Author: InsinuoAnimus
Disclaimer: Know the drill, love the drill, use the drill. None of the characters are mine. Sorry.
Summary: The line between reality and fantasy are often blurred. If not invisible.
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{ and he was walking in the garden
and he was walking in the night
and he was singing a sad love
song
and he was praying for his life
}
Pryce, Wesley.
The two words decked out in bold but pale looking blue lettering glare back at him, almost as if mocking him for the predicament he had landed himself in now. They mocked him for not having the ability to remember why he was here, why if he turned his head just slightly to the right he would be greeted with the image of the last thing he saw before his death. He had been told he would see her again, but he didn't expect this image. He didn't expect the bracelet that rubbed against the white gauze that, now that Wesley got a closer look, looked a day or so old. A few red spots appeared through the white gauze, the feeling of heaviness surged through his body again. It had taken everything out of him to touch Fred, to just reach out and try to brush his fingers against her cheek. That same feeling was back, his body felt heavier than it had before, even before his timely death. He always figured he was a glutton for punishment, considering the way he had carried on with his feelings for Fred even though there had been no hope for a happy ending, but he doubted he would want this image. Especially after his death. What was the point in it, really? He didn't feel relieved, he just felt tired. He felt tired and sore.
"Wesley?"
Turning his head away from the bracelet that didn't stop it's merciful mocking for one instant, his eyes landed on Fred again. Oh. That was the point. He stared at her for a moment, Illyria had taken her form before his death, how did he know that this wasn't just another lie? The rational part of Wesley pointed out that in fact this was a lie. He was dead. Everything that happened now was a lie. The irrational part of Wesley, the part of him that seemed to have taken control ever since Fred's death, pointed out that he bloody well didn't care if it was a lie or not. Like he didn't care that it hadn't really been Fred holding him, crying, saying things in that Fred voice, as he died. This Fred certainly did look like the girl he was in love with. Her hair fell in all the right places, in all the places her hair used to fall in before, all the places that used to annoy her. Her eyes were still the same, if not a little tired. The curve of her lips were the same. Her voice was still soft and it was still laced with that Texan accent that seemed so much more familiar to Wesley than all the other voices he could have heard.
"Wesley, don't you dare pull this silent act again."
Wesley frowned a bit and opened his mouth to say something but the words died at the tip of his tongue. His throat seemed much more drier than he realized. Swallowing the lump that seemed to lodge itself at the back of his throat, he felt a familiar stinging, it ripped through his whole body for a moment and then stopped at his throat. Pushing past the fatigue, Wesley brought his hand up to the side of neck. Sure enough, he didn't feel undamaged skin. A scar was etched across his throat, running his fingers across the length of the scar, the image of red hair flashed through his mind. A name registered there for a moment. Justine. It was gone as quick as it came. The knife ripping at his skin, the blood that poured, it stayed in his mind but Fred's hands reaching out for his own again made the prior images get pushed back. He let Fred take his hand in hers. She was warm. She had been cold the last time he had really held her. She had almost been ice cold. She was warm now and smelled like cinnamon and apples. Her fingers wrapped around his and it brought the panic he had been feeling earlier to a low simmer. Her eyes were on his and he couldn't help but smile slightly. "Fred, I..."
Fred couldn't help but glance at the scar. The angry scar that was a reminder of Wesley's fall from grace. Fred wasn't sure if she could have done much to help him, but she still blamed herself. She should have been able to see that Wesley needed help. What good was she for if she hadn't been there when he needed her the most? Letting out a soft sigh, Fred turned Wesley's hand in her own and kissed it softly. "It's been a while."
Wesley closed his eyes as he felt Fred's lips against his skin. The fatigue was coming back, it tried to wash over much like the tidal waves had done earlier, but this time he fought it. He didn't want to go back to sleep. God, he couldn't go back to sleep. He didn't want the dark now. In this moment, there was too much light it was making his eyes hurt, but he was willing to take it. Fred was here. He couldn't leave yet. "You have no idea." Wesley opened an eye and chuckled a bit. "Although I suppose you do, don't you? After all, this," he indicated to his surrounding with his free hand, weakly at that. "is all an image I created. Why I wanted this--"
Fred's heart sank as she heard Wesley's words. He wasn't better. She had hoped, no she had prayed that when she got the call yesterday afternoon that the doctors had good news on Wesley. Maybe he was better. But there was still that same look in his blue eyes. That intense look. It still haunted her at night. Wesley Pryce's blue eyes still made her remember the night she had lost him. The night he had come to her, with that same intense look in his eyes, that same bitter chuckle, his hands moving the same way he moved his free hand now, telling her things she hadn't been ready to hear. What if she had listened to him? What if she hadn't called--
"Miss Burkle."
Wesley looked away from Fred and turned his head to the new person in the room. "Who is that?"
Fred stood up now, but she didn't let go of his hand. She felt his fingers
twitch in her hand, she moved her eyes back over to him and saw the frown
already forming there. Her earlier thoughts still resounded in her head,
but she pushed them back and idly stroked the top of Wesley's hand. "This
is Eleanor Wilkins, your doctor."
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"When you called me, I thought that maybe..." Fred's voice trailed off, her brown eyes moving back to the room she had just left. The cherry wood door was the only thing that stood in her way of going back into that room, grabbing Wesley by the hand and leading them both out of here. She pressed herself against the door, staring through the clear glass, as she watched Wesley stare at the room, almost as if he didn't remember...
"That he was better? He seems to be a little more rational, but I am still led to believe that he still believes in," Eleanor paused, trying to come up with the right words. She knew that Fred Burkle was very protective of Wesley. It had been proven over the years, it had been proven the first night when Fred showed up with a delirious Wesley Pryce at her side, going on about vampires and such. "that world he created for himself."
"Does he still talk about him?"
"Angel?" When Fred nodded, Eleanor followed suite. "But not as much. Over the years, Mister Pryce has stopped talking so much about these characters that he has seemed to make up. Which is why I called you yesterday. I believe he may be ready to be released. You are the only one he still has in contact with, since the..." again Eleanor paused, she was a professional doctor but never in her years had she come across such a patient as Wesley Pryce. He had been an intelligent young man, he had amazing credentials and had the potential to be whatever he wanted to be. Then one day his demeanor had changed, he had started going on about things that only existed in the movies, all his friends had been flabbergasted at such the turn Wesley had taken, Fred, full name Winifred Burkle, had been the only one willing to stand by his side and bring him here.
"If you call it an 'incident' one more time, I swear..." Fred stopped short of snapping at Eleanor. She had done that too many times over the years. "I know him." Fred pressed her nose against the glass, not lady like at all but Fred was never a classy lady in any terms, she watched Wesley try to pull himself out of the bed, only to fail. "He hasn't changed, not really. It's just some of the things he says, it can't be real, can it?"
"Fred, I have had the pleasure of knowing you over the years. You're an intelligent woman, you're often biased when it comes to Wesley, but I advise you not to cave in now. We all know the things Wesley led himself to believe in are not real. We talked about this. This has something to deal with his problems with his real family. He never really had a closeness to his family, so he made up this world to make up for that."
"A family of unexpected heroes." Fred said with an almost wistful tone to her voice. "It always sounded like a movie. I've heard it so many times over the years, I can't help but wonder sometimes. It's not like he made them all up. Rupert and I exist, after all. He believes in it so passionately, maybe he's not..."
"You know I don't use that word."
"At least where they can hear you." Fred grinned. She heard Eleanor comment
back, probably with a comment with her usual sarcasm when they got talking,
over the years they had become close, almost friends -- but Fred's attention
was back on Wesley. It wasn't real. Vampires, Demons, Vampire Slayers,
Watcher Councils, none of that was real. It was just something he had made
up. But sometimes she really did wonder.
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"I'm not crazy." Wesley said, almost in a superior tone he hadn't used in a while. This was his image, this was his dream he created, and he wasn't about to let some, he guessed she was British, stiff British woman tell him he was crazy. He was not crazy, and if she thought he was, he had a few words for her. He paused in his protest, when he realized that maybe he was a little crazy. Not most people kept around an ancient old demon just because they inhabited his old girlfriend's body. Wesley's eyes searched for Fred's, he let out a breath when he found her again. "I'm not crazy, Fred. Tell her! Tell her I'm telling the truth. This is a big mistake."
"Wesley." Fred started, moving further into the room. "No one said you were crazy, we just..."
Oh. He wasn't in heaven at all. He was in hell. A very stiff and painfully snootish hell, at that.
"Mister Pryce, over the years you have told us many tales. We've talked about this. At one point, you even managed to think you died." Eleanor turned to Fred. "He even told us of a story where you died. He was hysterical at that point. He kept bringing up a person named Illyria. He spoke of your death as if you were not..."
Fred cleared her throat, dismissing the rest of Eleanor's speech. "Is he free to go or not?"
"Where am I?" Wesley asked, watching both women turn back to him.
After a moment's silence, Eleanor spoke. "Wesley, you are in The Retreat Mental Hospital."
As if his hell wasn't bad enough, it decided to get even more ironic. Wesley knew about The Retreat. He had been assigned to do some research on it years ago when he had still been in The Watcher's Academy. A few Slayers had been sent to The Retreat after they started acting irregular. The Retreat was a mental institution. William Tuke had built The Retreat after he had found out about what happened to many young girls that had been sent to York Asylum. If Wesley remembered the story correctly, friends were not allowed to visit these girls, most of them had died within a few weeks. Friends then investigated the conditions there and found out that the patients had been treated worse than animals. In fact, because the patients couldn't think clearly, they were even led to think that they were animals. The Retreat had, of course, been much more friendly and a better place for people to seek help and recover. If all of this was true, that meant that he was... "We're in England?"
His quizzical answer had been met with a firm nod from Eleanor and a soft,
sympathetic look from Fred.