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 3 of 11. This part contains some dialogue and action from 'Forgiving', but is AU! Title and quotation are from the poem 'Dover Beach' by Matthew Arnold.

Chapter 3 : Land of Dreams

"……for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Not certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain,

And we are here as on a darkling plain."

He stared at the crib, ghost-white against the blackness of the room. It hurt, a physical ache in his dead heart, which threatened to break it in pieces. H e had felt pain before; his soul had then been the instrument of torture. To allow him to fully comprehend the enormity of his sins. Not to love, or be loved.

Somewhere along the way he had forgotten that, and had fallen into love with this tiny miracle. How could he have been so stupid? They would never allow that.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment he was holding him close, feeling the tiny dark head nuzzle at his neck, as he hummed a half-remembered lullaby. He could still smell him, here in this room, a lingering aroma of baby bath and powder, mingling with his own sweet scent, warm and milky. The sudden sense of his child's presence almost overpowered him; he had to step up to the cradle just to check that he was truly gone.

He could not bring himself to touch the cradle, prove that it was empty. To acknowledge that truth was to open the door to such grief and darkness. He wasn't sure his soul would survive intact. Losing his soul was not an option now. That could prove the prophecy true, making Wesley's actions understandable. He did not want to understand.

Lorne stepped into the room apologetically.

'You headed to the hospital, Angelcakes?'

He gave a swift nod, swallowing the pain down, storing it up for later.

'You tell that idiot, he's – well - a big idiot!' But he said it gently, forgiveness in his tone.

Again he nodded, careful not to make any sound that could be seized upon and read. He gathered his duster from the bed, and swung away from the burning brightness of his child's crib.

Fred and Gunn sat side by side on a small sofa outside the room, not touching, lost in a set of events that defied belief. The door to Wesley's room was closed, the blinds drawn. He could not see him. Not like that other times, when he had stared helplessly through a window at his bruised and battered friend. Had sat by him in the ICU, and touched the burn-reddened skin on his hands. He had willed him to survive. And the other time, when Cordy had made him leave, he had known his friend was loved, protected by the others. Now he was alone.

They were on their feet now, describing his condition.

'Trachea's all messed up – he's lost a lot of blood.' Gunn looked dazed.

'Not completely out of the woods, yet" Fred babbled.

Oh, he knew that.

'You being here can only help.'

Silly girl. He opened at the door and was unexpectedly transported back three years, to the night of the explosion. He felt the same anguished concern as he observed the pallor of the Englishman, heard the faint beep of the heart monitor, beating out the rhythm of life.

But there was no place for that now. Now there was nothing but a book, a baby and a betrayal. (Not out of the woods, yet.)

He heard himself speak, the words seemed appropriate, but they didn't sound quite right to him .He wondered if Wesley sensed this, but it appeared he was too drugged to reflect upon the nuances of tone. But he wanted him to understand.

'This isn't Angelus talking; it's me, Angel. You know that right?

His eyes opened, blue as the sea, guilt, shame and anguish bright in them. He did not care. (Not out of the woods, yet.)

'Good'

He moved with impossible speed, had the pillow over his face before Wesley realized what was happening.

'You son of a bitch, you're gonna pay for what you did! You took my son!'

He felt the weak fingers claw ineffectually at his wrist.

'You think I forgive you? Never! You're gonna die, you hear me?'

Inside, his soul twisted, stretching to breaking point. He did not care. He pressed the pillow harder, felt the struggles of the man weaken. He did not care. The desire to punish was strong in him, to hurt as he had been hurt. Wesley needed to know, to understand the enormity of what he had done. To suffer for his sins. He spat out his rage and sorrow, directing them at his former friend.

'You're a dead man, Pryce, a dead man!'

The alarm from the bedside monitor confirmed this briefly. Long enough to attract the attention of those at the nurses' station. The door burst open and they were upon him, hauling him away. He let himself be pulled. He did not care. His son was gone and it hurt to exist without him.

Gunn was beside him, in his face, almost, shouting something. He couldn't hear, he was underwater, drowning. Fred ran to catch up, caught his arm, her eyes liquid. He shook her off; hard enough to make her stumble, then heard a roar.

'You – you bastard!' Gunn was grabbing at his coat.

'No, Charles, leave it!' Fred 's voice sounded wobbly.

He swung round to face him, not quite managing to suppress a snarl.

'Get away from me!' he growled, and was surprised when Gunn stopped short and stared at him.

'Just go, man.'

He dropped his hands to his sides. Then turned on his heel and strode away from his friends. He knew they were stunned by his actions. He did not care. He heard the hum of electricity through the ECG paddles, and the beep of the monitor, as they shocked Wesley back into this world. He did not care. Better that he live with the knowledge of his crime.

He became aware of someone watching him. He turned briefly, and observed the dark-haired nurse who met his gaze steadily. She was reasonably pretty, the dark curls and pale skin reminded him of the girls in his village back in Ireland. Her eyes were a mixture of hazel and green; the colour seemed to shift as she gazed at him

'He's alive, you know.'

He nodded tersely. ' I can hear that.'

'Of course you can.'

Light bounced off the jewelled locket she wore, its colour shimmering between amber and green.

'He took my son.' He spread his palms wide, had no idea why he was explaining himself to her.

'I know.'

He offered nothing more, no platitudes, no excuses for his behaviour. ' I don't know how to do this,' he whispered, his whole body suddenly sagging, limbs heavy. ' How to go on without him'

She blinked. ' You'll find a way.' Her tone was even, no hint of concern, no sarcasm. 'Things are not always as they seem.'

'Tell me. Please.' He pleaded.

 She raised her head again, fixed him with those eyes. 'Go home, Angel.'

'Please.'

'It's not time. Go home.'

He was dismissed, knew he would get nothing more from her. He turned away and walked slowly towards the stairwell. He was almost at the door when he heard it.

'But soon.'