Disclaimer: With the exception of Aurora Halley, all characters in this story belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.
This takes place sometime between Season 3's "Tomorrow" and Season 4's "Deep Down."
Feedback sent to slayerbelle@go.com would be much appreciated.
CHAPTER 1
In Dreams
"Wesley."
At the sound of her voice, he turned but did not see her immediately.
It was hard to see anything over the glowing white fog.
"Cordelia?"
"Here, Wes."
"I can't... Oh. There you are."
"No kidding. It's like I've been here forever."
It was a sigh, very audible, and yet he didn't know if it was supposed to mean anything to him. Maybe the weightlessness and the overall feeling of effervescence were throwing him off.
*Hell, I'm feeling effervescent.*
"Where are we?" His tone was slightly annoyed, if not a little curious. The white fog that seemed to hover before him parted somewhat, and he was beginning to see more of Cordelia's face.
"I don't know. And I don't know what you're doing here, either. All I know is I kept calling for you, kept asking for you, shouting your name, for what seemed like an eternity, and you didn't answer me."
"I know the feeling." He was still not above the bitterness.
Her eyes were softer, and by that small difference he doubted if he was talking to Cordelia at all.
"Until now. You didn't answer me until now. How did you get here, Wes?"
"Somehow I am surprised to find out that I am the person you'd call for help."
She rolled her eyes, like she was bearing with the tantrum of a child. He had the strange feeling that he had given her that look many times before, in a previous life.
"I called for you, I called for everyone. I called for my mother, if you can believe that. And then I just got it in my thick head that no one was ever going to hear me." The big eyes turned to him now, rife with curiosity. "Except you, Wes. I must be dreaming, or something. Unless you are. Or... I don't know. Did you want to tell me something?"
Still not above the bitterness. A great many things he wanted to say, but to spite her he would rather not comfort her with them. Or even himself.
"Where are we?" he said instead.
"Wherever you brought me, Wes."
He startled himself awake for the third morning in a row. Always with the same dream: Cordelia wanting to talk to him, him being evasive as hell. He knew it was psychological; he knew he was dreaming it to punish her. For abandoning him the way she had.
Or he could also be punishing himself, that wasn't an unlikely scenario either.
He would begin to remember the dream only in the shower, when the steam from the water that nearly scalded his body started to rise. Then he would recall everything -- her face, what she said, what he said. He hadn't actually heard from Cordelia in months. Not even when he was dying, not when he survived his ordeal.
The process of pain would continue, there under the hot needles of water he let pound on himself. He would remember not only Cordelia, but others he would likely never hear from again.
It would take some time (20 minutes, or three quarters of an hour) for him to realize that he'd just had enough of both methods of torture. That morning, though, he wasn't given the liberty to decide.
Someone was at the door.
To be continued...
This takes place sometime between Season 3's "Tomorrow" and Season 4's "Deep Down."
Feedback sent to slayerbelle@go.com would be much appreciated.
CHAPTER 1
In Dreams
"Wesley."
At the sound of her voice, he turned but did not see her immediately.
It was hard to see anything over the glowing white fog.
"Cordelia?"
"Here, Wes."
"I can't... Oh. There you are."
"No kidding. It's like I've been here forever."
It was a sigh, very audible, and yet he didn't know if it was supposed to mean anything to him. Maybe the weightlessness and the overall feeling of effervescence were throwing him off.
*Hell, I'm feeling effervescent.*
"Where are we?" His tone was slightly annoyed, if not a little curious. The white fog that seemed to hover before him parted somewhat, and he was beginning to see more of Cordelia's face.
"I don't know. And I don't know what you're doing here, either. All I know is I kept calling for you, kept asking for you, shouting your name, for what seemed like an eternity, and you didn't answer me."
"I know the feeling." He was still not above the bitterness.
Her eyes were softer, and by that small difference he doubted if he was talking to Cordelia at all.
"Until now. You didn't answer me until now. How did you get here, Wes?"
"Somehow I am surprised to find out that I am the person you'd call for help."
She rolled her eyes, like she was bearing with the tantrum of a child. He had the strange feeling that he had given her that look many times before, in a previous life.
"I called for you, I called for everyone. I called for my mother, if you can believe that. And then I just got it in my thick head that no one was ever going to hear me." The big eyes turned to him now, rife with curiosity. "Except you, Wes. I must be dreaming, or something. Unless you are. Or... I don't know. Did you want to tell me something?"
Still not above the bitterness. A great many things he wanted to say, but to spite her he would rather not comfort her with them. Or even himself.
"Where are we?" he said instead.
"Wherever you brought me, Wes."
He startled himself awake for the third morning in a row. Always with the same dream: Cordelia wanting to talk to him, him being evasive as hell. He knew it was psychological; he knew he was dreaming it to punish her. For abandoning him the way she had.
Or he could also be punishing himself, that wasn't an unlikely scenario either.
He would begin to remember the dream only in the shower, when the steam from the water that nearly scalded his body started to rise. Then he would recall everything -- her face, what she said, what he said. He hadn't actually heard from Cordelia in months. Not even when he was dying, not when he survived his ordeal.
The process of pain would continue, there under the hot needles of water he let pound on himself. He would remember not only Cordelia, but others he would likely never hear from again.
It would take some time (20 minutes, or three quarters of an hour) for him to realize that he'd just had enough of both methods of torture. That morning, though, he wasn't given the liberty to decide.
Someone was at the door.
To be continued...
