Author: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
Rating: Hard R for violence, some sexual situations.
Teaser: When the Watcher's Council comes after Faith, Angel Investigations must pull from the chaos they’ve become embroiled in to save the renegade Slayer, and Wesley must face a past that has become more haunting than ever.
Archive: http://www.stoic-simplicity.net/imperfect
Spoilers: Sleep Tight
Genre: Action/Drama – General ensemble
--
Notes – Now, I can finally read Syn’s Running For Our Lives. I couldn’t before, because, of well, obvious reasons. I swear, Syn: I started this before I knew of your story! :-D *runs off to read Syn’s story*
Additional Notes: Done – but posting only a few chapters a day, again, so as not to overwhelm. No, it’s not torture. I swear.
Special Thanks To – the readers of ‘How to Date’. I doubt I’ve ever gotten such a great response out of anything I’ve written. It was gratifying and … heartwarming. Thank you.
--
Prologue
Through this world I’ve stumbled, so many times betrayed, trying to find an honest word to find the truth enslaved – Sarah McLachlan
--
Her eyes stung to the point of being painful with salty droplets. The room was entirely too quiet, dark. It reminded her of her cave in Pylea, but this was neither comforting, nor anything she really had any patience to dwell upon.
In Wesley’s empty office, she stared at the telephone, wondering how on earth she could gather the strength to do this. In her heart, she knew it was foolish to hope that the other girl could even begin to repair what had been thrown into chaos. Yet, here she was, her palm resting on the cool plastic of the telephone, lower lip bitten, eyes focused, heart beating.
Fred had never truly appreciated Cordelia’s position until the Seer disappeared. The vacation she had taken had seemed almost silly at first, until the world unraveled, and Fred was left with attempting to fill the role of the heart. She couldn’t do it. Not now.
With a hasty inhalation of air, Fred grabbed the phone from the cradle, placing it against her ear and hurriedly dialing, while she was alone, before someone else could tell her not to call. The phone rang, once, twice.
When the familiar voice picked up, tinny with noise, Fred gave an audible sigh of relief, never realizing her body was trembling until her voice picked up the shake.
“Cordelia…” The conversation passed in a blur, and Fred’s mind reeled as she haltingly gave a summary of what had transpired. When she finished with, “Connor is gone,” she waited, hoping to hear anything that could give her an idea as to what to do.
There was only silence, almost as if the woman on the other end of the line did not hear her, and Fred waited, anxiously.
“Cordelia?”
Then she heard it, small, soft. “God…” and the line disconnected.
Fred placed the phone back in its cradle, and stared at it, the relief she expected never appearing. Instead, the enduring sorrow continued, and the physicist from Pylea buried her head in her arms, and began to sob.
--
The strangled scream caught in the back of her throat.
Faith’s hands lashed out, catching a hold of the cheap cotton sheets, head banging against the top bunk as she sat up. The flash of pain made her eyes shoot open, darkness permeating them as she gasped, rubbing at her forehead, swallowing hard. Confusion wracked her sweat soaked body, and Faith needed a minute to orientate herself.
Her eyes, adjusting to the dark, roved over the room, and she found her cell, much to her relief, around her, like it had always been. The toilet in the corner, the sink, with its ‘drip, drip’, providing a pattern that she must have lulled herself to sleep with.
Pulling her knees to her chest, the Slayer trembled, sucking in her breath.
“Dreams are getting worse,” she whispered, running sticky hands through dark hair, eyes closing. Her heart was beating way too fast. Her roommate, above her, never stirred. Faith swallowed, eyes drifting to the open bars of her cell, leading to the hallway.
Her block was way too quiet. She was trapped. Trapped – from what? It was a fucking cell, yeah, she was trapped. That was kinda the point. It was JAIL.
Faith blinked, shaking her head slightly, attempting once again to get a hold of herself. She eyed the sink, but somehow, couldn’t quite get her feet to touch the cold cement floor, and swallowing in an attempt to moisten her parched throat, she lay back, staring up at the box springs of the mattress above her.
Her eyes closed, but still the sense of danger filled her, and she allowed one tiny acknowledgement: the dreams were getting worse. Faith was no psychic, and maybe that was what had her so freaked. These nightmares were different, scarier… worse than the normal oh-so-fun memories of home, knives and mayors.
She didn’t want to go back to sleep. Even now, as she breathed in one more time, she had to admit, that for the first time in a while – she was scared.
--
Chapter One
I finding my way back to sanity again, though I don’t really know what I’m gonna do when I get there. – Lifehouse
--
The incessant beeping tugged at his ears, slight pinpricks of pain that made his eyes flutter open. His pupils dilated, Wesley dared not move, as the bright lights of the fluorescent bulbs above him stabbed into his brain, forcing him to suck in his breath, shut his eyes tight against the unwanted light. With his eyes closed, he felt the weight of reality return, in the feeling of the cloth underneath his fingertips, the beeping that continued to grate his hearing, and the glaring pain that seared through his throat. Wesley attempted to swallow, but it was too painful, and it was the audible groan that ripped from his throat that made him realize he wasn’t alone.
“Mr. Pryce. You’re awake.” He blinked his eyes open, this time making a point to do so slowly, and found a blurry version of a balding man in glasses, a clip board in his hands, staring down at him from the foot of the bed. Wesley stared, attempting to rise above the motion sickness that he seemed to be experiencing to figure out exactly what was going on.
The doctor - at least that was who Wesley assumed he was - picked up his wrist, placing pressure on his pulse point as he checked his watch, speaking crisply, “I wouldn’t attempt to speak just yet, you’ve been through a rather painful experience. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Pryce.”
Somehow, Wesley didn’t think that word correctly described the situation. He winced, trying to form words. “How-“
“You were found in a park, throat slashed, apparent victim of a robbery-“
The words were muted as the realization and memories flooded him at once. Justine - and Connor. Bloody hell, where the hell was CONNOR?!
“Woah - hold on there.” Strong hands pushed him back onto the bed, holding him still. “Getting a little too frisky.”
“He’s awake.” The familiar voice made Wesley pause, unable to see the face because of the doctor blocking his view.
“Yes, he is. And active.” The doctor straightened, allowing Wesley a full view of a haggard version of his friend Charles Gunn, looking tired and wrinkled, holding a steaming coffee cup. Painted on his lips was a tired expression.
“How is he?” Charles locked eyes with Wesley once, before turning toward the doctor, his back to him now. The only thing Wesley could make out was that the cup of coffee seemed to be trembling.
The murmuring subsided, and both the doctor and Gunn turned back, before the man in the coat took up his clipboard, and nodded to the patient. “I’ll have a nurse check his vitals. I see no problems, other than a few hours for observation.”
Wesley was quiet when Charles was left with him alone. His beating heart continued to pound, thumping against his chest, and a thousand words were waiting to be said in answer to the accusing look in Gunn’s face, but Wesley could not voice one.
Charles stayed a good ten feet away, moving to the other side of the room, settling into a chair, and placing the coffee cup on the dresser nearest him. “Angel doesn’t know I’m here,” he said finally. “And I think it’d be better if he doesn’t smell you on me, now. He ain’t too happy with you, and…” Gunn trailed off.
Wesley closed his eyes against the wave of pain. “Gunn…” he began in a ragged, throaty whisper.
“I want answers, Wes.” The voice was harsh, angry, and Wesley found his throat closing. Blue eyes opened, encountered a hurt and angry expression. “I want to know why you - you could have TOLD us - Connor’s GONE man, he’s GONE. So give me some fucking answers.”
Wesley closed his eyes again, suddenly no longer able to face him. He had no answers. He had nothing now. Gunn waited, minutes, months, years, Wesley wasn’t sure. They stayed that way, in silence, until the sound of the empty coffee cup hit the trash bin and Wesley’s eyes opened to find Gunn’s form walking out. His eyes closed again, and suddenly nothing seemed to matter anymore.
--
“Connor is gone.”
Cordelia wondered just how many times she would have to repeat it to herself in order to make it seem real. Even now, her heart pounding, body trembling and her head ringing, as she stared up at the steps of the Hyperion, she kept the words as a mantra, words that continued to haunt her broken heart.
Oh, God…
Cordelia took another step forward, and another, dreading each step that would bring her closer to reality, to the truth – in all its damning glory. It was all very simple, very black and white: Cordelia was off boffing the daylights out of her beautiful, sweet hero, and while she was gone, every single thing she cared about had gone to complete hell.
Nice, Cordy, REAL heroic. Not at all like typical you.
Hazel eyes flooded with tears, and she bit them back, swallowing down the moisture as she placed her hand on the doorknob, trying to gather her strength to face it all. Her mind whirled, as Cordelia thought of Angel, of Fred and Gunn and Wesley, and lastly of Connor. Her empty heart gave just a little, as she twisted the knob and pushed open the door, steps clicking into the Hyperion Lobby.
It was silent, and she was in no mood to announce herself, as she walked forward, chest constricting slightly with turmoil, the need to see Angel suddenly overwhelming every other impulse.
It was Fred, whom she saw first, the young physicist with blow dried strands of mahogany cascading over her shoulder, straightening from behind the counter, eyes drifting curiously, immediately locking with hers.
It took only a second for Fred to get over her shock, the hopeful face crumbling into something akin to despair as she twisted around the counter and launched herself into Cordelia’s arms. The Seer’s eyes closed involuntarily, clutching at the taller woman in a desperate hug, as Fred sobbed quietly; strong, resolved face breaking in the presence of the person she deemed stronger.
Cordelia’s eyes stung, and her hollowed heart trembled, but she refused to be beaten by her fear or her sadness. If she broke down now, she had no idea how she could stop, so she took in a hiccup and a sob, and let Fred pour out her emotions. Fred deserved it, much more than she did.
Connor…
Cordelia gave a short whimper, catching it as Fred pulled back, watching her with marvelous, sparkling eyes.
“It’s good to see you,” she said softly.
Cordelia’s soft smile froze, but she only delicately smoothed Fred’s longer hair over her shoulder in a gentle caress, and asked simply, “Where is he?”
Fred nodded toward the stairs. It was all Cordelia needed. As she moved toward the stairs, she was met with Lorne, the green skinned demon staring at her with eyes burning with sorrow.
Suddenly afraid to look, terrified that she would see the blame in his eyes that was so justly deserved, Cordelia stared. But Lorne only managed a tired smile, a shake of his head that made her eyes water, and she pressed her hand into his shoulder, before moving past him, up the stairs.
At the foot of the staircase, her steps faltered once again, her courage, what little she had, once again shriveled.
Who the hell did she think she was, anyway?
Heartbreak sieved through her system, as worry and anxious fear gave her the strength she needed, curling a hand around the doorknob and pushing open. She knew better than most that Angel did not need human frivolities, and so instead of saying she was here, she let her eyes wander across the room, taking in its state through blurred tears.
It only took a second to understand exactly what had happened in this room. Charred wood cluttered it, a baby crib was torn in shreds, and broken toys and ripped toddler’s clothes were strewn around the room, evidence of a violent outburst.
“Angel…” The breathless whisper came out before she could stop it, as she walked further into this room, pushing back the flashes that abounded now.
Connor sleeping soundly in his crib. Angel in his tuxedo. Lorne with a book of nursery rhymes.
"Get out.”
The words startled her, pulling her from her thoughts, hazel eyes immediately zeroing in on the figure previously hidden in the shadows.
“Angel…” Her voice broke, head tilting as she ventured forward, and this time he turned, caught her form with a strong, predatory gaze. It made her stop, as his mouth parted slightly. Rising from his haunches, he gave her a thorough glance, an almost hungry quality to it. Cordelia let her arms fall to her sides, half hoping he would rush into her arms, allow her to hold him, and perhaps maybe then, she could sob, understand all the anger that was flowing through her now.
But, no… that would have been too easy, wouldn’t it?
Angel blinked away her image, closed his eyes, and sank back down on the floor, shutting her out, making her achingly aware of everything that had changed.
“What are you doing here?”
That last thing she wanted was to give explanations, and so she merely shook her head slightly, eyes once again moving over the room, and little Connor flashed through her brain, white hot flashes that seemed more painful than any vision she had encountered.
She used to be able to say anything that came to her mind. Before, she could open her mouth and say even the worst possible thing, and she could have made him smile. But, everything was different now, and it was tangible, even in the way he stared at her with dead eyes, a man who had lost his son – his miracle, his hope.
Oh, Angel.
“Get out, Cordelia.”
She stepped forward, heedless of his warning, and her tears began to trickle down her face, as she knelt before him, palm hesitating as it rested on his arm.
He jerked away from her touch as if burned.
“Angel.”
“Get out.” The words were forced, and angry. Cordelia froze as he looked up, yellow glazed eyes crazed with grief, anger, and … something else. It was the last emotion that made her stand, making her completely aware that she was the last person on earth that could help him now.
The look had been accusatory, and she didn’t blame him for it at all. Another day, another world, she would have been furious, she would have pushed and prodded, and maybe she really was the selfish little rich girl from Sunnydale – maybe she had never changed at all.
Because Cordelia, too ashamed to face him, turned away from Angel, walked away from the room, and only when she closed the door behind her, did she allow the tears to fall.
--
Charles was tired as he walked into the lobby, hands shoved into the pockets of his old jeans jacket. It had been a long ass day, and when he caught Fred’s half smile, he wondered if there was anything to really smile over.
Fred rounded the counter, slipped into his arms, a trembling waif of a girl that he cared for beyond life itself, and despite the hell that their lives had become, he found a small smile drifting on his face, as fingers caressed her soft brown strands, drifted down the spine of her back.
“Hey, baby girl.”
She pulled back, hands clenching his forearms. Lorne came forward, both expressions intense as they studied him. “How is he?”
“He’s getting checked out today,” he said in a low voice, making sure to keep an eye on the stairs. “But he wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Fred swallowed, looking away, confliction clear on her face as she exchanged glances with Lorne. Gunn stared at the demon.
“You read him, didn’t you? Couldn’t you tell why the hell he did what he did?”
“I didn’t have much time to really sift, sweetie,” Lorne answered, eyes flashing slightly at the accusatory tone. “Before Wesley tackled me like a first line man.”
“He had to have had a reason,” Fred said almost desperately, reminiscent of a conversation they must have had in one form or another, at least twenty times. “He got his throat SLIT-“
“What?”
Charles swiveled his gaze to the foot of the stairs, and found an eerily calm Cordelia staring at them, hazel eyes wide and startled.
“Cordelia,” Gunn said, suddenly relieved, and not sure why. “Where’s Groo?”
“He’s not here,” she said flatly, coming forward, offering no other explanation. Instead, she crossed her arms, and said with an almost frighteningly even tone, “What the hell is going on?”
--
Her daily routine was almost bordering on monotonous, now.
It came without thinking, from the moment her eyes opened, until the moment her eyes closed, she went through her motions, avoiding the women who caused trouble, barely talking to the ones she deemed annoying. Sometimes, she read. At eleven, an hour before lunch, she was in the corner of the courtyard, hefting weights that were much bigger than should have been normal for a girl of her size, sweating profusely. On her face was a big ‘don’t fuck with me’ expression, and with very good reason.
Faith wanted a distraction, but at this moment, her mind was so damned frazzled, that anything that was the WRONG kind of distraction would have made her resort to some very bad habits, and Faith’s habits, the ones she was trying to kick anyway, tended to be the ‘maim and murder’ type.
So she sat on the bench press, muscles burning, breath moving in and out, teeth clenching. At the last set, she collapsed against the bench, running fingers through her hair, pulling the sweat soaked tendrils away from her sticky face. Sitting up, she reached for her towel, moving from the bench, letting Debra, the chick with the chest hair, sit down in her place.
Walking around the courtyard, her mind continued to whirl. Faith, in an effort to try to gain some sense of stability, checked out the action around her. It was all the same. Mamie and her group of borne-again prison folk sat at one corner, waving their Bibles and professing all about the need to repent. On the other end was Jackie, with scars on her hands, her small, lithe figure glaring over the yard, attempting to find out who was messing with who, who would disturb her little power circuit. It was amazing, what a person could get used to in here. In a way, it was worse than the outside, when everyone in here was used to breaking the law, and used whatever means necessary to gain the power to make it through each day alive.
Faith wondered why she didn’t crack, and had to give Angel more credit than he maybe deserved. Those visits of his worked wonders. And why the hell hadn’t he come lately? Faith hitched in her breath, wiping at her body with the towel.
“Faith, right?”
The Slayer turned, suddenly face to face with Mamie, the older black woman smiling at her kindly, uniformed sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular biceps.
“What the hell do you want, Mamie?” Faith asked, irritation flooding her voice as she turned away. That was the last thing she fucking needed. Mamie, with her Bible thumping ways, trying again to convert her damned ass.
Mamie hesitated, coming forward, voice lowering. “Look… at the risk of sounding like a completely deluded-“
“Too late.”
“Faith. I got my religion, I’ve got my Lord. You’ve got nothing.”
Faith rolled her eyes, moving away. “Right.”
“You’re gonna need something, girl,” Mamie’s voice came louder. “Cause that’s some dark crap you’ve got coming after you.”
Faith froze, heart suddenly skipping a very audible beat. She whirled, voice dropping into a low, dangerous whisper, “What?”
“Just a feelin’,” Mamie said, shrugging. “That you’re gonna be tested, like you’ve never been tested before.” Faith swallowed hard. “Look, it ain’t none of my business, or nothing. But… I wanna pray for you.”
The nervous chuckle escaped her before she could stop it, as Faith scoffed. “Right, whatever. Stay the hell away from me,” she snarled, leaning in close to make sure Mamie got her point, before moving away.
“You’re not alone, Faith,” Mamie called after her. “But you sure as hell will feel like it.”
Faith clenched her fists, but kept walking.
“I’m praying for you, anyway,” was the last sentence.
Faith closed her eyes, took in a shuddering breath, as her eyes opened, and she looked around the courtyard. Suddenly, it seemed as if every eye was upon her, and every gaze was searing into her very soul. Too hot, and trembling, Faith turned back to the only pair of warm eyes in the place.
“You do that,” she told Mamie haltingly.
--
The sunlight that drifted down over the front of the open hospital doors seemed wrong somehow.
Wesley winced, hand rising to his neck, pressing his palm against the stitches, digging into his pocket for the pills with his free hand. All expenses paid, courtesy of the benefits of Angel Investigations. Benefits, he realized, he most likely no longer had.
Wesley paused on the concrete. Former Watcher, he emerged from this place with nothing, not a ride home, not even a set of keys, no job, most likely, and no family.
No Connor. To even swallow would have caused more pain that he thought he could bear.
Well, Mr. Pryce, Wesley stared down the street. What now?
Hands in his pockets, he didn’t move, had no idea what to do, until the decision was made for him.
Inches away from him, a black car pulled up to the front of the curve. Wesley was still, as the door swung open, and from the dark, a figure emerged.
“Hello, Wesley.”
It only took an instant to recognize the face, but Wesley’s throat parched, and he took a full step back.
Bloody hell.
End chapter one
--
Chapter Two
He said ‘Forgive me for what I’ve done there, ‘cause I never meant the things I did. And give me something to believe in.’ – Warrant
--
The trees along the setting sun gave off a brilliant hue in their tops, a greenish glow that tinged with orange along their leaves.
It was a beautiful sight, if one actually took the time to look. Wesley’s eyes skimmed the treetops, and perhaps even a month ago, he would have stopped to admire the view, bask in its beauty. Now, his stomach was twisted into uncomfortable knots, and his throat ached. Perhaps it would have been bearable, had it not been for the incredible, unendurable tension in his heart.
“Your bill has been covered, then.”
The words were almost thrown at him, and Wesley allowed them to register, barely. He crossed his arms, kept his unseeing gaze facing the window, letting the silence speak for him.
“Bloody hell don’t understand why you’re mad at me, boy. Usually a man demands a certain amount of respect, or have these Americans finally succeeded in robbing you of what little common sense you actually had?”
The sting sunk in, but he marveled at what little the words did to his already sunken demeanor. Again, he refused to answer.
“I suppose it’s that throat,” the driver responded, making a turn. Wesley didn’t bother to ask how he knew exactly where to go. This man was thorough, rarely could Wesley make a move in his past without him knowing about it.
Who, what, when – every step of his life in an effort to ensure he would not be what he had lately become: a complete failure.
The car drifted to a stop, Wesley let out a sigh as the engine was cut, and silence seeped over the car. He supposed he was more angry, than curious, as he turned, gazed into the glittering hard eyes. “Why are you here?”
The older man, graying streaks attractively edging over his temples, gave him a soft glare. “Hasn’t a man the right to see if his son is all right?” Wesley stared at his father, a clog in his throat acutely painful. It prompted him into action, fumbling with the door handle and stepping out of the rental. “Besides, it isn’t as if you had anyone to take you home, is it, son? This is ‘doing well’?”
Wesley slammed the car door closed, resting his hand against the warmed metal, closing his eyes. Bloody hell, why here? Why now?
“You aren’t here to see me, Father,” he answered finally, in a low, painful rasp, vibrations that made his stitches itch moving against his throat. “Nothing at all quite interested you, unless it involved the Council.”
His father regarded him. “You never did understand the importance of your position,” he answered gravely, a tone that seemed hesitant, soft. “Or of the Council. It forced us to make sacrifices, Boy. Choices-“
“And I’ve made mine,” Wesley clipped, stepping away from the car. “Good-bye, Father.”
Dark eyes flashed at the insolence, Wesley acknowledged that this must have been quite a surprise to his father, who expected complete obedience, and a ‘sir’ at the end of his sentence. In his early days, he would have been slapped for such a show of disrespect. The voice was scratchy when Wesley Wyndham Price the Third snapped, “So you’ve forgotten your family, then?”
Wesley took in a breath, and answered in a low voice, “I have no family.”
Mr. Pryce, Senior, with flint black eyes, and a crooked mouth, stared at his son, the glare of disapproval clouded by the look of speculation.
Without another word he shifted the gear in the car, and immediately moved from the sidewalk, jerking off into the distance.
Wesley’s shoulders were curiously slumped as he crossed the street, moving to his apartment.
--
Lorne moved up the stairs slowly, the added weight of the conflicted auras making each step slow, hard.
The green demon understood the mission, but quite often he never felt he understood the Powers, or the role they played. If they cared so much for good, why were the good forced to suffer?
Oh sure, he got the whole ‘get your reward in heaven while the bad guys spend eternity in hell’ bit, but what was so wrong with a little taste, just a small morsel that reminded you, exactly what you needed this so badly for?
Hands slipped into pockets, and Lorne, eying his dark blue ensemble in distaste, acknowledged that even he didn’t feel like going with the bright colors this morning. And the fact that Cordelia, normally a harpy about his fashion choices, had not mentioned it showed exactly how far gone the little sexpot was.
Lorne believed in kyerumption, even if he knew that if Angel, or anyone else heard the word one more time, they would most likely slap him upside the head, and maybe even twist a horn or two. Perhaps he was turning into a butler in a comic book, but since he was the only one who talked anymore, maybe that was what was needed.
Pushing open the door to Angel’s room, Lorne paused, took in the disarray, and found the vampire standing next to the closet, rifling through his clothes.
“You’re up,” he said, surprise flitting on his features, relief in his tone. “That’s … good.” Angel didn’t respond, merely continued to dig through his clothes, finding a black sweater and yanking it out. Lorne’s smile faltered. Letting out a breath, he came forward, stepping gingerly through the mess. “So, the Cordster’s back, little hottie’s downstairs.”
“I know,” came the clipped answer.
“Ah.” Lorne stood still, watching as Angel tied the belt, buckled, reached for his leather jacket. “As far as I can remember, she was a good ear to vent to,” he supplied helpfully.
He got a dark glance in response, as the vampire slammed the closet door shut, reaching down to pick up a teddy bear that he threw into the vacant crib.
Lorne, deciding the subtle approach wasn’t working, went for the direct approach instead. Carefully, he began. “Angel, you’re hurting – there’s a big aching hole in that chest, I get that. But she might understand. She’s your Seer, Angel – your link to the world. Talking to her, letting her in – maybe it’ll help you move on.”
That, however eloquently put, was precisely the wrong thing to say, apparently, because suddenly Lorne had a face full of pissed off vampire exactly two inches away, eyes flashing dangerously.
“I don’t want to move on. I want to find out where Wesley is.”
Oh, crap. Throat immediately parched, Lorne felt his left butt cheek constrict quickly, forcing him to take a step back. Why on earth did he keep forgetting that he was talking to damned vampire?
Angel took the step with him, grabbed his left arm in a grip that was pretty darn painful, and growled, low, in his throat.
“OWwwww. Angelcakes! That kinda-“
“Where the hell is WESLEY.”
Lorne swallowed, wincing when the grip tightened. There was no doubt, judging from the half crazy look in Angel’s eyes and the ever increasing pressure on his fragile arm, that Angel would hurt him if he didn’t tell.
“He was released from the hospital today,” Lorne finally managed, immediately relieved when the grip was lightened considerably.
Angel pushed him out of his way and strode out the door.
Lorne didn’t realize he was sweating until he mopped the moisture from his forehead. Closing his eyes, he took another look around the room, found his gaze lingering on Connor’s burnt crib.
Lorne shuddered.
--
Cordelia wondered that if she had a big remote control, and pointed it at Fred and Gunn, and rewound and replayed in slow motion, pausing in several different areas – would she then be able to understand what the hell went wrong?
How the hell – when the hell – what the hell –
She swallowed, fingers curling around the coffee mug and holding on tight, nearly shaking in her rage, and yet somehow managing to appear nothing more than just a little disturbed that Connor was gone and Angel was psycho-guy and Wesley became amateur kidnapper.
Thoughts whirling, she resisted the urge to look toward the stairs and turned back to Gunn and Fred, irrational anger sifting through her. How could they have NOT KNOWN!? HOW?!
Fred’s fingers were clenched tightly in Gunn’s, the young girl’s head was resting on his broad shoulder, buried into his side. Cordelia closed her eyes. That was why. Swallowing, she remembered a vacation that seemed ages ago and was just yesterday, and her anger slid into despair.
“Where’s Wesley?” she finally managed.
Fred and Gunn, young lovers, exchanged glances, before Gunn answered, rubbing at his bald head nervously. “Wes was getting released at that hospital near his house this afternoon. I tried to talk to him, but the dude wasn’t saying anything.”
Immediately, Cordelia launched up, forgetting her resolve to keep her hands on the coffee cup and consequently, spilling the hot liquid all over her fingers. She hissed, placing two digits in her mouth for only a second, before she moved to the coat rack, grabbing the jacket that hung there.
“Cordelia? Where are you going?”
“Where do you think?” she snapped, pulling on her jacket. “I’m going to talk to Wesley, and he’s going to tell me what the HELL he was ON when he took Connor.”
Fred’s voice was quiet. “Cordelia, we don’t know the whole story. Wesley was looking kinda haggard when we saw him this week, maybe-“
“Well, we damned well better GET the whole story, don’t you think?” Cordelia whirled, causing Fred to shrink back under the flashing hazel eyes. Cordelia didn’t even stop to ponder on how she could STILL intimidate the hell out of a girl who had stood up even to Angel. Instead her mouth parted and words that had been pent up tumbled out in one hurried rant. “Don’t you GET it? This shouldn’t have happened! Connor should never have been taken. Wesley SHOULDN’T have been being Joe Stoic and I should have never-“
“Uh… sweetie.” Lorne stepped forward, crossing into the room with a grim expression and a flustered jacket. “We may have a bigger issue at hand.”
Gunn looked almost relieved at the interruption, but Cordelia noticed Fred glancing at her warily, gazing at her through peculiarly clear eyes.
Flushing, Cordelia ran tired hands through her hair, turning toward the demon. “What?” she asked tiredly, as if she couldn’t take anymore.
“Angel’s gone after Wesley himself,” Lorne said. “Now.”
Cordelia’s eyes bore into Lorne’s, and seeing the unspoken warning in his eyes, she winced, her heart tumbling lower into her chest.
Crap.
--
One of these days, Wesley was going to have to understand how Cordelia turned off her brain.
Sitting at his desk, Wesley hadn’t bothered to turn on the lamp, hadn’t bothered to move really, for the better part of an hour. Once again the indecision had come over him, and even now, mind flashing with images of Gunn’s disappointed and angry face, of visions of Cordelia and Fred and Angel – and yes, Connor, beautiful little Connor with his beautiful smile in a heartbreakingly innocent face- , he still could not break his mind from pondering, thinking.
His father was in Los Angeles. Wesley sat, attempting to tear his mind away from his father’s words, found it refocused on the Hyperion. His fingers slid across the cold plastic of the phone, and again he attempted to pick it up, take what little strength he had to dial, hear the ringing – listen for a voice – any voice-
He slammed down the phone and found himself trembling. Bloody Hell.
Burying his hands in his hair, Wesley closed his eyes, let them slide through the stubble of his four day old beard, and pushed away from the table. The claustrophobic tendencies of the apartment did not escape him, and suddenly desperate to get out of the house, he grabbed his keys, heading for the door.
He didn’t look across the street to the park, he couldn’t – but when he turned and walked down the pavement, he was forced to remember his car was stolen, and the reason for it. Wesley paused, heart heaving, and it seemed his mind seemed intent on pursuing the endless guilt trip, because now there was a flash that suddenly became not a flash at all.
Wesley paused, heart skipping a beat – No, he decided with a hitching of breath, resignation and of course, the obligatory guilt. That was Angel, leaning against the black convertible, watching with hooded eyes. Eyes of a dead man.
Wesley resisted the urge to look away, instead found himself frozen in place, unable to move, as Angel pushed away from his car, fists clenched and eyes dark – terrible. The vampire strode forward, until he was inches away from the Watcher, and this close, Wesley could see the trembling, the very thin thread Angel was hanging from.
He was almost afraid to speak. “Ange-“
“Shut up.” It wasn’t a snarl, but a snap that was almost a growl, coming from somewhere buried deeply within Angel’s limits of self control. He took a step back, almost as if he didn’t trust himself this close to Wesley. Ashamed, Wesley felt almost grateful for the space.
“I want the books – all of them. All the spells and all the portal books you took from Pylea. I want them NOW.”
Wesley stared in the dark abyss, and again his mind flashed – Angel’s son is gone – But Angel would have killed him – the prophecies – His thoughts scattered, and Wesley frowned, shaking his head. He had been a thinking man – with a rational mind –
Had he done the right thing? Had he played into the prophecy’s hands? Had he saved Angel endless guilt in the son dying at his own hands – or caused him more pain than he could bear by inadvertently giving his son to the enemy Angel feared most?
Wesley had trusted his mind for so long – it was the one thing that had never failed him.
Until now. He held up his keys.
Angel jerked them out of his fingers, grabbing them and pushing past him. Wesley turned, the tightness in his stomach bordering on painful now, as Angel moved into his apartment.
He followed, standing in the doorway as he watched his former employer, his friend – his brother – ransack his library, pushing books into a duffel bag and turning toward the door. Dropping his keys on Wesley’s mantle, Angel paused, not daring to look at him.
“Twenty-four hours, Wesley. You have twenty-four hours to get out of town.” Wild eyes met his then, eyes of an animal, and it no longer mattered if Angel was cursed with a soul, he had lost what had most mattered. He had trusted him – Wesley had been trusted completely and implicitly. “Or I’ll kill you, Wesley, God help me-“
Wesley could stand the silence no longer. “Angel, you must-“
“NO.” Angel visibly shuddered, back to him as he paused in the doorway. “I don’t want to hear it. I CAN’T hear it, Wesley. Whatever you have to say, you never said it before, and nothing matters now.”
Wesley watched as Angel walked out of his apartment, got into his car with his books, and drove off. He found himself sinking into the couch, aware that his knees were dangerously close to giving out. Leaning back against the cushion, he closed his eyes.
//Check me out! I’m Mr. Dad!//
His eyes drifted open.
Perhaps Angel was right. Light, hesitant fingers ran over his throat, visions of red hair, and the wince of a knife slicing through his throat, suddenly mottled with a past experience with a shard of glass and a brunette.
Perhaps, nothing mattered now.
--
Christ.
Faith shifted, pulling the pillow roughly from under her head and smacking it together with her palms, attempting to give the cheap stuffing some semblance of shape.
Stuffing it back under her head, Faith blew out her breath, hands resting lightly on her abdomen as she stared up into the mattress above her.
“Keep shifting, Faith, and I’m gonna come down there and kick your ass.”
Stacey’s voice was mottled with sleep, and Faith smirked, brought down from her nervous agitation, to answer, “Fuck off, smart ass.”
Stacey’s arm waved down and Faith got a middle finger pointed to her in response. A smile crossed Faith’s face, and she closed her eyes, only to have them reopen immediately when a flash of Mamie’s soulful brown eyes stared at her.
Shit. What the hell was the matter with her? Faith had never been beaten by her nightmares, hell, she had truly LIVED during the darkness of the nights – and now she was a freakin’ wimp because of some dreams and a rabid chick?
Whatever.
She closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath, and felt her mind drift.
The crushing weight on her esophagus made her eyes snap open, and Faith choked, hands reaching up to grasp at the hands crushing her windpipe, hips arching to buck off the body straddling her own.
Faith tried to move, but the metal chain only tightened around her neck, and she gagged, mind reeling as she gasped, eyes locking onto those of her assailant. Stacey’s eyes were dark midnight, mouth pulled into an unnatural frown as the chains wove tighter around Faith’s windpipe.
FUCK.
“Stace-“ she barely managed, trying to gather her rapidly fading strength, unable to cry out, body twisting, suddenly trapped under the sheets. Stacey didn’t say a word. The older woman just wrapped her knees around Faith’s thighs, and twisted again, causing Faith to gasp in pain.
FUCK.
Stacey was never this fucking strong. Faith closed her eyes, fighting to stay conscious, cold metal twisting and clanking, until she gave up on the chains and went for the wrists, wrenching the thumb up, feeling the crunch of bone give way, as Stacey grunted.
With a move that could have dislocated something, Faith wasn’t sure, the Slayer arched up her legs, maneuvering between the bodies, and planting her foot on Stacey’s chest, she pushed hard. The hands lost the chains, as Stacey flew back, and Faith gasped inward, deep breaths, heaving in, feeling her mind return to her with the unfiltered pain.
She just needed two seconds to regain herself, but she didn’t have that, because Stacey was on her again, and Faith had to move, this time from a knife that slashed down at her.
“FUCK!” She twisted away, the knife catching her on the arm, a slice that made her wince, tumbling off the bed and to the other side of the cell. Blood began to drip, and Stacey carefully stepped out from under the bunk, nostrils flaring.
Being attacked in her bunk wasn’t new. Faith had heard stories, had been privy to more than one chick who was taught their lesson as soon as the lights went down. But this was Stacey. Stacey was in here for fraud – she was no murderer.
“Stacey, what the hell are you doing?” she managed, holding her injured arm to her, eyes wide as she backed up against the wall. Stacey didn’t say one word. Eyes as dark as black onyx regarded Faith, before the knife flashed in the barely there lights, and Faith once again twisted out of the way, rolling under and kicking up, sending Stacey sprawling against the toilet, a clash of metal and a splash of water coming back as a result.
And Stacey just kept coming.
For once, Faith was absolutely terrified, because Stacey had blue eyes – not the black dark orbs that were staring at her now. The blood dripping from her arm was slippery, and she fell in the pool at her feet. Stacey took advantage, jumping on top of her, forcing Faith to grit her teeth, grab the arm, and hold on for dear life.
Life over death, there was no way in hell Faith was dying now. Not like this. Instinct took over, and Faith did what she always thought what she did best. Grabbing the wrist, she pulled harshly, slamming the hand into the ground, twisting the blade, and pushing up. The knife went into Stacey’s gut like it went through butter, and Faith kicked off, letting the body fall back.
Voices shouted, beams of lights began to circulate, but Faith paid no heed, eyes stinging as she sank to the floor, hands buried into her hair, as the dead body lay before her.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Breathing heavily, she didn’t look as the metal gates swung open, and when the baton cracked on her head, she blanked out almost immediately.
End chapter two
--
Chapter Three
You speak to me in riddles and you speak to me in rhymes. My body aches to breathe your breath. Your words keep me alive – Sarah McLachlan
--
Keys. Jacket.
Cordelia grabbed the long black coat, registering dully in her mind that she HAD had a weird penchant for black recently, and slipped it on, pausing only to thumb her growing hair out of the collar before moving toward the door.
“CORDELIA!” An unwilling moan broke from her throat, as she turned, wanting so badly to ignore Fred’s plaintive cry. “You can’t go alone, at least let Gunn go with you.”
Charles stepped forward, fully prepared to follow Cordelia until she stopped him with a crisp, “No.”
“Cordelia-“
“Listen, Fred, the state Angel’s in, I don’t trust him alone with anyone. You haven’t seen his little beige soul, okay?” She closed her eyes, throat parching immediately at the thought. “When he’s all Mr. Despair,” she said, her tone lower, “The last thing he wants is a crowd. The last thing he needs is –“ she cut herself, tired of arguing, tired of the way Fred and Gunn kept drawing her back, when the thing that needed to be done was getting to Angel. And Wesley.
And to FIX all of this…
“If you don’t trust him with anyone, why are you going alone?” Gunn snapped, coming forward to grab at her elbow.
Cordelia jerked away. She never answered, and she could have snapped anything. Something scathing that would have shut Gunn and Fred up, and she would have. God help her, she would have. But the deep seated panic and the confusion that welled up inside her mangled her words.
All she could say was, “Because I HAVE to.”
Her boots clicked on the floor as she practically ran to lobby doors, pulling them open and letting them swing closed after her.
--
Gunn watched Cordelia go, his hands falling to his sides as an exasperated sigh fell from his lips.
Shit. And more shit.
Closing his eyes, his hands curled into fists, allowing him to release his tension only slightly. He needed some damned violence. And soon. This shit was getting too close to home, too hard – too complicated.
His eyes opened, found Fred staring at him plaintively, his girlfriend’s eyes beseeching him for an answer as to what to do. Go after Cordelia? Go after Angel?
Two weeks ago he had fallen in love. Two weeks ago he had held a girl and kissed her and loved her. Two weeks ago he had the damned world. Two weeks ago had never felt so far away.
Fred stared at him, and he wanted more than anything to offer a reassuring smile, tell her that it was alright, he would go after her. And he would, dammit. ‘Cause Wesley didn’t deserve to die – and if Angel hurt Wes – no matter what Wes did – that vamp would be-
The basement door burst open, Fred jumped in surprise, and Gunn blinked as the vampire in question strode into the Hyperion Lobby, carrying a bundle of books and a duffel bag filled with what looked like – yeah, more books.
“Angel!” Fred looked visibly relieved as she followed him into Wesley’s old office. Angel barely looked at her, Gunn’s features darkening as he dumped the books onto Wesley’s desk. “You’re here! Oh, thank God! Lorne said that-“
“Start looking.” Fred closed her mouth, and stared at Angel in bewilderment. Curious, Gunn came closer, digging his fists into his pockets, leaning against the office door frame. There was no blood on Angel that Charles could see. Wesley was probably safe. Angel began flipping through the books, handing a particularly thick one to Fred. “We’re getting Connor back. Look for portals – spells, anything. I’m getting him back.”
The voice was clipped and dark. Fred had her mouth slightly open as Angel brushed past her, her eyes meeting with Gunn in astonishment. Swallowing, Charles straightened as Angel walked by him, turning. “Yo, Angel.”
“What?” Angel clipped, taking the Hyperion stairs two steps at a time.
There were so many things Charles could have said, but he found himself saying, “Where’d you go?”
“I didn’t kill him, Gunn,” he snapped, never moving.
Well, that was good to know. “Cordy went looking for you.” And Angel froze, if only for half a second. Charles waited expectantly. “Should I go after her? Maybe tell her you’re …. All right…” Gunn trailed off as Angel began to move. He completely ignored the question. Gunn swallowed, looked back to Fred, who stared at him from over her mountain of Wesley’s books.
Shit.
--
Bloody boring stake-outs.
Casper Lee sighed, leaning his head back against the headrest, before reaching for the radio and fiddling through the dial, frowning with every station that drifted through the speakers.
Americans and their pissy music. His scowl deepened. Boring rubbish. He was a highly trained doctor, an elite man from a gentlemen’s class. A man who could give lectures at Oxnard, and had on more than one occasion.
And today, after years of accomplishments, he was a squatter.
Lovely.
“Council better pay me well for this,” he muttered under his breath, keeping his gaze on the apartment building as he crossed his arms, closed his eyes for just a second.
The sound of a car engine zooming past forced his eyes back open. Sitting up, he peered into the darkness.
A young brunette slid crazily to a stop, jerking open the car door and slamming it, very nearly tripping on the concrete and she ran up the steps to the apartment.
Well, things finally got interesting.
Reaching for his cellphone, Mr. Lee began to dial.
“We got a visitor,” he began, as soon as the line picked up.
--
He didn’t even bother to warm up the blood as he grabbed the container off the shelf.
Slamming the refrigerator door closed, Angel turned, twisting open the lid, ignoring Cordelia’s smell as it drifted from it. He took a swig, blanched at the taste of pig – animal – damned filthy blood – and gulped it quickly.
His mind raged, but his body was exhausted. Leaning against the wall, Angel crossed his arms, closing his eyes, a hiccup emerging as his eyes teared up, and the well of hatred and anger continued to build.
“God,” he whispered, hands palming through his hair, a face of a demon flickering on as he lowered himself to the floor.
Eyes roved over the burnt remains of the room – memories of a child with his laugh and his forehead. Memories of a woman on a bed with a bottle…
“Robot chipmunks on ice…”
The sob burst within him – a torrent of rage and he growled, grabbed a charred piece of wood, hurling it toward the scant frame of a bed.
A voice whispered from inside, a demon who spoke of revenge, taking what he needed, and swallowing himself in warmth – of blame and hazel eyes that should have been there –
Of a small baby who was ripped from his arms – the only life that had ever been his -
Connor.
Hurt and death and pain and rage – all so simple and easy for a vampire to digest – and increasing desperation -
Angel whimpered and covered his ears as the tears slid down his cheeks one by one.
The soul stretched to the width of a rubber band, containing the demon.
Barely.
--
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic-
Cordelia gave up trying to keep the mantra steady, groaning as she stopped ringing the doorbell and began to slam on the door.
“Wesley! Angel!”
Panic that edged into her was now streaming in full force, and when Wesley finally opened the door, dressed in flannel pajamas and wearing an exhausted frown, Cordelia snapped.
Relief mingled immediately with anger, she was none too gentle as she pushed him out of the way, frantically looking over the room. “Where is he?”
“Cordelia?” Wesley blinked sleepily, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to get her into focus.
“Where IS he?!”
“Who?” he asked, completely bewildered.
“Angel, smart ass!” Turning, Cordelia paused, found him still at the doorway, and still (luckily) in one piece. “You’re not dead.”
“No, I’m – what?” Wesley swallowed, winced, and then looked toward the door. “Angel left – Cordelia? What are you doing-“ He was cut off immediately when Cordelia’s palm connected with his cheek, sending him back against the wall.
The anger had flared as soon as the relief at finding Wesley okay came, and now her hazel eyes flashed, and she wondered if by GOD, she wasn’t going to kill Wesley herself.
“What the HELL were you thinking?!” she whispered, voice low and dangerous and so different from her less angry screech. “You took CONNOR, Wesley. Do you get that? You. TOOK. CONNOR.”
Dead silence descended now, as Cordelia stepped back, eyes clouded with tears. She took a shaky breath, wiping at her lids in an attempt to clear them, refocused them again on Wesley, finally able to see him. Dark blue eyes looked hollow. He hadn’t moved from his position against the wall, frame skinnier than she remembered. A beard that made him look rough and unkept covered his jaw, but not the patch stained with blood that went from the tip of his ear to his collar bone.
Wesley…
“I took Connor,” he finally responded gravely. “I’m sorry, Cordelia. I was so sure… I was so… sure…” Wesley’s eyes closed, his knees gave out.
Something gave within her, something that clogged her throat and made her own eyes water. Something that slipped through the anger, and made her take one step at a time, closer to the shaking man, until she was pulling his hands away from his face, searching him.
“Okay,” she said gruffly, pulling him up gently, clasping his hands in hers. He was trembling, broken Wesley.
God… what the hell had…
“Sit down.” Carefully, she deposited him on the sofa. Her mind carefully, consciously, shut down as she moved to his bathroom, reaching into his medicine cabinet and grabbing the gauze and the Neosporin. When she returned, she purposely didn’t look at his eyes as she cradled his cheeks, lifting his head.
When she peeled off the blood soaked bandage, he winced. “Bloody-“
“Shhh.” She shushed him, taking in a shaky breath as she looked at the damage, before turning and taking a piece of cotton gauze and the alcohol. She could pretend that this was just another mission – that they had returned home and she was patching them up. Like always. Just long enough to understand – to try and understand… “Tell me,” she said after a minute. “Tell me what happened.”
Cordelia knew her hot and cold moods sometimes left the group bewildered, and if she looked now, Wesley would be staring at her uncertainly, with fear in his eyes.
So she took in a breath to steady her trembling hands, and locked their gazes. “Tell me,” she repeated firmly.
He watched her, and she looked away.
He began to speak. Cordelia continued to not look at him, forcing her hands steady as he began to tell of a prophecy, of the signs. The earthquake and the blood lust – the ever increasing rage – and Wesley’s paranoia.
Her hands began to tremble, her heart began to beat harder, and she began to sweat, but still, she forced herself to remain silent as she taped the gauze, smoothing it over his Adam’s apple, feeling it vibrate.
“Holtz told me he would take the child, Cordelia. I couldn’t allow it.”
She took in a deep breath. “So you took him instead.” He swallowed at her expression.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t even tell Angel, that he might have had a part in his kid’s death – you didn’t TELL anyone…” She began to gasp for breath now, and she had to force herself to stop, gain control. “You didn’t tell ANYONE?!”
”I didn’t-“
”WHAT Wes?! You didn’t trust anyone?! No one? Not Fred or Gunn or Lorne – or even Angel!? NOT ME?!”
”You were on vacation-“
“Don’t you DARE use that.” Cordelia swallowed hard. “A vacation I could have any time. You should have called me the MOMENT things got out of hand.”
Wesley stared at her, almost as if he was seeing a stranger. Her jaw clenched, and she stared right back, glaring with him, eyebrow raised. In the tense confrontation – there was a glimpse at their past – a young girl in too tight clothes, sticking her tongue out at a stiff young ex-Watcher.
And now they were here: a half demon ex-Princess and a scar laden young man who actually looked… old. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes closed, and she found she could say nothing else.
“Damn you, Wes,” she whispered. “Damn you for not saying anything. And damn me for leaving.” The last sentence was said slowly, low, as she settled down next to him, crossing her legs and staring at the wall.
In this house, there were no lights on. In this room, it was dark, and silent, and she might as well have been alone. Broken ends were severed, and Angel might as well have been here, staring at her with his beautiful, tortured eyes.
God – all she wanted was to hold a child, to keep him close to her and breathe in his scent.
“God…” Did she say that, or Wesley?
“I need to understand, Wesley,” she said finally. “I need to understand – but… what it’s done to Angel…”
“I know.”
It was too much, she knew, for both of them. Maybe that was why he backed off, even as her hand slipped in his and he clenched it almost painfully. “And Groo?”
She blinked, mind jerked away from Angel and Connor. “What?”
“The Groosalug. He’s not here.”
“No,” she said, pulling her hand back. “He’s not here. Not here, here. It doesn’t matter.”
“Did something go wrong?” It was almost absurd, really, the way the tone was polite conversation. She stared at Wesley, saw the genuine concern in his voice, and almost smiled. Of course Wesley would care about her boyfriend when he had a slit throat and Connor was gone. What a man. GREAT priorities.
“Wesley, I don’t-“ Ringing, tinged with vibration, came from her purse. Immediately, she reached into her purse, flipping open the tiny cell phone and putting it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Cordelia.”
“Gunn,” she immediately answered.
“Wesley all right?”
“In one piece, if that’s what you mean,” She answered, giving Wesley a glance. His face remained curiously closed.
“Good,” Gunn sounded audibly relieved. “That’s good.”
There was silence, and Cordelia waited impatiently. “Did you want me to tell him anything?”
Gunn was quiet. “Did he talk to you?”
“Can we talk about this later?” she asked, when Wesley shifted on the couch.
There was a moment of quiet, and an exasperated expression filled the receiver before Gunn replied, “Yeah, sure. Whatever. We need you back here, Cordelia. Angel’s ain’t brooding anymore.”
“Huh?”
“He’s all… you gotta come back.”
Shit. “Okay, I’m on my way,” she whispered. Clicking the phone shut, she turned to her old friend, who was staring at her with something akin to hope in his beautifully blue eyes. “I gotta go,” she said finally, getting up immediately.
“What is it?” He got to his feet, following her towards the door.
“I don’t know, it’s about Angel-“
His steps faltered. “Cordelia-“
“Not now, Wes.” She grabbed the door handle, mind already locking onto getting out of there without tearing her soul in two. “I just… not now…”
She reeled, frozen, as her mind began to tingle, and her eyes opened, and suddenly unseeing, she clenched at the handle. “Vision.”
Darkness, coupled with moist humidity, filled her senses. Her face wet and dirty, heart pounding, and mind swimming with panic. And it was coming, closer, closer to the cell.
Oh, God, oh God…
Turning desperately, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Cordelia gasped, torn out of the vision, back into the present. Wesley’s hands held her shoulders, face worried. “What is it?” he whispered.
She swallowed. “Faith.”
--
Leather clasps held her down. She thrashed, did her damnedest to throw them off, but they held her down. Blood ran red as it seeped from her forehead, into her lips, bitter copper on her tongue.
Her eyes opened, wavy, dizzy hues of people gathered around her, and the needle came closer, closer-
She awoke with a start. Gasping heavily, Faith took in deep, sucking breaths. Goddamn fucking dreams. She swallowed down, hard. Her heart beat slowed, and Faith winced, when a piercing throb came from her forehead.
What the fuck?
Slowly – GOD she felt tired – Faith raised a weary arm to her hair, came away with rusted blood scratched onto her fingertips. She gazed at it, eyes boring into it, her throat dry and scratchy, and suddenly she knew why.
She wasn’t in her cell. This wasn’t her cell. This was… a dark room, small and black and nothing in it. A doorway, metal with a small, metal box that they would slide things in - solitary. Oh, shit.
An involuntary sob came out as she lifted her long sleeved shirt, hasty, fumbled movements, and peered into the darkness, trying to see if she would find pin pricks on her arms.
Shit, oh, Shit.
A wave of dizziness overwhelmed her when she launched to her feet. She reeled, hand launched out to catch the wall as she fell against it.
What the hell? Her eyes flew down to her hands, staring at them. Why the hell was she so … weak?
Moving toward the steel door, Faith banged her fists into it. “HEY!” Her voice echoed against the steel, sound proof door. She pried with her fingers at the little hatch. Hissing in, she moved back when her fingers wrenched, sending a jolt of pain. Great – now she had a fucking hand issue to go along with the splitting headache.
“HEY!” she screamed at the door. Nothing. Faith stepped back, licked her lips to attempt to get some moisture into her dry throat, eyes roving around the black cell.
There was barely room to stand in here. She shivered, as a sudden chill swept over her, a wind that forced her to pause, jerk her head toward the door.
There couldn’t be a draft in here. There was no way out of this place, and no way there could be a draft-
Her pulse began to beat in her ears, loud and pounding, as the fear began to take her. Dreams within dreams sliced into her mind, and she stepped away from the door, back, back, until she was pressed up against the wall farthest from it.
Trapped. She was fucking trapped, and alone and…
Oh, shit, she was so scared.
Outside the cell, from the other end of the hallway, steps began to echo down the corridors. She shouldn’t have heard them, but she did.
And they were getting closer.
--
What was it about stupid Englishman and their stupid belief that tea would fix everything?
Cordelia glared disdainfully at her cup, the ‘weed soup’ simmering in her tiny teacup that no real man in his right mind would have owned. Of course, it seemed perfectly natural then, that Wesley owned a set of four. He sipped at his pensively.
Shaking her head, Cordelia’s voice was systematic, even as her own mind and thoughts wrangled with conflictions. “The damned Powers,” she said finally. “Sure, give me a vision of Faith, but not of their own CHAMPION.”
Wesley said nothing, pursed his lips in thought, and set aside his cup. “What did you see?”
“Crap.” At that monosyllabic word, his eyebrow rose, and once again, Cordelia would have given anything to know what he was thinking. “She’s in jail,” she said finally. “I think. Some dark, dingy place, that would have the Health Department screaming up SOMEONE’S ass. And…” she frowned, trying to regain the images in her mind. “It’s…” she sucked in her breath. “She’s in trouble, Wes. But…” Her hands clenched around the tea cup, and she trembled when suddenly the pipeline opened, and another vision flooded through her.
Pressed against a wall, headache pounding, fear flooding through her, and something else…
Cordelia’s eyes jolted open. “Oh, God…. OH GOD…” Wesley took the cup from her before she could spill the hot liquid over her shaking hands. Her eyes locked on his, wide and scared. “She’s got no strength, Wesley. It’s all gone. She can’t defend herself…” She blinked, stood up. “And something’s coming after her. NOW.”
--
“Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who’s the most psychotic Slayer of ‘em all!” Murray got a slap on the back of his head, even as he chuckled, and he threw his colleague a dark scowl. “You can’t tell me you didn’t think that was funny!”
The older man was tight-lipped, hands crossed as he stared at the foggy mirror. “Do you bloody think the black arts are a game?” he asked crisply. “Continue with your work. Concentrate.”
Murray shook his head. That damned Pryce never did have a sense of humor. And this WAS funny. He kept his joke for someone who might appreciate it, filing it away in his mind, and in the fog, continued to keep the image of the girl in the cell clear, whispering the incantation.
“Technology ain’t got nothing on this,” he drawled.
--
The steps continued, one at a time. Slow, methodical. Faith hated slow and methodical.
“HEY!” she screamed again, slamming at the door. No one came. Of course no one fucking came. She turned, eyes wild as she searched the room for a weapon, any weapon. There was darkness, nothing but, and maybe a toilet. Faith moved toward it, arms reaching out until she found the cold metal. She pulled at the seat, and it should have snapped off in her hands, it SHOULD have.
It didn’t even move, and her injured fingers screamed at her, forcing her to give up. She turned, gazing at the door.
Fuck, oh Fuck.
In a rational mind, a person might have waited to see who opened the door before they began to panic. In a rational mind, they might have reasoned that perhaps this was just a watchman, coming back to check up on her. But Faith wasn’t a rational person. She was a Slayer, and subject to psychic nightmares, and robbed of her strength, she came to the only logical conclusion.
This was SERIOUSLY not good.
Backed up against the wall, trapped, with an aching head, and a dizzy mind, she waited desperately, heart pounding, swallowed into her throat.
A key was inserted, the door began to open slowly, every creak taking years. A flash of a blade glinted in the little bit of light that was let into the room.
--
Her legs gave out from under her, and Wesley caught her as her hand pressed against her forehead, eyes wide and unseeing.
“Oh, God, Oh, God…” Cordelia pushed herself out of his arms. “CALL the jail, Wesley – CALL THEM!”
She sank onto the couch, the play-by-play manifesting panic and emotions that had to have been Faith’s, flooding through her. Wesley ran to the phone, dialing furiously.
Cordelia’s hands tightened around a sofa cushion, nearly tearing it in her anxiety. “He’s gonna kill her, Oh, GOD - he’s going to KILL HER NOW.”
end chapter three
--
