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 10 of 11. Blame this chapter on the unseasonably clement weather. The sun is actually shining – it usually rains here in summer (and autumn, and winter, and spring!)

Blame it on the summer link I found at the lovely Angel Book of Days site. It took me to the title and quote for this Chap. – the W.B. Yeats poem "The Stolen Child". From there I headed to "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" Got me in a wistful poetic mood…

Blame it on Wesley – he made me do it!

Chapter 10 : The Stolen Child

"Come away, oh human child

To the waters and the wild

With a faery hand in hand

For the world's more full of weeping

Than you can understand."

He stretched his long legs out, felt the heat of late afternoon sun warm upon his face. In the park nearby, contented mothers watched their offspring toddle blithely in the play area. Kept a wary distance from the strange pale man with the heavily bandaged throat. He didn't really mind, though, was happy to close his eyes and let the heat of the day drift over him.

Squeals of laughter mingled with birdsong, and the lazy gentle hum of the bumblebee. The scent of honeysuckle was growing stronger as evening approached, and suddenly he could taste iron. His hand flew immediately to his neck, but the wound was still intact. A sense memory, he realized, a peculiar synaesthetic reaction to that particular perfume. Not surprising, considering the day's revelations.

He opened his eyes, discovering that the sun had bleached spots on his retina. He was twelve years old, lying in the long grass next to the river. The chalk stream meandered lazily through the village, its peaceful flow disturbed only by the gentle flick of a fly on the surface, either real, or some angler's delicate copy of nature. Something tickled his nose and he flinched; brushed his hand across his face. He glanced up and saw Simon, now seated next to him, pulling the heads off the rye grass and sprinkling them onto him.

'Get off me, Si.' He said affably, poking his friend in the ribs as he sat up. The sandy haired boy beside him grinned and shoved Wesley back.

'Your Dad's away, then?'

Wesley nodded, couldn't keep the small smile of satisfaction off his face.

'Away all day on business.'

Simon knew that he would not be lazing by the river if his father were home. He did not know, and Wesley did not dare tell him, what line of business his father was in.

'So, what d'you want to do today?'

What Wes really wanted was to lie here, in the drowsy heat of summer and exist. Not train or study, just simply be. These rare days, when his father went up to London on Council business, were what he lived for. Term had finished a week previously, and much as he disliked boarding school, at least there he got some free time. If school was the hard place, then his father was most definitely the rock he was caught between. Innumerable translations and grammar tests filled up endless hours of his school holidays. When he wasn't studying, his father made him train in the various forms of combat and self-defence required by the Council. He had seized the opportunity today, completing the tasks set by him quickly, then begging his mother to let him play outside for a while. She gave in, as she always did when his father wasn't around, warning him only to be home before six.

'You deaf, Wes? What'll we do?' Wesley sighed; propped himself up on his elbows and squinted at Simon through the dappled sunlight that filtered through the oak leaves overhead.

'Whatever you like.'

Simon, a year older, was tougher, braver and more daring than he would ever be. Wesley wondered for the hundredth time why his friend could be bothered to notice him, let alone actually associate with him. Simon's mother was his parents' housekeeper, and Wesley suspected that she might carry home tales of his strict upbringing to keep her own rather unruly charge in check. And although Simon never mentioned it, he got an angry look in his eye when it was obvious that Wesley had been punished. It seemed to make him more determined to protect him when he could.

'Robin Hood? Come on, Wes, it'll be brill! We'll build a hut in the forest and make our own bows and arrows and everything.'

He had to admit, it didn't sound a bad way to pass a day. The other boy punched his arm impatiently; anxious to get started. Wes pulled himself to a sitting position, brushing grass seeds off his shirt.

'Okay. Just as long as I don't have to be Friar Tuck.' He deadpanned. His friend collapsed into a fit of giggles at this incongruous suggestion.

'Yeah, 'cause you're sooo fat!'

The rest of the day was spent in the Sherwood Forest of their imagination, and it was not until Wesley felt a chill in the air that he realized it was getting late. The sun had moved in the sky, was now heading west with alarming velocity.

'Si, what time is it?'

The other boy stopped sharpening the end of a homemade arrow and glanced at his watch.

'Just after half five. Why?'

Wesley swung down from the branches of the tree he had hidden in.

''My dad'll be home at six. I've got to go.

Simon jumped down beside him, did not offer any protests. 'It's fine. If we go now, you'll be home well before six.'

They made their way out of the small copse of trees and followed the path along the riverbank. The early evening air was scented with woodbine from the honeysuckle bushes, which grew beside the stream.

There was a sudden movement in those bushes, and from them emerged four larger boys. Wesley recognized them from the village, older than them both by a couple of years. They attended the local secondary school along with Simon, and it was him they addressed first.

'What are you doing with the prep school swot, Cates?'

 Wes wisely resisted the urge to correct him as to his current place of education. He had left prep school a year ago, and was now firmly installed in the Watcher's Academy, twenty miles from the village.

'Come on, Henderson, leave us alone. We're not doing you any harm.'

The boy who had spoken first took a step forward, pushing Simon out of the way.

'Think you're too good for the likes of us, don't you, Wesley.' He emphasized the sibilants in his name, making it sound incredibly effeminate. 'Mummy and Daddy wouldn't like their little sissy mixing with the nasty rough boys.'

Wesley wasn't sure what he had done to deserve such vindictive spite, knew only where it would lead. He squared his shoulders, drew his slender frame to its full height. The other boy eyed him gleefully.

'Uh-oh, looks like sissy boy wants to fight!'

The blow came fast, hard and low, landed with such force in his kidneys that it made him want to throw up. He doubled up, hugging his middle, trying to regain some control over his breathing. Henderson gave a derisive laugh

'Don't follow Marquis of Queensbury rules here, Wesley!'

And then Simon was upon him, fists and feet flying. The force of his attack knocked the older boy to the ground, and they were rolling in the grass, each trying to gain the upper position, to batter their opponent into submission.

Through a haze of pain, Wesley noticed the other boys had moved closer to the combatants; in a flash they had Simon pinned by his arms and legs. Henderson took full advantage of their assistance, drew his hand back and began to pound his fists mercilessly, landing vicious jabs all over his friend's body.

He did not think, did not pause to consider how ineffectual his support might be. He flung himself at Henderson, and pummelled his back with all his might. The older boy barely noticed, used a free hand to catch Wesley's shirt and throw him to one side. His head met a nearby tree root sharply, and he was enveloped in the scent of honeysuckle as his mouth filled with blood.

Stars exploded inside his head, some detached part of him imagined that this must be what the beginning of the universe had looked like. It was a bright, white heat; sending out sparkling arcs of light, the intensity of which he had never before experienced. He was consumed by the light; pain controlling him absolutely. He felt it move through his body like electricity, his raw nerve endings now lightning conductors. Somewhere, far off in the distance, he heard screaming. High-pitched, girlish yelping, and he only prayed it wasn't him.

'Wesley – Wes! Let him go…damn it, let him go!'

Simon was dragging him off Henderson, who was howling in agony. The other boys had backed off, palpably terrified by the frenzied attack they had just witnessed. Wesley realized with horror that the blood in his mouth was not only his own. Henderson held his fingers across the side of his neck, blood clearly visible on the collar of his shirt.

He had bitten him.

'Wesley, come on!'

Simon was still pulling him roughly along the river path, his feet stumbling over themselves.

'Oh God, Simon! What did I do?' he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and stared at it in appalled fascination. His friend hauled him again, jolting his arm out of its socket.

'You bit him, Wes. Not like he didn't have it coming.'

 Simon sounded as if he was trying to convince himself of that fact.

'Look, its after six. Your dad will be home. Just forget about Henderson. Okay?'

Wesley felt his heart thump against his ribcage.

'Si, I didn't mean to… you know that, right?' his friend nodded hesitantly, a certain ambiguity in the action.

'We don't have time for this. Wesley – your father will be home!'

The significance of this fact was finally dawning on him.

'God, Si. He's going to kill me.'

It was already dark when Simon left him at the front gate of the house, gave him the 'we the brave go forth to die' look. He pushed the back door open and crept into the scullery. Ran his bloodied hands under the cold tap, and soaked a crumpled handkerchief he had found in his trouser pocket. He attempted to clean the worst of the blood from his face, to conceal the evidence of his misconduct, but it was obvious when he caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the scullery door that such endeavours were futile. His lip was already swelling, and there was a cut on his cheek where his head had cracked on the tree root. His glasses were broken, one leg dangled at an odd lolling angle.

He scooped up a handful of water and drank it quickly, then wiped his damp hands through his unruly hair, trying to tame the spikes into some semblance of order. With one last glance at himself in the glass door, he made his way along the passageway that led through to the main entrance hall of the house.

He stopped uncertainly at the door of the dining room, pushed it cautiously with one finger. There was a quiet clink of fine silver on expensive china, as his father put down his fork.

'Ah, Wesley. You're aware of the time, I presume?' His voice was very calm and controlled.

Not a good sign.

'Yes, sir. I'm sorry I'm late.'

'I would like an explanation.' A pause. 'Now, please, boy.' There was steel in his tone.

'I… forgot the time.' It sounded pitiful, even to him. He swallowed, a lump about the size of a tennis ball in his throat. ' I am sorry, Father.'

'You will be, my boy. Of that have no doubt. You will go directly to my study and wait for me. When I have finished my meal we will spend some time correcting your behaviour.'

He returned to his meal again, a man used to being obeyed.

Wesley went into the study and flopped disconsolately in the leather armchair by the bookcase. He had been on the receiving end of his father's corrections on enough occasions to know that he would not be sitting comfortably any time soon. And when he found out that Wesley had been fighting… No, he did not want to imagine that. He rubbed his palm over the worn leather of the arm of the chair and wondered idly how far he would get if he ran away from home now, while his father was finishing dinner.

The shrill jangle of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. He heard his father come into the hallway to answer it. Could not make out the low conversation, but he had a nasty feeling that it had something to do with Henderson and the fight. There was a muffled click as the receiver was replaced. A silent wild prayer burned in his head. 'Please God let him be okay. I'll never do it again, I swear.'

'Wesley!'

His father did not shout, as a rule. He never needed to, was able to control his son with quiet commands and instructions. Which made it all the more terrifying to hear his roar now.

'Wesley! Come here this instant!'

He was on his feet and moving before he could think, so ingrained in him was it to obey that voice. He faltered when he saw his father's face. Fury etched in every line of his features; eyes ablaze with anger. Wesley saw something else beneath the rage and revulsion, some emotion he couldn't quite place.

'You bit him!' There was disgust in his tone.

'Father, I didn't mean to. There were four of them… they were hurting Simon, holding him down. I was only trying to…'

'You bit him.'

 Wesley closed his mouth then, knew no explanation he could give would be acceptable.

'You…'

His father stepped back, actually moved away from him. Opened the cupboard door below the stairs.

'Get in there." He hissed, no longer yelling.

Wesley felt his knees tremble, felt his heart beat in the wound on his cheek.

'Please father, I'm sorry.' (Don't make me go in there. Not into the dark.)

'If you don't get in there now, boy, I will tie you up and throw you in!'

Wesley met his dark eyes and realized this was no idle threat. He was deadly serious. He backed into the tiny cupboard slowly, watching the man warily. His father did not look at him as he pushed the door shut, clicked the bolt firmly into place. There was the sound of footsteps, and the single line of light under the cupboard door, his last vestige of hope, was removed, as the hall light was turned off. It was only then that Wesley recognized the emotion he had read in his father's eyes. Under the anger and disgust, he had seen fear.

Time had no meaning in this place. Minutes became hours. He was always surprised, when his father let him out, to discover how little time had actually passed. An hour, two at the most. Not tonight. He knew, by the gnawing hunger in his stomach, that he had been here for hours.

Heard the grandfather clock in the hallway strike midnight, heard the soft tread of his mother as she ascended to bed. There had been frantic whispering prior to that. He knew she was pleading his case, although he had not been able to make out the actual content of their discussion. Evidently his father had won.

The house was silent, but for the tick of the clock outside his little prison. It had grown cold, and he felt in the dark for the coat pegs he knew were there. His hand brushed against the cool heavy leather of a coat belonging to his father. He unhooked it carefully, and huddled his knees to his chest, pulling the coat over him. The distinctive smell of the leather seemed incredibly familiar and strangely comforting, yet he could not remember ever having seen the man wear it. The clock chimed one.

He dozed fitfully, troubled by dreams of vampires and monsters. That in itself was not unusual, the knowledge that these creatures actually existed only served to fuel his nightmares. What terrified him most about this dream was that he was the monster; pulling back Henderson's head, sinking his teeth into the flesh between his collarbone and neck. The strong metallic taste of blood filling his mouth…

He was jerked out of the dream by a sudden blinding brightness. He scrambled to his knees, pushing the coat onto the floor. The light that flooded in from the hall hurt his eyes, the long hours in the darkness of his prison had made his pupils hypersensitive. He scooted back, away from the open door, and abruptly his father's hands were on him, pulling him bodily from the recesses of the cupboard.

'Please, Father, it hurts!'

He was being hauled along the passageway, his feet barely making contact with the tiled floor. His father's grip was a vice on his upper arm, his fingers biting into soft muscle. In one fluid movement, he opened the front door and shoved Wesley out into the early morning sun. He blinked hard, rubbed his fists over his eyes, and then used the back of his hand to shield them from the brightness of the dawn.

Time slowed; stopped.

And then he heard the tick of the clock in the distance.

'Wesley…' His father 's voice sounded strangely muffled. 'I thought…'

And then he was being held. Strong arms closed tight around his thin frame, and he was wrapped in a powerful embrace. Wesley didn't move, wasn't sure what was going on. Only knew that for the first time in his life, his father was holding him.

The only time, he now realized. And the reason for it was now apparent. Ironically, he had spent quite a bit of time delving into Holtz's past, and was painfully aware of how the man had lost his children. He understood now what the man had feared that morning so long ago. To lose another child …

The revelation hit him with unanticipated force. Somewhere deep down, beneath the intolerance, the impassive pitilessness, the desire to exact retribution, somewhere in the depths of his soul, Holtz had cared for him.

He lowered his head onto his hands.

She watched him, as always, from a distance. He looked broken, as if someone had ripped his world apart. Which was, in essence, what had happened. She had been doing this too long, she knew. She had allowed her love for this lost one to infect her soul. Even after she had discovered his birthright, when she should have hardened her heart. She had a job to do. There was no place here for love… or forgiveness.

A breeze rustled through the trees, and she drew her sweater closer around her shoulders, the evening air chilling her arms.

'So, you've been watching him.'

She looked up, startled by the figure that stood in the shadows. He stepped forward, the setting sun lending his skin a pinkish hue. Her heart skipped a beat, and she took a deep breath, willing herself to sound calm.

'Hello, Daniel.'

Holtz seated himself next to her on the park bench.

'Hello, my dear.'