TITLE : Present Imperfect

AUTHOR : Eloise

RATING : PG13

DISCLAIMER : Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. (Well, maybe just a little.)

NOTES : Chap 2 of 11. First of the guest appearance POVs. This is where it goes AU…

Title and quotation are from the poem "Any Woman" by Katharine Tynan.

Chapter  2 : A Closer Tether

" I am the twist that holds together

  The children in its sacred ring

  Their knot of love, from whose close tether

  No lost child goes a-wandering."

She smoothed down her tousled curls and gave herself an approving look in the bathroom mirror. Not bad, for a human of course, none of that dreadful peroxide that Anyanka seemed addicted to.

Not that she was here to seek a mate. Such trivialities were beneath her. Her calling was an altogether higher one. She had been waiting a long time to help this lost one.

One last glance in the mirror, and she marvelled at the casualness of the scrubs she was wearing. Over the years she had played many parts, substitute teachers, social workers, but her favourite was nurse .How the uniform had changed, she thought, fondly remembering the stiff starched formality of her previous incarnations. The perfect disguise.

She closed the bathroom door and padded softly down the dimly-lit corridor to his door. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, had lost rather a lot of blood from the vicious wound at his neck. She busied herself, checking his vitals, and tried to ignore the terrible sense of loneliness she felt from him.

He'd got more scars since she'd seen him last. His hobby, it seemed, was collecting scars the way some boys collected stamps. She moved him onto his side, careful not to touch his neck, and noted the gunshot wound at the edge of his belly, a dark circle that sucked at the surrounding skin. There were several knife wounds round his shoulder blades, also relatively recent. A small crescent shaped scar nestled in the small of his back, and below that she observed the older scar tissue, now faded to a pale tracery of fine lines crisscrossing his lower back. She felt the same raw, justified anger she had experienced almost twenty-five years previously.

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He had slept fitfully that first night, the cast on his arm had made it difficult to get comfortable, and he had moaned in his sleep. She had seen him earlier that day, keeping very quiet, even when they reset the bone. Not wanting to be noticed. And of course that made her notice him even more.

She had watched him as his parents had visited. Obedient to the point of submissiveness, he had listened carefully to his father's expectations of his behaviour, and his directives on the useful occupation of his time. A pile of books was conspicuous on the bedside locker, Latin and Greek grammars and texts for translation. He had nodded silently to signify his understanding of the instructions.

She had watched him as his parents had taken their leave. His mother had touched his hand gently, and he had raised his head to look at her, blue eyes bright behind his glasses. The love hunger in them was so desperate it made her heart ache. The child needed to be held, it was obvious, but such displays of affection were not permitted. His father had drawn her away, and spoken firmly to the boy, who had blinked hard and dropped his head. And they were gone.

He had lain there quietly for a long time, blinking over and over, only just managing not to cry. She had watched him fall asleep, and had crept into his room, her hand hovering above his. Not that she needed to do this. She had sensed his pain as soon as he had entered the hospital. She steeled herself to the task. She needed proof. Justice demanded nothing less. She paced her hand on his….

A flash of light and she was in a hallway. Dark and rather oppressive. The leaded lights in the front door filtered the light to a faint gold, bouncing off the panelled walls and illuminating the intricate tile design on the floor. The stairs were dark oak, a rich red carpet ran the length of the centre, held in place by ornate brass rods.

She stepped towards them, resting her hand on the newel post. The polished wooden sphere was cool beneath her fingers. She rocked slightly, a sensation not unlike sea-sickness overwhelmed her. She hated this part.

She was filled with a terrible aching sorrow, but nothing tangible, nothing definable. She lifted her hand from the stair post and knew she was close now. She ran her hand along the panelled wall until she came to a cupboard door. She knew without trying the handle that it was locked. She summoned up the courage to lay her palm against the door.

A flash again, and her hand was glued to the door as if by electric current.

(Bitter sobbing, pain and anguish mixing with terror. ' Please, come let me out. I'll do better, I'll try harder. Please, Father, it's so dark. Please, let me out'}

She wrenched her hand away from the wood and she was back in the hospital room, her hand still covering his. She shook as she stepped back from the child. He moaned in his sleep, and she moved forward to waken him.

'No' The deep, familiar voice surprised her. 'This child is not your concern.'

He did not usually interfere with her work.

'Of course he is. You felt it too, I know.' She was shocked at her own boldness.

'No. He is protected against our kind.'

'A protection spell? They know?'

'They are Watchers. They work on the side of good.'

'But he needs help.' She protested softly.

'Do not fight this, Halfrek. You will not win. You cannot help him.'

But she was unwilling to leave it there.

'D'Hoffryn, this child is in pain. They have caused it. There must be justice. Balance.'

She was appealing to his logic and intellect, rather than his emotions. His voice was calm, soft, even.

'It is not for you to decide. There are other powers at work here.' He paused, laid his hand gently over her own. 'There will be balance. But it is not time.'

She heard the child crying bitterly behind the locked door, felt her own face wet.

'Not time? But how can I leave him?'

'Because you must.'

And he had taken her to another place, shown her another child's pain.

'We help those we can, Halfrek.'

She had made an oath to herself that day. She would not desert him. She had watched him grow, survive the treatment he received, manage to overcome the obstacles placed in his path. The frightened, submissive child became a man.

He had been sent to the Hellmouth, full of hope, trying to hide his insecurities beneath a mask of false confidence. And they had punished him simply for being there, for crimes others had committed. Children could be as cruel as adults, she knew. She did not intervene.

In Los Angeles, with the souled vampire, he had found acceptance, understanding, something approaching family. She began to realize that D'Hoffryn had been right. The man he had become had learned much from the child he had been. Bravery despite fear, kindness despite cruelty, gentleness despite rough treatment. If she had intervened then, perhaps he would not be this man now.

This man who fought for the greater good, who could forgive mockery and torture if there was a chance of redemption. This man who would lay down his life for a friend. Betray a friend to save his soul….

She had watched in the park, as he had fallen into darkness, betrayer, betrayed. Had been startled by the voice at her ear.

'It is almost time.'

'D'Hoffryn? How did you know…?'

A foolish question. Of course he had known.

'There will be balance. Justice will be done.'

And thus things were set in motion. For twenty-five years she had watched him. Now she was about to step onto the stage.