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 7of 8. Many thanks for your lovely reviews – apologies again for the delay in updating. Work is horrendously hectic, and my littlest one has been ill this week – so the sleepless nights are taking their toll!
This chapter is rather dark, with some torture scenes (not too graphic, I hope). The chapter may raise more questions than it answers, but all will be explained in the final chapter. Only two POVs this time; Wes's is straightforward narrative, Faith's is part narrative, part flashback. It should be fairly obvious which is which…
Chapter 7: The Ninth World
He's the king of the ninth world
The twisted son of the fog bells' toll
In each and every lobster cage
A tortured human soul
It had almost been too easy.
Lilah had kept her word, and Angel had been able to enter the building via the tunnels without setting off any alarms. There had been very little evidence of security on the upper floors; anything they had met with had been quickly and dispassionately dealt with by Angel.
Wesley had watched their efficient dispatch at the vampire's hands with a sense of foreboding; he was allowing the rage to build inside him, nurturing it. If he released it on the man who held his son captive, there was a good chance that Linwood might not survive. Now that wasn't necessarily a bad thing; but to kill a human, no matter how despicable, was not part of the Powers' brief. To almost kill one was fine, of course, he thought, a little bitterly.
He stayed close to the vampire, and wisely made no attempt at small talk. Faith was managing to hold her own, but it was clear from her pained expression that the effects of the drug had not yet worn off. He tried to remember back to his college lectures on the Cruciamentum, but he was unsure of the dosage and strength, and he was certain that there had been advances in the procedure since his Council days. He had been out of the loop for a while. But even with her slayer abilities suppressed, she was still a resolute fighter. One he was glad was on their side.
He, on the other hand, was not so much an asset as a handicap. His head hurt in more places than he could reasonably identify, while the throbbing in his hand and forearm had become ever more insistent, pain demanding to be acknowledged. He had swallowed a couple of the painkillers they had prescribed on discharging him from hospital after the Connor fiasco. He carried them in his wallet now, part of his armoury, along with the stakes, the daggers, and the holy water pistol. Oh, and a good healthy dose of guilt and self-doubt. Essential weapons for any rogue demon hunter.
They were not, by any stretch of imagination, a crack fighting force. Which brought him again to the same conclusion: this was way too easy. He kept these anxious little ruminations to himself; correctly imagining that Angel would not be in the mood to listen to his paranoid musings. From the look on his face, he was more in the mood to beat him to a bloody pulp.
They were now outside Linwood's suite of offices, and the vampire turned to him, his face impassive.
'You really think you can trust Lilah?'
Wesley nodded. As strange as it seemed, he believed she was telling the truth about Connor. Of course, he wasn't sure why she was helping them, but at this point in the proceedings he no longer cared. He could spend some time examining her motives and moral position, when they had rescued Connor. If they rescued Connor.
He looked back at Angel; spoke quietly. 'You keep Linwood and any security busy. Faith, you back him up as much as you can. I'll free Connor'
The vampire glared at him. 'He's my son. I'll get him!'
He sighed softly. 'Angel. Think about this. You have the strength, speed and agility to fight off whatever safety measures they have in place. I am currently one armed and not very dangerous, and wouldn't last five minutes against even the most pathetic of security guards. And much as I'm sure that thought gives you Angelus-inducing type pleasure, I'm no use to you dead.'
For a moment he thought Angel would test that theory, the dark eyes filling with undisguised malice. Then the vampire gritted his teeth and gave a swift angry nod.
They entered the room.
Lilah had given them a brief, dispassionate description of the scene that was now before them, but it still made him draw in his breath in a quiet gasp. Connor was tethered to the far wall of the office, his wrists and ankles bound by heavy manacles, which were ornately inscribed with what appeared to be runic symbols. He was still conscious, but only just. His head lolled forward, dark hair flopping over his bruised eyes.
Linwood was standing just to the left of his captive, his attention focused on recharging the taser he held in his hand. Gavin Park stood by the desk, watching the situation with undisguised glee, while two sharp suited security guards stood directly in front of them. Linwood signalled with his finger, and the guards remained still, weapons poised.
'Ah, Angel. Didn't hear you come in. I'm just carrying out a few tests. I hear Connor has been a rather naughty boy. Sent Daddy to sleep with the fishes.' He held out the taser, offering it to Angel. 'Perhaps you'd like to indulge in a little paternal discipline.'
Wesley thought that he had seen Angel's rage. That night in the hospital when his friend had seized a pillow and tried to smother him out of existence, he believed he had seen the souled vampire's rage. Had believed it until now.
There was a scream that was primal in its purity, a howl that reminded him briefly of the stories his Irish nanny had told him of the Banshee. It was at once both guttural and piercing, full of intense grief and incandescent fury. Before they could react, both guards were down, writhing in agony on the floor. The stakes they had been holding were now embedded in their own palms. Park was backing away from the crazed vampire, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. Wesley moved to the wall where Connor was chained, heard two sharp snaps as Gavin's surrender was rather vehemently rejected. He gave the damaged child a smile of confidence he did not feel, and began to work on deciphering the coded locks on the cuffs.
Linwood was looking less than smug; he had retreated away from his prisoner, and was now holding the taser as a weapon, rather than an invitation. Faith was busy at the office entrance, using a crossbow with impressive, though thankfully less than deadly, efficiency. The few guards that had actually made it to the seventh floor were greeted with the sight of their colleagues rolling on the floor, crossbow bolts embedded in various non-fatal areas. Most were taking the sensible option, and turning tail as quickly as possible.
Lilah had explained that the cuffs were magically locked using the runic symbols, and that she was sure that someone with his 'great big brain' would have no trouble picking the lock. Which he took to mean she didn't have a clue how to decipher the code. Bloody marvellous. It was difficult enough to translate and interpret the ancient symbols, while a full pitched battle was raging around you, never mind try and figure out some nasty little encryption that Linwood had dreamt up.
He tried to work methodically and calmly, but the shallow, laboured breathing of the boy before him made his hand tremble with emotion. He placed his hand on Connor's chest, felt the child's heartbeat thud against his palm. A few moments later, he had decoded the puzzle, and began to twist the locks in the correct sequence. Almost instantaneously, the cuffs dropped open, and Connor fell towards him, deadweight. He caught the boy with his good arm, and cradled him gently, ignoring the shrieks of agony in his bandaged hand as Connor's body slumped against it.
He became aware of petrified gibbering behind him, and manoeuvred the boy round until he could see Angel. The vampire was holding Linwood by the short white hairs at the top of his skull, which were already beginning to tear from his scalp. The man was sobbing in terror. Angel's face was still fully human, wearing an expression of pleasure that made Wesley shiver involuntarily.
'Angel, we have to go. Connor needs to go to a hospital. Now.'
Much as he hated to admit it, so did he. He was in no doubt that at least two of his fingers were broken, and the waves of nausea that were washing over him confirmed that the various blows to his head earlier in the evening would result in concussion. The vampire did not answer, but continued to jab the fully charged taser into the Linwood's body. The man's legs hung limply between blows, but each time the weapon was applied, they kicked and jerked as a puppet's.
'Angel!' he shouted, and Faith turned, noticing how Connor sagged on his arm, and came to his rescue. She scooped the boy up with a gentleness Wesley had not seen before, her dark eyes full of concern.
'Your slayer strength back?' He asked, noticing the ease with which she lifted Connor.
She shook her head, hardly able to answer. 'God, Wes. He weighs nothing.'
He nodded, then began the suicide mission of stopping Angel from murdering his son's torturer.
'Angel, you can't do this.'
'Shut up, Wesley!' His voice tight, warning him to back off.
'Angel.' Wesley stepped up beside him, laid his hand on the vampire's free arm. Angel brushed him off with a backhand that landed on his bruised cheekbone, sending him skidding across the carpet.
'I said shut up.'
His head throbbed louder, and the pain in his hand made him want to throw up. Alright. He had done his best. Let the stupid bloody vampire kill Linwood; let him deal with the guilt that would inevitably follow. He wasn't going to hang around to be a punch bag for Soul Boy, as Faith had called him.
He got to his feet, staggered over to where Faith stood with Connor.
'Come on. We've got to get him to hospital. Let the Avenging Angel take his pound of flesh.'
She nodded silently; and hefted her slight burden. There was a soft moan from the boy; the first sound that he had made, and they all stopped. Connor's eyes were fixed on the vampire.
In a quiet, but very clear voice, he addressed Angel.
'Dad. Please, don't do this. Not for me.'
The vampire let the terrified human slip from his grasp, and Linwood fell to the floor, his limbs entangled.
'Connor?' His own voice almost as soft as his son's.
'Please, Dad.' Then Connor closed his eyes, and wilted in Faith's arms, his breathing slowing.
He wasn't sure if it was the 'please' or the use of the word 'Dad', but Angel moved to his child, lifted him from the slayer, and held him close to his chest.
'It's okay, Connor. Things will be better now.'
*~*~*~*
The key turned in the lock, and she let herself in, trying desperately to be quiet. She was hoping they'd both be asleep by now; they needed to rest after all they'd been through last night. A familiar feeling of guilt seized her, knowing that she was partly responsible for what had been done to them. Well, him, mainly.
'Have you so forsaken your duty that you side with that… murderer, against the council?'
His answer was quiet, no trace of fear in his voice.
'My duty is to her. To guide and protect her.'
Her heart stuttered at his words, felt it would break in pieces. A sneering laugh snapped her back to painful reality.
'You're a fool, Wesley. You always were.'
There was a pause, the elder man bending down to look at him directly.
'I can't believe that you have forgotten what she did to you, boy.'
He grasped Wesley's shirt, and pulled it back, exposing the scar tissue around his collarbone and shoulders. She closed her eyes, could not look at the damage she had inflicted, not here, not in this twisted parody of her own torture session.
Again came that soft, cool, detached voice. 'She's changed.'
'And you haven't.' The man's tone was hard. 'Still the same soft-hearted fool I always despaired of.'
'And you're still the same callous bastard you always were.'
Wes showed more bravery in that moment than she'd ever give herself credit for in the same situation. She winced as the backhanded blow connected with his left cheek, a small well of blood appearing at his lip. The other man's voice was very soft now, but as cold as ice.
'You will perform this ritual, boy, of that have no doubt.'
'No, sir. I will not.'
Another blow, delivered calmly, caught his left temple, cracking his head against the back of the wooden chair.
'I don't want to have to hurt you, Wesley.'
The younger Englishman shifted a little in his seat, blood trickling slowly from his lip, his bound hands preventing him from wiping it away. He looked up at the other man, his gaze steady.
'That's never stopped you before, Father.'
She shut her eyes again, anticipating the blow before it landed.
'Please. Stop.'
She was surprised to hear her own voice begging. The older man turned to her briefly, the blue of his eyes heartbreakingly familiar, yet alien.
'Suddenly squeamish, my dear. I do seem to recall you did much worse to him.'
She shook her head, desperately trying to remove the image of that night, which was currently playing in her head.
'But he's your son.' It was all she could whisper.
'All the more reason for him to obey me.'
She looked at Wesley, his damaged face a haunting echo from her guilt-ridden nightmares. But his eyes were changed. There was no scorn or disgust there now; he looked at her with understanding, concern, even.
'Wes…' She had no words to express her sorrow.
'It's okay, Faith.' The tortured man reassured her gently.
He lay now on the sofa, still fully clothed, had obviously been planning to wait up for her. He had dozed off, his good hand under his head, his other curled against his chest in a loose fist. The glow from the reading lamp illuminated his face, shadowy bruises still dark beneath his eyes; a myriad of cuts visible on his cheekbone, along his jaw line.
She tiptoed into the kitchen and filled the kettle quietly, then noticed the plate of cookies left for her. Her heart was filled with inexplicable joy at his thoughtfulness. She rummaged in the cupboard overhead and rather depressingly discovered only teabags. She threw one into a china mug sitting by the side of the stove, added the freshly boiled water, and poked at the teabag with a spoon until the water turned a rich brown. She carried the mug and the plate of cookies into the other room to watch him as she ate.
His eyes flickered beneath his lids, stirring in his sleep. She finished her tea, set the cup on the low table between them. He sighed quietly, and she went to him, gently lifted his head, placing a pillow beneath it. He shivered suddenly, and she grabbed the fleece throw, draped it over him, being careful to avoid his injured hand. He stirred again, a soft moan escaping his lips.
'You can make it stop, Wesley. I know it hurts.'
The older man spoke so quietly that Faith could barely make him out. He had paused momentarily, and Wes had relaxed slightly in his seat, his head tipping forward onto his chest. He was so still that she was not sure he was conscious. His left arm was bound to the arm of the chair, his hand hanging off the edge, palm awkwardly upraised. His smallest finger was bent at an odd, unnatural angle; it made her feel sick to look at it.
'All you have to do is perform the ritual. Then I can make the pain go away.'
Wesley's head snapped up, with surprising speed.
'I can't do that, sir. Do what you like. I know you can't kill me, because you need me to kill her.'
The other knelt by him, close to his ear.
'You're right, my boy. I won't kill you.'
Wesley closed his eyes in satisfaction.
'But I'll make you wish you had never been born.'
His blue eyes opened, and Faith was astonished by the twinkle in them.
'I think you'll find that's your fantasy, Father, not mine.'
Fist connected with cheekbone, hard.
'Such an insolent boy. I have to admit, though, I'm impressed. I never thought it would take this long to break you. You've got more backbone than I gave you credit for.'
A pause, the man looking at his son almost thoughtfully.
'You know I can break you, Wesley. I know your weaknesses. All those little dark places…'
His hand moved to cover his son's; and Wesley braced himself in the chair.
Faith closed her eyes.
'Don't.'
Barely a whisper, the word was breathed out as Faith settled the fleece about his shoulders. She froze, wondering if she had bumped his injured arm. But he was still asleep, and his voice sounded strange, much younger than normal.
'Please. I'm sorry.'
He was dreaming, and she could not move, knelt by the couch as he whispered brokenly.
'I'll try harder, I'll do better, I promise.'
This was a voice she had not heard before, even when she had tortured him, a voice begging to be forgiven. This was not something she was meant to witness, she realized. This was a private Wes, a part of him he kept well hidden. His breathing had become rapid and shallow; his whispers were now frantic and indistinct; he was muttering desperately about darkness and cold and hunger. She could not bear it.
'Wesley. Wake up.' She brushed her hand over his brow, trying to wake him as gently as possible.
He opened his eyes, and automatically cringed from her touch. She lifted her hand away quickly, reading fear in his eyes. He would never forget their history, she realized. Even the most inoffensive touch opened his memory to the dark places she visited in her nightmares. She wondered if he was still biting back the screams she never heard.
'You were having a nightmare.'
He nodded, gaining more control over his breathing, obviously embarrassed. He put out his hand, searching for non-existent glasses; then rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.
'I must have dozed off.'
She suddenly felt like a stranger, an intruder in a peculiarly private moment of grief. Her eye fell on the mug and plate on the table.
'Thanks for the supper, by the way. That was… nice.'
She smiled at him, and was gratified to receive a small smile back.
'You want tea?'
He nodded and moved to get up, but she stopped him.
'I can do it, you know. Wes, contrary to belief, making tea is not rocket science.'
She busied herself in the kitchen, studiously avoiding the topic of conversation that was uppermost in her mind. After she brought the tea, she got the first aid kit from the kitchen cupboard; supplemented by the extra dressings the nurse had given them at the hospital.
'Need to change those dressings.'
Wesley stiffened as she began to unwrap the older bandages
'Don't worry, the nurse showed me what to do.'
He leaned against the arm of the couch, still not relaxed, but allowed her to unbandage his arm. She turned it palm up, being careful to avoid the splinted fingers, exposed the burned skin. Four perfect circles, blistering over now; she could almost feel the heat radiating from them. This was the first time she had seen them properly, close up, and she sucked in a breath, breathed a curse. Couldn't help it. She looked up again and met his eyes.
'Bastard.'
He nodded in agreement, his blue eyes glowing. She had to look away; began to clean the round wounds carefully. He remained very still, watching her work. She redressed the wound and wrapped a clean bandage around his forearm.
'Thank you.'
She could not bear this. She dropped her face onto the arm of the couch and began to weep. There was no sound from the Englishman, but his hand moved to her neck, cradling her head against his shoulder with his good arm. She heard the rhythm of his heart, as he patted her hair softly. A gesture that was reassuringly awkward in its tenderness, it made her sob harder.
'Every thing he did to you… that should have been me, Wes. You should have done what he asked. You should have killed me.
A sharp little tug at her hair stopped her short.
'No. Don't believe what he said. Don't fall into that trap. My father manipulates people. It's what he does. God, Faith, I should know.'
His voice tailed off, and she angled her head to look at him. His gaze was not on her, eyes unfocused, staring at some point on the far wall of the apartment.
'He hurt you.'
Wes half laughed, lifted the bandaged arm a little.
'Very insightful.'
She shook her head. 'No, I don't mean that. Not last night. Before.'
His whole body stiffened, and she sat up, took in the tight closed expression on his face. Waited to be told it was none of her damn business. And it wasn't. This was a part of himself he would not reveal to anyone. A hurt so deep, he acknowledged it only in nightmares. Why would he want to share it with her?
And yet she pressed on, intruding on his privacy, risking his wrath.
'He beat you up?'
His face is blank, expressionless. 'No. He never lost his temper, never yelled. Everything he did was calm, controlled.'
That was worse. That he meant to do it; hurt him by design, rather than by default. Sadist. He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with this particular conversation.
'It really doesn't matter. That part of my life is over. There's no point in dwelling on the past.'
But it is not the past; she wanted to say, eyeing the broken fingers, picturing the burn marks below the gauze. But she had no right to force this issue, not after the scars she had set upon him.
'You should try and get some sleep.'
His eyes flicked to the bedroom, where Connor lay, recovering from a more impersonal torture session.
'I'm fine. The sofa's surprisingly comfortable.'
'D'you need some painkillers?'
She had checked them earlier, noted with a degree of resignation that he had not been taking them regularly. Back in the hospital, the nurses in the emergency room had clicked their tongues, knew him too well.
'Back again, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. You just can't stay out of trouble.'
Wes had tried to make light of his injuries, but it was clear he was having a hard time keeping the pain under control. His face was white, his uninjured hand clenched into a tight fist, skin stretched milky pale over his knuckles.
She was sent out while they tended his wounds, gave him something to ease the pain. When she was allowed back in, he was more relaxed, and ready to get out of there. She pocketed the pain medication the doctor had told him to take, and helped him out of the treatment room.
'Connor, how is he?'
They had both been shocked at the state of Angel's son. On the ride to the hospital, no one had spoken. Connor had drifted in and out of consciousness, while Wes had been working on not screaming in agony. She and the Soul Boy had tended their respective charges silently.
She stopped at the reception desk.
'Connor Angel, he was brought in with us about two hours ago. Could you tell us how he's doing?'
The charge nurse glanced up at the chart behind her.
'The doctor has already been in with him. He's due to be discharged soon.'
He really was a tough kid. As if on cue, Angel appeared from a curtained room, supporting the limping boy. When he saw them, his bruised eyes lit up.
'Wesley, Faith, are you alright?'
She saw Angel stiffen at his reaction to Wesley, then try to swallow down his anger.
'Connor, we should get home. You need to rest.'
The boy shook his head, showing a stubbornness that was his genetic inheritance.
'No. I'm not going back there. Not after last time.'
She watched Wes's head lift slightly at Connor's statement. She wasn't sure what had gone on between Angel and his son, but it was clear Connor would be much happier away from his father, at least for the moment.
'I want to go with them, Wesley and Faith.' He eyed his father with as much defiance as he could muster, and Faith could almost feel the soft growl that the vampire produced. She sensed his internal struggle, that to gain his son's trust he would have to put aside his resentment of Wesley. She looked hard at Connor's rather effective sullen brooding expression, and wryly wondered if he wasn't just a very good actor.
Angel sighed, obviously aware that he was being played. 'Okay.'
He guided Connor over to them, reluctantly lifted his hand from the boy's shoulder.
'Take care of him.' He addressed Wesley directly, and the Englishman met his gaze with something approaching understanding.
'Of course.'
She went to the kitchen cabinet, took two pills from the strip and handed them to him with a glass of water.
'I'm fine. I took one earlier.' He looked up at her, his blue eyes slightly defiant.
'Liar. I counted them.'
He had the grace to look ashamed, the tips of his ears turning red.
'Do you want to end up in hospital again? That's what will happen.'
He took the pills from her, swallowed them, and tried to hide his grin.
'What? What's so funny?'
'You sound just like Cordelia.'
She didn't know whether to be insulted or flattered by the comparison.
'The cheerleader princess? You better watch it, Wes.' She warned jokingly, and amazingly he responded in kind.
'Bring it on, slayer.' He challenged with a little half smile, eyebrows quirked.
'Nah, too easy.' She threw back, indicating his injured arm.
'Not so tough without the slayer strength, are you?'
She could barely believe they were doing this, joking about this after all they had been through together. After what she had done to him. She looked at him, suddenly serious.
'You know I wouldn't, right?' She asked him quietly.
His expression became more solemn. 'I know.'
It was as near as she could come to an apology, and his quiet acceptance of it lifted a weight from her heart. They were still for a long moment, and then the silence was broken by a knock at the door. She stood, went over to answer it.
'It's probably Angel.' Wes said softly.
'Come to check on the kid. Don't worry, I'll frisk him for pillows before I let him in.'
'Funny girl.' He griped sarcastically, but not without humour.
She opened the door.
Before she could react, Wesley's father had her wrist behind her back, was pulling her into the apartment with a syringe poised at her neck.
He smiled at Wesley in a grotesque parody of paternal affection.
'I believe we have some unfinished business, my boy.'
