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 4 of 11. Many thanks for all your kind reviews! I'm sorry I haven't updated sooner; but real life has been rather hectic!
I have most of this story written on paper – unfortunately my typing skills leave much to be desired. This chapter is a little shorter than the preceding ones and features another guest appearance POV. Title and quote are from 'King Lear' Act 1 Sc.4. Biblical quote is from Proverbs Ch.19 V.18 (King James Version)
Chapter 4 : Serpent's Tooth
"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child"
He wasn't sure why he was doing this. He hooked the retaining straps across the neatly folded shirts and closed the suitcase carefully. The soft leather yielded easily as he zipped and buckled his luggage. Chocolate brown, slightly worn, but very obviously expensive. The tiny gold initials that nestled next to the straps signified exclusivity without ostentation.
That was the persona he presented; cultivated, a man of extreme good taste and breeding. He could not abide sloppiness of appearance or laziness of mind. The result of his upbringing; he had instilled these disciplines in the boy, almost unconsciously.
For all the good it had done him. The child seemed determined to disappoint at every available opportunity. As a small boy, Wesley had been gentle-natured and naturally timid; certainly not strong enough to face the demands his destiny would place upon him. He had viewed it as his fatherly duty to toughen him up; make him stronger. And he had set about this duty with dedication.
"Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying."
It was for his own good, he explained calmly to Wesley, each time discipline was necessary. He steeled himself against the pleas and sobs, and in time his heart hardened and he no longer heard them.
And, to his credit, the child had grown stronger. He had always been adept at his studies; that had been evident from his earliest days at school. But he had not allowed him the luxury of praise, but had continually pushed him to work harder, do better. The boy had responded to his firm encouragement and gradually his fighting skills had improved.
He discovered that Wesley had a keen aim, despite his imperfect eyesight, and had watched the boy's prowess with a crossbow with secret, undisclosed admiration. But his gentle nature was still there though, he preferred to defend rather than attack. And so he pushed him harder, was deliberately rough with him during their training sessions. Waiting for Wesley to push back. He never did, of course. He would not have dared.
He carried his case downstairs, set it by the double doors that led into the entrance porch. The afternoon sun was already fading; intricate stained glass panels in the door refracted the pale light. He followed a shaft of gold down the hall to the cupboard door. His hand hovered over the deadbolt, long unused. He had been strict, heavy-handed even, but he felt no remorse. He had only done what had been necessary.
He opened the cupboard door and unhooked his raincoat from the back of the cupboard. Not that rain was particularly likely in Los Angeles. He detested California in general; that city in particular. 'A Godforsaken hellhole' was how he had referred to it during one of his brief infrequent telephone conversations with his disgraced child. He remembered the occasion; Wesley had defended himself rather ably, daring to answer him back; his arguments cogent and well reasoned.
'Where better, Father, to fight demons, than a Godforsaken hellhole?'
You couldn't argue with logic like that. The boy had a backbone after all.
Raincoat in hand, he made his way to the kitchen and through there into the pantry, where Eleanor was trimming rose stems. She set down the secateurs and turned to face him. She had aged gracefully; was still as beautiful as the first day he had been introduced to her. Her golden hair was now laced with white, but her blue eyes were still as vivid as irises.
'Time I was off, my dear' he kissed her softly on her pale cheek; felt her tremble.
'Do you think we could have done more?' she asked, her voice very quiet.
He stepped back, looked into her bright blue eyes.
'You know as well as I there were other forces at work here. There always have been.'
She nodded, but seemed unconvinced.
' We were so hard on him. Perhaps was should have….' He stopped her; pressed his finger lightly to her lips.
'No. No regrets. We did what we thought was best. He made his choices.'
He held her again; tenderly kissed her trembling lips. He hated this. Hated lying to her. You would think it would have been easy; he had been doing it all these years. And yet something still twisted in his heart.
'Goodbye, my dear. I'll telephone you when I arrive at the hotel.'
He had not aged so gracefully, he realized wryly, as a twinge in the muscles at the base of his spine reminded him of his advancing years. He shifted in his seat, as the stewardess hurried forward to offer him yet another complimentary drink. He was glad he had allowed Travers to persuade him to travel first class. A man after his own heart, he mused, sipping the eighteen year old Glenfiddich malt appreciatively. Quentin Travers understood about sacrifice.
They had sent Wesley to Sunnydale, fully aware he was not ready to cope with not one, but two rebellious slayers, as well as one exceedingly pissed off ex-watcher. Setting him up to fail. Which he did, of course, with depressing regularity.
But he had trained Wesley well, and as time passed he saw evidence of a firm resolve; a desire to do that which was right. It landed him in trouble; in hospital more than once; yet he did not give up. He did not give up on Faith, despite the torture he endured at her hands. Somewhere inside her he had seen someone worth saving. He had seen something in the vampire; his soul, his remorse, and had stood by him. And that same resolve to do right had resulted in this current situation.
Another long pull of the mellow liquid warmed his chest, and he closed his eyes briefly, silently mourning his lost son. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to feel anything. Not love, not hate, not anger. He had placed destiny and justice above all else. And now, with these fulfilled, he wasn't sure if he would ever feel again.
Perhaps that was why he was doing this. To prove to himself that he had done the right thing.
