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 8 of 11. Once again, thanks for reviewing  - I have the next chapter completed on paper, and the draft notes for chaps 10 and 11. I'll do my best to upload as quickly as possible, but there may be a break for a few days while I complete the final chaps!

Title and quote this time from the poem "The Lamb" by William Blake – I've been listening to the Tavener setting of this piece as a 4–part unaccompanied harmony – again another inspiration for this fic!

Chapter 8 : The Lamb

"Little lamb, who made thee?

 Dost thou know who made thee?

 Little lamb, I'll tell thee,

 Little lamb, I'll tell thee:

 He is called by thy name

 For He calls Himself a Lamb."

He did not look particularly older, he thought. He had not been home in three years and his father looked much the same as when Wesley had left to take up his position in Sunnydale. He had returned to the family home in Hampshire to bid farewell to his parents before leaving for America. The occasion had been stiff and formal; his father unable to express any emotion other than the hope that Wesley would not disappoint them. He left the 'again' unspoken, but Wesley heard it in the stern tone of his voice, saw it in his father's eyes.

He knew for certain he himself had changed since that meeting, and not just his physical appearance. He had grown older, stronger and even a little wiser, he had thought. So why now did he feel the same inadequacy he had felt as a small boy, continually failing to meet his father's requirements of him?

'Forgive my surprise, Wesley, but I wasn't expecting you. I'd been informed you had died.' Not a trace of emotion in the older man's voice.

'Sorry to disappoint, Father, but reports of my death have been wildly exaggerated.' He was shocked at his own bravado, his voice still little more than a rough whisper. His father was surprised too; the widening of his eyes and the twitch of his palm tightening into a fist confirmed that.

As a boy, such audacity would have had painful consequences. Answering back was not tolerated; his father was a firm believer in the old adage "Children should be seen and not heard". Then again, as a boy, Wesley would never have dared to speak to his father that way.

The other man studied him carefully.

'I'd watch your tongue, if I were you, my boy. You'd do well to remember to whom you are speaking.'

He was not likely to forget. This was James Wyndam-Pryce, one of the Council elite, specializing in vampire lore and research. He was also an expert in medieval weaponry, and an excellent swordsman, wielding a blade with deadly accuracy. He truly was his father's son, striving to excel in the disciplines his father favoured; yet never quite managing to live up to his standards. A fact of which his father never tired of reminding him.

Even now, well into his sixties, the man looked well able to handle a sword. He had never bested his father during all those years of fencing practice, and he wondered idly if the older man could take him now. Remembering his recent wound, he rather supposed he could. He couldn't help the bitter smile that accompanied that thought.

'Something amusing, boy? Do share the joke, please.'

The glib politeness of his request did not completely mask the underlying menace in his tone. Wesley had learned to fear that tone much more than a raised voice; the icy sarcasm that usually signalled his father's fury, that turned his stomach to liquid, his legs to jelly.

'It's nothing, sir. Would you…. like some tea?' Inwardly he cursed himself for his cowardice.

'Tea would be pleasant.'

He filled the kettle in the small kitchen and spooned tea into the china pot by the stove. A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him, and he gripped the edge of the worktop for support. Not now, he thought, please don't let me pass out now.

'Are you quite well, boy?'

He steadied himself, took a deep breath. 'Just a bit dizzy, that's all. I'll be fine in a moment.'

'Perhaps you'd better sit down and take a rest. I'm quite capable of making tea.'

He did not recognize this man, who spoke with concern in his voice. Tea was brought; placed on the low table in front of his armchair. His father seated himself on the couch opposite, balanced his own cup on the arm.

'Come along, boy, drink up.'

Again he obeyed, not trusting himself to speak. With horror he realized he was suddenly and inexplicably close to tears. As a child he had cried too easily, a fault which had infuriated his father, and which he had determined to correct early on. Evidently he had been unsuccessful. He blinked quickly and took a sip of tea. It was hot and much sweeter than he was used to, but he drank it obediently, managing to stem the flood of tears that had threatened to well up.

'How are you feeling?'

The question was simple, asked without malice, it seemed, and he answered truthfully.

'I'm tired, Father. You said you were told I had died?' His father nodded. 'Can I ask … how did you find out?'

'The hospital rang. I spoke to a nurse.'

Of course. She had told him it wasn't over. She had set this up somehow, but he wasn't sure why.'

'What did she tell you?'

'That you'd been attacked. Your throat had been cut and you'd lost a lot of blood. They did their best to save you.' Still no emotion, his father spoke the words as if reading them from a script.

'I'm afraid that's not the full story.'

And he related his version of recent events, up to and including Angel's attack in the hospital. When he had finished, he looked over at his father.

'So as you can see, I've made rather a mess of things' He said it before the other could; he didn't think he could stand to hear what a failure he was again.

'Mmm.' A non-committal sound, neither confirming nor contradicting his assessment.

'You were a fool to trust the woman, Justine, was it?'

He could not argue with that.

'Yes, sir.' He closed his eyes, waited for the lecture to begin, his various failings singled out and discussed at length. The same lecture he'd been hearing for over twenty-five years; often accompanied by a more physical expression of his father's displeasure.

'You thought the vampire was going to kill the child, yes?' He nodded, suddenly unable to speak. 'Then you had to take him away. That was the only logical, ethical choice.'

To him it was simple, a question of right and wrong. Love and trust, betrayal and guilt, meant nothing, as Wesley had known they would.

'Perhaps I made a mistake in the translation of the prophecy."

 A ghost of a smile hovered on the edge of the older man's lips.

'You've made many mistakes in your life, Wesley, I can testify to that. But I'm afraid this time your assumptions were quite correct.'

He spoke calmly, in that familiar lecturing style that Wesley recognized from childhood lessons. Himself, seated at a small wooden desk by the window of the study, frantically scribbling notes as his father explained some obscure but incredibly detailed ritual. As he grew older he discovered he had a talent for this, retaining information, sifting through it, and presenting it to his father. He tended to do better with written tests; had learned quickly the things which displeased his father; sloppy penmanship, incorrect grammar, errors in spelling and punctuation.

However, his nerves got the better of him when he was questioned on the subject. He would stammer his answers, infuriating his father as he tripped over the words. And the angrier he grew, the more tongue-tied Wesley became. It really was a vicious circle. The desperate desire to please the man always caused him to disappoint.

So he had gradually learned to cope, imitating this same lecturing style, the one that had so pissed off everyone in Sunnydale. Even now made Gunn and Cordy roll their eyes when he started in on one of his explanations. God, so much of what he was, this man had made him.

'Perhaps I could look at your translations?'

His father's request cut short his reverie. He rose stiffly; suddenly excruciatingly aware of how much his pain had been controlled in the hospital. He fetched the requested papers from the locked filing cabinet below his desk, and handed them to his father. He moved into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and took two of the painkillers the discharging doctor had so thoughtfully prescribed.

The knock at the apartment door was unexpected. He made his way slowly to the door and checked the peephole.

Of course. As if his life wasn't already a horrible enough mess, here was the man come to perfect his hell. He looked like it too, his eyes thunderous, dark as storm clouds, barely controlled fury evident in his fisted hands. And Wesley had not yet had time to revoke the invitation he had previously given the vampire to enter his home.

Bloody marvellous.

'Wes, I know you're home. They told me at the hospital. I'm not here to hurt you. I just need…' His voice cracked a little ' I need to talk to you about Connor.'

He opened the door and the vampire took a step back, pressing himself against the opposite wall. The air between them crackled, tension sparking like an electrical charge. Hurt, pain, justified anger, but most of all sorrow. A terrible aching sorrow, on both sides, he knew. He could not speak, nothing to do with the tight pain at his throat. There were just no words suitable for the situation. Their particular sins too great for simple apologies. They stood silent for moments, time expanding to occupy them wholly.

 It was Angel who spoke first.

'You were trying to protect him.'  As if the words were tearing him apart. ' I get that…'

Shame washed over him, he could not bear to look at the vampire.

'The protection spell, it worked…'

He jolted upright, a current running through his body.

'Connor, you found him?' He wanted so much for it to be true.

Angel shook his head, swiftly. 'Saw him. In a vision. The ring, it protected him. Took him to England, I think.'

Good God – Giles! He hadn't checked his messages since he'd arrived home. His heart was thumping wildly with hope. A chance, a tiny pinprick of light in this whole desperate mess. He moved to his answering machine, leaving Angel at the door of the flat. The message-received button was flashing red.

'Your vision – can you remember anything about the place where you saw Connor?  Landmarks, buildings, rivers, perhaps?'

'It was in the country. I saw Holtz holding him...' He paused.

Wesley pushed a button on the answering machine. 'What is it?

He turned to face Angel, but was suddenly sprawled on his back on the floor, the full weight of the vampire on top of him. The howl from his lips was truly blood curdling, a mixture of rage and despair.

'You – you bastard!'

Large hands closed around his damaged throat, the pressure firm enough to cut off air. So it had all been a trick. Angel meant to kill him after all. His eyelids drooped; he no longer had the strength to struggle against his fate. Felt his wound split open and weep; heard Angel's rants and sobs as if from a distance. He was about to slip into unconsciousness, until his father's voice, detached and cool, snapped him back.

'You would think by now, Wesley, after all your spectacular failures, that you would have learned something about prophecies. They have a way of happening, despite our best efforts to the contrary.'