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 7 of 11. A big thank you to all who have reviewed – it makes my day! (Makes me type quicker, too!) This chapter features some dialogue from the Buffy ep "Lover's Walk". Halfrek's final line is from "Older and Far Away". That line actually inspired this whole fic!
Holtz quotes a couple of lines from "Home-Thoughts, from Abroad" by Robert Browning. Title and quote this time are from "The Seed and the Sower" by Laurens van der Post.
Chapter 7 : The Fire in the Distance
" Ride, ride through the day,
Ride through the moonlight,
Ride, ride through the night.
For far in the distance, burns the fire
For someone who has waited long."
Damn him!
He slammed the receiver down so hard it threatened to fracture; sprinkling the wooden surface with tiny shards of plastic, embedding themselves in his palm. He couldn't get hold of Giles anywhere. The contact number they had for him in Bath was unanswered, as was Buffy's number in Sunnydale. He had even tried the Magic Box, thinking that Anya at least would be there and could give him some clue as to Giles' whereabouts, but with no luck. Evidently Sunnydale was having its own problems, which was unsurprising, considering it was a hellmouth, but he couldn't afford to think about that now. Connor was his priority now, and what he needed was Watcher senior to help him access the spell.
A nasty thought formed at the back of his mind. That Giles had heard what had happened to Wesley and was on his way to L.A. at this moment. Giles held no great love for him; the long hours they had spent together in his mansion prior to his re-ensouling had ensured that. If he knew that he had attacked Wesley, then the likelihood of receiving his help in locating Connor was very small.
Damn him! Damn them both and the Council of bloody Watchers all to hell!
He should never have allowed him to get so close, he realized now. They had travelled far since Wesley's arrival in L.A., that painfully eager to please young Englishman, whose self deprecation had almost, but not quite, hidden a quiet courage and resolve. From a brief period of hero worship, moving to friends, and finally to family.
An image flashed into his mind. Cordy's apartment, the three of them seated in her tiny kitchen. Wes, his glasses lost in the explosion, looking strangely small and vulnerable. It had brought out the mothering instinct in Cordelia, who had practically force-fed him sandwiches and tea. When Wes had finally figured out what the Shanshu prophecy meant, Cordy had all but danced around the table with glee. With Wes the joy was more subdued, but it was still there; the eureka face and then that rare wide smile. Angel himself had tried to play it down, but hadn't quite been able to hide his delight. And at that moment they were as close as they had ever been.
In his two hundred and fifty years of unlife he'd had few friends. Darla had been a partner, a lover, an equal, but ultimately in it for herself. Until the end, of course, when she had sacrificed herself to save their child. But she was never one to throw herself on a stake for a friend.
Dru was more of a caged bird, a strange exotic creature, whose capacity for passion and cruelty knew no bounds. And Spike, well, the younger vampire could barely contain his hatred of his grandsire. No, he wouldn't call Spike a friend.
Buffy. She had given him a purpose; a will to live. She had been his saviour, his passion, and ultimately his downfall. Strangely enough it had been Spike who had hit the nail on the head.
'You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other till it makes you quake, but you'll never be friends.'
The events surrounding the Mayor's ascension had confirmed that. He had been the one to break it; and at that time he had thought nothing could ever hurt as much as that.
In L.A., away from Buffy, he had begun to build a new life. Doyle had accepted him for what he was, and he had discovered a friend. Then the half demon had betrayed him, thrown away their friendship in a selfless act of love and sacrifice. Cordelia and he had clung together, united in their grief for one loved and lost. At one time she had been his friend. But somewhere along the way something had changed. She had crept into his heart, an ache that would not dull. Not a friend now.
Wesley had been different. They had become more brothers than friends. And he could not believe that this man, his friend, his brother, would betray him so cruelly. That he himself would take pleasure in inflicting pain on the Englishman.
' I found someone.' Lorne stood in the doorway. 'She'll need something belonging to Connor to access the locator spell.'
'Fine.' His voice was a low growl. Yet still the demon lingered uncertainly between the office and the reception area.
'You're sure about this?'
Angel stood up, fought the urge to smash his fist into the wall quite successfully.
'What?'
'This locator spell.' Lorne paused. 'It was set up to protect the peanut from you. That's some seriously dark mojo, Angelface.'
'Do I look like I give a damn?' he hissed. Lorne obviously concluded that he didn't and continued quietly.
'Oo – kay. I better tell you though, the word's out about Connor. This little spell caster came looking for me. And I wouldn't trust this lady as far as she could throw me.'
'Well, let's hope we don't have to test that theory.'
He strode past Lorne, into the outer office area. The stranger stood by the couch in the lobby, her back to him. She was as short as Fred, dressed in a simple silk blouse and suede skirt. She sensed his approach, and turned, shoulder length curls framing a strongly veined demonic visage. He had a sudden feeling of deja-vu, of having met this demon before.
'You can help me find my son?'
She nodded sharply, unzipped a small suede handbag, and began to extract the contents.
'If you wish it.' Her voice was rasping, harsh by nature, though not without pity.
'I do.'
"Very well. I will need something of the child's.'
He went to the bassinet in the reception area and lifted the clouded fleece blanket; almost doubling over in pain as the scent of his baby enveloped him.
'That will do fine.' She spread the blanket on the floor of the lobby. 'Kneel beside the blanket,' she instructed.
He obeyed, watching her as she sprinkled a glittering violet powder over the fleece. It floated in mid air, as if suspended in water. She began to chant the Latin he recognized as the locator clause of the spell .As she chanted, the powder began to whirl around the little blanket, glowing violently. First violet, then a soft gold, and finally a deep startling bright blue. She completed her chanting and the powder dropped on to the clouds below, returning to its original purple hue. She leaned forward and scooped up a handful of powder.
'Close your eyes.'
He did as she bid him; felt her lean closer to him; sensed her hand above his head.
'Open.' She whispered. The powder was released; it floated on to his head, settling on his eyelids, nose, lips.
He was no longer in the lobby. He was outdoors, the gentle sunshine somehow not turning him to dust. He smelled newly mown grass and honeysuckle. He opened his eyes and found himself in a small copse of oak and sycamore trees, all older than him. Not a hell dimension, then.
He heard a slight movement; turned to see Holtz cradling a tiny bundle in his arms. He reached out to touch his baby's cheek, forgetting that this was not real, just a vision. His hand passed though the child's body as if he were a ghost. Then he heard a chuckle.
'I suppose we have your Uncle Wesley to thank for this' Holtz was examining a plain gold signet ring, which had been carefully sewn into Connor's vest. This was it, the talisman that Wes had used to protect Connor.
'Now, I wonder where Uncle Wesley was planning to take you?' Holtz mused. 'Somewhere safe, I expect. Not California. Perhaps home?' He whispered something under his breath.
'Oh, to be in England, now that April's here…'
It was getting dark much too quickly, and with horror he realized the vision was fading.
'No! It's not enough! I didn't get to see where he was…' He was almost sobbing with fury and anguish. Fingertips touched his eyelids softly
'Open.' She commanded.
It was dark this time, and without sound. He could make out a figure in the gloom; his hand extended; palm upraised. Nestling in his palm was the same signet ring. It appeared to glow, first gold, shifting to violet, and changing again to blue. The brightness of the ring illuminated the face of the man holding it. The blue of his eyes matching the ring.
"NO!' He roared, as the vision disappeared and he returned to the hotel lobby. The demon was already gathering the discarded powder; folding the fleece carefully, and placing it on the couch.
'There wasn't enough time! You've got to do the spell again!'
She shook her head firmly.
'I can't help you any more. There's a limit to my powers.' She rezipped the bag and turned to face him squarely. ' You want to find your son?' he nodded desperately. 'Then you'll have to ask him.'
He couldn't. (You're a dead man, Pryce, a dead man.) Would not ask him.
'It's up to you, Angel,' She echoed Fred's earlier words. She lifted the bag and walked up the steps of the lobby.
'Wait!' He called, unsure of what it was he wanted to know. 'Why – why did you help me?'
She fixed him with a long hard look.
'Let's just say I'm taking care of business.'
And she was gone.
