TITLE:  Soul Cages

AUTHOR:  Eloise

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise to put them away carefully when I'm finished.

NOTES: Chapter 4 of 8. As you will see, this chapter is heavily influenced by 'Deep Down'  - kudos to Steve DeKnight for a stunning piece of television. Lines of dialogue from 'Five by Five'

Chapter 4: Sailing to the Island of Souls

He dreamed of a ship on the sea

It would carry his father and he

To a place they would never be found

To a place far away from this town

A Newcastle ship without coals

They would sail to the island of souls

'Turn round, and keep your hands where I can see them.'

The sharp point of whatever it was grazed her skin and she reacted automatically, her foot jerked up and connected gratifyingly hard with bone. There was a sharp hiss, and the weapon was briefly removed from her back.

She took advantage of the moment and swung round, balancing on the balls of her feet, ready to defend herself. Her attacker had already recovered the crossbow and had it aimed at her heart.

He was dressed dark, clothes chosen for ease of movement, expecting a fight. She registered a shock of dark hair, a strong beard shadow, and unexpectedly blue eyes that usually remained hidden behind…

'Wesley!'

He lowered his arm fractionally when she spoke. 'Good God… Faith?'

'Jeez, Wes, is that you?

But the accent had confirmed it, as well as that look, head cocked slightly to one side, the corners of his mouth turned down disapprovingly. She remembered that look from Sunnydale, more recently and painfully from her last visit to this apartment. The grim irony of their current circumstances was not lost on her.

'Faith… listen to me. It's not too late.

'For cappuccino, 'cos it just keeps me up.'

'It's not too late to let me help you.'

No, she didn't think he would be offering his help any time soon. She noticed that the weapon was still trained on her heart, and the hand that held it was very steady.

'Okay.' She said calmly. 'Okay. On parole, Wes. Not escaped homicidal ex-slayer out for revenge.'

She kept her hands loose by her sides, willing herself to relax; despite the fact that every nerve of her body was rigid with tension. He hesitated for a long moment, then lowered the cross bow and touched his shoulder gingerly.

'Well, perhaps not homicidal. But the revenge part…'

'Aw, come on. I didn't hit you that hard.'

He rolled his shoulder back in its socket and sucked a breath though gritted teeth.

'I suppose I've had worse.'

Looking at him properly now, she had to agree with his assessment. He looked – the only word that she could think of was - damaged. This was not the Wesley she remembered from Sunnydale. Not even from the last time they had met. The five o'clock shadow was heavy, and only just failed to hide a new and fairly wicked-looking scar that reached from the side of his jaw up to his ear. But that was not what made her think of that word, although this was clearly the physical cause of the damage.

His eyes. Even when she had tortured him, his eyes had never lost their intensity. An intensity that haunted her nightmares. Sometimes she had only to close her own eyes, and his were there, burning into her, seeing a part of herself she needed to keep hidden. It made her stomach light to look into those eyes now. As if someone had reached inside and switched the light off. God, what the hell had happened to him?

'Where's Queen C.?'

'I was hoping you would be able to shed some light on that.'

This was not good. The cheerleader was missing and this dark mirrorverse Wes thought she was mixed up in it. Those damn lawyers had set her up.

Wesley was casually checking his crossbow

'Watch where you 're pointing that thing. Wouldn't want it to go off prematurely, would we?'

'Don't flatter yourself, Faith.' He sneered contemptuously.

Well, hell.  Prissy watcher boy had gotten himself an attitude to match his mean scar. She raised her palms in mock defeat.

'Okay, Wes. Look, I only just got here. Ask the ghost.'

In answer to her plea, the spoon rose off the counter and dived into the tub of ice cream.

'Oh, come on, Dennis, I hardly touched it!'

'So. You happened to be passing and called in for ice cream. Because you and Cordelia are such good friends.'

She had forgotten how sarcastic he could be.

'I didn't know where else to go.' She hated the way that sounded, a pathetic attempt at gaining sympathy. 'I knew your office blew up, he told me that. He said something about a hotel, but I couldn't find it listed. I still had the address from before…'

She stopped, didn't really want to get into that particular conversation right now. He was watching her, his lack of glasses only emphasizing the horrible sense of déjà vu.

'When were you paroled?' All business. He obviously didn't want to get into it either.

'This morning.'

He relaxed visibly. 'Oh. She's been missing for a while.'

'Where's Soul Boy? Out looking for her?'

He gave her a strange guarded look, and she got the distinct feeling that he was hiding something.

'He's missing, too.'

'You lost them both? Kind of careless, don't you think?' But her bravado was unconvincing.

'What kind of boss are you, anyway?'

'I'm not' He growled, his voice low.

'Not what?'

'The boss.'

Okay. She knew it. The vamp had been tripping out. 'Angel said you were in charge…'

'I was. I'm not anymore.' His voice was tight, inviting no further comment.

She put her hand back on to the counter and steadied herself. It was like walking into a movie halfway through, when everyone else knew the plot, and what was about to happen. Whereas she only had a half-assed idea who the main characters were. Something had happened between Angel and Wesley, that much was clear.

'Need any help?'

'I beg your pardon?' There was a sneer in his voice that just pissed her off.

'No need to beg, Wes.' That was nasty, but she hated that snippety know-it-all attitude. 'Look, I've been sprung by Evil Incorporated, and my guess is they're not doing it out of the kindness of their hearts. I just thought if we worked together, maybe we could…'

He interrupted her. 'Wolfram and Hart had you paroled?'

'Nice to see you're listening.'

He threw her a scathing look. 'You do realize that you're in serious trouble?'

'When am I not?'

She shrugged her shoulders defiantly, and he cracked a grin.

'Come on.'

'Where're we going?'

'Home. There's someone you need to meet.'

*~*~*~*

He turned the engine off and dismounted. Didn't wait for her. There hadn't been any pleasantries, of course. Just a derisive snort of laughter from her when she saw the bike.

'I assume you've ridden pillion before.' He had growled, aiming the helmet at her gut intentionally.

And she had sworn softly and creatively, before throwing a long leg over the seat behind him.

'Don't judge a person by their appearance, Wes.'

'Yes. Because you would never do that.'

He had kicked the Dog into life and pulled away from the kerb fast, forcing her to grab him hard around the waist, to prevent being thrown off.

Bloody Hell.

What was he doing? This was Faith. The woman who had bound and gagged him. Had beaten him. Cut him. Burned him. For fun. Simply to piss Angel off.

Angel had been to see her, he knew that. They had talked about it, calmly, rationally. Before Darla, before Connor, before… everything that had happened. Wes had agreed that she would need guidance. And Angel was certainly best qualified to understand her situation. And while they had talked, he had imagined her tied to a chair, a sliver of glass in his own hand, and had felt the warmth of justified hate bubble up and fill his veins. He knew he had not forgiven her for what she had done to him.

So what the hell was he doing with her now? Was this some big karmic joke, as Cordy would put it? You don't get forgiven till you learn to forgive. He mouthed a sarcastic thank you to the Powers that Be. Just what he needed. An object lesson in humility.

He opened the door of the apartment, and strode in without waiting for her. He was relieved to find that Connor had kept his promise, was still sitting on the couch, congenitally brooding.

The dark head snapped up, eyes wary, narrowing in fear when he registered Faith.

'Faith, this is Connor. He is Angel and Darla's son. I kidnapped him as a baby to protect him from a prophecy concerning his death at the hands of his father. I was tricked by Angel's enemies, had my throat cut, and Connor was sent to a hell dimension. While recovering in hospital, Angel came to visit. He pointed out the error of my ways using the tried and tested method of smothering. Connor recently returned from said hell dimension, was tricked into believing that Angel had killed the man he called father, and proceeded to lock Angel in a cage at the bottom of the ocean.

A brief pause, long enough for him to draw breath, but not long enough to allow her to react verbally.

'Connor, this is Faith. She is a slayer. I was sent to be her watcher in Sunnydale. She accidentally killed an innocent bystander, lied about it, and I overreacted idiotically. She ended up working for the local mayor, who also happened to be a hundred year old sixty-foot snake demon. She poisoned Angel, and was put into an eight-month coma by Buffy. When she awoke, she came to L.A. after a body swap with Buffy, joined forces with Wolfram and Hart and accepted a contract to kill Angel. Which for some reason involved torturing me. Rather gleefully, if I remember rightly. However, I digress. Angel pointed out the error of her ways with the tried and tested method of compassion and jelly donuts. Infinitely more preferable to smothering, I should imagine. She apparently realized those erring ways, and was subsequently incarcerated, until this morning, when she was unexpectedly paroled by the aforementioned law firm.

He halted briefly, realizing that he was now in the presence of the two people who represented his greatest failures. To date.

'So. Questions? Comments? Anyone?'

Unsurprisingly, neither of them spoke.

'Well, if we're all up to speed, let's get on with it.'

'What the hell are you talking about, Wes?' Faith finally managed to speak.

'Rescuing that stupid bloody vampire, of course.'

*~*~*~*

He shouldn't have agreed to it, he knew. He should have known it was lunacy when the shaman had produced the impossibly sharp dagger and insisted that he needed his blood for the locator spell to work. And then, of course, he had rolled up his sleeve and let him slice across his forearm, with what he belatedly and rather futilely prayed was a sterile blade.

Connor had watched with concern in his dark eyes, while Faith had actually hissed in something approaching sympathy.

'Happy memories?' He whispered to her, strangely unsatisfied by the look of pain that crossed her face.

'Shit, Wes.' She swore under her breath, eyes wide.

'Quiet please.' The shaman sounded mildly irritated, as if he was not used to working under these circumstances.

He shook a small packet of silver powder into a pestle and mortar, along with as hair plucked from Connor's head. Mixed it into a smooth paste using his blood, and then spread the mixture over the already healing wound.

'Now what?' Faith demanded impatiently.

'Now we wait.'

He opened his eyes, not sure what to expect. He had expected to feel more ethereal. Less connected to the concrete world. He was standing, (not levitating a la demon Cordy) in a room lined with bookshelves. He felt a vague feeling of familiarity, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. There was quiet click, and the room was immediately suffused with a soft glow from an antique lamp on a desk.

The shock of recognition was instant, he straightened up automatically, shoulders squared, hands stiff by his sides. He was not here, could not be. It was not possible.

'Everything's possible.'

The voice was not the one he'd been dreading, and he felt himself relax slightly, the tension easing.

'Gotta say, expecting a little more awe, a little less sighing of relief.'

He turned to face a large black skinned demon with a heavy exoskeleton, and curiously human eyes that twinkled from a face that should have been nightmarish, but wasn't. The demon flashed a brilliant grin that made him wonder about the dental packages offered to those working for the higher powers.

'Wesley, right? I wasn't sure. You suit the stubble, though – and the extra arm.'

Wes blinked and wondered if the shaman had given him an overdose. The demon stuck out his armour-clad arm and grabbed his hand, shaking it firmly.

'Name's Skip – maybe Cordelia mentioned me?'

'Of course, the demon guide. Nice to meet you.'

They stood for a moment, an awkward polite silence between them.

'You're Cordelia's guide, yes?'

Skip nodded.

'So perhaps you could tell me what's happened to her?'

'Sorry, buddy. You seem like a nice guy, but it's more than my job's worth to go blabbing about that. I'd be kicked back downstairs to guard duty in the hell dimensions. She's safe, I promise you that.' He smiled reflectively. 'It's nice that her friends still care.'

'I'm not sure Cordelia considers me one of her friends any more.' He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his tone.

Skip waved his hand dismissively.

'You mean the whole baby kidnapping fiasco. That was happening regardless.'

The demon paused and looked around the room, then back at him.

'I'm getting why you took him, though. The father will kill the son. You gotta protect the kid, right?'

Wesley said nothing. There was nothing he could say. To excuse his stupidity, his gullibility.

'You made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.' Skip's voice was so soft it was almost a whisper.

He looked around the room, at the solid oak desk, the large green leather armchair, the rows of shelves, heavy with old books. The desk lamp cast strange elongated shadows across the dark herringbone planks. He looked down at the floor, the familiarity of the situation almost overwhelming him. He had counted the knots and whorls in that wood as he had stood before the desk, listening. Always listening, trying to find clues, find some way to do better, be better. 'Everyone makes mistakes.' That had been unacceptable

'You know that, don't you?' Skip's voice again, and he was back with him.

'You're allowed to make mistakes.'

Wes gave a short mirthless laugh. 'Don't know if Angel would agree with you on that one.'

'What about you?'

'I've had enough practice, if that's what you mean.'

'So you made a mistake. Now you're trying to put it right. Find the vampire. Fight the good fight.' He leaned casually against one of the bookshelves. 'I can help with that.'

He pulled out a leather-bound volume and opened it seemingly at random. The page contained nautical charts and a specific grid reference.

'You gotta hurry, Wes. That cage won't hold his soul forever.'

 A chill ran down Wesley's spine. 'You think he might have turned, become Angelus?'

Skip met his gaze with an equally solemn one, then burst out laughing.

'Nah, just kidding. Just hoping for a set change, actually. This place is giving me the creeps.'

'You worked as a guard in a hell dimension, and this place gives you the creeps? Wes couldn't help smiling.

'Well, you know what to expect in a hell dimension – the name kind of gives it away. But this place, there's despair here. You could get lost here.'

There was no trace of the mocking good humour in his voice now. His black eyes found Wesley's blue.

'I know.'

'Anyway. You go get Angel. And bring plenty of blood. Vampire's bound to be feeling hungry after his salt water diet.'

Wes nodded. 'Thank you, Skip.'

The large demon waved cheerily. 'Just doing my job. The powers I work for want to see you reunited. Fighting evil together. One big happy family.'

He turned and opened the door of the study, disappearing into the non-existent hallway.

'Yep. Just one big happy family.'

*~*~*~*

He looked dreadful. His skin so pale it was almost translucent, lips cracked and blue. He had not yet opened his eyes.

'Is he dead?' She asked the Englishman quietly.

He sighed with deliberate impatience and unscrewed a jar of pig's blood.

'You know he's dead, Faith.'

'You know what I mean.' She hissed back, a flash of anger jolting through her like a current. And instantly she was back in that room, shoving a knotted gag into his mouth. God, she hated him for making her feel this way. Pedantic asshole.

'He's been existing in a state of starvation and isolation for about a month, now.' He looked up at the boy, Connor, who was standing as far as possible from his father's metal coffin.

Kid has some sense, she thought. If… When Angel woke up, there was going to be hell to pay. And she had a feeling that Connor would be getting the bill.

Wes slid his arm under the unconscious vampire's neck, and shook him slightly.

'Angel. Can you hear me?' There was no response from the body. 'Do you know who I am?'

Instantly his eyes opened, yellow and feral. She took a step back; hoped Wes had enough common sense to do the same. Angel tried to speak, but his skin on his lips cracked, his tongue was swollen with thirst and hunger. Wesley did not move away, but put the jar of blood to his wounded lips. He responded slowly at first, but gradually the gulping became increasingly desperate.

'Take it easy.' Wes's voice was incredibly calm. 'There's plenty of blood.' He reassured Angel, as he sucked greedily at the dregs of the first jar.

She stood beside the prodigal son and watched her ex-watcher tend to her saviour. There was a quality to this man she had not appreciated before. Oh, it had been there, when she had provided him with a foretaste of hell. Only she had been too far-gone to see it. That quiet self-possession, the sustained determination to do what must be done, no matter what the cost.

Another jar was produced, and Angel began to gain some degree of control over his reflexes.

'You… ' His voice was soft, as if from a far off place.

 Wes tipped the jar a little more, his bandaged forearm brushing over Angel's face. The effect was amazing. Angel's hand came up, and seized his arm. She began to move towards them, but Wesley turned to her and shook his head. He carefully unwound the makeshift bandage that covered his still healing scar. Angel groaned very softly, and beside her, Connor hid his face in his hands.

She watched Wesley feed the man he had betrayed, watched Angel as he fed from the man he had almost killed. There was very little noise, just a tiny hiss of pain from Wes, as the vampire sank his teeth into the injured flesh. It lasted only a minute; Angel pulled away from him, and turned his head in her direction.

'Connor.' His voice was much more steady now, and she heard Connor's breathing quicken.

'Faith?' Wesley said her name quietly. 'Can you give him a couple more jars? I need to talk to Connor.'

She obeyed him, like the good little slayer she wasn't. Stood over the vampire as he fed, and strained to catch what Wes was saying to the kid.

'It will be alright. He won't hurt you.'

The kid's answer was muffled by his hands. Something about 'What I did…'

'You did wrong. You know that. Now he needs to hear it.'

'I can't!' Her hand jerked at his heartbroken plea, and Angel caught her arm, forcing her to look at him.

'I want to see my son.'

Wesley heard it too. Placed his hand on the kid's thin shoulder.

'You must be brave, Connor. We'll be here.'

He pushed the boy over to Angel gently, as she set down the last jar of blood. Connor stood before his father, his head bowed, a picture of misery and shame.

Angel reached up and took his son's hand, stroked his thumb over the trembling fingers.

'It's okay, Connor. It's okay.'

She heard Wesley release his breath in relief, felt her own body relax, suddenly aware of the tension that had been building in the room.

Angel smiled gently. 'Things will be better now.'

They were back in the harbour within the hour. Wes had called a couple of people to come and pick them up. The tall dark guy did not volunteer much information, but the teeny redneck stick figure more that made up for his lack of conversational skills. She chattered incessantly, until it was all Faith could do not to slap her in the face. It was 'Are you alright, Angel,' and 'We were so worried, Angel' and not a word of thanks to Wes for saving him.

The vamp in question wasn't exactly talkative either. He remained silent as they helped him into the pick-up truck. Only when he had settled himself in the passenger seat did he finally speak.

'Thank you for rescuing me.' His eyes rested on Wesley.

The former watcher stuffed his hands deep into his jacket pockets, did not answer.

'You brought my son back to me.'

Connor stood by the door of the pick-up, staring at the ground as if hoping it might swallow him up.

'But you never should have taken him.' Angel's voice was ice cold, and she actually shivered.

'You made him what he is. You put me in that box, threw me into the ocean.'

Faith looked over to Wesley, waiting for him to defend himself. He did not speak.

'You do not come near my son ever again, do you understand? I never want to see you again.'

Connor gasped, backed away from the vehicle towards Wesley, but Wes shook his head. 'Go on, Connor. It's okay.' Faith felt her own heart breaking for him.

Connor obeyed Wes; climbed miserably into the truck, as the other man closed the door.

'Faith, you know you're welcome to come with us.'

She eyed the vampire defiantly.

'Thanks for the offer, Soul Boy, but I think I'll take my chances with Judas here.'

He met her mutinous gaze with ill concealed amusement. 'Unfinished business?'

The other man started the engine of the truck, and Angel leaned towards the open window.

'Let me know if you're planning on torturing him again. I really think I'd like to hear him scream.'

They were gone.

She felt as if someone had sucker punched her, all the wind seemed knocked out of her body. Wes didn't look much better. His face was ashen, and he looked as if he was ready to throw up. The Englishman was clearly struggling with some powerful emotions. She propped him up with a hand on his injured arm.

'Screw 'em, Wes.' She said decisively.

It worked. He leaned against her and began to laugh.

'God help me, Faith, if you're for me.'

She began to chuckle too.

'Way I figure it, things can only get better.'

Should have known not to say that.

The sudden sharp pain in her neck reminded her the Fate was never good at resisting temptation.