Fic: Things Imperfect - 1/2
Sep. 7th, 2005 10:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lonelybritRight, so this bunny has been bugging me for weeks. It bit before Peru, continue to nibble throughout the actual trip, and finally was exorcised upon my return. The result is yet another post-Not Fade Away fic. It's kinda fluffy, yet not entirely... I hope.
Title: Things Imperfect
Author: lonelybrit
Rating: PG
Content: Yet another look at what might could have occurred after Not Fade Away. Angel has a visit to pay in England.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eloise_bright beta-ed this beautifully, as well as convincing me I wasn’t on crack when I thought it up. Huge thanks and hugs to her. Quote is by Owen Felltham.
Perfection is immutable. But for things imperfect, change is the way to perfect them.
Things Imperfect
The End.
There was nothing special about this day. Not really. Nothing that would make it stick in the history books. The sky wasn’t black and swollen with thunderclouds. Nor was it blue and infinite, with the sun white and brilliant overhead. It was just slightly grey. A little patchy. The sun a normal faded yellow; watery thin beams of light making shadows fade in and out around the trees and hedges.
Even though the world had been this way for nearly a week, Angel still hesitated over this next step. Going forward now would mean the old times were no longer just drawing to a close, they would simply be over. Finished. History. All loose ends tied up and everything ready to be filed away as another incident.
The grassed courtyard was mostly deserted. The office windows lining its border all closed and blank with blinds or gauze. The trees hid an unknown number of birds that sporadically gave a burst of song and chatter. A bright, vibrant sound that was hollow and empty in these surroundings. And pausing beside a particularly normal looking silver birch was a rigid-backed elderly man. The silvery hair showed clear against the shadows beyond, his dark suit all clean lines and unapproachable respectability.
“You needn’t lurk like that, Angelus, your presence here is not entirely unexpected.”
Angel met the slightly cloudy but still razor-sharp gaze, and for a moment the memories flared up so clear he could even recall the smell of the room. Then he stepped forward.
“My name’s not Angelus.”
“A leopard cannot change his spots, Angelus,” said Roger quite calmly. “The Watchers Council, as I’m sure you gathered from my son, is well aware of your past exploits. A demon can only be held responsible for so much.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Yes, word did reach us of the events in Los Angeles.” Roger looked Angel up and down just once, face blank but body radiating scorn and disgust. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that word as quickly followed of your survival. You always did have a tendency to linger.”
“I wanted to tell you in person. He deserved that.”
Roger took a short, sharp sniff and considered the state of the lawn. “How dare you show your face here.”
Angel wasn’t unprepared for such a reception, but to his annoyance it still stung. His next words were more steely than he had wanted.
“This isn’t about me, Mr Wyndam-Pryce. This is about your son, this is for Wesley.”
“How touching,” Roger snapped back. “Are you paying home visits to the families of all the innocent souls who’ve died following your supposed cause?”
The flare of anger stole any reply Angel had, and in the silence Roger turned away to continue his examination of the silver birch.
It had, in fact, been a subject of debate as to who would go to which family.
Angel, remembering the young slip of a girl he’d promised safety to in Pylea, felt it nothing less than his duty to be the one to face the Burkles. He was the one she had followed into the lion’s den.
Gunn had other ideas. His was a more, simple, rough and brutal way of looking at things. Fred was his responsibility, his albatross, and he wasn’t going to flinch away from any consequence of what he had done. Plus, he levelly pointed out, he had been and in some ways always would be in love with her. He owed her this much, since the man she would have wanted to do the job was now dead himself.
Without discussion, though, they both agreed on telling a lie. A tale of a final battle and a brave quick death that left no trace rather than the lingering burn-out from the inside. She had been a fighter and deserved to be remembered as one.
“Besides,” Gunn had said in parting, “you two go way back, you’ve known him longer than any of us. You guys were practically family.”
“You all are.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Wesley believed in what he was fighting for,” Angel said quietly, having regained his self-control. “He and the others… I couldn’t have got here without them.”
A quick half-turn of the head and Roger fixed him again with a diamond bright stare.
“A cause that favours rewarding a mass-murdering vampire over preserving the lives of dedicated men and women is one I struggle to believe at all.” He held Angel with the look, then flickered a glance down at the grass. “And now you’ve delivered your black-edged telegram, Angelus. Unless there is a more pressing matter you wish to voice, I have work to do. Good day.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him home, Mr Wyndam-Pryce.”
Human senses were nothing compared to those of a vampire, but for a human they could still be overwhelming. Angel caught the sudden stillness that went through Roger’s body and the briefest hesitation before the reply.
“I hardly expected anything less. After all, considering you left yet another city in ruins without thought or consideration, the preservation of a mere body must seem most trivial to you.”
The sunlight swelled and the shadows deepened. The liquid warmth still felt new and glorious on his skin, and Angel tried to concentrate on its pulsing thrill rather than the barbs that seemed to be twisting into his gut.
“The creature that killed him,” said Roger abruptly, his back still turned and face hidden. “What became of it?”
There was a tone in his voice that Angel instinctively understood. Any parent would.
“It was a warlock, Cyvus Vail, Wolfram and Hart’s finest. He was one of the first of their casualties that day. Wesley was ours, and we made them pay for it.” It was the truth; Angel could see those powerful blue movements all over again, Illyria giving human emotion an unprecedented physical force. Yet he still wished he could take his words back. Despite the bubbling anger, his heart went out to this other father. Who still deserved words of comfort rather than cold spoken vengeance.
“Indeed,” was all Roger said. “So he is dead. A pity.”
This time Angel let Roger walk away, his blood roaring in his ears as he tried to quash the feeling of somehow - even with his miraculous heartbeat and fulfilled prophecy - having failed Wesley at the very last.
The Transition.
Roger reread the file on the latest located Slayer, this one from Denmark, before adding his signature to the recommendation that Philips be appointed active Watcher. Granted, the man was far younger than normal tradition dictated, but these were new times and new circumstances. Like it or loathe it, the Council Roger had spent his life serving was changing. To say that Rupert Giles now sat on the top executive board put the whole thing into its ghastly perspective.
“Latest update from our Suffolk team,” Angel said, voice flat and filled with routine. “Emma’s training up nicely but there could be a problem with her schooling fees. Usual family troubles.”
“And since when were family issues our department? Pass it on to Harker, it’s his field.”
“Harker died last night,” Angel said, still with the same neutral monotone.
“Human or demonic?”
“Human; drunk driver.”
Even after all these years, Roger experienced that odd touch of ice on the spine at how the normal world still caught them in the same ways it did the more clueless public. “Very well, start an application for an increase of funds. Start with the usual fifteen percent. This one will be your responsibility, my job’s not nannying high-maintenance slayers.”
He opened another file, listening to the rustle of papers and sound of a pen scratching away for a few seconds, resolutely keeping his eyes on the exposed print before him. Then came a movement of air and the brush of the door swinging open and shut over the carpet.
Roger looked up at his empty office. Their office now. Angel’s desk stood where once Roger used to have a quite reasonable sofa. It had put visitors at their ease and off their guard; large and deep and soft, giving the room a deceptively informal appearance.
Not any more. Now it was all polished hardwood, books and drawers, rich carpets and suffocating silence.
After that meeting two years ago, Roger had returned here to tidy his desk before calling his wife and telling her that confirmation had finally arrived. Their conversation was short. She said she would let the family know and that dinner would be half an hour late.
Rupert Giles had walked in moments after Roger replaced the handset.
“Personally I think this shanshu removes any importance that might once have been attached to him,” Giles said with controlled lightness, “but some of the Slayers are kicking up a fuss. And some of the newer Watchers are agreeing with them. It seems romanticism is still alive and well in the ranks.”
Roger had leant back in his chair, apparently lost in thought.
“Romantic or otherwise, this is still an unprecedented occurrence, Rupert. We mustn’t let any personal feelings interfere with how we deal with this,” he said mildly. “Angelus is human and that speaks of some power taking an interest in his progress.”
“Apparently the humanity is his reward.”
Roger almost lost his composure. He cocked his head a little on one side.
“But a reward from whom, Rupert? Gifts can come from demons as well as deities.” He waited a heartbeat before continuing. “However a human is still a human, nothing more. And that’s all we’re left with. Historically Angelus has never shown pronounced interest in attacks of the magical variety. He was an animal who relied on animal strength, and that’s now been taken from him.”
Giles had given him a glance that Roger hated in its understanding.
“He does have certain… skills the Council would otherwise value,” Giles conceded after a short but thunderingly silent pause. “We’re hardly overstaffed as it is. In theory he could still have a use.”
“Then let it be for the Council,” Roger said, not aware of having planned on speaking. “Much as I despise his history, I would rather keep him where we can see him. If he does try to revert to his old tricks, then at least we’ll be in a position to put a stop to them before too much damage is done.”
“And he is only human now,” Giles added quietly. He met Roger’s eye, and though no more words were spoken, the quiet understanding was there and the agreement reached.
Roger looked over at the barely tamed mess that was Angel’s desk.
The other members of the Council had mostly kept their surprise silent when Roger asked that he be given the responsibility of Angel’s supervision. Roger had kept his own surprise silent when Angel raised no objections. The man who had made Wesley believe he could take on a warlock such as Vail entered Council employ a month after that first meeting in the courtyard.
The door opened again and Angel returned with a sheaf of papers.
It was Wednesday. Wednesday was In The Office day. Wednesday was papers and admin and them both refusing to admit the awkwardness of being in each others company. The rest of the week Angel was out in the field; briefing young Slayers about the demons they could face, or providing final support to new Watchers who were about to fly the nest. Roger had observed some of the early sessions, trying to decide which research methods were Angel’s own and which were those learnt from Wesley.
“Harker’s father is talking to reception,” Angel said with a pointed look. He placed the papers on his desk but made no move to seat himself. “You know it might be nice to go and give your condolences.”
“I doubt that.” Roger met the stare until Angel dropped his gaze. “How much more do you have to complete?”
Angel shrugged as he finally moved round behind his desk. “Most of it’s finished.” He pushed a collection of empty coffee mugs to one side, repositioning a small bundle of envelopes into the empty space. “Just the usual end of month invoices, and that funding form, after that I’m done.”
“After which, no doubt, you’ll be off to spend your free time productively hitting something,” Roger returned to his report. “Splendid, I’ll see you next week then.”
There was the sound of something like a suppressed snort.
“Are you suffering from allergies, Angel?”
The silence that answered him made Roger automatically glance up. Angel just shrugged at him, the movement breaking the faint expression of a flickering remembrance.
“If the dust bothers you, have words with the cleaner,” Roger said coldly.
“No, it’s just… I was going to… Well, I was away last year but since I’m here…” Angel finally floundered to a stop. It was interesting to see such an ancient creature still flummoxed by mere sentences. “It’s just, with it being today, I was going to visit the park, just, you know, what with it being today and… well, everything.”
Roger laid down his pen with an air of weary incomprehension. “Angel this is a working day for me. I do not have time for your mindless prattle. If you have something to say then please say it. Otherwise you have work to complete, as do I.”
Angel flinched, as if hit in the stomach.
“No, it’s fine.”
They each turned back to their respective desks, and work continued in silence for a few minutes. Roger tried to focus with his previous precision on the papers before him. But the damned idiot had derailed his thoughts.
The majority of people in employ of the Council lived to a respectable age. Roger knew he was far from the first father to see his son swear the same vows. The Council ran in the family, bridging generations. Yet for all its prestige, it rarely handed out wreaths of glory. A hard life’s work might be recorded by a plaque in the gardens or maybe a portrait or renamed library. But such occasions were rare, once or twice a century at most.
No, the glory such as it was, was reserved for a different species entirely. The small tendrils left over only occasionally enough to brush over one of Them. And until Sunnydale, there were never more than one of Them at any one time. To be an active Watcher was a role both feared and admired, though the lower than average life expectancy had long since ceased being a matter of discussion. It wasn’t that Watchers were the only Council workers to take a more proactive role in the protection of the clueless public. But there were never more than a handful of them, and the brightest flames would always be the first to go out. But the memory of the deeds done by such men and women remained seared in the Council’s history.
The real hero was the Slayer, they all knew that, her name the one to be recorded. No official plaque or library was needed to mark those who died helping her along her own shortened journey.
Unofficially a copse in the rolling park near the old headquarters quietly grew in size and variety. Ashes and elms, oaks and chestnuts. Saplings from centuries ago now stretched strong limbs that dwarfed smaller and more recent offerings. That area between the trees could never be described as crowded, yet it was rarely deserted. Families had a long memory.
Roger forced himself to turn a page. What else could one expect if your work by its very nature brought you into conflict with demons? They all knew what they had been training for. You did your best and hoped it would do some good before your time came. What else was there?
Yes. You tried your best. Gave it everything you had. No man could be expected to give anything more. Or anything less.
“Look, today of all days I think we should be able to talk about this. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I want to remember him.”
Roger blinked, not aware he had been staring at a point somewhere beyond the far wall.
“Today is a Wednesday, Angel, in case you have trouble remembering the days of the week.”
Angel slowly and deliberately put his pen down. And suddenly Roger was aware of all the other sounds that surrounded them in spite of the double glazing and the thick wood panelled walls. Birds and people and other rustlings of life.
“It’s his birthday, Mr Wyndam-Pryce,” Angel said, quite coldly. “I don’t know about you, but I kind of like remembering the day his life started. Slightly more uplifting than just remembering the date he… that day.”
That was enough.
“Mr Angel,” said Roger, his veins filled with the same ice that laced his voice. “My son died because of a serious lack of judgement on his part. But one cannot escape the fact that he chose for himself to follow you and your tarnished cause. I can only assume you left him the option of leaving, unlike other countless souls you extinguished over the centuries. If you wish to salve your conscience, I suggest you start by remembering those who you gave no such choice to. They are the ones who deserve your guilt and memories.”
He found he was almost quivering with an anger that surprised him in its intensity. This talk had rekindled that old sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he firmly quelled it. With a final glare, he returned once more to his work. The simple movement gave him what he needed to regain his calm and composure. His hand remained steady as he adjusted the lampshade. Even though he didn’t look up, he could still see Angel yet again shying away from his words.
“You should… I think… I think you would have been proud of him.”
Roger resigned himself to having to listen to this drivel for a few moments longer. “How kind of you to say so, now…”
“He did what he believed was right, he always did. Regardless of the cost to himself, or to the rest of us.”
Despite himself, Roger glanced up. Angel’s eyes had a strange light in them, something Roger couldn’t quite understand. Clearly Angel believed he had just made some profound statement, the significance of which utterly escaped Roger. That Angel seemed fully aware of this and looked at Roger with something close to pity was irritating, but not overly so since Roger had yet to actually care what Angel thought of him or his family.
That said, not caring what Angel thought of him was one thing, not caring that Angel kept on harping on about this topic was quite another. Roger steeled himself and prepared to put an end to the matter.
“Are you quite finished? Wesley died whilst in the employ of Wolfram and Hart, under your command, in a battle that devastated most of Los Angeles. Hardly the most glorious exit.” This time Roger found Angel didn’t drop his eyes, they met each other cold stare for cold stare. It was the first time he had spoken that name for two years, but sadly any hopes of Angel getting the point and dropping the issue were quickly dispelled.
“The world isn’t the simple place you raise these Watchers to believe it is, Mr Wyndam-Pryce. It’s full of shades of grey-”
“The world is brutally simple,” Roger said with quiet force, “it just takes courage to maintain that view and not let other lesser considerations impede your judgement.”
Angel nodded as if considering this statement very carefully. “Lesser considerations.”
Roger refused to be drawn. “I taught my son the importance of a Watcher’s vows, the reason the Council is needed, what it is we fight for. And he chose a vampire over it all.”
“You didn’t know him-”
“Are you telling me that you did?” Roger readjusted his reading lamp in the nasty silence that followed. The sun behind him caught in the smoked glass shade, a mottled shadow that turned the paper a swampy green. “Believe me, Mr Angel, I know my own son, I know what made him, I raised him after all. I suppose I am more disappointed than surprised he took the path he did.”
“I knew the kind of man he was,” Angel said after another moment of heavy silence. “I knew he would always-”
“I am not going to discuss this any further,” Roger snapped, the anger finally burning from the inside out. “Wesley chose to throw away all the teachings and the principles of this institution. He is not the first you have led astray, so I fail to see why you must insist on continually trying to bring up this matter.”
“Because I can’t remember him like I can the others.”
Roger barely managed not to sneer. “I’m sorry, a moment ago weren’t you claiming to know him better than me? What an oddity you are, Mr Angel.”
“I did know him,” Angel said darkly, and this time Roger could clearly read the emotion in that gaze. It didn’t invite interruption. “I knew that I’d never be able to guess what he was capable of, that he’d always surprise me. But I trusted him completely. I knew he’d always do the right thing, even if it meant going against me. Is that what you taught him?”
“What I tried to teach him,” Roger said, even though he hadn’t intended to answer.
Angel gave a half-nod.
“I knew him like that… but never got him like I did the others. Not at the end. I can remember Doyle, I know his favourite beer, I can hear what he’d say to all this.” A slight smile ghosted across his face. “And no-one could forget Cordy, it’s giving your conscience a voice. And Fred…” He blinked and the light went out in his eyes. “I can’t hear Wesley; I can’t remember him like that. I know he’d keep me on the straight and narrow, but it’s not the same. He was family and I think the only personal thing I can say about him is he liked tea.”
“Yes, well, that is a feeling I can understand,” Roger said, his voice sounded slightly distant to him. Possibly the sun was to blame, the weather could be deceptive. Cool temperatures didn’t remove the need to pull the blinds down unless you wanted to be roasted. “I thought I had raised a man who understood the importance of his job. Sadly our expectations will sometimes prove to be just a little too high.”
For some reason, Roger had expected a retort from Angel, another heated defence of a weak man’s fall from grace. Instead, he was treated to another searching stare.
“Must be hard,” Angel said evenly, “to see all that effort go to waste.”
“Humans are not infallible.”
“I’m sure you tried your hardest with him, didn’t you?” Angel continued, his eyes boring into Roger. “You really taught him everything you knew, you did your best. And it wasn’t enough.” His expression softened at whatever it was he saw in Roger’s face. “I’m sorry.”
“Wesley chose his own path,” Roger repeated with such venom that it took a moment before he could continue. “A father can only lead his child so far. Unfortunately after that, the child is free to make as many mistakes as he pleases.”
“You still feel responsible,” Angel replied. His look of understanding was almost believable. “Maybe if I’d said something different he wouldn’t do this. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe I forgot something. Or maybe, and this is the scary part, isn’t it, maybe I just wasn’t good enough. I did my best and it wasn’t enough to save him.”
Over the roaring emptiness and silence that seemed to filling him up, Roger roughly pushed his chair away from the table. He stood without feeling the floor beneath his feet, and he must have said something because Angel finally dropped that insidious gaze.
And damn the man. He had no right. No right at all.
The pure fury was an old friend; Roger knew how to use it. How to cool it to ice that could encase the heart and freeze any rash thoughts. The strength and control it gave him.
“I’m going to deliver the mail to the front desk, and when I return you will never speak to me in this manner ever again. Do you quite understand?”
Angel remained still as stone.
He collected the few envelopes from the out-tray and left the office. He had barely gone two paces when he heard a muffled curse and then the dreadful sound of Angel following. The distance to the reception desk was a short one, and the journey was almost complete before Angel caught up.
“Mr Wyndam-Pryce-”
“Mrs Wilkes,” Roger said firmly, laying the envelopes down, “could you please add this to today’s outgoing mail?”
Mrs Wilkes briefly looked at Angel but merely said, ‘Of course, Mr Wyndam-Pryce’. She was one of those full of new ideas about filing and communications. But she also knew and kept to the old rules, such as never getting involved in office feuds. Her grey eyes didn’t even spark with the faintest flicker of interest.
“Roger-”
“We are not on first names terms, Mr Angel,” Roger said pleasantly. “Please remember yourself.”
“Mr Wyndam-Pryce?” A younger voice, one Roger the next moment recognised as belonging to the newest addition to the administrative staff. Rachael, young, brilliant, and born in the wrong century. She approached with her hair tightly pulled back into a knot on the nape of her neck, as if just waiting for the day it was silvered enough to be permed. Despite her polite tones, Roger could tell she was greatly agitated. “Sir, I tried calling your office-”
And Rachael worked on the ground floor, at the main front reception desk. Not on the third floor where Roger and Angel attempted some semblance of a working partnership. Roger noticed then how her voice was slightly ragged, her skin faintly flushed. As if she’d just run a short distance at great speed. Or just taken the stairs in record time.
“Sir,” she continued with admirable control, “there is a most urgent matter I must inform you of-“
The settings of the offices could have fitted into any costume drama without too much tweaking and adjustment. The lifts were the only items that seriously clashed and seemed out of place. The light over the metal doors lit up, and a bell rang out.
Rachael started as the doors slid open. Roger had to admit he was puzzled when she visibly sagged as the mailman emerged to collect the daily bag of assorted bills and payments. Today was obviously a busy day, and Angel went to help the man shift the stacks of mail into an already bulging bag.
“Mr Wyndam-Pryce,” she began again, this time more calmly, “I have some news I should relay to you in private, at once.”
Roger let himself be turned in the direction of the floor’s tiny library. Her tone of voice baffled him, but it was a welcome distraction and he felt no alarm.
Their movements brought the entrance to the stairwell into view. The door was just swinging shut.
What Roger hated most at that moment was how all his training simply went out the window. In hindsight, he should have been suspicious, his instincts should have been to move into sunlight, or at least mentally mark the exits and locations of possible defensive weapons. Instead, he just stood where he was, amazed that he could actually feel the great weight lifting off his chest. His next breath seemed to fill him with more air and lightness than he ever thought possible. He shouldn’t have felt that absolute certainty that he did.
“Oh,” was all Rachael could say.
Behind him, Roger heard what sounded like a mass of dropped packages and envelopes hitting the ground. His lips tightened and he drew himself up, just one quick glance up and down to fully take in the sight before him.
“Hello, father.”
Angel was the first to speak, or rather choke, the single word dragged out of him like a moan of pain.
“Wesley.”
Continued here.
Title: Things Imperfect
Author: lonelybrit
Rating: PG
Content: Yet another look at what might could have occurred after Not Fade Away. Angel has a visit to pay in England.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Notes:
eloise_bright beta-ed this beautifully, as well as convincing me I wasn’t on crack when I thought it up. Huge thanks and hugs to her. Quote is by Owen Felltham.Perfection is immutable. But for things imperfect, change is the way to perfect them.
Things Imperfect
The End.
There was nothing special about this day. Not really. Nothing that would make it stick in the history books. The sky wasn’t black and swollen with thunderclouds. Nor was it blue and infinite, with the sun white and brilliant overhead. It was just slightly grey. A little patchy. The sun a normal faded yellow; watery thin beams of light making shadows fade in and out around the trees and hedges.
Even though the world had been this way for nearly a week, Angel still hesitated over this next step. Going forward now would mean the old times were no longer just drawing to a close, they would simply be over. Finished. History. All loose ends tied up and everything ready to be filed away as another incident.
The grassed courtyard was mostly deserted. The office windows lining its border all closed and blank with blinds or gauze. The trees hid an unknown number of birds that sporadically gave a burst of song and chatter. A bright, vibrant sound that was hollow and empty in these surroundings. And pausing beside a particularly normal looking silver birch was a rigid-backed elderly man. The silvery hair showed clear against the shadows beyond, his dark suit all clean lines and unapproachable respectability.
“You needn’t lurk like that, Angelus, your presence here is not entirely unexpected.”
Angel met the slightly cloudy but still razor-sharp gaze, and for a moment the memories flared up so clear he could even recall the smell of the room. Then he stepped forward.
“My name’s not Angelus.”
“A leopard cannot change his spots, Angelus,” said Roger quite calmly. “The Watchers Council, as I’m sure you gathered from my son, is well aware of your past exploits. A demon can only be held responsible for so much.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Yes, word did reach us of the events in Los Angeles.” Roger looked Angel up and down just once, face blank but body radiating scorn and disgust. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that word as quickly followed of your survival. You always did have a tendency to linger.”
“I wanted to tell you in person. He deserved that.”
Roger took a short, sharp sniff and considered the state of the lawn. “How dare you show your face here.”
Angel wasn’t unprepared for such a reception, but to his annoyance it still stung. His next words were more steely than he had wanted.
“This isn’t about me, Mr Wyndam-Pryce. This is about your son, this is for Wesley.”
“How touching,” Roger snapped back. “Are you paying home visits to the families of all the innocent souls who’ve died following your supposed cause?”
The flare of anger stole any reply Angel had, and in the silence Roger turned away to continue his examination of the silver birch.
It had, in fact, been a subject of debate as to who would go to which family.
Angel, remembering the young slip of a girl he’d promised safety to in Pylea, felt it nothing less than his duty to be the one to face the Burkles. He was the one she had followed into the lion’s den.
Gunn had other ideas. His was a more, simple, rough and brutal way of looking at things. Fred was his responsibility, his albatross, and he wasn’t going to flinch away from any consequence of what he had done. Plus, he levelly pointed out, he had been and in some ways always would be in love with her. He owed her this much, since the man she would have wanted to do the job was now dead himself.
Without discussion, though, they both agreed on telling a lie. A tale of a final battle and a brave quick death that left no trace rather than the lingering burn-out from the inside. She had been a fighter and deserved to be remembered as one.
“Besides,” Gunn had said in parting, “you two go way back, you’ve known him longer than any of us. You guys were practically family.”
“You all are.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Wesley believed in what he was fighting for,” Angel said quietly, having regained his self-control. “He and the others… I couldn’t have got here without them.”
A quick half-turn of the head and Roger fixed him again with a diamond bright stare.
“A cause that favours rewarding a mass-murdering vampire over preserving the lives of dedicated men and women is one I struggle to believe at all.” He held Angel with the look, then flickered a glance down at the grass. “And now you’ve delivered your black-edged telegram, Angelus. Unless there is a more pressing matter you wish to voice, I have work to do. Good day.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him home, Mr Wyndam-Pryce.”
Human senses were nothing compared to those of a vampire, but for a human they could still be overwhelming. Angel caught the sudden stillness that went through Roger’s body and the briefest hesitation before the reply.
“I hardly expected anything less. After all, considering you left yet another city in ruins without thought or consideration, the preservation of a mere body must seem most trivial to you.”
The sunlight swelled and the shadows deepened. The liquid warmth still felt new and glorious on his skin, and Angel tried to concentrate on its pulsing thrill rather than the barbs that seemed to be twisting into his gut.
“The creature that killed him,” said Roger abruptly, his back still turned and face hidden. “What became of it?”
There was a tone in his voice that Angel instinctively understood. Any parent would.
“It was a warlock, Cyvus Vail, Wolfram and Hart’s finest. He was one of the first of their casualties that day. Wesley was ours, and we made them pay for it.” It was the truth; Angel could see those powerful blue movements all over again, Illyria giving human emotion an unprecedented physical force. Yet he still wished he could take his words back. Despite the bubbling anger, his heart went out to this other father. Who still deserved words of comfort rather than cold spoken vengeance.
“Indeed,” was all Roger said. “So he is dead. A pity.”
This time Angel let Roger walk away, his blood roaring in his ears as he tried to quash the feeling of somehow - even with his miraculous heartbeat and fulfilled prophecy - having failed Wesley at the very last.
The Transition.
Roger reread the file on the latest located Slayer, this one from Denmark, before adding his signature to the recommendation that Philips be appointed active Watcher. Granted, the man was far younger than normal tradition dictated, but these were new times and new circumstances. Like it or loathe it, the Council Roger had spent his life serving was changing. To say that Rupert Giles now sat on the top executive board put the whole thing into its ghastly perspective.
“Latest update from our Suffolk team,” Angel said, voice flat and filled with routine. “Emma’s training up nicely but there could be a problem with her schooling fees. Usual family troubles.”
“And since when were family issues our department? Pass it on to Harker, it’s his field.”
“Harker died last night,” Angel said, still with the same neutral monotone.
“Human or demonic?”
“Human; drunk driver.”
Even after all these years, Roger experienced that odd touch of ice on the spine at how the normal world still caught them in the same ways it did the more clueless public. “Very well, start an application for an increase of funds. Start with the usual fifteen percent. This one will be your responsibility, my job’s not nannying high-maintenance slayers.”
He opened another file, listening to the rustle of papers and sound of a pen scratching away for a few seconds, resolutely keeping his eyes on the exposed print before him. Then came a movement of air and the brush of the door swinging open and shut over the carpet.
Roger looked up at his empty office. Their office now. Angel’s desk stood where once Roger used to have a quite reasonable sofa. It had put visitors at their ease and off their guard; large and deep and soft, giving the room a deceptively informal appearance.
Not any more. Now it was all polished hardwood, books and drawers, rich carpets and suffocating silence.
After that meeting two years ago, Roger had returned here to tidy his desk before calling his wife and telling her that confirmation had finally arrived. Their conversation was short. She said she would let the family know and that dinner would be half an hour late.
Rupert Giles had walked in moments after Roger replaced the handset.
“Personally I think this shanshu removes any importance that might once have been attached to him,” Giles said with controlled lightness, “but some of the Slayers are kicking up a fuss. And some of the newer Watchers are agreeing with them. It seems romanticism is still alive and well in the ranks.”
Roger had leant back in his chair, apparently lost in thought.
“Romantic or otherwise, this is still an unprecedented occurrence, Rupert. We mustn’t let any personal feelings interfere with how we deal with this,” he said mildly. “Angelus is human and that speaks of some power taking an interest in his progress.”
“Apparently the humanity is his reward.”
Roger almost lost his composure. He cocked his head a little on one side.
“But a reward from whom, Rupert? Gifts can come from demons as well as deities.” He waited a heartbeat before continuing. “However a human is still a human, nothing more. And that’s all we’re left with. Historically Angelus has never shown pronounced interest in attacks of the magical variety. He was an animal who relied on animal strength, and that’s now been taken from him.”
Giles had given him a glance that Roger hated in its understanding.
“He does have certain… skills the Council would otherwise value,” Giles conceded after a short but thunderingly silent pause. “We’re hardly overstaffed as it is. In theory he could still have a use.”
“Then let it be for the Council,” Roger said, not aware of having planned on speaking. “Much as I despise his history, I would rather keep him where we can see him. If he does try to revert to his old tricks, then at least we’ll be in a position to put a stop to them before too much damage is done.”
“And he is only human now,” Giles added quietly. He met Roger’s eye, and though no more words were spoken, the quiet understanding was there and the agreement reached.
Roger looked over at the barely tamed mess that was Angel’s desk.
The other members of the Council had mostly kept their surprise silent when Roger asked that he be given the responsibility of Angel’s supervision. Roger had kept his own surprise silent when Angel raised no objections. The man who had made Wesley believe he could take on a warlock such as Vail entered Council employ a month after that first meeting in the courtyard.
The door opened again and Angel returned with a sheaf of papers.
It was Wednesday. Wednesday was In The Office day. Wednesday was papers and admin and them both refusing to admit the awkwardness of being in each others company. The rest of the week Angel was out in the field; briefing young Slayers about the demons they could face, or providing final support to new Watchers who were about to fly the nest. Roger had observed some of the early sessions, trying to decide which research methods were Angel’s own and which were those learnt from Wesley.
“Harker’s father is talking to reception,” Angel said with a pointed look. He placed the papers on his desk but made no move to seat himself. “You know it might be nice to go and give your condolences.”
“I doubt that.” Roger met the stare until Angel dropped his gaze. “How much more do you have to complete?”
Angel shrugged as he finally moved round behind his desk. “Most of it’s finished.” He pushed a collection of empty coffee mugs to one side, repositioning a small bundle of envelopes into the empty space. “Just the usual end of month invoices, and that funding form, after that I’m done.”
“After which, no doubt, you’ll be off to spend your free time productively hitting something,” Roger returned to his report. “Splendid, I’ll see you next week then.”
There was the sound of something like a suppressed snort.
“Are you suffering from allergies, Angel?”
The silence that answered him made Roger automatically glance up. Angel just shrugged at him, the movement breaking the faint expression of a flickering remembrance.
“If the dust bothers you, have words with the cleaner,” Roger said coldly.
“No, it’s just… I was going to… Well, I was away last year but since I’m here…” Angel finally floundered to a stop. It was interesting to see such an ancient creature still flummoxed by mere sentences. “It’s just, with it being today, I was going to visit the park, just, you know, what with it being today and… well, everything.”
Roger laid down his pen with an air of weary incomprehension. “Angel this is a working day for me. I do not have time for your mindless prattle. If you have something to say then please say it. Otherwise you have work to complete, as do I.”
Angel flinched, as if hit in the stomach.
“No, it’s fine.”
They each turned back to their respective desks, and work continued in silence for a few minutes. Roger tried to focus with his previous precision on the papers before him. But the damned idiot had derailed his thoughts.
The majority of people in employ of the Council lived to a respectable age. Roger knew he was far from the first father to see his son swear the same vows. The Council ran in the family, bridging generations. Yet for all its prestige, it rarely handed out wreaths of glory. A hard life’s work might be recorded by a plaque in the gardens or maybe a portrait or renamed library. But such occasions were rare, once or twice a century at most.
No, the glory such as it was, was reserved for a different species entirely. The small tendrils left over only occasionally enough to brush over one of Them. And until Sunnydale, there were never more than one of Them at any one time. To be an active Watcher was a role both feared and admired, though the lower than average life expectancy had long since ceased being a matter of discussion. It wasn’t that Watchers were the only Council workers to take a more proactive role in the protection of the clueless public. But there were never more than a handful of them, and the brightest flames would always be the first to go out. But the memory of the deeds done by such men and women remained seared in the Council’s history.
The real hero was the Slayer, they all knew that, her name the one to be recorded. No official plaque or library was needed to mark those who died helping her along her own shortened journey.
Unofficially a copse in the rolling park near the old headquarters quietly grew in size and variety. Ashes and elms, oaks and chestnuts. Saplings from centuries ago now stretched strong limbs that dwarfed smaller and more recent offerings. That area between the trees could never be described as crowded, yet it was rarely deserted. Families had a long memory.
Roger forced himself to turn a page. What else could one expect if your work by its very nature brought you into conflict with demons? They all knew what they had been training for. You did your best and hoped it would do some good before your time came. What else was there?
Yes. You tried your best. Gave it everything you had. No man could be expected to give anything more. Or anything less.
“Look, today of all days I think we should be able to talk about this. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I want to remember him.”
Roger blinked, not aware he had been staring at a point somewhere beyond the far wall.
“Today is a Wednesday, Angel, in case you have trouble remembering the days of the week.”
Angel slowly and deliberately put his pen down. And suddenly Roger was aware of all the other sounds that surrounded them in spite of the double glazing and the thick wood panelled walls. Birds and people and other rustlings of life.
“It’s his birthday, Mr Wyndam-Pryce,” Angel said, quite coldly. “I don’t know about you, but I kind of like remembering the day his life started. Slightly more uplifting than just remembering the date he… that day.”
That was enough.
“Mr Angel,” said Roger, his veins filled with the same ice that laced his voice. “My son died because of a serious lack of judgement on his part. But one cannot escape the fact that he chose for himself to follow you and your tarnished cause. I can only assume you left him the option of leaving, unlike other countless souls you extinguished over the centuries. If you wish to salve your conscience, I suggest you start by remembering those who you gave no such choice to. They are the ones who deserve your guilt and memories.”
He found he was almost quivering with an anger that surprised him in its intensity. This talk had rekindled that old sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he firmly quelled it. With a final glare, he returned once more to his work. The simple movement gave him what he needed to regain his calm and composure. His hand remained steady as he adjusted the lampshade. Even though he didn’t look up, he could still see Angel yet again shying away from his words.
“You should… I think… I think you would have been proud of him.”
Roger resigned himself to having to listen to this drivel for a few moments longer. “How kind of you to say so, now…”
“He did what he believed was right, he always did. Regardless of the cost to himself, or to the rest of us.”
Despite himself, Roger glanced up. Angel’s eyes had a strange light in them, something Roger couldn’t quite understand. Clearly Angel believed he had just made some profound statement, the significance of which utterly escaped Roger. That Angel seemed fully aware of this and looked at Roger with something close to pity was irritating, but not overly so since Roger had yet to actually care what Angel thought of him or his family.
That said, not caring what Angel thought of him was one thing, not caring that Angel kept on harping on about this topic was quite another. Roger steeled himself and prepared to put an end to the matter.
“Are you quite finished? Wesley died whilst in the employ of Wolfram and Hart, under your command, in a battle that devastated most of Los Angeles. Hardly the most glorious exit.” This time Roger found Angel didn’t drop his eyes, they met each other cold stare for cold stare. It was the first time he had spoken that name for two years, but sadly any hopes of Angel getting the point and dropping the issue were quickly dispelled.
“The world isn’t the simple place you raise these Watchers to believe it is, Mr Wyndam-Pryce. It’s full of shades of grey-”
“The world is brutally simple,” Roger said with quiet force, “it just takes courage to maintain that view and not let other lesser considerations impede your judgement.”
Angel nodded as if considering this statement very carefully. “Lesser considerations.”
Roger refused to be drawn. “I taught my son the importance of a Watcher’s vows, the reason the Council is needed, what it is we fight for. And he chose a vampire over it all.”
“You didn’t know him-”
“Are you telling me that you did?” Roger readjusted his reading lamp in the nasty silence that followed. The sun behind him caught in the smoked glass shade, a mottled shadow that turned the paper a swampy green. “Believe me, Mr Angel, I know my own son, I know what made him, I raised him after all. I suppose I am more disappointed than surprised he took the path he did.”
“I knew the kind of man he was,” Angel said after another moment of heavy silence. “I knew he would always-”
“I am not going to discuss this any further,” Roger snapped, the anger finally burning from the inside out. “Wesley chose to throw away all the teachings and the principles of this institution. He is not the first you have led astray, so I fail to see why you must insist on continually trying to bring up this matter.”
“Because I can’t remember him like I can the others.”
Roger barely managed not to sneer. “I’m sorry, a moment ago weren’t you claiming to know him better than me? What an oddity you are, Mr Angel.”
“I did know him,” Angel said darkly, and this time Roger could clearly read the emotion in that gaze. It didn’t invite interruption. “I knew that I’d never be able to guess what he was capable of, that he’d always surprise me. But I trusted him completely. I knew he’d always do the right thing, even if it meant going against me. Is that what you taught him?”
“What I tried to teach him,” Roger said, even though he hadn’t intended to answer.
Angel gave a half-nod.
“I knew him like that… but never got him like I did the others. Not at the end. I can remember Doyle, I know his favourite beer, I can hear what he’d say to all this.” A slight smile ghosted across his face. “And no-one could forget Cordy, it’s giving your conscience a voice. And Fred…” He blinked and the light went out in his eyes. “I can’t hear Wesley; I can’t remember him like that. I know he’d keep me on the straight and narrow, but it’s not the same. He was family and I think the only personal thing I can say about him is he liked tea.”
“Yes, well, that is a feeling I can understand,” Roger said, his voice sounded slightly distant to him. Possibly the sun was to blame, the weather could be deceptive. Cool temperatures didn’t remove the need to pull the blinds down unless you wanted to be roasted. “I thought I had raised a man who understood the importance of his job. Sadly our expectations will sometimes prove to be just a little too high.”
For some reason, Roger had expected a retort from Angel, another heated defence of a weak man’s fall from grace. Instead, he was treated to another searching stare.
“Must be hard,” Angel said evenly, “to see all that effort go to waste.”
“Humans are not infallible.”
“I’m sure you tried your hardest with him, didn’t you?” Angel continued, his eyes boring into Roger. “You really taught him everything you knew, you did your best. And it wasn’t enough.” His expression softened at whatever it was he saw in Roger’s face. “I’m sorry.”
“Wesley chose his own path,” Roger repeated with such venom that it took a moment before he could continue. “A father can only lead his child so far. Unfortunately after that, the child is free to make as many mistakes as he pleases.”
“You still feel responsible,” Angel replied. His look of understanding was almost believable. “Maybe if I’d said something different he wouldn’t do this. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe I forgot something. Or maybe, and this is the scary part, isn’t it, maybe I just wasn’t good enough. I did my best and it wasn’t enough to save him.”
Over the roaring emptiness and silence that seemed to filling him up, Roger roughly pushed his chair away from the table. He stood without feeling the floor beneath his feet, and he must have said something because Angel finally dropped that insidious gaze.
And damn the man. He had no right. No right at all.
The pure fury was an old friend; Roger knew how to use it. How to cool it to ice that could encase the heart and freeze any rash thoughts. The strength and control it gave him.
“I’m going to deliver the mail to the front desk, and when I return you will never speak to me in this manner ever again. Do you quite understand?”
Angel remained still as stone.
He collected the few envelopes from the out-tray and left the office. He had barely gone two paces when he heard a muffled curse and then the dreadful sound of Angel following. The distance to the reception desk was a short one, and the journey was almost complete before Angel caught up.
“Mr Wyndam-Pryce-”
“Mrs Wilkes,” Roger said firmly, laying the envelopes down, “could you please add this to today’s outgoing mail?”
Mrs Wilkes briefly looked at Angel but merely said, ‘Of course, Mr Wyndam-Pryce’. She was one of those full of new ideas about filing and communications. But she also knew and kept to the old rules, such as never getting involved in office feuds. Her grey eyes didn’t even spark with the faintest flicker of interest.
“Roger-”
“We are not on first names terms, Mr Angel,” Roger said pleasantly. “Please remember yourself.”
“Mr Wyndam-Pryce?” A younger voice, one Roger the next moment recognised as belonging to the newest addition to the administrative staff. Rachael, young, brilliant, and born in the wrong century. She approached with her hair tightly pulled back into a knot on the nape of her neck, as if just waiting for the day it was silvered enough to be permed. Despite her polite tones, Roger could tell she was greatly agitated. “Sir, I tried calling your office-”
And Rachael worked on the ground floor, at the main front reception desk. Not on the third floor where Roger and Angel attempted some semblance of a working partnership. Roger noticed then how her voice was slightly ragged, her skin faintly flushed. As if she’d just run a short distance at great speed. Or just taken the stairs in record time.
“Sir,” she continued with admirable control, “there is a most urgent matter I must inform you of-“
The settings of the offices could have fitted into any costume drama without too much tweaking and adjustment. The lifts were the only items that seriously clashed and seemed out of place. The light over the metal doors lit up, and a bell rang out.
Rachael started as the doors slid open. Roger had to admit he was puzzled when she visibly sagged as the mailman emerged to collect the daily bag of assorted bills and payments. Today was obviously a busy day, and Angel went to help the man shift the stacks of mail into an already bulging bag.
“Mr Wyndam-Pryce,” she began again, this time more calmly, “I have some news I should relay to you in private, at once.”
Roger let himself be turned in the direction of the floor’s tiny library. Her tone of voice baffled him, but it was a welcome distraction and he felt no alarm.
Their movements brought the entrance to the stairwell into view. The door was just swinging shut.
What Roger hated most at that moment was how all his training simply went out the window. In hindsight, he should have been suspicious, his instincts should have been to move into sunlight, or at least mentally mark the exits and locations of possible defensive weapons. Instead, he just stood where he was, amazed that he could actually feel the great weight lifting off his chest. His next breath seemed to fill him with more air and lightness than he ever thought possible. He shouldn’t have felt that absolute certainty that he did.
“Oh,” was all Rachael could say.
Behind him, Roger heard what sounded like a mass of dropped packages and envelopes hitting the ground. His lips tightened and he drew himself up, just one quick glance up and down to fully take in the sight before him.
“Hello, father.”
Angel was the first to speak, or rather choke, the single word dragged out of him like a moan of pain.
“Wesley.”
Continued here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2005-09-07 03:13 pm (UTC)And THIS is THAT fic. So very very wonderful. I know I've said this over and over again, but I adore your portrayal of Roger here with the fire of a thousand suns. From your wonderful title headings - "The End" - to the dreamily poignant descriptions of the sunlight:
The sunlight swelled and the shadows deepened. The liquid warmth still felt new and glorious on his skin, and Angel tried to concentrate on its pulsing thrill rather than the barbs that seemed to be twisting into his gut.
- the whole thing is a masterpiece. Angel can't truly appreciate his Shanshu, he's had to give up so much for it.
And the conversation between him and Roger - god, LB, you're in Roger's mind.
Wesley chose his own path,” Roger repeated with such venom that it took a moment before he could continue. “A father can only lead his child so far. Unfortunately after that, the child is free to make as many mistakes as he pleases.”
I can't tell you how much I wibbled at the moment when Roger realises that Wes is back:
Instead, he just stood where he was, amazed that he could actually well the great weight lifting off his chest. His next breath seemed to fill him with more air and lightness than he ever thought possible. He shouldn’t have felt that absolute certainty that he did.
And I knew what was coming.
You know, THIS is what happened after NFA.
This is canon.
BEST FIC EVER
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Date: 2005-09-08 09:37 am (UTC)Yep, I felt sorry for Angel after NFA. Even if he did Shanshu, it would take a while for him to accept the cost. *pets him*
And of course, I also feel sorry for Roger. You know the way it goes. Just because he's embarassed about his son, doesn't mean he doesn't love him.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 09:38 am (UTC)*hugs* Thank you :)
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Date: 2005-09-07 09:02 pm (UTC)There was nothing special about this day. Not really. Nothing that would make it stick in the history books. The sky wasn’t black and swollen with thunderclouds. Nor was it blue and infinite, with the sun white and brilliant overhead. It was just slightly grey. A little patchy. The sun a normal faded yellow; watery thin beams of light making shadows fade in and out around the trees and hedges.
and the fabulous revelation of the character of Roger and the newly human Angel. I offer flowers at your keyboard. Off to next part.
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Date: 2005-09-08 09:40 am (UTC)Eloise and I are fascinated by Roger's character, we're always suckers for the so-called 'Dad angst'. So when this bunny came along, of course it had to be written.
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Date: 2005-09-07 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 09:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 09:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 09:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 07:22 pm (UTC)*runs to read part 2*
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Date: 2005-09-09 03:02 am (UTC)I love it! Great story - very poignant, and Roger is perfect.
Date: 2005-09-11 06:27 pm (UTC)Fabulous as always, LB! I love your Wes fics! :D
-veggieburger
Re: I love it! Great story - very poignant, and Roger is perfect.
Date: 2005-09-12 10:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-12 01:50 pm (UTC)Dear.
Lord.
You are a brilliant writer. Racing on to the second part now!
no subject
Date: 2005-10-13 05:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-17 06:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-29 06:52 pm (UTC)