Thanks a lot to Muses9, Mikhyel, db and asuki-anani for your reviews, they always encorauge me to write. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last one.
Chapter Two: (Part Two of Five)
'I don't think that I could take another empty moment
I don't think that I could fake another hollow smile
Well, it's not enough just to be lonely
I don't think that I could take another talk about it'
'Bed of Lies', by Matchbox 20.
Percy's hands were shaking. He could notice because of the way all the ingredients kept falling from his hands.
Wesley's quiet voice called from behind him.
'Percy, why don't you sit down? I can hand the ingredients to you'.
Blushing, and feeling terribly embarassed, Percy did as he was told and sank into the nearest chair. Wesley went to the cupboard and grabbed the ingredients at once, then he placed them on the table and took a seat across the desk. He stared at Percy for a moment, then he leaned forward, his hands twisted on his lap.
'Percy, are you all right?'
He straightened at once and forced an smile. 'Sure, Wes. Why wouldn't I be?'
Wesley raised an eyebrow. 'Well, my mistake then. It's just that I've always thought that shaking was a sign of distress, but now I see I was wrong'.
The slight sarcasm of his voice wasn't lost on Percy.
'Sorry. It's just...well...'
'You weren't expecting your father, were you?'
Percy's jaw fell open. 'How...how did you...?'
Wesley shrugged. 'The look on your face when you saw him pretty much gave it away' He sighed. 'Sorry about that, but I didn't know it was your father who'd come...'
'It-it's okay' Percy blurted out. 'It's just... My father and I haven't talked in a while'.
Wesley nodded. 'I know what that's like'
Percy noticed that Wes' hands were no longer twisted on his lap; instead, he'd grabbed an envelope that was on the desktop and was absently twiddling with it.
None of them spoke for a couple of minutes. Percy wanted to stand up and leave, but he felt glued to the chair. Wesley, on the other hand, seemed to be lost in his own thoughts.
'It's funny, isn't it?'
Percy winced at Wesley's soft whisper. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He felt clueless.
'I mean' Wesley continued, his gaze lost somewhere else 'You tell yourself that you no longer care, that they can no longer affect you...and when you're last expecting it... it gets to you again. No matter how hard you try...you can never run away from it'.
Percy frowned. Now he did feel clueless.
'What are you talking about, Wes?'
For the first time, Wesley looked at him straight in the eye.
'Family. Isn't about it always?'
When Percy arrived home, he was still dwelling in what Wesley had said. The man was so reticent about his past or his family that it was a real surprise hearing him say those things. He wasn't the only one, though. From what he'd heard and seen in the last few months, most of his co-workers preferred not to talk about their pasts or families. Maybe that had been the reason he'd belonged with them.
Andrew had once commented that one thing they all had in common – Wesley, Faith, Wood (Robin) and some others Percy did not know – was the "dysfunctionality" of their families. 'It's almost funny', he'd said, 'how all of us were stuck with not-so-nice parents or lost the only good relatives we got at a young age'.
Both Oliver and Percy had fallen silent for more than one reason. For one thing, they'd noticed Andrew had stopped talking about the rest to start talking about himself. Even though Andrew liked to talk about himself, both of them had noticed they knew very little about his family. Andrew had commented he had an older brother that lived in Chicago with his girlfriend, but he had never mentioned any of his parents, or talked about his childhood in Sunnydale. Now finally they'd got a glimpse of the reason he hadn't done so.
But there were other reasons as well. Oliver fell silent because he couldn't identify with Andrew for a very simple reason: he'd never had any trouble with his family. Sure, they'd never understood his obsession with Quidditch, and once he'd commented to Percy and Andrew the suspicions he had as a child that his mother liked her plants better than him, or that his father got mad at Oliver's low grades, but those were little things and, on the whole, his parents had always been supportive. They hadn't always understood him, but they had always been there for him. And that seemed to be much more than Andrew had ever had.
And Percy...well, his story didn't differ from Oliver's, except for one little detail: he wasn't on speaking terms with his family. But in his case, it wasn't because his parents had been uncaring or hurtful. He had managed to do all the hurtful part by himself.
He was so absorbed in his own thoughts, that he bumped into Andrew, who was covered from head to foot in flour. Percy blinked.
'Cooking again?'
Andrew shrugged, trying to shake off the flour from his dark shirt. 'You're lucky that I can cook. If we only depended on you or Oliver...'
He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. Both of them were very aware of Percy's and Oliver's lack of cooking skills. They were lucky indeed to have Andrew, who cooked rather well by the way.
'Percy, are you ok?' He asked, because his friend had sunk into his armchair with a deflated look.
He shrugged. 'I'm not sure' He took a breath. 'I saw my dad today'.
Andrew nodded. He knew more or less what had happened between Percy and his family – there had been many things he hadn't understood because of his muggle upbringing, but he'd got the general idea – so he could guess how his friend was feeling at the moment.
'Percy, you know that if you need to talk or something...'
Percy looked at his friend's concerned face and nodded. 'Thanks, Andrew. But I think I'd rather be alone right now, if you don't mind'.
Andrew, being uncharacteristically tactful, said nothing and headed towards the small kitchen. When he was halfway there, though, he suddenly turned round and said:
'Percy, before I forget: you got a letter. It's on the white table'.
Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Percy rose to his feet as Andrew went to check the oven. When he grabbed the envelope, he realised it wasn't made of common paper, but old parachment. His mouth went dry. He slowly turned the envelope, and when he saw the hadnwriting, his heart sank.
He stood still for a few second, unable to move, unable to have one coherent thought. He realised he was panting, but he could do nothing to stop it.
He hadn't seen that hadnwriting in such a long while. More than a year, actually. Since he'd walked away from his family and all the terrible things he'd said...
He took a sharp intake of breath, and rushed to open the envelope, nearly tearing it apart. His eyes travelled through the piece of parachment. There wasn't much to see.
Your mother wants to see you. Tomorrow she'll be at the Leaky Cauldron at noon.
There was no formal or informal addressing, no signature, but they weren't necessary. There was no way he could not recognize that hurried handwriting.
Percy took a long, deep breath.
Maybe he should listen to Wesley and take one or two days off work.
On a bright Saturday morning – completely uncharacteristic of the time of the year – Wesley was driving his car along a way too familiar road. He'd taken this road hundreds of times before – but things had been very different back then. Which once had felt familiar and natural, now felt foreign and out of place.
What was he doing here, after all? Why had he gone there at all?
Was he seeking the approval he'd never got? Did he want to see that damned place once more? Did he want to see any of those people again? Was he trying to find out how much things had changed since then? Or not? Was he trying to prove something? If it was so, what was he trying to prove?
Wesley hadn't the answers for any of those questions. All he knew was that he'd told Faith and Giles he'd take one day off because he had some personal business to take care of, and the next day he'd got into his car and began driving automatically. The reason – or reasons – he was doing this were unknown to him. Perhaps that was why he was doing this – to find out the reason. He shook his head. That didn't make sense at all. And, in a bizarre way, it did.
As he reached his destination and parked, turning off the stereo and making Cat Stevens' voice to fade away – Father and Son, how appropriate – he took a long, critical look at the place before his eyes.
The garden seemed smaller and little more unkept than the last time he'd seen it; the roof had some gables missing and the walls need another layer of paint in some parts.
Or perhaps it hadn't changed at all and it was just his imagination. He had been so much younger – if not in years, in wisdom – the last time he'd been there, so much naïver, that everything had looked larger and more flawless back then. Now, though, he was capable to see all the little things out of place, all the tiny imperfections.
Or maybe the place had really changed. Something that once he'd thought impossible. He'd imagined this place would remain unaltered for eternity, that the implacable winds of change would never affect it. Like in many other matters, he'd been wrong.
He got out the car, shut the door close and set the alarm. Then he started to walk towards the house. He felt like he was in a dream: he was walking very slowly, too slowly, but he couldn't neither speed up his pace or stop on his tracks. He just kept moving, the bright light hurting his eyes, as if the building were attracting him like a powerful magnet.
He finally reached the oak front door, and somehow managed to raise his hand and knock faintly. Then, ashamed at his own weakness, he raised his hand again and knocked harder.
Before he could change his mind, turn round and get the hell away from there, the door was gently opened, and in the frame appeared a figure he recognized at once.
'Maggie?', he whispered, somewhat astounded. He had almost forgotten how regal and imposing the old housekeeper looked like.
She was a tall, square-shouldered woman, whose face seemed to be made of stone. All the lines in her figure were painfully rect, as if she'd been drawn with a ruler. Or that way she'd been when he was a kid. Now, however, he noticed her belly was rounder than he remember, and her face was plumper. Her grey hair had turned almost completely white, and her skin was as wrinkled as old parchment.
However, the way her eyes widened and sparkled when she saw him was exactly how he remembered it, and also was her voice:
'Wes! It's been so long!' She exclaimed, grabbing his arm and dragging him in unceremoniously. It had used to annoy him to no end as a teenager when she treated him with so little respect, but now he felt so numb that he did not mind.
'You should have came to visit sooner than this' She said reproachfully. 'I was so upset when Mrs. Wyndam-Pryce told me you'd been in England for months and you hadn't told us a word! After all this time!'
Maggie didn't wait for his reply, and continued talking about how changed he looked, and that he was more handsome if possibly, and about what a shame was he hadn't married yet, she wanted so badly to see his children born...
Wesley's mind drifted away from Maggie's unstoppable chatter, and instead studied his surroundings.
There had been a few changes in the furniture, and the curtains' colour had been different, but on the whole the hall looked exactly as he remembered. Well, that wasn't completely true. It looked much brighter, bathed in the sunlight that came through the large windows on the front. It was strange, but he didn't remember the house to be so illuminated. For some reason, his memories of the place were all gloomy and dark, as if he'd seen not a single ray of light in his entire childhood. In a way, he hadn't.
Maggie was dragging him to the living room, where he guessed his parents were waiting for him. He noticed that the housekeeper's voice lowered as they got closer to their destination until it became a soft whisper, and the grip on his arm disappeared. Maggie could treat him like a five-year-old child when they were alone, but when she was in front of his parents (especially his father) her movements stiffened and she treated him almost with deference. She didn't call him 'Wes' or 'Little One', but 'Mr. Wesley', which to him sounded even more ridiculous. He hoped she wouldn't do that again, or he would burst in laughter.
They stopped in front of the living room's door, and for a second Wesley was tempted to stop her from turning the knob. He didn't, though.
In complete silence, the housekeeper opened the door, and they both stepped into a room that was much darker (both literally and metaphorically) than the hall. The two people in there looked up, and Maggie opened her mouth to announce his presence, but he took a step forward and said, in a cold, dettached voice:
'Good Morning, Mother, Father. I've received your invitation'.
At once, Mrs. Wyndam-Pryce rose to her feet gracefully and walked towards him. There were more lines around her blue eyes, and the white in her hair was finally beating the chestnut, but she still looked beatiful – and strangely happy to see him.
She didn't hug him – she hadn't done so since he was eight – but she placed a kiss on his cheek.
'Wesley, thank you so much for coming', she said sincerely. In spite of himself, he smiled at her words.
But of course, one could always count on Roger Wyndam-Pryce to ruin a remotely sentimental moment.
'What are you thanking him for, Ellen? We nearly had to bring him here by force'.
Thank you, Dad. I see you've missed me.
Wesley repressed a sigh. This was going to be a very long morning.
Percy entered the Leaky Cauldron, feeling his innards squirming. He took a couple of deep breaths to compose, after that his heart stopped pounding frantically in his chest...or at least it slowed down a bit.
His gaze scanned the inn. At once, he noticed the place was packed with people, all carrying shopping bags, all chattering loudly. No one there seemed to have come alone. He walked between the tables, trying to get a glimpse of flaming red hair or any signs of his mother.
Finally, he saw her. She was sitting all by herself at a small table in a corner, her face buried in her hands. Percy was shocked to see how much thinner and older she looked, there were white strands on her hair that hadn't been there before. And that wasn't all: now there were a few thin, white scars crossing her hands and arms. Mum, what's happened to you?
He glimpsed something else, something that didn't make him to feel better. On his mother's lap, there was a pile of grey wool...a jumper. A Weasley handmade jumper. The jumper, which he'd returned unceremoniously last Christmas. His heart sank as a pang of guilt stabbed his chest.
It took him every bit of strength left in him to sort the other tables to reach her. He finally was by her side. He hesitated a second, then he gently touched her shoulder.
She winced and looked up. He noticed at once that her eyes were teary and reddish, that there were much more lines circling them and that she was so pale that most of the freckles were gone. Her eyes widened.
'Percy, my Percy? Is it really you?'
At the sound of her cracked voice and the look of infinite sadness in her eyes, Percy felt how his heart broke in a thousand pieces.
'If shame had a face I think it would kind of look like mine,
If it had a home would it be my eyes'.
Sick Cycle Carrousel, by Lifehouse.
