, even as her stomach rebelled against the drug, and she choked, fought the urge to vomit. When she had regained control, she smiled. "There is no spoon."
"Faith."
"There are four lights!"
A large sigh floated her way, and she grinned, tossing her head up with as much strength as she could muster. "I can do the gingerbread man from Shrek, too. Got some milk?"
She winced when she saw the slap coming. He had a large gold ring on his third finger, and it pounded against her wounded flesh, tearing more of her lip with it.
Fuck. Could she bleed ANY MORE?
"Okay," she managed. "I get it, okay? You have a NICE ass ring. Stop flaunting it." Stiffening, she almost smiled at his loss of control, as he jerked her head between his hands, pulled her up until her neck almost snapped, his dark eyes boring into hers.
"You'll be dead soon. You will not beat us, child. In a few minutes, nothing will matter."
Shit. She knew that. "Maybe," she whispered. "But it's damned worth it."
"Are you so callous, you have forgotten what you've done to my son?" His hands jerked away, as if she was too filthy to be bothered with his touch. Her expression sombered at the mention of Wesley, a twist coming from inside her she hadn't had before.
"I remember ever day," she whispered. "Every. Fucking. Day. And you know what ? You got your fucking revenge, okay? I'm dying. I can see the light at the end of the fucking tunnel – there is no damned spoon, and I'm getting disconnected any minute, now. Your son is AVENGED."
He stared at her, breathing hard, panting as he pulled at his tie, loosened it roughly. He stared at her, sweaty and tired, and suddenly, he broke, letting out a peal of laughter that sent chills through her.
As she glared, he continued to laugh. Sweat and blood dripped into her good eye, and it stung, but she kept watching, as the dude who refused to shoot Cordy came in, carrying some old dagger, some candles. A mirror.
"You, poor, silly girl. This has never been about revenge. Not completely."
"Oh really?"
The tone was unfailingly polite, even if it's clipped, terse emotion. Every nerve in her jolted, and relief and dismay floated through her like a river at full current as she slumped back in the chair, and let the tears finally fall, blurring the figures.
She still saw him though, as she tried to shake the tears away. A blue-eyed man with a patch on his neck, leveling a gun directly at his father, face hard, angry.
"Then pray tell, Father," Wesley asked. "What is it?"
--
end chapter