Warnings and disclaimers in chapter one, but as always, a huge thanks to Wesleys Girl for the beta.
**
If there were no desire to heal
The damaged and broken met along
This tedious path I've chosen here
I certainly would've walked away by now.
-The Patient, by Tool
**
Wesley came to slowly, wondering why everything was so cold. He could feel something hard and sharp pressing against his face, and his skin pulsing with his heartbeat, so he knew he wasn't dead. He tried to roll over but found the action hampered by a firm weight on top of him. With a soft "oomph" he threw his weight up, feeling the form on top of him roll over and groan.
"Spike?" he whispered as he moved to his hands and knees and tried to adjust to the inky darkness surrounding them. They were in a very small space, and his stomach twisted horribly when he felt his way up the wall. This was all frighteningly familiar; the darkness, the walls, the slightly musty smell, the feeling of being trapped. His voice had an edge of urgency as he turned and gripped the vampire's shoulder tightly. "What was that thing?"
Spike sat up slowly, holding his head. "Dunno. If I'd known it'd give me a headache I wouldn't 'ave bought it." He groaned again and shook Wesley's hand off. "Bloody *hell* that hurts."
Wesley's eyes were finally beginning to adjust to the light, and his suspicions were confirmed. They were in a small room, barely big enough to move, and there was a small sliver of faded light against the floor behind Spike. He put one finger over the vampire's lips and bent over him, his hand moving across the wall until he found the edge of a door.
He reached up and felt that space above them as far as he could, making sure there was room for them before standing carefully and pulling Spike to his feet. He could feel the man's questioning look against his fingers but ignored it. "Spike." The word was barely audible, more of a breath than a whisper. "The door's locked; you have to open it.
Quietly." He felt Spike nod and heard him jiggling the doorknob, trying to break the lock without too much sound.
Wesley was trying his hardest to remain calm. He'd been in far more dangerous situations during his time at Angel Investigations. None of the situations they'd been in, however, had ever taken him back to his childhood in such a tangible sense.
A click and a triumphant grunt from the vampire had Wesley scrambling to get out of their dark confines. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut, afraid of seeing things sickeningly familiar when he opened them. He felt Spike at his side and fought back the urge to grab him, just to have something close.
"How'n the hell'd we get in there?" Spike asked softly, and Wesley finally opened his eyes.
It was just exactly the way he remembered it, if somewhat smaller. Spike was looking at Wesley curiously, but he ignored it, his eyes focused on the small coat closet situated underneath the stairs. The paint on the inside of the door was chipping, and it was completely empty. Even the shelves near the ceiling were gone. The floor was covered in the same thick brown carpet that his parents had taken out when Wesley was eleven years old.
Spike must have realized that something was terribly wrong, because he put his hand on Wesley's arm and turned him so they were facing. "What's wrong? You been here before?"
Wesley nodded, dragging his eyes from the closet and to Spike's worried face. "Yes. I..." He swallowed thickly and continued. "I grew up here. It doesn't look this way any longer, but it's just as I remember it."
"So?" Spike quirked an eyebrow curiously. "What's wrong with that? Home's home, right?"
Wesley closed his eyes and tried to collect himself. Spike was right; there was nothing wrong with it, not really. He was being foolish. "It just makes no sense that we'd end up in my old house twenty years in the past, Spike." He shook out of the vampire's grip and walked away, toward the front room where his mother used to sit and crochet.
The sun was shining brightly outside and spilling through large windows onto the carpet. The light made all the colors seem faded and grainy, giving the place an ethereal feel. He walked through the light slowly, running his fingertips along the back of his father's chair, pausing to pick up a magazine. The date read July 5, 1979.
"Spike," he said softly, turning, and he was momentarily surprised to see that the vampire hadn't followed him.
"There's someone up there, Watcher," Spike said, pointing up the stairs and never looking over at Wesley. He started to quietly climb the stairs, a curious look on his face, and Wes dropped the magazine and followed him, wondering if his parents would recognize the adult version of himself in 1979.
They climbed quickly, and Wesley made his way down the hallway to his bedroom. He peeked through other open doorways on his way and found them all empty. Spike was following him quietly, obviously not wanting to bother Wesley too much.
Wesley pushed the door to his room open slowly and looked inside. It was just as he remembered it: bare walls, hardwood floor, shelf after shelf of heavy volumes, a small bed, and finally his desk. The desk that the ten year old version of himself was currently occupying.
The little boy turned and looked at him, smiling just a little when he saw who was in the doorway. "Oh, it's you. Hello, Wesley."
"Hello," Wesley answered uncertainly, trying to wrack his brain for any memory of a large version of himself visiting when he was ten. He couldn't recall any, and with a small shrug he stepped into the room, motioning to Spike to follow him. They walked over to the desk and little Wesley, staring down at his projects.
Spike made a soft sound of surprise when he saw what the child was drawing, and Wesley simply stared, openmouthed. There were pages of drawings spread out over the desk, all of them representing parts of Wesley's life. The one he was working on studiously was a picture of the hospital room Wesley had been in after Justine had cut him. Angel was standing over him, holding the pillow, and the shaky, childlike quality of the drawing only made it more disturbing. It was all Wesley could do to keep from ripping the picture away from his child self and tearing it into tiny pieces.
"He doesn't hate you, Wesley." The child looked up at his older counterpart. "He's just scared." Wesley hardened his features, the memories of being completely helpless and nearly murdered by his best friend washing over him.
Spike reached over and turned the picture little Wesley was drawing so that he could see it more clearly, and then looked up at the other man with a dark expression. "He tried to off you?" Wesley simply nodded, and Spike's eyes narrowed more. "He have 'is soul, too?" Wes nodded again and Spike's lip curled. He turned from the Wesleys angrily and walked away, obviously lost in thought.
"Look, um. Wesley. What exactly are you?"
The little boy shrugged and looked up at his larger self. "I'm you. Or, what you think I should be, at any rate." He grinned a bit and stood, looking up at Wesley. "This house and me are the manifestations of your mental projection of yourself. Kind of ironic that I'm only ten, isn't it?"
"I rather seriously doubt that I consider myself a child," Wesley replied coolly and he motioned with his hand. "All of this is...my subconscious?"
The child shook his head and pointed over his shoulder at Spike. "He wouldn't be here as himself if it were. In fact, he probably wouldn't be here at all." He shrugged and then stuffed his hands into his pockets. "No, this is a very real place, though maybe not in the conventional sense."
Spike walked over to the two of them, his eyebrows drawn together discontentedly. "So how the hell d'we get outa here, then?"
Little Wesley turned to look at Spike, an amused gleam in his eyes. "There's only one way."
Wesley sighed when it became obvious that the child wasn't going to elaborate. "How?"
Little Wes grinned at the two of them. "Forgiveness."
**
If there were no desire to heal
The damaged and broken met along
This tedious path I've chosen here
I certainly would've walked away by now.
-The Patient, by Tool
**
Wesley came to slowly, wondering why everything was so cold. He could feel something hard and sharp pressing against his face, and his skin pulsing with his heartbeat, so he knew he wasn't dead. He tried to roll over but found the action hampered by a firm weight on top of him. With a soft "oomph" he threw his weight up, feeling the form on top of him roll over and groan.
"Spike?" he whispered as he moved to his hands and knees and tried to adjust to the inky darkness surrounding them. They were in a very small space, and his stomach twisted horribly when he felt his way up the wall. This was all frighteningly familiar; the darkness, the walls, the slightly musty smell, the feeling of being trapped. His voice had an edge of urgency as he turned and gripped the vampire's shoulder tightly. "What was that thing?"
Spike sat up slowly, holding his head. "Dunno. If I'd known it'd give me a headache I wouldn't 'ave bought it." He groaned again and shook Wesley's hand off. "Bloody *hell* that hurts."
Wesley's eyes were finally beginning to adjust to the light, and his suspicions were confirmed. They were in a small room, barely big enough to move, and there was a small sliver of faded light against the floor behind Spike. He put one finger over the vampire's lips and bent over him, his hand moving across the wall until he found the edge of a door.
He reached up and felt that space above them as far as he could, making sure there was room for them before standing carefully and pulling Spike to his feet. He could feel the man's questioning look against his fingers but ignored it. "Spike." The word was barely audible, more of a breath than a whisper. "The door's locked; you have to open it.
Quietly." He felt Spike nod and heard him jiggling the doorknob, trying to break the lock without too much sound.
Wesley was trying his hardest to remain calm. He'd been in far more dangerous situations during his time at Angel Investigations. None of the situations they'd been in, however, had ever taken him back to his childhood in such a tangible sense.
A click and a triumphant grunt from the vampire had Wesley scrambling to get out of their dark confines. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut, afraid of seeing things sickeningly familiar when he opened them. He felt Spike at his side and fought back the urge to grab him, just to have something close.
"How'n the hell'd we get in there?" Spike asked softly, and Wesley finally opened his eyes.
It was just exactly the way he remembered it, if somewhat smaller. Spike was looking at Wesley curiously, but he ignored it, his eyes focused on the small coat closet situated underneath the stairs. The paint on the inside of the door was chipping, and it was completely empty. Even the shelves near the ceiling were gone. The floor was covered in the same thick brown carpet that his parents had taken out when Wesley was eleven years old.
Spike must have realized that something was terribly wrong, because he put his hand on Wesley's arm and turned him so they were facing. "What's wrong? You been here before?"
Wesley nodded, dragging his eyes from the closet and to Spike's worried face. "Yes. I..." He swallowed thickly and continued. "I grew up here. It doesn't look this way any longer, but it's just as I remember it."
"So?" Spike quirked an eyebrow curiously. "What's wrong with that? Home's home, right?"
Wesley closed his eyes and tried to collect himself. Spike was right; there was nothing wrong with it, not really. He was being foolish. "It just makes no sense that we'd end up in my old house twenty years in the past, Spike." He shook out of the vampire's grip and walked away, toward the front room where his mother used to sit and crochet.
The sun was shining brightly outside and spilling through large windows onto the carpet. The light made all the colors seem faded and grainy, giving the place an ethereal feel. He walked through the light slowly, running his fingertips along the back of his father's chair, pausing to pick up a magazine. The date read July 5, 1979.
"Spike," he said softly, turning, and he was momentarily surprised to see that the vampire hadn't followed him.
"There's someone up there, Watcher," Spike said, pointing up the stairs and never looking over at Wesley. He started to quietly climb the stairs, a curious look on his face, and Wes dropped the magazine and followed him, wondering if his parents would recognize the adult version of himself in 1979.
They climbed quickly, and Wesley made his way down the hallway to his bedroom. He peeked through other open doorways on his way and found them all empty. Spike was following him quietly, obviously not wanting to bother Wesley too much.
Wesley pushed the door to his room open slowly and looked inside. It was just as he remembered it: bare walls, hardwood floor, shelf after shelf of heavy volumes, a small bed, and finally his desk. The desk that the ten year old version of himself was currently occupying.
The little boy turned and looked at him, smiling just a little when he saw who was in the doorway. "Oh, it's you. Hello, Wesley."
"Hello," Wesley answered uncertainly, trying to wrack his brain for any memory of a large version of himself visiting when he was ten. He couldn't recall any, and with a small shrug he stepped into the room, motioning to Spike to follow him. They walked over to the desk and little Wesley, staring down at his projects.
Spike made a soft sound of surprise when he saw what the child was drawing, and Wesley simply stared, openmouthed. There were pages of drawings spread out over the desk, all of them representing parts of Wesley's life. The one he was working on studiously was a picture of the hospital room Wesley had been in after Justine had cut him. Angel was standing over him, holding the pillow, and the shaky, childlike quality of the drawing only made it more disturbing. It was all Wesley could do to keep from ripping the picture away from his child self and tearing it into tiny pieces.
"He doesn't hate you, Wesley." The child looked up at his older counterpart. "He's just scared." Wesley hardened his features, the memories of being completely helpless and nearly murdered by his best friend washing over him.
Spike reached over and turned the picture little Wesley was drawing so that he could see it more clearly, and then looked up at the other man with a dark expression. "He tried to off you?" Wesley simply nodded, and Spike's eyes narrowed more. "He have 'is soul, too?" Wes nodded again and Spike's lip curled. He turned from the Wesleys angrily and walked away, obviously lost in thought.
"Look, um. Wesley. What exactly are you?"
The little boy shrugged and looked up at his larger self. "I'm you. Or, what you think I should be, at any rate." He grinned a bit and stood, looking up at Wesley. "This house and me are the manifestations of your mental projection of yourself. Kind of ironic that I'm only ten, isn't it?"
"I rather seriously doubt that I consider myself a child," Wesley replied coolly and he motioned with his hand. "All of this is...my subconscious?"
The child shook his head and pointed over his shoulder at Spike. "He wouldn't be here as himself if it were. In fact, he probably wouldn't be here at all." He shrugged and then stuffed his hands into his pockets. "No, this is a very real place, though maybe not in the conventional sense."
Spike walked over to the two of them, his eyebrows drawn together discontentedly. "So how the hell d'we get outa here, then?"
Little Wesley turned to look at Spike, an amused gleam in his eyes. "There's only one way."
Wesley sighed when it became obvious that the child wasn't going to elaborate. "How?"
Little Wes grinned at the two of them. "Forgiveness."