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 6 of 11. I really appreciate all the lovely feedback I've been getting – it's spurred me on to try and get these next chapters typed up!
I know the story seems a little obtuse at times, but in the words of Wesley ('Blind Date') – 'There is a design. Hidden in the chaos it may be, but it's true!'
Title and quote for this chapter come from Acts Ch.1 v.20 (King James Version)
Chapter 6 : A Desolate Habitation
"For it is written in the book of Psalms,
Let his habitation be desolate,
And let no man dwell therein."
He measured the passage of time in meals. Regular as clockwork and uniformly dreadful, they tasted as if they had been prepared by someone determined to free up hospital beds by systematically poisoning their present occupants. However, lacking any other available method, Wesley used the arrival of each repast as an indicator of the length of his stay in hospital. He guessed he was on day three by now.
It wasn't as if he hadn't been here before. The nurses had chided him, (gently, of course), that they didn't give frequent flyer miles for patient loyalty. One had even joked that they were thinking of naming a trauma room after him. Which might have seemed considerably funnier if he hadn't just spent several hours bleeding to death in the park next to his house, before being smothered by his best friend.
But it was different this time. Not just the being smothered by Angel part, which had been frankly terrifying. There had been no tunnel, no bright light, no overwhelming feeling of peace accompanied by a distant angelical chorus. There had only been pain and darkness, and then being snatched back into the world so hard it had hurt his chest. He had opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by hospital staff. They had been concerned, efficient, but ultimately strangers. Not one of his friends remained. This time he was alone.
'What did you expect, Wesley? You stole his child." He thought he had prepared himself; had accepted that he would be outcast. He had spent so many years alone, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, he had found acceptance, a family, something approaching love. The voice in his head reproached him scornfully. 'Uh-uh, Wesley, you wanted that too much.'
He swallowed, and a razor blade of pain slid down his throat. The morphine in his self-medicating drip was strong, welcoming oblivion, and it took all his effort to stay focused on the here and now. He gazed at the pockmarked ceiling tiles, and tried not to think of a tiny dark head, soft blue eyes, a flashing blade.
A nurse entered his room, wheeling a cabinet of meds. She checked the chart at the foot of his bed, and began to disconnect the empty drip.
'A little more morphine, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?' He shook his head slightly, and managed to whisper no. He wanted to stay lucid; didn't care about the pain. She came closer to him; laid her cool hand across his own.
Something familiar in her touch transported him back to a memory from childhood. Another time, another country, another hospital. He had fallen during a fencing lesson with his father, and landed awkwardly, breaking his forearm and collarbone. He had to stay in hospital for a week, and his father had been insistent that Wesley should thole his injury, not become dependent on painkillers. Always obedient, he had lied about the pain to the doctors, and spent the first part of the night in barely managed agony.
And then she had come, a pretty dark haired angel, and placed her hand on his. When she touched him, the pain seemed to lessen, and he had been able to sleep for a while. She had watched over him that week in hospital, and he had adored her with a ferocity borne of desperation.
He opened his eyes and studied her intently. Soft dark curls framed an elfin face, reminding him briefly of Virginia. Her eyes were a warm brown, shot with emerald, and filled with compassion. He felt a sudden shock of recognition. This was the same nurse. He was absolutely sure of it, despite the obvious impossibility of such an assertion. The same woman, over twenty years later, and she had barely aged a week.
He attempted to speak, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
'If you're my guardian angel, I'd say your timing was rather poor.' She smiled at that, shook her head a little, curls bobbing.
'I'm guessing not the ghost of Florence Nightingale, either.' This elicited another smile and she spoke for the first time.
'You didn't used to have such a smart mouth, Wesley.'
He eyed her levelly. 'People change. Well, not you, evidently. But then, you're not exactly people, are you?
'Not exactly.' He noticed the locket that hung around her neck, then remembered Anyanka, and her disastrous attempts to locate a similar amulet. Back in Sunnydale, a lifetime ago.
'Vengeance demon…' he whispered
'Justice demon,' she corrected him gently.
His mind whirred, trying to access information he had gathered on justice demons during that time.
'I thought you only worked for humans.' She looked non-plussed.
'Generally speaking, yes.'
'But Angel…' He saw realization dawning, her eyes widening.
'You think I'm here to punish you?'
' Isn't that the general idea? Right the wrongs that have been done?'
Her eyes were liquid with unshed tears. ' Not by you. To you.'
He might have laughed, if his throat hadn't hurt so badly.
'You think I want vengeance? For this?' He closed his eyes briefly, imagined a world where he had not taken Connor, not had his throat slit, not had the life smothered out of him. 'What's the point? What's done is done, cannot be undone.'
'It's not always about Angel, you know,'
He allowed himself a small wry smile. 'Better not let him hear you saying that.'
Then he realized what she meant, the implications, and for a moment he was so angry he couldn't breathe.
'You knew. When I broke my arm… you knew.'
Her guilt was confirmed as she looked away.
'You knew, you saw what it was like. You could have helped me.'
She shook her head. 'I couldn't. I wanted to…'
He didn't want to listen to her excuses, the reasonable reasons why it was not possible. It simply confirmed what he had secretly believed all his childhood. The man was omnipotent, a member of the inner circle of the Council, maintaining the balance between good and evil. And now it seemed, with the power to ward against demonic forces.
'You were protected,' she mumbled, her face flushed with shame.
'Funny, I didn't feel particularly protected!' He thought he saw her recoil at the scorn in his voice, but he didn't care. 'Why now? Why come back now?' To see how far he had fallen, how well he had lived down to his father's expectations. His head hurt, and the wound at his neck prickled.
'I never stopped watching you,' She spoke so softly he almost couldn't hear her. Didn't want to hear her.
'Leave me alone.'
She stretched out to touch his hand again, and he deliberately moved it out of her reach. He closed his eyes, almost petulantly, a small boy withholding affection. Not a particularly effective weapon, he had discovered as a child, in a home where displays of affection were frowned upon, where any physical contact was generally disciplinary in nature. Painful, but marginally preferable to being locked below the stairs, ignored and forgotten, the darkness consuming him completely.
He suddenly hated her for making him visit these places again.
'Get out. I don't want your help now.'
She was blinking back tears, and he was surprised at how good it felt to hurt her.
'Just leave.'
She nodded, and moved towards the door. ' It's not over, Wesley. I know you're angry, and you have every right to be, but we're not finished.' She turned back as she exited the room
'And for what it's worth, I am sorry.'
The doctors pronounced him fit to leave at the end of the week, and if he was honest he was glad to leave. The bustle and hum of the busy hospital only served to emphasize his isolation. She had not spoken to him since he had yelled at her, but he knew she was responsible for the clean clothes that appeared by his bed on the morning he was to be discharged. She had also arranged the taxi to his flat, he thought, as he paid the driver and carefully avoided looking at the park across the street.
He was already on the first floor when he realized something was not right. The door of his apartment was unlocked and from behind it he could hear music; the painfully beautiful, haunting dischords and resolutions reminding him of home, of the Gregorian chants his mother had favoured.
He stood at the door of the flat, wondering how to defend himself if Angel had come to finish what he had started in the hospital. She had said it wasn't over, and he was beginning to wish he had taken her offer of help more seriously. He was still weak, and Angel had paternal rage and demonic strength on his side. He didn't fancy his chances if the vampire had organized a welcome home reception.
He felt in the pockets of the jacket she had provided, and was relieved to find a small wooden cross. That at least was a start. He opened the door quietly and stepped into the fading daylight of the apartment.
The blinds were drawn, but the man who stood in the shadow of the bookcase was considerably shorter than the vampire. There was a sudden hiss of breath, accompanied by a smash, as a tumbler of whisky slipped from the intruder's grasp, and met an untimely end on the hardwood floor. Wesley watched the liquid seep between the boards, then looked again at his uninvited guest. The man recovered his composure; stepped out from the shadows.
'Hello, Wesley,'
Wesley set down his bag, and pushed the door closed with his foot. He had truly thought things couldn't get any worse. And here he was, wrong again.
'Hello, Father.'
